Amid the thousands who acclaim’d him King,
Firm on the shield above their heads upraised,
Erect he stood, and waved his bloody sword....
Why dost thou shake thy head as if in doubt?
I do not dream, nor fable! Ten short years
Have scarcely past away, since all within
The Pyrenean hills, and the three seas
Which girdle Spain, echoed in one response
The acclamation from that field of fight....
Or doth aught ail thee, that thy body quakes