The eye whose glance no inborn grandeur fires,
And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires;
Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down
On regal conquerors, and defy their frown.
What warrior-band is toiling to explore
The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadow’d o’er,
Startling with martial sounds each rude recess,
Where the deep echo slept in loneliness?
These are the sons of Spain!—Your foes are near,
O exiles of the wild sierra! hear!