‘Twas Tagus’ banks to me a child my home and nurture gave;
  Ungrateful land, that lets me pine unransomed as a slave. 
  For now to-day, a dying man, am I come back again,
  And I must lay my bones on this, the farthest shore of Spain. 
  It is not only exile’s sword that cuts me to the heart;
  It is not only love for her from whom they bade me part;
  Nor only that I suffer, forgot by every friend,
  But, ah! it is the triple blow that brings me to my end.” 
      And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
      And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

  “The fire with which my bosom burns, alas! thy coolest breeze
  Can never slake, nor can its rage thy coolest wave appease;
  The earth can bring no solace to the ardor of my pain,
  And the whole ocean waters were poured on it in vain. 
  For it is like the blazing sun that sinks in ocean’s bed,
  And yet, with ardor all unquenched, next morning rears its head. 
  Thus from the sea my suffering’s flame has driven me once more,
  And here I land, without a hope, upon this arid shore.” 
        And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
        And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

  “Oh, call me not, oh, call me not, thou voice of other years,
  The fire that flames within my heart has dried the spring of tears. 
  And, while my eyes might well pour forth those bitter drops of pain,
  The drought of self-consuming grief has quenched the healing rain. 
  Here, let me cry aloud for her, whom once I called mine own,
  For well I wot that loving maid for me has made her moan. 
  ’Tis for her sake my flight I urge across the sea and land,
  And now ’twixt shore and ocean’s roar I take my final stand.” 
        And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
        And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

  Then stooping to the earth he grasped the soil with eager hand,
  He kissed it, and with water he mixed the thirsty sand. 
  “O thou,” he said, “poor soil and stream, in the Creator’s plan
  Art the end and the beginning of all that makes us man! 
  From thee rise myriad passions, that stir the human breast,
  To thee at last, when all is o’er, they sink to find their rest. 
  Thou, Earth, hast been my mother, and when these pangs are o’er,
  Thou shalt become my prison-house whence I can pass no more.” 
      And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
      And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.

  And now he saw the warring winds that swept across the bay
  Had struck the battered shallop and carried it away. 
  “O piteous heaven,” he cried aloud, “my hopes are like yon bark: 
  Scattered upon the storm they lie and never reach their mark.” 
  And suddenly from cloudy heavens came