I have need of such, Ximena!—we must hear
No melting music now!
Xim. I know all high
Heroic ditties of the elder-time,
Sung by the mountain-Christians,[273] in the holds
Of th’ everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear
The print of Freedom’s step; and all wild strains
Wherein the dark serranos[274] teach the rocks
And the pine-forests deeply to resound
The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear