We have sent the streams from our battle-field,
All darken'd to the sea!
We have given the founts a stain,
Midst their woods of ancient pine;
And the ground is wet—but not with rain,
Deep-dyed—but not with wine!
"The ground is wet—but not with rain—
We have been in war array,
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain
Hath bathed her soil to-day.
I have seen the strong man die,
And the stripling meet his fate,
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by,
In the Roncesvalles' Strait.
"In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait
There are helms and lances cleft;
And they that moved at morn elate
On a bed of heath are left!
There's many a fair young face,
Which the war steed hath gone o'er;
At many a board there is kept a place
For those that come no more!"
