THE GALLEY-SLAVE OF DRAGUT
Ah, fortune's targe and butt was he,
On whom were rained the strokes from hate
From love that had not found its goal,
From strange vicissitudes of fate.
A galley-slave of Dragut he,
Who once had pulled the laboring oar,
Now, 'mid a garden's leafy boughs,
He worked and wept in anguish sore.
"O Mother Spain! for thy blest shore