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Palos, thy port, with many a pang resigned,
Filled with its busy scenes his lonely mind;
The solemn march, the vows in concert given, *
The bended knees and lifted hands to heaven,
The incensed rites, and choral harmonies,
The Guardian's blessings mingling with his sighs;
While his dear boys-ah, on his neck they hung,
And long at parting to his garments clung.

Oft in the silent night-watch doubt and fear
Broke in uncertain murmurs on his ear.
Oft the stern Catalan, at noon of day,
Muttered dark threats, and lingered to obey;
Tho' that brave Youth—he, whom his courser bore
Right thro’ the midst, when, fetlock-deep in gore,
The great Gonzalo battled with the Moor,
(What time the ALHAMBRA shook-soon to unfold
Its sacred courts, and fountains yet untold,
Its holy texts and arabesques of gold)
Tho' Roldan, sleep and death to him alike,
Grasped his good sword and half unsheathed to strike.
“ Oh born to wander with your flocks,” he cried,
“ And bask and dream along the mountain-side;

• His public procession to the convent of La Rábida on the day before he set sail. It was there that his sons had received their education; and he himself appears to have passed some time there, the venerable Guardian, Juan Perez de Marchena, being his zealous and affectionate friend.— The ceremonies of his departure and return are represented in many of the fresco-paintings in the palaces of Genoa.

To urge your mules, tinkling from hill to hill;
Or at the vintage-feast to drink your fill,
And strike your castanets, with gipsy-maid
Dancing Fandangos in the chestnut shade-
Come on,” he cried, and threw his glove in scorn,
“Not this your wonted pledge, the brimming horn.
Valiant in peace! Adventurous at home!
Oh, had ye vowed with pilgrim-staff to roam;
Or with banditti sought the sheltering wood,
Where mouldering crosses mark the scene of blood !—"
He said, he drew; then, at his Master's frown,
Sullenly sheathed, plunging the weapon down.

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The flight of an Angel of Darkness.
War and the Great in War let others sing,
Havoc and spoil, and tears and triumphing ;
The morning-march that flashes to the sun,
The feast of vultures when the day is done;
And the strange tale of many slain for one !
I sing a Man, amidst his sufferings here,
Who watched and served in humbleness and fear;
Gentle to others, to himself severe.

Still unsubdued by Danger's varying form,
Still, as unconscious of the coming storm,

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