To that condition did it most aspire And stumbled on along a weary road. TO A ROSE PLUCKED IN THE GARDEN OF THE CLOISTER OF SAN JUAN LOS REYES, IN TOLEDO, SPAIN, FAIR blossom that the kind December sun In this strange land where winter, scarce begun, Ere earth a mantle o'er its ruins cast; Tell me, O blossom tender, Of old Toledo's splendour! II Sweet rose, ere ravished from thy native tree, Hast never seen wild visions of the dead; Of saints in odorous embroidery, Of noble Cardinal with hoary head, K Of haughty Roman or aggressive Moor, Of grave hidalgo and of Jewish boor; Of jewelled maidens with their thousand charms? Of old Toledo's splendour! III O flow'ret, never from their marble tombs To that fair shrine where, chroniclers have said, And kisses them; then prays, and makes his moan That Heaven deigns not to render Back old Toledo's splendour! O BIRDS THAT FLIT BY OCEAN'S RIM. I O BIRDS that flit by ocean's rim, O waves that lap horizons dim, Ye shall be tranquil by-and-by! II O rose-tree giving petals fair In some lost garden lone to lie, Weep not because your stems are bare; III O singer, singing in the night, Turn not and curse the heavens and die e; Your heritage is peace and light— You shall be richer by-and-by! |