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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!

I ask thee this no more, 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!

And wherefore?

Thou, 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