Farewell, oh! native Spain! Farewell forever! These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more; A mournful presage tells my heart, that never Gonzalvo’s steps again shall press thy shore.

Hushed are the winds; while soft the vessel sailing With gentle motion plows the unruffled main, I feel my bosom’s boasted courage failing, And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.

I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear heaven Still do the spires, so well beloved, appear; From yonder craggy point the gale of even Still wafts my native accents to mine ear:

Propped on some moss-crowned rock, and gaily singing, There in the sun his nets the fisher dries; Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

Ah! Happy swain! He waits the accustomed hour, When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky; Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower, And shares the feast his native fields supply: