This, indeed, would be a prize, for which the coward death would dare--
I would die to make thee happy, tho' thy lot I might not share!
Then, though I should fail to lift the burden on my darling laid,
Though I could not prove my love by rescuing my Moorish maid,
Yet my love would have this witness, first, thy confidence sublime,
Then my death for thee, recorded on the scroll of future time!
Yes, my death, for should I perish, it were comfort but to think
Thou couldst have henceforth on earth no blacker, bitterer cup to drink!
Sorrow's shafts would be exhausted, thou couldst laugh at fortune's power.
Tho' I lost thee, yet this thought would cheer me in my parting hour.