You think my spirit rose to flights,
Aspiring past all present sights,
Invoking from the grave of time
The heroes of that city’s prime,—
The great Gonsalvo[6] marching on,
Or Ferdinand[7] of Aragon?—
You think I saw, by camp-fires bright,
The turban bow beneath the sight
Of chieftains marshall’d, far and near,
With drifting plume and flashing spear,