The tower is reached--quivers with rage suppressed Don Carlos’ lip--Salustian’s cheek is pale, And pants fair Isidora’s fluttering breast, Like linnet o’er whose nest kites sharp-beaked sail. Well might that night of horrors make thee quail, Daughter of Vascongada! Rent the air, Till morning dawned nor ceased ev’n then, the wail Of hopeless Anguish where the voice of Prayer Was choked, and shriek on shriek gave utterance to Despair. XXIX. “Here sit, my children,” grave Salustian said, “While Spain’s disasters from their primal source I briefly trace, and ’midst these horrors dread Relief pursue by patriot discourse; For at each shriek my voice doth lose its force, And highest deeds recounting may sustain The fainting spirit. Ah! my throat is hoarse, And parched my lips with heat--to speak yet fain-- Would I had never lived to see this day for Spain! XXX. “Five years have past--thou dost remember well, ’Twas when thou first didst braid thy raven hair, My Isidor, as now doth Isabel-- Five wretched years--and both have grown so fair! Since first this Meteor who the earth doth scare With blood-red beams--this dire Napoléon-- O’er Spain began to cast his lurid glare, Covet her lovely sky and radiant sun, And try how much could first by treacherous fraud be won. XXXI. “Dire was the ruin by Corruption’s hand Shed on our ancient monarchy. Her men Were noble still and worthy of the land, Whose blood hath poured in every mountain-glen From Calpe to Asturia’s rudest den, ’Gainst warlike Moor contending. But her Kings Unworthy most beneath dominion’s ken To hold so proud a people--timorous things-- Crawled ’neath a favourite’s sway, or crouched ’neath churchmen’s wings. XXXII. “Corruption fills the Court--the Grandé taints-- The Judge perverts to more pervert the law, Gives Demon-forms of hate the guise of Saints, And Freedom flings to Persecution’s maw. The Holy Office Hell delighted saw! Divine Religion! man’s best, purest gift, Thou only gem that shines without a flaw! Star, from whose ray withdrawn we chartless drift, A Gorgon thou wast made, a Moloch spear didst lift! XXXIII. “And Man was told to love where forced to hate, And saw his fairest fields partitioned forth To Nobles--so miscalled--by robbery great, Whose phantom title was ancestral worth, Their own sole merit accident of birth! Heart-bitterness and worming discontent Made all the land--the loveliest upon earth-- In sullen, fierce indifference bide till rent The Thunder-clouds, supine--and some on Vengeance bent. XXXIV.