XII.
Yet art thou lovely! Song is on thy hills:
O sweet and mournful melodies of Spain,
That lull’d my boyhood, how your memory thrills
The exile’s heart with sudden-wakening pain!
Your sounds are on the rocks:—that I might hear
Once more the music of the mountaineer!
And from the sunny vales the shepherd’s strain
Floats out, and fills the solitary place
With the old tuneful names of Spain’s heroic race.