And indignation; then let me disclaim'd
Of virtue be eternally as held,
And barbarous and wicked be one named
As those who with such ruin thee assail'd.
In the eternal book of life are borne,
Written in blood, those cries, which then sent forth
Thy lips to Heaven, such fury doom'd to mourn,
And yet against my country call in wrath.
Forbidding glory and success attend
The fatal field of crimes. Will they ne'er cease?
Will not the bitter expiation end
Sufficed of three eventful centuries?
We are not now those who on daring's wing,
Before the world, the Atlantic's depths disdain'd,
And from the silence found thee covering,
That fiercely tore thee, bleeding and enchain'd!
"No, ye are not the same. But my lament
Is not for this to cease: I could forget
The rigours which my conquerors relent,
Their avarice with cruelties beset:
The crime was of the age, and not of Spain.
But when can I forget the evils sore
Which I must miserably yet sustain?
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