Proudly to spread thy fair, august demesne,
I took thy royal beauty. On my knees
I blest thee, Isabel, Castillian queen,
And gave thee back a world! but could not please
Thy proud and jealous courtiers; yet these chains
That load my wrists shall not dishonor me;
To History the iron truth remains!
I die in Valadolia, if so be
It comes, at last, to this, and I must die;
Still did I hope my weary dust might lie
In one of those glad Isles my memory loves,
Bosomed in flowers undying ever more —
Sea-girt, amid the deep impleached groves,
And violet airs of bright San Salvador!