Go, vanquished victor, bend thy proud helm down Before thy sullen tyrant's steely crown. For him in Afric's sands, and Poland's snows, Reared by thy toil the shadowy laurel grows; And rank in German fields the harvest springs Of pageant councils and obsequious kings. Such purple slaves, of glittering fetters vain, Linked the wide circuit of the Latian chain; And slaves like these shall every tyrant find, To gild oppression, and debase mankind.
'O, live there yet whose hardy souls and high Peace bought with shame, and tranquil bonds defy?
Who, driven from every shore, and lords in vain Of the wide prison of the lonely main,
Cling to their country's rights with freeborn zeal, More strong from every stroke, and patient of the steel?
Guiltless of chains, to them has Heaven consigned Th' entrusted cause of Europe and mankind : Or hope we yet in Sweden's martial snows That Freedom's weary foot may find repose? No-from yon hermit shade, yon cypress dell, Where faintly peals the distant matin-bell; Where bigot kings and tyrant priests had shed Their sleepy venom o'er his dreadful head; He wakes, th' avenger-hark! the hills around,
Untamed Asturia bids her clarion sound; And many an ancient rock, and fleecy plain, And many a valliant heart returns the strain : Heard by that shore, where Calpe's armed steep Flings its long shadow o'er th' Herculean deep, And Lucian glades, whose hoary poplars wave In soft, sad murmurs over Inez' grave. They bless the call who dared the first withstand The Moslem wasters of their bleeding land, When firm in faith,and red with slaughtered foes, Thy spear-encircled crown, Asturia, rose. Nor these alone; as loud the war-notes swell, La Mancha's shepherd quits his cork-built cell; Alhama's strength is there, and those who till (A hardy race!) Morena's scortched hill; And in rude arms through wide Galicia's reign, The swarthy vintage pours her vigorous train.
Saw ye those tribes? not theirs the plumed boast,
The sightly trappings of a marshalled host; No weeping nations curse their deadly skill, Expert in danger, and inured to kill :- But theirs the kindling eye, the strenuous arm; Theirs the dark cheek, with patriot ardor warm, Unblanched by sluggard ease, or slavish fear, And proud and pure the blood that mantles there. Theirs from the birth is toil;-o'er granite steep,
And heathy wild, to guard the wandering sheep, To urge the laboring mule, or bend the spear 'Gainst the night-prowling wolf, or felon bear; The bull's hoarse rage in dreadful sport to mock, And meet with single sword his bellowing shock. Each martial chant they know,each manly rhyme, Rude, ancient lays of Spain's heroic time. Of him in Xeres' carnage fearless found,
(His glittering brows with hostile spear-heads bound ;)
Of that chaste king whose hardy mountain train O'erthrew the knightly race of Charlemagne ; And chiefest him who reared his banner tall (Illustrious exile,) o'er Valencia's wall; Ungraced by kings, whose Moorish title rose The toil-earned homage of his wondering foes. 'Yes; every mould'ring tower and haunted flood,
And the wild murmurs of the waving wood; Each sandy waste, and orange scented dell, And red Buraba's field, and Lugo, tell,
How their brave fathers fought, how thick the invaders fell.
'O, virtue long forget, or vainly tried, To glut a bigot's zeal, or tyrant's pride; Condemned in distant climes to bleed and die
'Mid the dank poisons of Tlascala's sky;
Or when stern Austria stretched her lawless reign And spent in northern fights the flower of Spain; Or war's hoarse furies yelled on Ysell's shore, And Alva's ruffian sword was drunk with gore. Yet dared not then Tlascala's chiefs withstand The lofty daring of Castilia's band;
And weeping France her captive king deplored, And cursed the deathful point of Ebro's sword. Now, nerved with hope, their night of slavery past,
Each heart beats high in freedom's buxom blast; Lo, Conquest calls, and beckoning from afar, Uplifts his laurel wreath, and waves them on to
-Wo to th' usurper then, who dares defy The sturdy wrath of rustic loyalty. Wo to the hireling bands, foredoomed to feel How strong in labor's horny hand the steel. Behold e'en now, beneath yon Boetic skies Another Pavia bids her trophies rise.— E'en now in base disguise and friendly night Their robber-monarch speeds his secret flight; And with new zeal the fiery Lusians rear, (Roused by their neighbor's worth,) the long- neglected spear.
'So when stern winter chills the April showers, And iron frost forbids the timely flowers,
O, deem not thou the vigorous herb below Is crushed and dead beneath the incumbent snow. Such tardy suns shall wealthier harvests bring Than all the early smiles of flattering spring.'
Sweet as the martial trumpet's silver swell, On my charmed sense th' unearthly accents fell; Me wonder held, and joy chastised by fear, As one who wished, yet hardly hoped to hear. 'Spirit,' I cried,' dread teacher, yet declare, In that good fight, shall Albion's arm be there? Can Albion, brave, and wise, and proud, refrain To hail a kindred soul, and link her fate with Spain?
Too long her sons, estranged from war and toil, Have loathed the safety of the sea-girt isle; And chid the waves which pent their fire within, As the stalled war-horse woes the battle's din. O, by this throbbing heart, this patriot glow, Which, well I feel, each English breast shall know,
Say,shall my country, roused from deadly sleep, Crowd with her hardy sons yon western steep; And shall once more the star of France grow pale, And dim its beams in Roncesvalles' vale? Or shall foul sloth and timid doubt conspire To mar our zeal, and waste our manly fire?'
Still as I gazed, his lowering features spread,
« AnteriorContinuar » |