Rainwater gathers in the hollow of this funeral cup, and, under that burning sun, quenches the thirst of the fowls of the air.

The last of the Abencerrages.

Unhappy Indians, whom I have seen wandering in the deserts of the New World with the ashes of your fathers; you who have given me shelter despite your misery; I could not repay you to-day, for, like you, I wander at the mercy of men, and, less happy in my exile, I bear not the bones of my fathers.

Atala.