Hardly had these words been spoken, when the guitar again sounded from within. Every ear was instantly hushed as the strain ascended--a strain, more ambitious than the preceding, of melancholy and indignant apostrophe. The improvisatrice was no longer able to control the passionate inspiration which took its tone from the stern eloquence of the Liberator. She caught from him the burning sentiment of scorn which it was no longer his policy to repress, and gave it additional effect in the polished sarcasm of her song. Our translation will poorly suffice to convey a proper notion of the strain. Then be it so, if serviles ye will be, When manhood's soul had broken every chain, 'T were scarce a blessing now to make ye free, For such condition tutored long in vain, Yet may we weep the fortunes of our land, Though woman's tears were never known to take One link away from that oppressive band, Ye have not soul, not soul enough to break! Oh! there were hearts of might in other days, Brave chiefs, whose memory still is dear to fame; Alas for ours!--the gallant deeds we praise But show more deeply red our cheeks of shame: As from the midnight gloom the weary eye, With sense that cannot the bright dawn forget, Looks sadly hopeless, from the vacant sky, To that where late the glorious day-star set! Yet all's not midnight dark, if in your land There be some gallant hearts to brave the strife; One single generous blow from Freedom's hand May speak again our sunniest hopes to life; If but one blessed drop in living veins Be worthy those who teach us from the dead, Vengeance and weapons both are in your chains, Hurled fearlessly upon your despot's head! Yet, if no memory of the living past Can wake ye now to brave the indignant strife, 'T were nothing wise, at least, that we should last When death itself might wear a look of life! Ay, when the oppressive arm is lifted high, And scourge and torture still conduct to graves, To strike, though hopeless still--to strike and die! They live not, worthy freedom, who are slaves! As the song proceeded, Bolivar stood forward as one wrapt in ecstasy. The exultation brightened in his eye, and his manner was that of a soul in the realization of its highest triumph. Not so the Bogotans by whom he was surrounded. They felt the terrible sarcasm which the damsel's song conveyed--a sarcasm immortalized to all the future, in the undying depths of a song to be remembered. They felt the humiliation of such a record, and hung their heads in shame. At the close of the ballad, Bolivar exclaimed to Joachim de Zalabariata, the father: