Scorning near joys for fancy’s fond delight.
O! never yet saw sun a sea so blue,
So Tyrian-toned, so violet-rich in hue!
There he who watches sees—(or is’t a dream,
Or where sunbeams, glancing, on billows gleam?)
Haze-crested hills, a gold and magic main,
And whispers softly as now I: “Spain! Spain!”
III
Let there be dance and laughter, sound of song,
Soft glances interchange and merriment,