Loud, louder still the batteries poured their fire, And softer rippled wavelets o’er the strand. ’Twixt Man and Nature, oh, what contrast dire! The clattering death-tubes scarce a zephyr fanned. Is Ocean awed to silence by the land, Or is’t amazed at human hate and rage? The eye ferocious, and the red right hand That writes its name renowned in History’s page? Nature, I ween, is shocked, and beasts themselves more sage! XXI. Ah better far on Albion’s soil to tread The verdurous meadow or the breezy hill, For peaceful toil or sportful wandering spread, In pastoral loveliness unrivalled still; Where blend sweet lane and slope with murmuring rill, Hedgerow, and vocal grove, and village green, And gardens fair and homesteads bright which fill True household gods and beauty,--there, I ween, Alone ’neath tempering clouds in full perfection seen. XXII. Ah, better ’twere beneath this radiant sky, This sparkling sunlight shimmering o’er the plain, To give to tender thoughts the melting eye, And yield the heart to Love’s delicious pain. The genius bland, the balmy air of Spain, More fit the lute than dire artillery’s roar. Ah, better far to sing such sweet refrain Some dark-eyed Andaluzan’s bower before, As thus might ease the shaft that quivers in the core:-- La Sebillana 1. My Enriqueta’s eyelids Are as soft as dews that fall From the moonlit jasper fountain In Alhambra’s silent hall. No star that, through its casement, At the midnight hour you spy, Hath the light, Streaming bright, Of my Enriqueta’s eye! 2. It hath the Southern darkness, And the Southern depth as well; Touches, too, of Moorish wildness In its rapid glances dwell. ’Tis broad-cut like an almond, With a long and silken lash; When her mind Is to be kind, How she veils its lightning flash! 3. Her step is light and buoyant, As if borne upon the air; Short and danceful are her movements, Like a pheasant’s young and fair. Stately-paced _piafadora_,[C] Waving gently to and fro, Do I hear No music near, While so gracefully you go? 4. Her head she carries finely, And her bearing’s wondrous proud, And her voice, like silver lute strings, Thrills the heart--but never loud! ’Tis a voice the brain to wilder; Oh, I glory to be near, As she strolls, Witching souls, By the blue Guadalquivír! XXIII.