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72 DAYS IN THE SUN
And passes slowly into endless time,
Will my loathsome trade
By man be stayed?
Is it only the memory of a life bygone?
But the truth remains and vain the dreams of races,
Of lofty clouds and sunny spaces,
For I still rule, the scaffold is my throne.
A thousand specks of blood
Now stain my cloaks,
A single crime
My garment soaks,
Here still I stand.
A faithful ghost from out the past,
I move with other ghosts and last,
Without hope.
My child, why wert thou born of hangman’s loins?
Thy life is blameless, clean, and without guile.
A boundless blessing seems the fate that joins
To mine thy soul which nought can e’er defile.
How sweet thou art!
Thy smile in sleep is far from pain and care,
And thine, a mother’s heart!
Woe, woe is thee!
Wilt thou not give thy love to thy young child?
‘Then be less gentle—thou wilt a better mother be—
If thou wouldst truly show a courage bold,
Then smother him with thine own bed’s pillow!
How, weepest thou?
Shall on him too,
Upon his brow
My mark accrue?
Mind thou the day
He’ll find himself the one accursed,
As I—and then—what shall betide?
An outcast, or a culprit, at our side!
They weep and laugh and clap their hands in ap-
plause. “Espronceda!” they say with voices that are
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