V.

Between the apple-trees with loaded boughs Peeped ever and anon Ernani’s towers, And Haya tops them with his craggy brows, And distant Jaizquibel where tempest lours So oft serenely smiles. Through scented bowers Of orange, jasmine, myrtle, balm, they pass, And Isabel now tends, now plucks the flowers, A nosegay for her sire, while dew like glass In beads begins to strew the eve-reviving grass.