And rampart, wreaths obsidional that shed
Their grass-green light than gold more coveted?
What thy triumphal bays for glory’s brow,
Thy oval myrtle where no Roman bled,
Thy civic garland of the oaken bough?
Their sound one City filled—the World beholds us now!
VI.
Not Spain, not Spain doth tamely bear the yoke,
Her sturdy peasants the Guerrillas swell,