I cannot but consider that Plutarch is right.
B.K.
* * * * *
A FAREWELL TO SPAIN.
FOR MUSIC.
(_For the Mirror._)
Land of the myrtle and the vine,
The sunny citron-tree,
With heart upon the waves I give
My latest look to thee.
Thy glorious scenes of vale and hill
With joy I now resign,
And seek a more congenial land,
Where Freedom will be mine.
Farewell! thou hast the iron sway
Of bigots and of slaves,
But mine shall be a chainless heart
Upon the dark blue waves.
For thee our sires have fought and died,
For thee their blood have given,
When tyrants o'er the trampled field
Like thunder-clouds were driven.
And has the purple tide in vain,
From hill and vale been poured,
Or do the hopes of Freedom sleep
With mighty Mina's sword?
Oh! no--the trumpet-voice of war,
Shall proudly sound again,
And millions shall obey its call,
And break their chartered chain!
Till then, my native hearth and home
I'll joyfully resign;
Farewell! thou song-enchanted land
Of myrtle and of vine.
_Deal_.
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