There rest, aye, in thy loftiness,
To shame the plain around,
Warderless castle, matron lone,
In whom no beauty 's found.
At thee time laughs, thy towers o'erthrown,
Scorned by thy vassals, by thy Lord
Deserted, rest, black skeleton!
Stain of the vale's green sward.
Priestless hermitage of Castille,
On thee no banners wave;
Unblazon'd gate, thy pointed vaults
No more their weight can save:
Thou hast no soldier on thy heights,
No echo in thy halls,
And rank weeds festering grow uncheck'd
Beneath thy mouldering walls.
Chieftain dead in a foreign land,
Forgotten of thy race,
While storm-torn fragments from thy brow
Are scatter'd o'er thy place;
And men pass careless at thy feet,
Nor seek thy tale to find;
Because thy history is not read,
Thy name 's not in their mind.
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JOSÈ ZORRILLA.
