Three sorrows, three invisible swords are nailed In this cold heart, and all my hopes have failed. First the gods perished to whom men had prayed Cradled in fancy; them the truth betrayed, Then time, the world, and ah! the fangs of lust Embittered Love, and dragged it in the dust. Last my sad country, 'mid a rabble's jeers, Suffered the outrage of the treacherous years. ||Now|| too, high-meted soul, tho' stricken, proud Enough for silence and the common shroud. Bow; meet contented the ignoble odds That vanquished Spain and Friendship and the Gods. |