That Mimic Monarch now cast anxious eye Upon the Satraps that begirt him round, Now doffed his royal robe in act to fly, And from his brow the diadem unbound. So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle wound, From Tarik’s walls to Bilboa’s mountains blown, These martial satellites hard labour found To guard awhile his substituted throne— Light recking of his cause, but battling for their own.
From Alpuhara’s peak that bugle rung, And it was echoed from Corunna’s wall; Stately Seville responsive war-shot flung, Grenada caught it in her Moorish hall; Galicia bade her children fight or fall, Wild Biscay shook his mountain-coronet, Valencia roused her at the battle-call, And, foremost still where Valour’s sons are met, First started to his gun each fiery Miquelet.
But unappalled, and burning for the fight, The Invaders march, of victory secure; Skilful their force to sever or unite, And trained alike to vanquish or endure. Nor skilful less, cheap conquest to ensure, Discord to breathe, and jealousy to sow, To quell by boasting, and by bribes to lure; While nought against them bring the unpractised foe, Save hearts for Freedom’s cause, and hands for Freedom’s blow.
Proudly they march—but, oh! they march not forth By one hot field to crown a brief campaign, As when their Eagles, sweeping through the North, Destroyed at every stoop an ancient reign! Far other fate had Heaven decreed for Spain; In vain the steel, in vain the torch was plied, New Patriot armies started from the slain, High blazed the war, and long, and far, and wide, And oft the God of Battles blest the righteous side.
Nor unatoned, where Freedom’s foes prevail, Remained their savage waste. With blade and brand By day the Invaders ravaged hill and dale, But, with the darkness, the Guerilla band Came like night’s tempest, and avenged the land, And claimed for blood the retribution due, Probed the hard heart, and lopped the murd’rous hand; And Dawn, when o’er the scene her beams she threw ’Midst ruins they had made, the spoilers’ corpses knew.
What minstrel verse may sing, or tongue may tell, Amid the visioned strife from sea to sea, How oft the Patriot banners rose or fell, Still honoured in defeat as victory! For that sad pageant of events to be Showed every form of fight by field and flood; Slaughter and Ruin, shouting forth their glee, Beheld, while riding on the tempest scud, The waters choked with slain, the earth bedrenched with blood!