Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide-waves engulf-fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us:
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves:
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us;
To the charge!-Heaven's banner is o'er us.
This day shall ye blush for its story,
Or brighten your lives with its glory.
Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,
If a coward there be that would slacken,
Till we trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth
Being sprung from and named for the god-like of earth.
Strike home, and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.
Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Her islands, her isles of the ocean;
Fanes rebuilt and fair towers shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring:
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,
That were cold and extinguished in sadness;
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white-waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.
AWAKE! 'tis the terror of war;
The Crescent is tossed on the wind;
But our flag flies on high, like the perilous star
Of the battle. Before and behind,
Wherever it glitters, it darts
Bright death into tyrannous hearts.
Who are they that now bid us be slaves?
They are foes to the good and the free:
Go bid them first fetter the might of the waves;
The sea may be conquered,—but we
Have spirits untameable still,
And the strength to be free,-and the will.
The Helots are come: In their eyes
Proud hate and fierce massacre burn,
They hate us,--but shall they despise?
They are come; shall they ever return?
O God of the Greeks! from thy throne
Look down, and we'll conquer alone.
Our fathers, each man was a god,
His will was a law, and the sound
Of his voice, like a spirit's, was worshipped: he trode,
And thousands fell worshippers round:
From the gates of the West to the Sun
He bade, and his bidding was done.
shall we die in our chains,
Who once were as free as the wind?
Who is it that threatens,-who is it arraigns?
Are they princes of Europe or Ind?
Are they kings to the uttermost pole?
They are dogs, with a taint on their soul.
What joy! in fleet career to fly,
And strike the invading bands!
Proud Ferdinand! thy heart shall quail
Beneath our storm of arrowy hail.
Legions of Moslem chivalry
Line Douro's river side,
Fleet barbs in battle panoply
Are prancing in their pride!
The shrill tambour and clarion's sound,
O'er the Sierra's heights resound.
The shock of steeds, the hard-won fight,
Are dearer to my mind
Than all the pleasures which delight,
In royal courts combined.
Move on! ye mailèd cavaliers;
I'm eager for the rush of spears.
Now give our banners to the wind!
The Crescent emblem waves:
And let the Spanish tyrants find
We'll yield them only graves!
Bring me my gleaming scimitar!
Thus spoke the king of Granada.
HAMET AROUSING THE CITIZENS OF GRANADA.
"SAW ye the banners of Castile displayed,
The helmets glistening, and the line arrayed!
Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts!" he cries;
"Children of conquerors! in your strength arise!
Oh, high-born tribes! Oh, names unstained by fear!
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear!
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands.
Wake, princes of the land! the hour is come,
And the red sabre must decide your doom.
Where is that spirit which prevailed of yore,
When Tarik's bands o'erspread the western shore?
When the long combat raged on Xeres' plain,
And Afric's tecbir swelled through yielding Spain?
Is the lance broken, is the shield decayed,
The warrior's arm unstrung, his heart dismayed?
Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth
Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth?
To guard the regions where our fathers' blood
Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each flood;
Where long their dust hath blended with the soil
Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil ?
"Oh, ye sierras of eternal snow!
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow;
Woods, fountains, rocks of Spain! ye saw their might
In many a fierce and unforgotten fight-
Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race,
Dwell 'midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace?
With each memorial of the past around,
Each mighty monument of days renowned?
May this indignant heart ere then be cold,
This frame be gathered to its kindred mould!
And the last life-drop circling through my veins
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains!
"And yet one struggle ere our doom is scaled,
One mighty effort, one deciding field!
If vain each hope, we still have choice to be,
In life the fettered, or in death the free!"
SPANISH NATIONAL AIR.
66 VIVIR EN CADENAS CUAN TRISTE ES VIVIR."
How wretched the fate of the fetter-bound slave!
How green and how holy the patriot's grave!
Let us rush to the field! for the trump from afar
Calls Spaniards to triumph, and heroes to war!
Our country in tears sends her sons to the plain
To conquer,-to perish for freedom and Spain !
O list to the summons! the blood of our sires
Boils high in our veins,-and 'tis vengeance inspires:
Who bows to the yoke? who bends to the blow?
No hero will bend, and no Spaniard will bow!
Our country in tears sends her sons to the plain
To conquer,-to perish for freedom and Spain !
My children farewell! my beloved adieu!
My heart's blood shall flow in its torrents for you;
These arms shall be red with the gore of the slain,
Ere they clasp thee, fond wife! to this bosom again!
Our country in tears sends her sons to the plain
To conquer, to perish for freedom and Spain!
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS AT BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowlèd head;
And the censer burning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung
The blood-red banner, that with prayer
Had been consecrated there.
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.
"Take thy banner! may it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave;
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale,
When the clarion music's thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.
"Take thy banner! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling breath,
Guard it! till our homes are free!
Guard it! God will prosper thee!
In the dark and dying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.
"Take thy banner! but, when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him! by our holy vow
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