A golden curl of William’s, tied it there
In fashion of a cross, and with this prayer
Consigned it to her bosom: “Empress-Queen
“Of Heaven, Immaculate Virgin! Spare, oh, spare
“His life. Mi Madre, on Isaro’s green
“Thy shrine shall have a crown as fair as e’er was seen.”
X.
At length the foeman’s guns are nearly mute,
The hour doth come for the terrific shock.
Where thou hast sown, Britannia, pluck the fruit;