It was stated in the French National Assembly that the Marseillois Hymn brought a million of recruits to the army; and certainly it might be said that Dibdin’s songs did more for the British navy than the whole of the _press_-gang. The anthem of “_God save the King_” every body values, yet none have said, (although I believe it to be truth) that it is a strong bulwark of the throne--that it throws a sublimity--a grandeur--a general respect around royalty; excites the warmest sentiments of devotion, and secures unconscious attachment. The national hymn of Portugal is strongly expressive of that mixture of melancholy and martial boldness of sound which inspires the hearer to meditate revenge for injuries done; and, as the Spaniards suffered in a similar way to the Portuguese, _their_ national song carries with it a sentiment precisely similar to that of Portugal. This song was not composed during the days of Ferdinand, but while the nation was struggling, in concert with the British, for liberty; and every Guerilla sung it--every peasant sung it--every child sung it. Its title is, “_A la Guerra Espaniolas_;” the Spanish words of it are simple, but strong; and the music, like the national air of the Portuguese, is truly beautiful. The following are English words, written for it among the mountains of Biscay; and to those of my readers who know the air, perhaps they will be acceptable. THE SPANISH NATIONAL SONG. I. The curse of Slavery’s o’er us, And suffering Freedom weeps; No hope--no hope’s before us While Spain’s bright spirit sleeps. But if her slumbers lighten, Then Freedom’s glance will brighten, And lips shall cease to sigh, and hearts to pain. So let us smite The drum of fight; She’ll wake and rise again. To the war--to the war, ye Spaniards! The hour is nigh, To break your chain; Your rights to gain. Live free--live free,--or die! II. In death our sons are sleeping Our homes in ruin laid; Our daughters o’er them weeping, Alone--forlorn--betrayed! In vain is Britain’s bravery, To rid you of your slavery; In vain her heroes bleed--her arms resound, Unless the fire Of Freedom’s ire Burn every heart around. To the war--to the war, ye Spaniards! The hour is nigh To break your chain; Your rights to gain. Live free--live free,--or die! --But enough of music: let us now march on without it.