Song

HIS war-horse beats a distant bourne

  Till comes the glad new year;

Therefore thy wheel in silence turn,

  And only dream him near.

He fights where native monarchs be,

  Where Moors no longer reign:

He strikes and cries, “My land, for thee!”

  Amid delivered Spain.

O maiden of the moon-pale face

  And darkly lucid eye!

For knights wave-washed round Smerwick’s base

  Fair Spanish maidens sigh!

The moss, till comes the glad new year,

  Alone may clothe the bough;

Alone the raindrop deck the breer,—

  It weeps, and so must thou!