And, sure, my father would not slay,
Those men for whom his child will pray.
But why thinkest thou of blood? the thought,
With wretched fear is ever fraught.
Think, think of love, and gentle peace,
Gonzalo! let these bodings cease.
Think, think of love—here on my heart,
Repose, and even Death's stern dart,
By Love conjured, will turn away,
Some unloved thing of earth to slay."