Must be as freedom’s trumpet on the winds,
From Roncesvalles to the blue sea-waves
Where Calpe looks on Afric; till the land
Have fill’d her cup of vengeance! Ask me now
To yield the Christian city, that its fanes
May rear the minaret in the face of heaven!—
But death shall have a bloodier vintage-feast
Ere that day come!
Elm. I ask thee this no more,
For I am hopeless now. But yet one boon—