Past now the countries of the Midland Main,
Wretched—I lose the bliss of former times,
Borne farther every day from Christian climes,
Realms, customs, tongues, and from my native Spain.
And now despairing to return again,
I muse on remedies of fancied power;
The most assured one is the fatal hour
That will conclude at once my life and pain.
I should be charmed from whate'er ills close o'er me,
With seeing you, Lady, or might hope to be,
If I could hope without the certainty
Of losing what I hope; but not seeing you,
Save death, I see no remedy before me,
And if death be one, it will fail me too.