But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver, To die by piecemeal in the bloom of age, My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever, And brain delirious with the daystar’s rage,

Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever With many a bitter sigh, dear land, from thee; To feel this heart must dote on thee forever, And feel, that all thy joys are torn from me!

Ah me! How oft will fancy’s spells in slumber Recall my native country to my mind! How oft regret will bid me sadly number Each lost delight and dear friend left behind!

Wild Murcia’s vales, and loved romantic bowers, The river on whose banks a child I played, My castle’s ancient halls, its frowning towers, Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade,

Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre, Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know, Full oft shall memory trace, my soul’s tormentor, And turn each pleasure passed to present woe.

But lo! The sun beneath the waves retires; Night speeds apace her empire to restore: Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires, Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.

Oh! breathe not, winds! Still be the water’s motion! Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main! So when tomorrow’s light shall gild the ocean, Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.

Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning, Fresh blows the gale, and high the billows swell: Far shall we be before the break of morning; Oh! then forever, native Spain, farewell!

Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines, when Elvira returned to him: the giving a free course to her tears had relieved her, and her spirits had regained their usual composure.