Roderick, the last of the Goths

by Robert Southey

A thrilling pang,

A sweat like death, a sickness of the soul,

Came over Roderick. Soon they pass’d away,

And admiration in their stead arose,

Stern joy, and inextinguishable hope,

With wrath, and hate, and sacred vengeance now

Indissolubly link’d. O valiant race,

O people excellently brave, he cried,

True Goths ye fell, and faithful to the last;

Though overpower’d, triumphant, and in death