But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver, To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age, My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever, And brain delirious with the day-star’s rage, Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever With many a bitter sigh, Dear Land, from Thee; To feel this heart must doat on thee for ever, And feel, that all thy joys are torn from me! Ah me! How oft will Fancy’s spells in slumber Recall my native Country to my mind! How oft regret will bid me sadly number Each lost delight and dear Friend left behind! Wild Murcia’s Vales, and loved romantic bowers, The River on whose banks a Child I played, My Castle’s antient Halls, its frowning Towers, Each much-regretted wood, and well-known Glade, Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre, Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know, Full oft shall Memory trace, my soul’s Tormentor, And turn each pleasure past to present woe. But Lo! The Sun beneath the waves retires; Night speeds apace her empire to restore: Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires, Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more. Oh! breathe not, Winds! Still be the Water’s motion! Sleep, sleep, my Bark, in silence on the Main! So when to-morrow’s light shall gild the Ocean, Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain. Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning, Fresh blows the Gale, and high the Billows swell: Far shall we be before the break of Morning; Oh! then for ever, native Spain, farewell! Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines, when Elvira returned to him: The giving a free course to her tears had relieved her, and her spirits had regained their usual composure. “I have nothing more to say, my Lord,” said She; “You have heard my apprehensions, and my reasons for begging you not to repeat your visits. I have thrown myself in full confidence upon your honour: I am certain that you will not prove my opinion of you to have been too favourable.” “But one question more, Segnora, and I leave you. Should the Duke of Medina approve my love, would my addresses be unacceptable to yourself and the fair Antonia?” “I will be open with you, Don Lorenzo: There being little probability of such an union taking place, I fear that it is desired but too ardently by my Daughter. You have made an impression upon her young heart, which gives me the most serious alarm: To prevent that impression from growing stronger, I am obliged to decline your acquaintance. For me, you may be sure that I should rejoice at establishing my Child so advantageously. Conscious that my constitution, impaired by grief and illness, forbids me to expect a long continuance in this world, I tremble at the thought of leaving her under the protection of a perfect Stranger. The Marquis de las Cisternas is totally unknown to me: