And it is joy which whispers in the breeze
Sent from my own free mountains. Brave Gonzalez!
Thou art one to make thy fearless heart a shield
Unto thy friend, in the dark stormy hour
When knightly crests are trampled, and proud helms
Cleft, and strong breast-plates shivered. Thou art one
To infuse the soul of gallant fortitude
Into the captive's bosom, and beguile
The long slow march beneath the burning noon
With lofty patience; but for those quick bursts,
Those buoyant efforts of the soul to cast
Her weight of care to earth, those brief delights
Whose source is in a sunbeam, or a sound
Which stirs the blood, or a young breeze, whose wing
Wanders in chainless joy; for things like these
Thou hast no sympathies!
And thou, my Zamor,
Art wrapt in thought! I welcome thee to this
The kingdom of my fathers. Is it not
A goodly heritage?
Zamor. The land is fair;
But he, the archer of the wilderness,
Beholdeth not the palms beneath whose shade
His tents are scattered, and his camels rest;
And therefore is he sad!
Sebastian. Thou must not pine
With that sick yearning of th' impatient heart
Which makes the exile's life one fevered dream
Of skies, and hills, and voices far away,
And faces wearing the familiar hues
B 2
