O will it ever, ever ope
The Palace gate at last?

Three hundred years and fifty-two
On post and wall it hung—
Three hundred years and fifty-two
A dream to old and young;
But now a brighter destiny
The Prophet's will accords:

The time is come to scour the rust,

And lubricate the wards.

For should the Moor with sword and lance

At Algesiras land,

Where is the bold Bernardo now

Their progress to withstand?

To Burgos should the Moslem come,
Where is the noble Cid

Five royal crowns to topple down

As gallant Diaz did?

Hath Xeres any Pounder now,

When other weapons fail,

With club to thrash invaders rash,

Like barley with a flail ?

Hath Seville any Perez still,

To lay his clusters low,

And ride with seven turbans green

Around his saddle-bow?

No! never more shall Europe see
Such Heroes brave and bold,
Such Valour, Faith, and Loyalty,
As used to shine of old!

No longer to one battle cry
United Spaniards run,

And with their thronging spears uphold

The Virgin and her Son!

From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay

Internal discord dwells,

And Barcelona bears the scars

Of Spanish shot and shells.

The fleets decline, the merchants pine

For want of foreign trade;

And gold is scant; and Alicante

Is seal'd by strict blockade!

The loyal fly, and Valour falls,
Opposed by court intrigue;
But treachery and traitors thrive,
Upheld by foreign league;

While factions seeking private ends

By turns usurping reign—

Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor

Exulting point to Spain!

Well may he cleanse the rusty Key

With Afric sand and oil,

And hope an Andalusian home

Shall recompense the toil!

Well may

he swear the Moorish spear

Through wild Castile shall sweep,
And where the Catalonian sow'd

The Saracen shall reap!

Well may he vow to spurn the Cross
Beneath the Arab hoof,

And plant the Crescent yet again
Above th' Alhambra's roof

When those from whom St. Jago's name

In chorus once arose,

Are shouting Faction's battle-cries,
And Spain forgets to "Close!"

Well

may

he swear his ataghan

Shall rout the traitor swarm,

And carve them into Arabesques

That show no human form

The blame be theirs whose bloody feuds

Invite the savage Moor,

And tempt him with the ancient Key
To seek the ancient door!

P

I.

TO THE OCEAN.

SHALL I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love,
That once, in rage with the wild winds at strife,
Thou darest menace my unit of a life,

Sending my clay below, my soul above,

Whilst roar'd thy waves, like lions when they rove
By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth?
Yet didst thou ne'er restore my fainting health ?—
Didst thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove?
Nay, didst thou not against my own dear shore
Full break, last link between my land and me ?——
My absent friends talk in thy very roar,
In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see,
And, if I must not see my England more,
Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee!

COBLENTZ, May, 1835.

II.

LEAR.

A POOR old king, with sorrow for my crown,
Throned upon straw, and mantled with the wind-
For pity, my own tears have made me blind
That I might never see my children's frown;
And may be madness, like a friend, has thrown
A folded fillet over my dark mind,

So that unkindly speech may sound for kind,—
Albeit I know not.-I am childish grown-
And have not gold to purchase wit withal-
I that have once maintain'd most royal state-
A very bankrupt now that may not call

My child, my child-all-beggar'd save in tears,
Wherewith I daily weep an old man's fate,
Foolish-and blind-and overcome with years!