Spare—spare him—Brazil—Desmond fierce!
In vain—no voice the adder charms;
Their weapons crossed my sheltering arms:
Another’s sword has laid him low.
Another’s and another’s;
And every hand that dealt the blow—
Ah me! it was a brother’s!
Yes, when his moanings died away,
Their iron hands had dug the clay,
And o’er his burial turf they trod,