An Ode, Written October, 1819, Before The Spaniards Had Recovered Their Liberty.

Arise, arise, arise!     There is blood on the earth that denies ye bread;     Be your wounds like eyes     To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead.     What other grief were it just to pay?     Your sons, your wives, your brethren, were they;     Who said they were slain on the battle day?     Awaken, awaken, awaken!     The slave and the tyrant are twin-born foes;     Be the cold chains shaken     To the dust where your kindred repose, repose:     Their bones in the grave will start and move,     When they hear the voices of those they love,     Most loud in the holy combat above.     Wave, wave high the banner!     When Freedom is riding to conquest by:     Though the slaves that fan her     Be Famine and Toil, giving sigh for sigh.     And ye who attend her imperial car,     Lift not your hands in the banded war,     But in her defence whose children ye are.     Glory, glory, glory,     To those who have greatly suffered and done!     Never name in story     Was greater than that which ye shall have won.     Conquerors have conquered their foes alone,     Whose revenge, pride, and power they have overthrown     Ride ye, more victorious, over your own.     Bind, bind every brow     With crownals of violet, ivy, and pine:     Hide the blood-stains now     With hues which sweet Nature has made divine:     Green strength, azure hope, and eternity:     But let not the pansy among them be;     Ye were injured, and that means memory.