Blest be that soil! where England's heroes share
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there;
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays,
The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days.
By goatherd lone, and rude serrano sung,
Thy cypress dells, and vine-clad rocks among.
How oft those rocks have echo'd to the tale
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles' vale;
Of him, renown'd in old heroic lore,
First of the brave, the gallant Campeador;
Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died,
When "Rio Verde" roll'd a crimson tide;
Or that high name, by Garcilaso's might,
On the green Vega won in single fight.8[1]
Round fair Granada, deepening from afar,
O'er that green Vega rose the din of war.
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone
O'er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone;
On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced,
On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced.
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove,
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above,
