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Blest be that soil! where England's heroes share The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there; Whose names are glorious in romantic lays, The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days. By goatherd lone, and rude serrano sung, Thy cypress dells, and vine-clad rocks among. How oft those rocks have echo'd to the tale Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles' vale; Of him, renown'd in old heroic lore, First of the brave, the gallant Campeador; Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died, When "Rio Verde" roll'd a crimson tide; Or that high name, by Garcilaso's might, On the green Vega won in single fight.8

Round fair Granada, deepening from afar, O'er that green Vega rose the din of war. At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone O'er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone; On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced, On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced. Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove, Tents rose around, and banners glanced above,