HO! Spaniards! rise for Liberty—your country on ye calls,
To fight to-day, in proud array, before GranÁda's walls;
A proud array is here to-day, full fifty thousand strong,
Of Fantassins and Cavaliers Gonzalo leads along.

From Leon to GranÁda—from Corunna to Seville,
Gather, Spaniards, gather, by the banks of the Xenil!
Eight hundred years of blood and tears beneath a foreign sway—
Eight hundred years of blood and tears must be avenged to-day.

Think of your ancient glory, Oh ye lions of LeÓn!
And how in ancient story your great lion name was won;
Think of Zamora's conquest field, and royal Douro's flood—
How ye bridged with Moslem corses, and swam it in their blood.

And, mountaineers, have ye no tears to be avenged to-day—
Asturians, and Gallicians, and wild dwellers by VizcÀy?
Ye, the unconquered remnant of the brave old Celtic race—
For ne'er could Roman, Goth, or Moor, your nationhood efface.

Ye, too, proud Gothic nobles! by your memories as men,
Will never fail, or shrink, or quail to meet the Saracen;
Ye, 'fore whose conquering arm were the bravest forced to yield,
Who smote the Suevi in their tent—the Romans in the field.

Now, now, oh, shame and misery! a stranger rules your lands!—
A stranger's spoil is your native soil—a stranger's voice commands;
Ye, princes once and chieftains, ere the false foe crossed the flood,
Now, drawers of their water and base hewers of their wood!

And, Adalusian Brothers, of the old Vandalic race,
Will ye alone 'midst Spaniards, be proud of your disgrace?
They flatter, fawn, but hate you, these proud foes to whom you've sold
Your Liberty for mocking smiles—your country for their gold.

They own your stately palaces, they desecrate your shrines,
They trample on your vineyards, yet ye stoop to drink their wines;
Ye wear their silk, their gold, their gems, and to their feasts ye run;
Now shame for ye, my brothers, is it thus that Freedom's won?

Back to your wild sierras, better die there in your homes
Than cringingly bow low beneath your masters' haughty domes;
Their Syrian silks, their Indiam gems, go—fling them to the sea,
But keep their Syrian steel, for it will help to set us free.

Oh! by your ancient memories, rise Prince, and Peer, and Chief—
Smite down the foe that wrought our woe at Gebel el TarÍf.
The robber horde awaits your sword—draw, Spaniards! for your land!
The crown ye lost by Roderic, regain it by Fernand!

No coward fears—eight hundred years ye've lived as slaves, not men;
But swords makes bright each chartered right—ye'll have your own again.
Brave hearts and leal of proud Castile—Revenge, on Mauritania!
Rend earth and sky with your gathering cry: Charge! Cierra Espana!

As tempests sweep the surging deep, thus on the Moorish ranks
Dashes the Spanish chivalry; they charge on van and flanks.
From Calpe's rock the thunder-shock re-echoes o'er the main—
Now, God and Santiago, for our Liberty and Spain!

Little they think of mercy, these slaves of eight hundred years;
Never they spare a foeman, these hold true Iberian spears.
CrescÈnted hosts your taunting boasts this day find answer meet,
For the light of Heaven is darkened by the dust of your flying feet.

GranÀda falls! From the Castle walls tear down the Alien's rag—
On turret and AlcÀzar, comrades, up with our ancient flag!
It floats from the proud Alhambra! Thank God, we've lived to see
Our ancient standard waving once again above the Free!

Pass out, ye weeping people; aye, weep—for never more
Shall ye gather in GranÀda by the sound of AtambÓr;
For, by the rood, ye Moslem brood, we swore it in Castile,
Never again should Spain be ruled by foreign Alquazil.

O Moorish King! by suffering thou has earned a name to-day[4]—
But we give thee life, Abdallah; pass onwards on thy way.
Accursed race, the foul disgrace thy rule hath brought on Spain,
Is cleansed away in blood to-day—we drive thee 'cross the main.

By Elvira's gate he goeth, all solemnly and slow—
One last look at GranÀda, ere they pass that gate of woe.
"Oh, better far thy scimitar had laid thee with the dead,
Than weep for what thou could'st not keep"—the proud ZorÀya said.[5]

Allah, Allah Hu Akbar! what sorrow like my sorrow?
Thus he goeth weeping by the way of Alpujarras;
Allah, Allah Hu Akbar! on his tomb is written down—
The King who lost a Kingdom when great Spain regained her Crown.