Aubrey Thomas De Vere


HIS war-horse beats a distant bourne
  Till comes the glad new year;
Therefore thy wheel in silence turn,
  And only dream him near.
He fights where native monarchs be,
  Where Moors no longer reign:
He strikes and cries, “My land, for thee!”
  Amid delivered Spain.

O maiden of the moon-pale face
  And darkly lucid eye!
For knights wave-washed round Smerwick’s base
  Fair Spanish maidens sigh!
The moss, till comes the glad new year,
  Alone may clothe the bough;
Alone the raindrop deck the breer,—
  It weeps, and so must thou!

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