Page:Modern poets and poetry of Spain.djvu/331

Rh The cruelty and injustice, is consoled; And waiting thus his triumph to obtain, Enjoying it, though but in death to hold, Flies his Creator's bosom to regain. O, sweet illusion! who has had the power To save himself from thee, who was not born Than the cold marble, or the rough trunk lower? With ardour I embrace, and wait thee lorn. Yet of my Muse perchance some happier strains Will me survive, and my sepulchral stone Will not be left to tell of me alone! Perhaps my name, which rancour now detains Proscribed, will yet resound o'er Cuba's plains, On the swift trumpet of enduring fame! Correggio, when he saw his canvas flame With life, "a painter," it was his to cry, "I also am!"—A poet too am I.

reigns; in silence deep around Dreams whirl through empty space; Clothing with her pure light the ground, The moon shows bright her face: