That throwest death, as some light idle thing, With all its terrors, into dust and air, I will endure thee; I, whom heaven ordained Thus to have served beneath my enemies, Their conqueror, thus to have revisited My native land with vengeance and with woe.
Henceforward shall she recognise her sons, Impatient of oppression or disgrace, And rescue them, or perish; let her hold This compact, written with her blood, and mine.
Now follow me--but tremble--years shall roll, And wars rage on, and Spain at last be free.
Footnote:
{1} "Ah, what avails the sceptred race, Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
"Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee."