So soft, so dark the eyes that governed Spain,
When Isabella was the worshiped sovereign,
The crown of gold and pearl could scarce restrain
The raven curls around her forehead hovering.
These are but fancies—thou art of our time,
Of some sweet present home the hope and pleasure:
Not to the past, nor to some foreign clime,
Need we to wander for the English treasure.
Our early flowers are springing at her feet;
Our stars, their watch above, her path are keeping;
Our native words from that young mouth came sweet;
Ours is her laughter—ours her gentle weeping.
Be those dark eyes long ignorant of tears—
Clear be the summer sky that bendeth o’er thee;
Be Hope the planet which thy fate enspheres,
And long and bright the path life spreads before thee.
