round him flings,

Yet fate resigns to worth the glorious past,

The deeds recorded, and the laurels won.

Then, though the vault of destiny be gone,

King, prelate, all the phantasms of my brain,

Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sun,

Yet grant for faith, for valour, and for Spain,

ning blaze:

parting strain !

Where cowardice and cruelty unite

To damn with double shame their

ignominious flight!

VI.

O triumph for the fiends of lust and wrath!

Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be forgot,

What wanton horrors mark'd their

wreckful path!