C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
To Spain: An Elegy
By José de Espronceda (1808–1842)
H
That peopled countries vast a former day!
That, all beneath her sovereignty to bow,
From East to West extended once her sway!
Queen of the world! ’tis thine; and from thy face,
Enchanting yet in sorrow, there is none
Its overwhelming traces to erase.
Darkness and mourning, horrible and great!
And the stern despot in his maddened wrath
Exulted wildly o’er thy low estate.
My country!—the young warrior by him fell,
The veteran fell, and vile his war-axe glared,
Pleased all its fury o’er thee to impel.
Of the unpitying despot, as the rose,
Condemned the summer’s burning sun to engage,
Her bloom and beauty withering, soon must close.
And contemplate my misery! can there,—
Tell me!—be any found of mortal birth
Bearing the sorrows I am doomed to bear?
Behold, far from the country I adore,
Her former glories lost and high command,
And only left her sufferings to deplore.
By treacherous brethren, and a tyrant’s power;
And these her lovely fertile plains have made
Fields o’er which only lamentations lower.
Her sons imploring in her deep distress:
Her sons they were, but her command was vain,
Unheard the traitor-madness to repress.
My country! still amid thy woes adored?
Where were the heroes that could once appall
The fiercest foe? where thy unconquered sword?
Deeply is shame engraved, and on their eyes,
Cast down and sorrowfully throbbing now,
The tears alone of grief and mourning rise.
A hundred heroes in her hour of pride;
And trembling nations saw her manifest
Her power and beauty, dazzling, by their side.
The cedar, so her brow she raised on high;
And fell her voice the nations round upon,
As terrify a girl the thunders nigh.
Thou liest abandoned, and an unknown way
Through strangers’ lands, uncertain where, exiled,
The patriot’s doomed unfortunate to stray.
With sand and weeds contemptuous; and the foe,
That trembled at her puissance before,
Now mocks exulting and enjoys her woe.
To give them to the wandering winds; and bring
Your harps in mournful company to share
With me the sorrowful laments I sing.
Still let us weep our miseries. O Spain,
Who shall have power thy torments to allay?
Who shall have power to dry thy tears again?