Fair Tajo! thou whose calmly-flowing tide
Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains,
Enlivening all where’er thy waves may glide,
Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs and swains.
Sweet stream! I know not when my steps again
Shall tread thy shores; and while to part I mourn,
I have no hope to meliorate my pain,
No dream that whispers—I may yet return!
My frowning destiny, whose watchful care
Forbids me blessings and ordains despair,