“Five years have past—thou dost remember well,
’Twas when thou first didst braid thy raven hair,
My Isidor, as now doth Isabel—
Five wretched years—and both have grown so fair!
Since first this Meteor who the earth doth scare
With blood-red beams—this dire Napoléon—
O’er Spain began to cast his lurid glare,
Covet her lovely sky and radiant sun,
And try how much could first by treacherous fraud be won.