Page:Modern poets and poetry of Spain.djvu/153

The trumpet that diffuses martial rage,
I wish'd, with her sublimest ardour fired,
To celebrate the lofty deeds of Spain:
From her proud neck as beating, broken off,
The barbarous yoke; the conqueror in turn
Conquer'd on the burning sands of Libya:
Numantia with the miseries appeased,
Proud Rome was doom'd to know, abandon'd prey
To frightful military outrages:
Cortes, in the valley of Otumba,
Lord of the golden standard, at his feet
The sceptre of the West! but angrily,
Menander's muse offended, soon reproved
My error, and the lyre and pastoral pipe
Snatch'd from me, and the clarion of Mars.

⁠"Follow," she said to me, "the only track
Which my voice indicates, if thou wouldst seek
The honour, that despite of silent death,
May make thy name immortal. I in love
A thousand times upon thy infant lip
Have printed a soft kiss, and bade thee sleep
To the repeated heavenly tones I raised.
Thou my delight wast ever, and my care;
And the propitious gifts, which Nature shed
On thee, it was my joy to cultivate.

Now with loud festive acclamation sounds