For Freedom,—and ye have not died in vain,
For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour, ay embrace your martyred lot,
Cursing the Bigot’s and the Bourbon’s chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier, hallowed ground than priests could make the spot!
What though your cause be baffled—freemen cast
In dungeons—dragged to death, or forced to flee;
Hope is not withered in affliction’s blast—
The patriot’s blood’s the seed of Freedom’s tree;