(From Pizarro.)
I
YES, yes, be merciless, thou Tempest dire!
Unaw’d, unshelter’d, I thy fury brave,
I’ll bare my bosom to thy forked fire,
Let it but guide me to Alonzo’s grave!
O’er his pale corse then, while thy lightnings glare,
I’ll press his clay-cold lips, and perish there.
But thou wilt wake again, my boy;
Again thou’lt rise to life and joy —
Thy father never! —
Thy laughing eyes will meet the light,
Unconscious that eternal night
Veils his for ever!
II
On you green bed of moss there lies my child,
Oh! safer lies from these chill’d arms apart;
He sleeps, sweet lamb! nor heeds the tempest wild,
Oh! sweeter sleeps than near this breaking heart.
Alas! my babe, if thou would ‘ft peaceful rest,
Thy cradle must not be thy mother’s breast.
Yet thou wilt wake again, my boy;
Again thou’lt rise to life and joy —
Thy father never! —
Thy laughing eyes will meet the light,
Unconscious that eternal night
Veils his for ever!