I see them still, when poring o'er

Old volumes of romantic lore,

Ride forth to hawk, in days of yore,

By woods and promontories:

Knights in gold-lace, plumes and gems,

Damsels crowned with anadems,—

Whose falcons perch on wrists, like milk,

In hoods and jesses of green silk,—

From bannered Miraflores.

The laughing earth is young with dew;

The deeps above are violet blue;

And in the East a cloud or two

Empearled with airy glories;

And with merriment and singing,

Silver bells of falcons ringing,

The torrent glitters from the crags;

Down forest vistas browse the stags;

And from wet beds of reeds and flags

The frightened lapwing hurries:

And the brawny wild-boar peereth

At the cavalcade that neareth;

Oft his shaggy-throated grunt

Brings the king and court to hunt

At royal Miraflores.

The May itself, in soft sea-green,

Is Oriana, Spring's high queen,

And Amadis beside her seen,

Some prince of Fairy stories:

Where her castle's ivied towers

Drowse above her woods and bowers,

Flaps the heron through the sky,

And the wild-swan gives a cry

By knightly Miraflores.