His grateful spirit to the maids who went
To aid his daughter when the sky was dark,
And safely bore to his arms in gallant bark.
But what of San Sebastian ’mid this play
Of grief and joy alternate? Is no ark
Of saving launched upon the torrent spray,
That swept her homes? Alas, still desolate are they!
XXXV.
In Santiago’s burial-green, while fall
The struggling moonbeams from a stormy sky,