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THE SPANISH MAID.
By turns from each to each I roved,
More lovely than the rest.
And further had I spoke, When, lo! there pour'd a flood of light So fiercely on my aching sight, I fell beneath the vision bright,
And with the pain awoke.
AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.*
Five weary months sweet Inez number'd
From that unfading bitter day
That call'd her Isidor away-
Along the mountain's misty side,
Seems like a rippling, feathery tide,
And fancy hurries on to strife,
Mix with the last sad cry of life.
And every gallant bard in Spain
And would not she for such a strain
That grew upon the very bank
The plighted vow—where last she sank
All hail! thou noble land,
Our fathers' native soil !
Gigantic grown by toil,
For thou, with magic might,
The world o'er!
From his pine-embattled steep,
While the Tritons of the deep
Then let the world combine-
Bright in fame!
Since our fathers left their home,
O'er untravell’d seas to roam,-
And shall we not proclaim
By its chains ?
Which the bard of Avon sung,
How the vault of heaven rung,
While this, with reverence meet,
Round our coast;
That mould a nation's soul,
Between let ocean roll,
Yet, still, from either beach,
« We are one !"
But now the sun is westward sinking;
And soon amid the purple haze,
A thousand loves there meet her gaze, To change her high heroic thinking. Then hope, with all its crowd of fancies,
Before her flits and fills the air;
In vision Isidor is there.
Yet little thought she, thus forestalling
The coming joy, that in that hour
That seems to arch the ocean o'er,
All fleck'd with foam comes bounding on, The wild Morena rings anon,
And on its brow the gallant Don, And gallant steed grow larger, larger;
And now he nears the mountain-hollow;
The flowery bank and little lake
And Inez there.--He's not awake Ah, what a day this dream will follow!
But no-he surely is not dreaming.
Another minute makes it clear.
From Inez' cheek, dispel the fear That bliss like his is only seeming.
* This poem was first published in COLERIDOE'S “By. billine Leaves," in 1810.