Crest of my sires! whose blood it seal'd

With glory in the strife of swords,

Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield Degenerate thoughts or faithless words!

Yet little might I prize the stone,

If it but typ'd the feudal tree

From whence, a scatter'd leaf, I 'm blown In Fortune's mutability.

No!--but it tells me of a heart,

Allied by friendship's living tie;

A prize beyond the herald's art

Our soul-sprung consanguinity!

KATH'RINE! to many an hour of mine

Light wings and sunshine you have lent; And so adieu, and still be thine

The all-in-all of life-Content!

There is a victory in dying well

For Freedom,-and ye have not died in vain;

For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain To honour, ay embrace your martyr'd lot,

Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,

And looking on your graves, though trophied not,

As holier, hallow'd ground than priests could make

the spot!

STANZAS TO THE SPANISH PATRIOTS.

79

What though your cause be baffled-freemen cast
In dungeons dragg'd to death, or forced to flee;
Hope is not wither'd in affliction's blast-

The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree ;

And short your orgies of revenge shall be,

Cowl'd Demons of the Inquisitorial cell!

Earth shudders at your victory,—for ye

Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell, The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of hell!

Go to your bloody rites again-bring back
The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen,
Recording answers shriek'd upon the rack ;
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ;-
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den ;—

Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal

With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,

To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel

No eye may search

no tongue may challenge or

reveal!

Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors !—Spain was free,
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnow'd by the wings of Liberty;

And these even parting scatter as they flee
Thoughts-influences, to live in hearts unborn,

Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution-shew her mask off-torn,

And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn.