To Spain’s blue skies and dark sierras turning;
For her fond words were all of vintage-scene,
And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron’s breath:
Oh! with what vivid hues life comes back oft on death!
LIV.
And from her lips the mountain-songs of old,
In wild, faint snatches, fitfully had sprung;
Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold,
The “Rio verde,”[304] on her soul that hung,
And thence flow’d forth. But now the sun was low,