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A VOICE FROM SPAIN.
Pages whose subline commnands, Seizing with their reckless hands,Bastard sons of liberty have rudely torn.
I behold thee calm, amid the tumult gazing, Quailing not before the blazingOf the traitors' fire within thy land begun. They would in dishonor drag At their feet the blushing flag,Fluttering there before the fillibuster's gun.
My own ancestors, like thine of early story, Saw of old thy country's glory.Valiant men they were who sailed away from here, Leaving traces all around, Like thy names in history found;Handing memories down to every coming year.
And I feel my longing spirit in me burning With an infinite and tender yearning,When I look upon the conquests of the brave— Deeming they have served the end, Only further to extendThe abhorred territory of the slave.
