“Oh Death in battle! Glory thou art called, When stirred the fervent blood to seething strife; But Man prefers thee peaceful coffined, palled, And shudders unprepared to yield The Life; For, oh, with terror the dark shore is rife! Who in precipitate Death would choose to miss The pillow tended by the loving wife, The dying hand stretched forth to her to kiss, The last words whispered low, surviving Memory’s bliss! XLI. “That word recalls, my girls, your mother dead, And brings to these weak eyes a sacred tear. Belov’d Juana! round thy honoured head Celestial glory beams, yet, oh, look here, And shed protection o’er thy children dear!” Salustian ceased--he kist the foreheads pure Of both his weeping daughters, Carlos near Impatient stood, his eyes with ceaseless lure Tow’rds the lance-casement drawn, where Morn’s first glimmerings pour. XLII. A day of terror to a night of gloom Succeedeth; light reveals no glimpse of joy. But rends the Sun the veil from living tomb, To show how swift can ruffians armed destroy. Thy treasures, San Sebastian, a decoy, Thy household gods are shivered into dust! Nor yet upon thy fell invaders cloy Barbarian violence and Rapine’s lust. The thunder-storm hath ceased--but, Heaven, thy arm is just! XLIII. “Thou wilt not go--thou wilt not, Carlos, leave “Thy Isidora’s side--thy life expose. “What boots their plunder? ’Tis for thee I grieve, “Alone--unaided, amongst ruffian foes. “Father, I dread the worst if Carlos goes.” But Carlos kist her tenderly, and said: “No danger fear, _mi alma_, blushful rose! “I will be careful for thy sake--this head “Bright Heaven is sure to shield--an Angel I would wed!” XLIV. Don Carlos wended to Salustian’s home;-- A smouldering heap of ruins met his gaze! And rifled remnants of that noble dome Drunk grenadiers transported through the blaze. Oh, who shall paint his horror and amaze! He took by the throat the first who crost his path. Red bayonets flashed beneath the autumnal rays; But buckled to his side a sword he hath, And many a victim falls a prey to Carlos’ wrath. XLV. Now thronged the soldiery, and Carlos prest By numbers fought full long with valour rare; Till faint and bleeding from his wounded breast, He gained once more the mute Cathedral square. But, ah, the bloodhounds tracked him to his lair, And forced an entrance to the sacred pile. His blood doth guide them up the belfry stair. They reach the door--they burst it in--the while Young Isidora screams, and laugh those demons vile. XLVI.