By all th' appeals of high remembrances,
And silent claims o' th' sepulchres, wherein
His fathers with their stainless glory sleep,
On their good swords! Thinkst thou I feel no pangs?
He that hath given me sons, doth know the heart
Whose treasure she recalls.—Of this no more.
'Tis vain. I tell thee that th' inviolate cross
Still, from our ancient temples, must look up
Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its foot
I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask
That I, the son of warriors—men who died
To fix it on that proud supremacy—
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith,
From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor
In impious joy to trample!
ELMINA.
In mine extreme of misery!—Thou art strong—
Thy heart is not as mine.—My brain grows wild;
I know not what I ask!—And yet 'twere but
Anticipating fate—since it must fall,
That cross must fall at last! There is no power,
No hope within this city of the grave,
To keep its place on high. Her sultry air
