Two hundred of our faithful Mexicans
Lie sorely wounded in our hospitals.
Why not, if you incline to charity,
Extend its grateful blessings first on those,
Who fought and suffered for a righteous cause,
Than on a rebel, whose defiant pride
Captivity and wounds could not reform?
That rebel is a countryman of mine,
Forsaken here, exposed to cruelty;
He is the brother of the man I love,
Whose anxious fear too well I can devine.
Should then these freely-cherished motives
Not outweigh every duty's stern regard
Imposed upon me by my father's choice?
A loving daughter makes her father's choice
Her own; 't is natural and—often—useful.
And still there are impressed on every heart
Some holy laws which claim a precedence.
These laws our wishes oft interpret wrong.