The Legend of Genevieve with other tales and poems. By Delta [i.e. David Macbeth Moir] |
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SPANISH PATRIOTIC ODE.
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 | The Legend of Genevieve |  |
81
SPANISH PATRIOTIC ODE.
(FROM THE MADRID GAZETTE.)
To the wind, to the wind, your banners rear!
Awake!—nor lie in sloth reclining;
Arise—nor shrink in craven fear—
Lo! France's thousand blades are shining.
She comes—but not as friend she comes—
Death, ruin, rapine in her train—
To arms!—rouse up your warning drums—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!
Awake!—nor lie in sloth reclining;
Arise—nor shrink in craven fear—
Lo! France's thousand blades are shining.
She comes—but not as friend she comes—
Death, ruin, rapine in her train—
To arms!—rouse up your warning drums—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!
Our sires were great in ancient days,
No loftier power on earth allowing;
Shall we their mighty deeds erase,
And to the dust our necks be bowing?
They strove for fame—for liberty—
On fields where blood was spilt like rain;
Hark! how they call us from the sky—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!
No loftier power on earth allowing;
Shall we their mighty deeds erase,
And to the dust our necks be bowing?
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On fields where blood was spilt like rain;
Hark! how they call us from the sky—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!
Castille, and Arragon, arise!
The tempest-cloud of war is brewing:
Burst through the shades that veil your eyes—
Are ye asleep while this is doing?
Lo! armies crowd the Pyrenees,
They carry with them thraldom's chain—
Will ye ignobly crouch to these?—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!
The tempest-cloud of war is brewing:
Burst through the shades that veil your eyes—
Are ye asleep while this is doing?
Lo! armies crowd the Pyrenees,
They carry with them thraldom's chain—
Will ye ignobly crouch to these?—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!
Look forth on every well-known spot,
On field and forest, rock and river;
Then draw the sword, but sheathe it not,
Till these from foreign feet ye sever—
The trampling feet of foreign hosts,
Who march in power, and proud disdain:
Haste—homeward send their shrieking ghosts—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!
On field and forest, rock and river;
Then draw the sword, but sheathe it not,
Till these from foreign feet ye sever—
The trampling feet of foreign hosts,
Who march in power, and proud disdain:
Haste—homeward send their shrieking ghosts—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!
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And are we, then, so lost—so low—
That strangers can alone restore us?
Lo! earth regards our every blow—
The eye of Heaven is watching o'er us!—
By Spanish might, the Spanish land
Its freedom only can retain,
And crouch we to Oppression's hand?—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!
That strangers can alone restore us?
Lo! earth regards our every blow—
The eye of Heaven is watching o'er us!—
By Spanish might, the Spanish land
Its freedom only can retain,
And crouch we to Oppression's hand?—
Ho!—to the combat, Spain!
| The Legend of Genevieve | |