Might and far-flung power
And we call the vision Rome,
Where the close-locked legions trample
And the triremes cut the foam.
Grace and regal beauty--
And Athena’s temples rise
Above the fertile Attic plains
And blue Ægean skies.
But when, in wanton whispers
Creeps o’er the tired brain
The word Romance, there falls the trance--
The spell of olden Spain.
* * * * *
The humdrum of the city
The workshop and the street,
They gently slip behind us--
As glide our tired feet
O’er the pavements of Sevilla,
Where the Grandees pass again
To ogle in the balconies
The matchless eyes of Spain.
Once more the somersaulting bells
In the great square tower ring--
Once more the sword and cowl draw back--
“The King--make way--The King!”
Sevilla--Mother of a world
Of pride and golden gain,
And greed and love and laughter
Of Periclean Spain.
Once more o’er purple ocean
Or coral-locked lagoon,
We watch the bowsprit cutting
The pathway of the moon.
The long white beach, the swaying palms’
Shifting silver sheen--
And the flickering flares of the flimsy fleet
Where the spear-poised fishers lean.
The low-hung, skimming scuppers--
The flaunting skull and bones--
The buccaneer on his poop-deck
Roaring in thunder tones
To a swarthy, ill-begotten crew--
As slow the daylight dies,
And he lifts with a smile the chartless isle
Where the buried treasure lies.
The lilt of living music
Caressing heart and brain:
Harp, guitar and mandolin
In languorous, limpid strain.
The fluttering fan--the furtive glance--
The black mantilla’s reign--
And the Captains bold who drop their gold
To bask in the eyes of Spain.
The towering galleons plunging
Thrice-tiered above the foam:
The ringing round-shot roaring,
And the crash of the hit gone home:
The yard-arms staggering under,
Where, scorning the iron rain
And showing its fangs to a parting world,
Goes down the Lion of Spain.
* * * * *
When the clattering city cloys you
With the stress of its strident call--
When practical, calculating Things
Are domineering all--
When your clamped mind in its weariness
To Romance turns again,
Seek ye the Andalusian crags--
The flare of the gold and crimson flags--
And the scented breath where the night wind drags
Through the Isles of the Spanish Main.