Those times are fled, when stern thy castles frown’d,
Their stately towers with feudal grandeur crown’d;
Those times are fled, when fair Iberia’s clime
Beheld thy Gothic reign, thy pomp sublime;
And all thy glories, all thy deeds of yore,
Live but in legends wild, and poet’s lore.
Lo! where thy silent harp neglected lies,
Light o’er its chords the murmuring zephyr sighs;
Thy solemn courts, where once the minstrel sung,
The choral voice of mirth and music rung;