TO A SPANISH LADY.
THE perfumes of the burning South
Still linger in your hair,
Warm southern winds have kissed your mouth
And left their magic there.
Your lovely mien, your fervid tone,
Your royal glance reveal
The charm of gracious Aragon,
The pride of old Castile.
I could not, if I would, forget
The hour you smiled on me;
An exile with a like regret
For a like destiny.
The Druid harp is hushed and dead,
Broken the lute of Spain,
Great Arthur sleeps uncomforted,
The Cid comes not again.
Ah! lady, you at least can smite
The Saxon conqueror down,
And plant your flag in beauty’s right
High over London town.
Those deep soft eyes, those lips, that part
Like roses freshly blown,
Must vanquish every northern heart,
While yet untouched your own.