Iberia Won; A poem descriptive of the Peninsular War / With impressions from recent visits to the battle-grounds, and copious historical and illustrative notes

by T. M. Hughes

And Haya tops them with his craggy brows,

And distant Jaizquibel where tempest lours

So oft serenely smiles. Through scented bowers

Of orange, jasmine, myrtle, balm, they pass,

And Isabel now tends, now plucks the flowers,

A nosegay for her sire, while dew like glass

In beads begins to strew the eve-reviving grass.

VI.

Not fairer opened in Alcina’s isle