The Bridge of the Bidasoa

On the bridge where Bidasoa
Rolls his waters to the main,
There stands a sainted image
Looking forth on France and Spain.

Gently doth Heaven's blessing
Descend on that sweet shore,
Once crossed by many a soldier
Who saw his home no more.

On the bridge of Bitlasoa
By night strange music plays,
There swarthy shades are mingled
With golden, lustrous rays;
One side is bright with roses,
The other dark with sand,
As each the chance discloses
Of death or Fatherland!

The waves of Bidasoa
Glide on with gentle swell,
And, rising o'er their music,
Is heard the shepherd's bell.
Far other sounds once echoed
Along that river fair,
When a broken host at twilight
Furled their torn banners there.
Wounded, sore, and bleeding—
Of hope of pride bereft—
On the bridge they leaned their rifles,
And counted who were left.

Long watched they for the missing,
With tearful, earnest ryes,
Until an ancient warrior
To his drooping soldiers cries:
"Roll up the tattered banner
Once the ensign of the brave, —
No more shall conquest fan her
By the Bidasoa's wave.

"We must seek a home of freedom
In some country far away,
Where our ancient star of glory
Shall shine with cloudless ray.
O tho, in freedom's battle,
Who many a toil hast borne,
Spirit of sainted Minna!
Show the path of our return.

"We have one dauntless leader
Left to Spain and freedom yet—
On, then! o'er the river
Her star of glory hath not set!
Trom the old, time-worn marble.
Where he long had lain so still,
Minna rises sternly glancing
On the lighted western hill!"

Then, from his breast removing
His hand, he opens wide
His wounds, and soon his life-blood
Purples the gushing tide.