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SONG OF THE SPANISH WANDERER.
Pilgrim, O say hath thy cheek been fanned,
By the sweet winds of my sunny land;
Know'st thou the sound of its mountain pines?
And hast thou rested beneath its vines?
Hast thou heard the music still wandering by,
A thing of the breezes, in Spain's blue sky,
Floating away o'er hill and heath,
With the myrtle's whisper, the citron's breath?
Then say, are there fairer vales than those,
Where the warbling of fountains for ever flows?
Are there brighter flowers than mine own which wave
O'er Moorish ruin and Christian grave?
