'Tis not through blighted years to live
Lamenting o'er the past,
But my offense to thee, forgive,
This hour is now my last. 'On me, for I have wronged thy bed,
Alone let vengeance light,
Nor wreck thy rage upon the head
Of Bernal, hapless knight.'
To grant her wish, Ramiro's breast
With rising pity burned,
But when she urged her last request,
His former hate returned. Dark lowered his brow, fierce flashed his eye,
As when his faulchion brave
Repelled the foe,--his left hand high
The fatal signal gave. Then on that neck of grace and love,
Whose blue veins shining tell
The pureness of the skin above,
The headsman's weapon fell.