For, oh, with terror the dark shore is rife!
Who in precipitate Death would choose to miss
The pillow tended by the loving wife,
The dying hand stretched forth to her to kiss,
The last words whispered low, surviving Memory’s bliss!
XLI.
“That word recalls, my girls, your mother dead,
And brings to these weak eyes a sacred tear.
Belov’d Juana! round thy honoured head
Celestial glory beams, yet, oh, look here,