To Spain

Any a tear, O country, hath been shed,
Many a stream of brother's blood been poured,
Many a hero brave lhath found his bed,
In thy deep sepulchres, how richly stored!

Long have our eyes with burning drops been filled, —
How often have they throbbed to overflow!
But always bent upon some crimsoned field.
They could not even weep for blood and woe.

Look! how beseech us to their own sweet rest
Yon smiling flowers, yon forests old and brave,
Yon growing harvests, sleeping on earth's breast,
Yon banners green that o'er our valleys wave.

Come, brothers, we were born in love and peace,
In love and peace our battles let us end;
Nay, more, let us forget our victories,—
Be ours one land, one banner to defend!