“Oh galling, dismal servitude! The sword Which mighty Carlos at Pavía won The puny Ferdinand to France restored, While all through Spain the withering tidings run; And few believe what patriot ears doth stun. Wrenched from our armouries the trophy proud, Which proved how Franks of old must Spaniards shun; And Altemira voiced our shame aloud: “The sword of Francis given to noblest hands” he vowed! V. “But vain each sacrifice--each base compliance Still prompted France to urge ignobler claims, For Spain not yet had raised her proud defiance, And in Fernando’s youth reposed her aims. Fernando--he but gorged affronts and shames! The worshipped Heir of all her line of Kings His bannered Lion to a genet tames, Follows his aged sire to France, and flings Iberia’s crown to earth beneath the Usurper’s wings! VI. “Oh, wretched mockery of the forms of State, Oh, farce of Royalty to choke the town! The sire to-day submits his brow to Fate, The son to-morrow yieldeth too his crown; The sire resumes it ’neath Napoléon’s frown, Again to-morrow to resign its cares-- Is’t not, then just--how just! that, thus laid down, The Tyrant’s creature now the bauble wears? The Father lauds the choice--the Son his ardour shares. VII. “And both implored of Spaniards to obey With cordial loyalty the Kingling given, And both with impious tongue blaspheming say The usurping dynasty is blest of Heaven! But Spaniards may not thus be bargain-driven. Sudden arose the land in all its might; Sudden its chains like spider-threads were riven. Too long its slumber--too profound the night; And when the Nation woke, ’twas in a glare of light! VIII. “Oh, Madrileños, generous, dauntless hearts, Who fell upon that glorious May-lit morn, Vain is the tear that from the eye-lid starts At thought of death-wounds all heroic borne, For Freedom’s blazon doth your biers adorn! Your blood more potent than Hyantian seed Sprung arméd men still fiercer death to scorn Than Thebæ saw. Incomparable deed! Ye braved the Lion’s roar--your wounds Iberia freed. IX. “For though the sabre clove, the charger trod, The scattering grape-shot mowed your dense array, Daïz, Velarde gave their souls to God In no unprospering cause that gallant day! If hundred martyrs perished in the fray, ’Twas myriad men to rouse through prostrate Spain. Not Murat’s arm could bend her to obey. Judicial murder bared the knife in vain-- The priestly rite denied--the unoffending slain! X.