Xim. Will he see
The noble stem hewn down, the beacon-light
Which from his house for ages o’er the land
Hath shone through cloud and storm, thus quench’d at once?
Will he not aid his children in the hour
Of this their utmost peril? Awful power
Is with the holy dead, and there are times
When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst!
Is it a thing forgotten how he woke
From its deep rest of old; remembering Spain