Carolina Coronado

The walls of Badajoz looked down
Upon a gifted maid, who rose
Within that old, beleaguered town,
And startled Spain from lier repose.

Her eyes were beaming with the fire
Of poet youth beneath her dark
And shining locks. She struck her lyre;
And, lo! the land of Spain did hark.

She calmed her deep, impassioned breast
With love to all the solitudes,
And hid beside the wild-bird's nest
Her verses in the rocks and woods.

She hung enraptured on the sweet
Young meadow rose, and lingered near
The turtle-dove, who did repeat
"Love, love," forever in her ear.

Unto the stars she told her tale.
Weeping her tears melodiously
At evening with the nightingale,
Or with the palm oommuning high.

Her genius moved not straight within
The pruned walks of classic time,
But ran abroad, and revelled in
New laws that rose from out her rhyme.

She poured a tide of passion through
The sordid flats of Life's dull sea;
And, last, she dared to speak unto
Her nation that word, —Liberty!

Yes, she— the fearless girl —did make
The slavish priesthood tremble at
The burning words of truth she spake,
And poets at her footstool sat.

At length the laurel wreath they set
Upon her in the royal dome;
But most she loves the coronet
Of wife and mother in her home!