II.
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.
III.
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.
IV.
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.
V.
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.
VI.
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!