Whate’er could then avail thee, tower or wall, My country! still amid thy woes adored? Where were the heroes that could once appal The fiercest foe? where thy unconquer’d sword? Alas! now on thy children’s humbled brow Deeply is shame engraved, and on their eyes, Cast down and sorrowfully beating now, The tears alone of grief and mourning rise. Once was a time for Spain, when she possess’d A hundred heroes in her hour of pride; And trembling nations saw her manifest Her power and beauty, dazzling by their side. As lofty shows itself in Lebanon The cedar, so her brow she raised on high; And fell her voice the nations round upon, As terrifies a girl the thunders nigh. But as a stone now in the desert’s wild Thou liest abandon’d, and an unknown way Through strangers’ lands, uncertain where, exiled The patriot’s doom’d unfortunate to stray. Her ancient pomp and power are cover’d o’er With sand and weeds contemptuous; and the foe, That trembled at her puissance before, Now mocks exulting and enjoys her woe. Maidens! your flowing locks dishevell’d tear, To give them to the wandering winds; and bring Your harps in mournful company to share With me the sorrowful laments I sing. Thus banish’d from our homes afar away Still let us weep our miseries. O! Spain, Who shall have power thy torments to allay? Who shall have power to dry thy tears again! THE CONDEMNED TO DIE. I. His form upon the ground reclined, With bitter anguish inward drawn, Full of the coming day his mind, That soon will sadly dawn, The culprit waits, in silence laid, The fatal moments hastening now, In which his last sun’s light display’d Will shine upon his brow. O’er crucifix and altar there, The chapel cell in mourning hung, From the dim candle’s yellow glare A funeral light is flung; And by the wretched culprit’s side, His face with hood half cover’d o’er, The friar, with trembling voice to guide, Is heard his prayers implore. His brow then raises he again, And slowly lifts to heaven his eyes; Perhaps a prayer for mercy fain May in his grief arise. A tear flows: whence had that release? Was it from bitterness or fear? Perhaps his sorrows to increase Some thought to memory dear? So young! and life, that he had dream’d Was full of golden days to glide, Is pass’d, when childhood’s tears it seem’d As scarcely yet were dried. Then on him of his childhood burst The thought, and of his mother’s woe, That he whom she so fondly nursed Was doom’d that death to know.