Defends the Liberty she loves so well.
But now her race is over, woe is me!
The hour, the fated hour is on the knell,
When she must part with life, but not with fame,
Like Phœnix rising fresh from out the flame.
Those Romans there, a countless timid band,
Who in a thousand ways their conquests seek,
Decline to measure swords, and hand to hand,
With these brave Numantines, so few and weak.
O might their plans be buried in the sand,