I a rough soldier, like a thousand others
Upon our widespread plains, to have won this flower
Of womanhood—this jewel for the front
Of knightly pride to wear, and, wearing it,
Let all things else go by? To think that I,
Fool that I was, only a few hours since,
Bemoaned the lot which brought me here and bade me
Leave my own land, which now sinks fathoms deep
Beyond my memory's depths, and scarce would deign
To obey thee, best of fathers, when thy wisdom