Of Spain, as from the dead; and to lift up
The cross, her sign of victory, on the hills,
Gathering her sons to battle—And my voice
Must be as freedom's trumpet on the winds,
From Roncesvalles to the blue sea-waves
Where Calpe looks on Afric; till the land
Have fill'd her cup of vengeance!—Ask me now
To yield the Christian city, that its fanes
May rear the minaret in the face of Heaven!
—But death shall have a bloodier vintage-feast
Ere that day come!
ELMINA.
For I am hopeless now.—But yet one boon—
Hear me, by all thy woes!—Thy voice hath power
Through the wide city—here I cannot rest:—
Aid me to pass the gates!
HERNANDEZ.
ELMINA.
That wert a father, and art now—alone!
Canst thou ask 'wherefore?'—Ask the wretch whose sands
Have not an hour to run, whose failing limbs
