Shall rain in every season yield.
O mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.
"They took me from the galley's hold;
It was by heaven's all-pitying grace.
Yet, even in this garden glade,
Has fortune turned away her face.
Though lighter now my lot of toil,