Are there brighter flowers than mine own, which wave
O’er Moorish ruin and Christian grave?
O sunshine and song! they are lying far
By the streams that look to the western star;
My heart is fainting to hear once more
The water-voices of that sweet shore.
Many were they that have died for thee,
And brave, my Spain! though thou art not free;
But I call them blest—they have rent their chain—
They sleep in thy valleys, my sunny Spain!