Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried, SONGS OF SPAIN.* I. ANCIENT BATTLE SONG. FLING forth the proud banner of Leon again! Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children repose The voices are mighty that swell from the past, Their pines murmur song where bright blood had been shed. 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 To her low sad song replying "Alas! for her that loveth Her land's, her kindred's foe! Where a Christian Spaniard roveth, "From thy glance, my gentle mother! *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 While the crimson day was dying In the whispery olive shade. "And for all this heart's wealth wasted, Should I win back aught but scorn? By aught but daily dying Would my lone truth be repaid?" 389 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; To slumber from woe; Bid thy wave's music Roll through her dreams, 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! Know thy green shore. Thou should'st have echoes IV.-SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO. SEEK by the silvery Darro, Where jasmine flowers have blown; Seek where our lady's image V.-SPANISH EVENING HYMN. From the wide and restless waters From his watch-fire 'midst the mountains, Yet, when thus full hearts find voices, Aid those captives set them free! 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 from Alhambra! garden and grove Blood on the waters, death 'midst the flowers! VIII. THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS. WE heard thy name, O Mina! A sound more strong than tempests, The peasant left his vintage, The shepherd grasp'd the spear— 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: Songs for a spirit oppress'd. Lay this tired head on thy breast! Flowers from the night-dew are closing 391 *The Zorzico is an extremely wild and singular antique Moorish melody Pilgrims and mourners reposing- Take back thy bird to its nest! -Mother, oh! sing me to rest! X.-THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES. THERE are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND. Sadly 'twas heard by him who came From the fields of his toil at night, And who might not see his own hearth-flame 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, Woe for the pilgrim then, In the wild deer's forest far! No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men, 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! |