Page:Modern poets and poetry of Spain.djvu/235

As that dark image o'er me glooms,
My heart sinks heavy in my breast;
I bow myself before the tombs,
In tears with grief oppress'd.

What is thy magic? what may be
The ineffable enchantment found,
O, country! O, sweet name, in thee?
Ever so dear to man the sound!
The sunburnt African will sigh
For his parch'd sands and burning sky,
Perchance afar, and round the plains
However blooming he disdains.
Ev'n the rude Laplander, if fate
In luckless hour him off has torn
From his own soil, disconsolate
Will to return there longing mourn;
Envying the eternal night's repose,
His icebound shores and endless snows.

And I, to whom kind fate assign'd
My birth within thy happy fold,
Granada! and my growth as kind
Within thy blissful bounds to mould,
Far from my country, and beset
With griefs, how could I thee forget?