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But he is on his homeward way, From the Roncesvalles' Strait!"

"There is dust upon his joyous brow,   And o'er his graceful head; And the war-horse will not wake him now,    Tho' it bruise his greensward bed!        —I have seen the stripling die,        And the strong man meet his fate, Where the mountain-winds go sounding by,        In the Roncesvalles' Strait!"

Your songs are not as those of other days, Mine own Ximena!—Where is now the young And buoyant spirit of the mom, which once Breath'd in your spring-like melodies, and woke Joy's echo from all hearts?

My mother, this Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds;