Xim. Ye linger still? Upon this very air,

He that was born in happy hour for Spain[280]

Pour’d forth his conquering spirit! ’Twas the breeze

From your own mountains which came down to wave

This banner of his battles, as it droop’d

Above the champion’s deathbed. Nor even then

Its tale of glory closed. They made no moan

O’er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung,[281]

But the deep tambour and shrill horn of war

Told when the mighty pass’d! They wrapt him not