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The day is ours!—I go; but fear ye not! For Afric's lance is broken, and my sons Have won their first good field![He dies.

Look on me yet! Speak one farewell, my husband!—must thy voice Enter my soul no more!—Thine eye is fix'd— Now is my life uprooted,—and 'tis well.

A CITIZEN. Hush your triumphal sounds, although ye come E'en as deliverers!—But the noble dead, And those that mourn them, claim from human hearts Deep silent reverence.

No, swell forth, Castile! Thy trumpet-music, till the seas and heavens, And the deep hills, give every stormy note Echoes to ring through Spain!—How, know ye not That all array'd for triumph, crown'd and robed With the strong spirit which hath saved the land, Ev'n now a conqueror to his rest is gone? —Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind