The Girl of Cadiz

Oh never talk to me
Of northern climes and British ladies;
It has not been your lot to see
Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz.
Although her eye be not of blue,
Nor fair her locks, like English lasses,
How far its own expressive hue
The languid azure eye surpasses!

Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole
The fire that through those silken lashes
In darkest glances seems to roll,
From eyes that cannot hide their flashes:
And as along her bosom steal
In lengthen’ d flow her raven tresses,
You ‘d swear each clustering lock could feel,
And curl ‘d to give her neck caresses.

Our English maids are long to woo,
And frigid even in possession;
And if their charms be fair to view,
Their lips are slow at Love’s confession:
But born beneath a brighter sun,
For love ordain’ d the Spanish maid is,
And who, — when fondly, fairly, won —
Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz?

The Spanish maid is no coquette,
Nor joys to see a lover tremble,
And if she love, or if she hate,
Alike she knows not to dissemble.
Her heart can ne’ er be bought or sold—
How e’ er it beats, it beats sincerely;
And, though it will not bend to gold,
‘T will love you long and love you dearly.

And when, beneath the evening star,
She mingles in the gay Bolero,
Or sings to her attuned guitar
Of Christian knight or Moorish hero,
Or counts her beads with fairy hand
Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper,
Or joins Devotion’s choral band,
To chaunt the sweet and hallow’ d vesper;

In each her charms the heart must move
Of all who venture to behold her;
Then let not maids less fair reprove
Because her bosom is not colder:
Through many a clime ‘t is mine to roam
Where many a soft and melting maid is,
But none abroad, and few at home,
May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz.