IX.
Why should I weep on thy bright head, my boy?
Within thy fathers’ halls thou wilt not dwell,
Nor lift their banner, with a warrior’s joy,
Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell
For Spain of old. Yet what if rolling waves
Have borne us far from our ancestral graves?
Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebel,
As mine hath done; nor bear what I have borne,
Casting in falsehood’s mould th’ indignant brow of scorn.