Fair land! of chivalry the old domain,
	Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain!
	Though not for thee with classic shores to vie
	In charms that fix th’ enthusiast’s pensive eye;
	Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught
	With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought;
	Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name
	High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame.

Mrs. Hemans.    

	Not all the blood at Talavera shed,
	Not all the marvels of Barossa’s fight,
	Not Albuera lavish of the dead,
	Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.
	When shall her olive-branch be free from blight?
	When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?
	How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
	Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,
	And Freedom’s stranger-tree grow native of the soil!

Byron.