Salve!

Where thou standest, Eulalia,
In thy hands a sheaf of bloom,
Twined with love for our Ulysses,
In the twilight of his tomb,
Not'st thou not a murmur mystic
Stirring, thrilling through the air?
Hear st thou not the far-off echoes
Of a silver trumpet's blare?
Hark, the battle-harness clinking
As it sounded cycles gone,
When Spain rose against the Moslem,
And thy champions thundered on;
Ghostly lion banners flutt ring
Ghostly standards of Castile';
Sword gainst scimetar sharp clashing;
Stamp on stone of mail-clad heel;
Loud Te Deums grandly chanted
Sink to whispers in thine ears.
Round thee, Princess, see, they gather,
Splendid wraiths of glorious years!
From them comes one voice, the clearest
Ever woke the soul of Spain.
But one word it sayeth "Salve!"
"Hail, high captain free of stain!"
Clear, beneath the vault it ringeth
As thou layest on his tomb
In the Maytime fresh with dewdrops,
From thy hands a sheaf of bloom.
Love's hand led thee to the portal;
Love's lamp lit thee through the door,
Bringing our dead Captain greeting
From El Cid Campeador.