Meanwhile, the old guitar replied
To the swift fingers of our guide:
His voice was deep, and rich, and strong,
And he himself a child of song.
At first the music's liquid flow
Was soft and plaintive--rich and low;
The murmur of a fountain's stream
Where sleeping water-lilies dream;
Or, like the breathing of love-vows
Beneath the shade of orange-boughs;
And then more stirring grew his song--
A strain which swept the blood along!
And as he sang, his eyes so sad--
Which lately wore the look of pain,
Danc'd with a gleam both proud and glad,
Awaken'd by his fervid strain--
His face now flush'd and now grew pale--
The song he sang, was this, my tale.

A fort above Laguayra stands,
Which all the town below commands.
The damp moss clings upon its walls--
The rotting drawbridge slowly falls--
Its dreary silentness appalls!
The iron bars are thick with rust
And slowly moulder into dust;
The roofless turrets show the sky,
The moats below are bare and dry--
No captain issues proud behest--
The guard-room echoes to no jest;