 | Poems |  |
169
THE SPANIARD TO HIS COUNTRY.
Though the Despot's fell legions awhile triumph o'er us,Yet droop not, my country, thou still shalt be free!
Young Hope, like the sky, shines unbounded be fore us;
Every feeling hath join'd in devotion to thee.
As the bright rays of morning chase night's gloomy shadows,
Our spears o'er our mountains shall drive the dark slaves;
The day-star of Freedom shall rise o'er our meadows,
And light us to glory or set on our graves!
By the faith of our fathers, the ties of relations,
By the charms of our maidens, our rights we'll maintain!
Till as free we are left as the first of free nations,—
Gaul ne'er shall taste Peace in the Olive of Spain!
170
The bright torch of freedom hath smouldering lain!
The flame hath but been the more carefully cherish'd,
The brighter, the warmer, to burst forth again!
As our peasants still seize on the brand, while 'tis glowing,
And bury it deep in the ashes at night,
That, drawn forth at morning, each light zephyr blowing,
May kindle the flame and awaken the light.
So, let but a breath, but a movement discover
One hope, one fond wish, for that bright flame's return,
No more in the tomb of dead ashes 'twill hover,
No! mark then how warmly, how brightly 'twill burn!
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