Stain of the vale’s green sward.
Priestless hermitage of Castille,
On thee no banners wave;
Unblazon’d gate, thy pointed vaults
No more their weight can save:
Thou hast no soldier on thy heights,
No echo in thy halls,
And rank weeds festering grow uncheck’d
Beneath thy mouldering walls.
Chieftain dead in a foreign land,