_Cov._ O tell him, tell him all, when I am dead— He will die, too, and we shall meet again. He will know all when these sad eyes are closed. Ah cannot he before! must I appear The vilest!—O just Heaven! can it be thus? I am—all earth resounds it—lost, despised, Anguish and shame unutterable seize me. ’Tis palpable—no phantom, no delusion, No dream that wakens with overwhelming horror; Spaniard and Moor fight on this ground alone, And tear the arrow from my bleeding breast To pierce my father’s, for alike they fear. _Jul._ Invulnerable now, and unassail’d Are we, alone perhaps of human kind, Nor life allures us more, nor death alarms. _Cov._ Fallen, unpitied, unbelieved, unheard! I should have died long earlier: gracious God! Desert me to my sufferings, but sustain My faith in, thee! O hide me from the world, And from thyself, my father, from thy fondness, That opened in this wilderness of woe A source of tears that else had burst my heart, Setting me free for ever—then perhaps A cruel war had not divided Spain, Had not o’erturned her cities and her altars, Had not endanger’d thee! O haste afar Ere the last dreadful conflict that decides Whether we live beneath a foreign sway— _Jul._ Or under him whose tyranny brought down The curse upon his people. O child! child! Urge me no further, talk not of the war, Remember not our country. _Cov._ Not remember! What have the wretched else for consolation, What else have they who pining feed their woe? Can I, or should I, drive from memory All that was dear and sacred, all the joys Of innocence and peace; when no debate Was in the convent, but what hymn, whose voice, To whom among the blessed it arose, Swelling so sweet; when rang the vesper-bell And every finger ceased from the guitar, And every tongue was silent through our land; When, from remotest earth, friends met again Hung on each other’s neck, and but embraced, So sacred, still, and peaceful, was the hour. Now, in what climate of the wasted world, Not unmolested long by the profane, Can I pour forth in secrecy to God My prayers and my repentance? where beside Is the last solace of the parting soul? Friends, brethren, parents—dear indeed, too dear, Are they, but somewhat still the heart requires That it may leave them lighter, and more blest. _Jul._ Wide are the regions of our far-famed land: Thou shalt arrive at her remotest bounds, See her best people, choose some holiest house— Whether where Castro {35} from surrounding vines Hears the hoarse ocean roar among his caves, And, thro’ the fissure in the green church-yard, The wind wail loud the calmest summer day; Or where Santona leans against the hill, Hidden from sea and land by groves and bowers.