JOSE DE ESPRONCEDA.
311
And then he hears, funereal roll
Between each pause, those accents high,
"Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul
Of him condemned to die."
He cursed them all, as one by one
The impious echo3 each expressed;
He cursed the mother as a son
Who nursed him at her breast:
The whole world round alike he cursed,
His evil destiny forlorn,
And the dark day and hour when first
That wretched he was born.
II.
The moon serene illumes the skies,
And earth in deepest stillness lies;
No sound is heard, the watchdog's mute,
And ev'n the lover's plaintive lute.
Madrid enveloped lies in sleep;
Repose o'er all its shade has cast,
And men of him no memory keep
