Crush’d the red vintage of devoted Spain;
Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung,
And the broad light of conflagration sprung
From the south’s marble cities; hush’d midst cries
That told the heavens of mortal agonies;
But gathering silent strength, to wake at last
In concentrated thunders of the past!
And there, perchance, some long-bewilder’d mind,
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined
Of village duties, in the Alpine glen,