By treacherous brethren, and a tyrant’s power;
And these her lovely fertile plains have made
Fields o’er which lamentations only lower.
Her arms extended wide unhappy Spain,
Her sons imploring in her deep distress:
Her sons they were, but her command was vain,
Unheard the traitor madness to repress.
Whate’er could then avail thee, tower or wall,
My country! still amid thy woes adored?
Where were the heroes that could once appal