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Hath nought to ask, unworthy of the name Which is a nation's heritage.—Dost thou shrink?

Have pity on me, father!—I must speak That, from the thought of which, but yesterday, I had recoil'd in scorn!—But this is past. Oh! we grow humble in our agonies, And to the dust—their birth-place—bow the heads That wore the crown of glory!—I am weak— My chastening is far more than I can bear.

These are no times for weakness. On our hills The ancient cedars, in their gather'd might; Are battling with the tempest; and the flower Which cannot meet its driving blast must die. —But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem Unwont to bend or break.—Lift thy proud head, Daughter of Spain!—What wouldst thou with thy lord?

Look not upon me thus!—I have no power To tell thee. Take thy keen disdainful eye Off from my soul!—What! am I sunk to this? I, whose blood sprung from heroes!—How my sons Will scorn the mother that would bring disgrace