 | The Visionary |  |
189
SONNET. VI.
Spaniards! ere your brave sires arose to thrustTh' old Moors from their bright shores, who o'er them swayed
With a magnificent tyranny—ere brayed
Their trumpet's loud defiance—ere the rust
Fell from their idle swords, and the icy crust
Of Slavery from their souls—checked—wronged—betrayed,
Less need was there of championship and aid
Than now—worse this suspicion—this distrust—
These black home-hatreds—this disunion drear—
While in each breast harsh grudging spites lie hid—
No mutual cause to aid, consecrate—and cheer—
Oh! if the armed Stranger stalked your fields amid—
The Hostilities a nobler front should wear—
The Cause—the Cause might then unshroud your buried Cid!
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