V.

O! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain,
As sure your changeful gales seem oft to
say,
When sweeping wild and sinking soft again,
Like trumpet-jubilee, or harp's wild sway;
If ye can echo such triumphant lay,

Then lend the note to him has loved you long!

Who pious gathered each tradition gray,
That floats your solitary wastes along,

XI.

"There, of Numantian fire a swarthy spark Still lightens in the sun-burnt native's eye; The stately port, slow step, and visage dark, Still mark enduring pride and constancy. And, if the glow of feudal chivalry

Beam not, as once, thy nobles' dearest pride,

Iberia! oft thy crestless peasantry

Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit their side;

fought and died.

Wrought of rare gems, but broken, rent, and foul;

Idols of gold from heathen temples torn,

Bedabbled all with blood.-With grisly scow The Hermit marked the stains, and smiled beneath his cowl