Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,
"Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful,
Mysterious Nature! Not in thy free range
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus
The dirge-note and the song of festival;
But in one heart, one changeful human heart-
Ay, and within one hour of that strange world-
Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones
To startle and to pierce !—the dying swan's,
And the glad skylark's triumph and despair!"

SONGS OF SPAIN.*

I. ANCIENT BATTLE SONG.

FLING forth the proud banner of Leon again!
Let the high word "Castile!" go resounding through Spain !
And thou, free Asturias, encamped on the height,
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight!

Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children repose
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes!

The voices are mighty that swell from the past,
With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain blast;
The ancient sierras give strength to our tread,

Their pines murmur song where bright blood had been shed.
-Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again,
And shout ye "Castile! to the rescue for Spain!"

II. THE ZEGRI MAID.

[The Zegris were one of the most illustrious Moorish tribes. Their exploits and feuds with their celebrated rivals, the Abencerrages, form the subject of many ancient Spanish romances.]

THE summer leaves were sighing
Around the Zegri maid,

To her low sad song replying
As it fill'd the olive shade.

"Alas! for her that loveth

Her land's, her kindred's foe!

Where a Christian Spaniard roveth,
Should a Zegri's spirit go?

"From thy glance, my gentle mother!
I sink, with shame oppress'd,

*Written for a set of airs, entitled Peninsular Melodies, selected by Colonel Hodges, and published by Messrs. Goulding and D'Almaine, who have permitted the reappearance of the words in this volume.

THE RIO VERDE SONG.

And the dark eye of my brother
Is an arrow to my breast."
-Where summer leaves were sighing
Thus sang the Zegri maid,

While the crimson day was dying

In the whispery olive shade.

"And for all this heart's wealth wasted,
This woe in secret borne,
This flower of young life blasted,

Should I win back aught but scorn?

By aught but daily dying

Would my lone truth be repaid?"
-Where the olive leaves were sighing,
Thus sang the Zegri maid.

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III. THE RIO VERDE SONG.

[The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebrated in the old ballad romances of that country for the frequent combats on its banks between Moor and Christian. The ballad referring to this stream in Percy's Reliques,

"Gentle river, gentle river,

Lo! thy streams are stain'd with gore."

will be rembered by many readers.]

FLOW, Rio Verde !

In melody flow;
Win her that weepeth

To slumber from woe;

Bid thy wave's music

Roll through her dreams,
Grief ever loveth

The kind voice of streams.

Bear her lone spirit

Afar on the sound

Back to her childhood,

Her life's fairy ground;

Pass like the whisper

Of love that is

Flow, Rio Verde!

Softly flow on!

gone

Dark glassy water

So crimson'd of yore!
Love, death, and sorrow

Know thy green shore.

Thou should'st have echoes
For grief's deepest tone-
Flow, Rio Verde,
Softly flow on!

IV.-SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO.

SEEK by the silvery Darro,

Where jasmine flowers have blown;
There hath she left no footsteps?
-Weep, weep, the maid is gone!

Seek where our lady's image
Smiles o'er the pine-hung steep;
Hear ye not there her vespers?
-Weep for the parted, weep!
Seek in the porch where vine-leaves
O'ershade her father's head?
-Are his grey hairs left lonely?
-Weep! her bright soul is fled.

V.-SPANISH EVENING HYMN.
AVE! now let prayer and music
Meet in love on earth and sea!
Now, sweet Mother! may the weary
Turn from this cold world to thee!

From the wide and restless waters
Hear the sailor's hymn arise;

From his watch-fire 'midst the mountains,
Lo! to thee the shepherd cries!

Yet, when thus full hearts find voices,
If o'erburden'd souls there be,
Dark and silent in their anguish,

Aid those captives set them free!
Touch them, every fount unsealing,
Where the frozen tears lie deep;
Thou, the Mother of all sorrows,

Aid, oh! aid to pray and weep!

VI.-BIRD, THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO'S SIDE.

BIRD, that art singing on Ebro's side!

Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide,

Doth sorrow dwell 'midst the leaves with thee?

Doth song avail thy full heart to free?

-Bird of the midnight's purple sky!

Teach me the spell of thy melody.

Bird! is it blighted affection's pain,

Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy strain?

And is the wound of that arrow still'd,

When thy lone music the leaves hath fill'd?

-Bird of the midnight's purple sky!

Teach me the spell of thy melody.

MOORISH GATHERING SONG.-ETC.-ETC.

VII.-MOORISH GATHERING SONG,

ZORZICO.*

CHAINS on the cities! gloom in the air!
Come to the hills! fresh breezes are there.
Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers!
Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers.
Come from the Darro!-changed is its tone;
Come where the streams no bondage have known;
Wildly and proudly foaming they leap,
Singing of freedom from steep to steep.

Come from Alhambra! garden and grove
Now may not shelter beauty or love.

Blood on the waters, death 'midst the flowers!
-Only the spear and the rock are ours.

VIII. THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS.

WE heard thy name, O Mina!
Far through our hills it rang;

A sound more strong than tempests,
More keen than armor's clang.

The peasant left his vintage,

The shepherd grasp'd the spear—
-We heard thy name, O Mina!
The mountain bands are here.

As eagles to the dayspring,

As torrents to the sea,

From every dark sierra

So rush'd our hearts to thee.

Thy spirit is our banner,

Thine eye our beacon-sign,

Thy name our trumpet, Mina!

The mountain bands are thine.

IX.-MOTHER, OH! SING ME TO REST.

A CANCION.

MOTHER! Oh, sing me to rest

As in my bright days departed:
Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted,

Songs for a spirit oppress'd.

Lay this tired head on thy breast!

Flowers from the night-dew are closing

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*The Zorzico is an extremely wild and singular antique Moorish

melody

Pilgrims and mourners reposing-
-Mother, oh, sing me to rest!

Take back thy bird to its nest!
Weary is young life when blighted,
Heavy this love unrequited;

-Mother, oh! sing me to rest!

X.-THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES.

THERE are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles,
There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore;
There are murmurs-but not of the torrent,
Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest's roar.
'Tis a day of the spear and the banner,
Of armings and hurried farewells;
Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards;
Or start from your old battle-dells.
There are streams of unconquer'd Asturias,
That have roll'd with your father's free blood;
Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty,
Proud marks where their children have stood!

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.
HARK! from the dim church tower,
The deep slow curfew's chime!
-A heavy sound unto hall and bower
In England's olden time!

Sadly 'twas heard by him who came

From the fields of his toil at night,

And who might not see his own hearth-flame
In his children's eyes make light.

Sternly and sadly heard,

As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow,

Which had cheer'd the board with the mirthful word

And the red wine's foaming flow!

Uutil that sullen boding knell

Flung out from every fane,

On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell,
With a weight and with a chain.

Woe for the pilgrim then,

In the wild deer's forest far!

No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him, as a star.

And woe for him whose wakeful soul,

With lone aspirings fill'd,

Would have lived o'er some inmortal scroll,

While the sounds of earth were still'd!