[114] Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my brain!
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain.
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise;
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!
O my heart's love!
O my dear one!
lay thy poor head on my knee;
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee?
Canst thou hear me?
canst thou see?
O my husband, brave and gentle!
O my Bernal, look once more
On the blessed cross before thee!
Mercy! mercy! all is o'er! “
Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast;
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said;
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.
Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away;
