Ah, fortune's targe and butt was he,
On whom were rained the strokes from hate
From love that had not found its goal,
From strange vicissitudes of fate.
A galley-slave of Dragut he,
Who once had pulled the laboring oar,
Now, 'mid a garden's leafy boughs,
He worked and wept in anguish sore.
"O Mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.
They took me from the galley bench;
A gardener's slave they set me here,
That I might tend the fruit and flowers
Through all the changes of the year;
Wise choice, indeed, they made of me!
For when the drought has parched the field,
The clouds that overcast my heart
Shall rain in every season yield.
O mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.
"They took me from the galley's hold;
It was by heaven's all-pitying grace.
Yet, even in this garden glade,
Has fortune turned away her face.
Though lighter now my lot of toil,
Yet is it heavier, since no more
My tear-dimmed eyes, my heart discern,
Across the sea, my native shore.
O mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return.
"And you, ye exiles, who afar
In many a foreign land have strayed;
And from strange cities o'er the sea
A second fatherland have made--
Degenerate sons of glorious Spain!
One thing ye lacked to keep you true,
The love no stranger land could share;
The courage that could fate subdue.
O mother Spain! for thy blest shore
Mine eyes impatient yearn;
For thy choicest gem is bride of mine,
And she longs for my return."