XLVI.

But vain his kisses, vain his burning tears, Though poured in showers like those that left the sky. Man cannot weep for aye--his brain it sears To feel such anguish as Beltrán made cry Beneath the withering stroke of Destiny! Up from the grave he sprang, and fiercely bore The coffin-lid--its parts asunder fly-- With spade and mattock into lengths he tore The stubborn wood, and thus the grave he laid them o’er.