Maidens! your flowing locks dishevell'd tear,
To give them to the wandering winds; and bring
Your harps in mournful company to share
With me the sorrowful laments I sing.
Thus banish'd from our homes afar away
Still let us weep our miseries. O! Spain,
Who shall have power thy torments to allay?
Who shall have power to dry thy tears again!
THE CONDEMNED TO DIE.
His form upon the ground reclined,
With bitter anguish inward drawn,
Full of the coming day his mind,
That soon will sadly dawn,
The culprit waits, in silence laid,
The fatal moments hastening now,
In which his last sun's light display'd
Will shine upon his brow.
O'er crucifix and altar there,
The chapel cell in mourning hung,
From the dim candle's yellow glare
A funeral light is flung;
