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Had chill'd their fiery blood;—it is no time
For the tired peasant, when the vesper-bell
Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain-height,
When Heaven lets loose the storms that chasten realms —Who speaks of rest?
My father, shall I fill
To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn
I know all high
And the pine forests deeply to resound
* “Serranos,” mountaineers.
The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear
How my heart sinks'
- It must not fail thee yet,
Daughter of heroes!—thine inheritance
O'erawed, shrank back before them —Aye, the earth
Mean'st thou?—know'st thou aught?— I cannot utter it—My sons! my sons ! Is it of them —Oh! wouldst thou speak of them * GONZALEZ.
A mother's heart divineth but too well!
In the Moorish camp Whose lines have girt the city.
But they live *
—All is not lost, my mother
Say, they live.
GONZALEZ. Elmina, still they live. ELMINA. But captives!—They Whom my fond heart had imaged to itself Bounding from cliff to cliff amidst the wilds Where the rock-eagle seem’d not more secure In its rejoicing freedom –And my boys Are captives with the Moor —Oh! how was this? GONZALEZ. Alas! our brave Alphonso, in the pride Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls, With his young brother, eager to behold The face of noble war. Thence on their way Were the rash wanderers captured. ELMINA. 'Tis enough. —And when shall they be ransomed GONZALEZ. There is asked A ransom far too high. ELMINA. What' have we wealth Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons The while wear setters?—Take thou all for them,