With an imperious claim, from all whose form, Whose human form, doth seal them unto suffering!
For thee or for thy children, but with Him
Whose presence is around us in the cloud,
As in the shining and the glorious light.
There is no aid !—Art thou a man of God?
Art thou a man of sorrow-(for the world
Doth call thee such)-and hast thou not been taught By God and sorrow-mighty as they are,
To own the claims of misery?
With me to save thy sons?-Implore of Heaven!
Doth not Heaven work its purposes by man?
I tell thee, thou canst save them!-Art thou not
Gonzalez' counsellor!-Unto him thy words
The noble daughter of Pelayo's line
Hath nought to ask, unworthy of the name
Which is a nation's heritage.-Dost thou shrink?
Have pity on me, father!—I must speak
That, from the thought of which, but yesterday,
I had recoiled in scorn!-But this is past.
Oh! we grow humble in our agonies,
And to the dust-their birth-place-bow the heads
That wore the crown of glory!-I am weak—
My chastening is far more than I can bear.
These are no times for weakness. On our hills
The ancient cedars, in their gather'd might,
Are battling with the tempest; and the flower
Which cannot meet its driving blast must die.
-But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem
Unwont to bend or break.-Lift thy proud head,
Daughter of Spain!-What wouldst thou with thy lord?
Look not upon me thus !-I have no power
To tell thee. Take thy keen disdainful eye
Off from my soul !-What! am I sunk to this?
I, whose blood sprung from heroes!-How my sons
Will scorn the mother that would bring disgrace
On their majestic line!-My sons! my sons!
-Now is all else forgotten!-I had once
A babe that in the early spring-time lay
Sickening upon my bosom, till at last,
When earth's young flowers were opening to the sun,
Death sunk on his meek eyelid, and I deem'd
All sorrow light to mine!-But now the fate
Of all my children seems to brood above me
In the dark thunder-clouds !-Oh! I have power
And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer
And my last lingering hope, that thou shouldst win
The father to relent, to save his sons!
By meeting that which gathers close upon us
Perchance one day the sooner!-Is 't not so?
Must we not yield at last?-How long shall man
Array his single breast against disease,
And famine, and the sword?
Who shadows forth his power more gloriously
In the high deeds and sufferings of the soul,
Than in the circling heavens, with all their stars,
Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad
A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate,
In the good cause, with solemn joy!-How long?
-And who art thou, that, in the littleness
Of thine own selfish purpose, would'st set bounds
To the free current of all noble thought
And generous action, bidding its bright waves
Be stay'd, and flow no further?-But the Power
Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs,
To chain them in from wandering, hath assign'd
No limits unto that which man's high strength
Shall, through its aid, achieve!
When all that hopeless courage can achieve
But sheds a mournful beauty o'er the fate
Of those who die in vain.
Upon his country's war-fields, and within
The shadow of her altars?-Feeble heart!
I tell thee that the voice of noble blood,
Thus pour'd for faith and freedom, hath a tone
Which, from the night of ages, from the gulf
Of death, shall burst, and make its high appeal
Sound unto earth and heaven! Aye, let the land,
Whose sons, through centuries of woe, have striven,
And perish'd by her temples, sink awhile,
Borne down in conflict !-But immortal seed
Deep, by heroic suffering, hath been sown
On all her ancient hills; and generous hope
Knows that the soil, in its good time, shall yet
Bring forth a glorious harvest!-Earth receives
Not one red drop, from faithful hearts, in vain.
Then it must be !-And ye will make those lives,
Those bright young lives, an offering-to retard
Our doom one day!
May wrap the fate of Spain !
Why did I turn to thee in my despair?
Love hath no ties upon thee; what had I
To hope from thee, thou lone and childless man!
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