Preluding light, were strains of music heard, As once again revolved that measured sand; Such sounds as when, for silvan dance prepared, Gay Xeres summons forth her vintage band; When for the light bolero ready stand The mozo blithe, with gay muchacha met, He conscious of his broidered cap and band, She of her netted locks and light corsette, Each tiptoe perched to spring, and shake the castanet.
And well such strains the opening scene became; For VALOUR had relaxed his ardent look, And at a lady’s feet, like lion tame, Lay stretched, full loath the weight of arms to brook; And softened BIGOTRY, upon his book, Pattered a task of little good or ill: But the blithe peasant plied his pruning-hook, Whistled the muleteer o’er vale and hill, And rung from village-green the merry seguidille.
Grey Royalty, grown impotent of toil, Let the grave sceptre slip his lazy hold; And, careless, saw his rule become the spoil Of a loose Female and her minion bold. But peace was on the cottage and the fold, From Court intrigue, from bickering faction far; Beneath the chestnut-tree Love’s tale was told, And to the tinkling of the light guitar, Sweet stooped the western sun, sweet rose the evening star.
As that sea-cloud, in size like human hand, When first from Carmel by the Tishbite seen, Came slowly overshadowing Israel’s land, A while, perchance, bedecked with colours sheen, While yet the sunbeams on its skirts had been, Limning with purple and with gold its shroud, Till darker folds obscured the blue serene And blotted heaven with one broad sable cloud, Then sheeted rain burst down, and whirlwinds howled aloud:—
Even so, upon that peaceful scene was poured, Like gathering clouds, full many a foreign band, And HE, their Leader, wore in sheath his sword, And offered peaceful front and open hand, Veiling the perjured treachery he planned, By friendship’s zeal and honour’s specious guise, Until he won the passes of the land; Then burst were honour’s oath and friendship’s ties! He clutched his vulture grasp, and called fair Spain his prize.
An iron crown his anxious forehead bore; And well such diadem his heart became, Who ne’er his purpose for remorse gave o’er, Or checked his course for piety or shame; Who, trained a soldier, deemed a soldier’s fame Might flourish in the wreath of battles won, Though neither truth nor honour decked his name; Who, placed by fortune on a Monarch’s throne, Recked not of Monarch’s faith, or Mercy’s kingly tone.