But oh! to him, whose self-accusing thought
Whispers ’twas he that desolation wrought;
He who his country and his faith betray’d,
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid;
A voice of sorrow swells in every gale,
Each wave low rippling tells a mournful tale:
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined,
In wild exuberance rustle to the wind,
Each leaf hath language to his startled sense,
And seems to murmur—“Thou hast driven her hence!”