And the stern eyes, that look'd for blood before, Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.

SWISS AIR.

66

RANZ DES VACHES."

But, wake the trumpet's blast again,

And rouse the ranks of warrior-men! Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs, And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm, "Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form, And, like Heaven's lightning, sacredly destroys.

Nor, Music, through thy breathing sphere,
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of Him who made all harmony,

Than the bless'd sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man, awaking
From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty.

SPANISH CHORUS.

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Bursts the bold, enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air;
And seems, in every note, to swear
By Saragossa's ruin'd streets,

By brave Gerona's deathful story,

That while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,

That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory.

SPANISH AIR. "YA DESPERTO."

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,

If neither valour's force nor wisdom's light
Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal,
Which shuts so close the book of Europe's right —
What song shall then in sadness tell

Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,

Of buried hopes, remember'd well,

Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded? What muse shall mourn the breathless brave, In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine? What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave? Oh Erin, Thine!

THE SUMMER FETE.

VOL. V.

8

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