And leave him to stand the brunt alone.
—Let the tempest come, that’s gathering near,
And give us a better atmosphere!
CUBA.
Is it naught? Is it naught
That the South-wind brings her wail to our shore,
That the spoilers compass our desolate sister?
Is it naught? Must we say to her, “Strive no more.”
With the lips wherewith we loved her and kissed her?
With the mocking lips wherewith we said,