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Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze play'd, And his native streams wild music made, And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay, When for march and combat he took his way.

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took, And he turn'd his steed for a parting look, For a parting look at his own fair towers; —Oh! the Exile's heart hath weary hours!

The pennons were spread, and the band array'd, But the Cid at the threshold a moment stay'd; It was but a moment—the halls were lone, And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown.

There was not a steed in the empty stall, Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall, Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door, Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor2.

Then a dim tear swell'd to the warrior's eye, As the voice of his native groves went by; And he said—"My foemen their wish have won— —Now the will of God be in all things done!"