SONG OF THE SPANISH JEWS by GRACE AGUILAR

OH, dark is the spirit that loves not the land
Whose breezes his brow have in infancy fann'd;
That feels not his bosom responsively thrill
To the voice of her forest the gush of her rill.

Who hails not the flowers that bloom on his way,
As blessings there scattered his love to repay;
Who loves not to wander o'er mountain and vale,
Where echoes the voice of the loud rushing gale.

Who treads not with awe where his ancestors lie;
As their spirits around him are hovering nigh.
Who seek not to cherish the flowers that bloom,
Amid the fresh herbs that o'ershadow the tomb.

Oh, cold. is such spirit; and yet colder still
The heart that for Spain does not gratefully thrill;
The land, which the foot, of the weary had pressed,
Where the exile and wand'rer found blessing and rest.

On the face of the earth our doom was to roam,
To meet not a brother, to find not a home,
But Spain has the exile and homeless received,
And we feel not of country so darkly bereaved.

Home of the exile! oh ne'er will we leave thee,
As mother to orphan, fair land we now greet thee,
Sweet peace and rejoicing may dwell in thy bowers,
For even as Judah, fair land thou art ours.

Oh, dearest and brightest! the homeless do bless thee,
From ages to ages they yearn to possess thee,
In life and in death they cling to thy breast,
And seek not and wish not a lovelier rest.

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