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| THE WALLS of Badajoz looked down | |
| Upon a gifted maid, who rose | |
| Within that old, beleaguered town, | |
| And startled Spain from her repose. | |
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| Her eyes were beaming with the fire | 5 |
| Of poet youth beneath her dark | |
| And shining locks. She struck her lyre; | |
| And, lo! the land of Spain did hark. | |
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| She calmed her deep, impassioned breast | |
| With love to all the solitudes, | 10 |
| And hid beside the wild-bird’s nest | |
| Her verses in the rocks and woods. | |
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| She hung enraptured on the sweet | |
| Young meadow rose, and lingered near | |
| The turtle-dove, who did repeat | 15 |
| “Love, love,” forever in her ear. | |
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| Unto the stars she told her tale, | |
| Weeping her tears melodiously | |
| At evening with the nightingale, | |
| Or with the palm communing high. | 20 |
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| Her genius moved not straight within | |
| The prunéd walks of classic time, | |
| But ran abroad, and revelled in | |
| New laws that rose from out her rhyme. | |
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| She poured a tide of passion through | 25 |
| The sordid flats of Life’s dull sea; | |
| And, last, she dared to speak unto | |
| Her nation that word,—Liberty! | |
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| Yes, she—the fearless girl—did make | |
| The slavish priesthood tremble at | 30 |
| The burning words of truth she spake, | |
| And poets at her footstool sat. | |
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| At length the laurel wreath they set | |
| Upon her in the royal dome; | |
| But most she loves the coronet | 35 |
| Of wife and mother in her home! | |
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