XXXI.
It was a woe to say, “Farewell, my Spain!
The sunny and the vintage land, farewell!”
—I could have died upon the battle-plain
For thee, my country! but I might not dwell
In thy sweet vales, at peace. The voice of song
Breathes, with the myrtle scent, thy hills along;
The citron’s glow is caught from shade and dell:
But what are these? upon thy flowery sod
I might not kneel, and pour my free thoughts out to God!