XLIII.
He yelled for joy! In vain his fingers flew
To loose the firm new lid—it mocks his art.
His toil with ten-fold zeal he doth renew,
And clear the earth away from every part.
Oh now, how glare his eyes, how bounds his heart!
Gently his mattock’s pressure is applied
’Twixt lid and coffin till the strong nails start;
Gently, for all is sacred by her side,
Loveliest of Vascon maids, who Virtue’s martyr died!