OH, dark is the spirit that loves not the land | |
| Whose breezes his brow have in infancy fann’d; | |
| That feels not his bosom responsively thrill | |
| To the voice of her forest the gush of her rill. | |
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| Who hails not the flowers that bloom on his way, | 5 |
| As blessings there scattered his love to repay; | |
| Who loves not to wander o’er mountain and vale, | |
| Where echoes the voice of the loud rushing gale. | |
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| Who treads not with awe where his ancestors lie; | |
| As their spirits around him are hovering nigh. | 10 |
| Who seek not to cherish the flowers that bloom, | |
| Amid the fresh herbs that o’ershadow the tomb. | |
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| Oh, cold is such spirit; and yet colder still | |
| The heart that for Spain does not gratefully thrill; | |
| The land, which the foot of the weary had pressed, | 15 |
| Where the exile and wand’rer found blessing and rest. | |
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| On the face of the earth our doom was to roam, | |
| To meet not a brother, to find not a home, | |
| But Spain has the exile and homeless received, | |
| And we feel not of country so darkly bereaved. | 20 |
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| Home of the exile! oh ne’er will we leave thee, | |
| As mother to orphan, fair land we now greet thee, | |
| Sweet peace and rejoicing may dwell in thy bowers, | |
| For even as Judah, fair land thou art ours. | |
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| Oh, dearest and brightest! the homeless do bless thee, | 25 |
| From ages to ages they yearn to possess thee, | |
| In life and in death they cling to thy breast, | |
| And seek not and wish not a lovelier rest. | |
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