Classic Poem

Still round thy towers descend the fertile rain!
Still sing the doves in every leafy den!
Cordova, fairest home of gallant men,
Where youth my childhood's trinkets snapped in twain
And noble sires begat me noble, free!

Happy those days, with purer pleasures blest,
Those winding vales we roamed with boyish zest,
White-throated, raven-haired, all mirth and jest.
Chide not the trailing robes, the silken vest,
The reckless pride of youth—no wantons we.
Say to an age whose joys long since are fled,
Its traces by the lapse of nights now faint and mouldered
(Softly the breeze its evening fragrance shed!
Bright shone its stars o'er the night-traveler's head!):
“Farewell from one whose love still burns for thee!”