XXII.
Ah, better ’twere beneath this radiant sky,
This sparkling sunlight shimmering o’er the plain,
To give to tender thoughts the melting eye,
And yield the heart to Love’s delicious pain.
The genius bland, the balmy air of Spain,
More fit the lute than dire artillery’s roar.
Ah, better far to sing such sweet refrain
Some dark-eyed Andaluzan’s bower before,
As thus might ease the shaft that quivers in the core:—