 | Fra Cipolla, and other poems |  |
91
PESCARA.
Haste! mother, haste! smoke blackens the blue sky,
Pescara comes, oh, whither shall we fly?
I see his band beyond those olive trees,
I hear his trumpets braying in the breeze;
There are none here beside but you and I—
Haste! mother, haste! oh, whither shall we fly!
Pescara comes, oh, whither shall we fly?
I see his band beyond those olive trees,
I hear his trumpets braying in the breeze;
There are none here beside but you and I—
Haste! mother, haste! oh, whither shall we fly!
Fear not, my daughter, 'tis our land to save
From foreign tyrants, that his banners wave;
To chase the French, that o'er our counties ride,
And sweep their lilies from our river's side:
They'll harm you not, and once you loved a lance,
And the gay greeting of a soldier's glance.
From foreign tyrants, that his banners wave;
To chase the French, that o'er our counties ride,
And sweep their lilies from our river's side:
They'll harm you not, and once you loved a lance,
And the gay greeting of a soldier's glance.
92
Yes, but that lance ne'er rode in Spanish ranks,
'Tis all alike, while o'er our valley pranks
Frenchman or Spaniard, and our native lords
Whet for a stranger's vassalage their swords.
I'll to the mountain, for he watches there,
Let these avengers follow, if they dare.
'Tis all alike, while o'er our valley pranks
Frenchman or Spaniard, and our native lords
Whet for a stranger's vassalage their swords.
I'll to the mountain, for he watches there,
Let these avengers follow, if they dare.
| Fra Cipolla, and other poems | |