V.
Peace!—I will dash these fond regrets to earth,
Even as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain
From his strong pinion. Thou that gavest me birth,
And lineage, and once home,—my native Spain!
My own bright land—my fathers’ land—my child’s!
What hath thy son brought from thee to the wilds?
He hath brought marks of torture and the chain—
Traces of things which pass not as a breeze;
A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe—thy gifts are these!