Yielding itself in silent servitude,
How often did she vanquish'd groan? repell’d
As she her course of loftiness pursued!
Her ground to Hannibal she scarcely held;
Italian blood of Trevia the sands,
And wavy Thrasymenus deeply dyed,
And Roman matrons the victorious bands
Of Cannæ nigh approaching them descried,
As some portentous comet fearful lower.
Who drove them thence? Who from the Capitol
Turn'd on the throne, that founded Dido's power,
The clouds that threaten'd then o'er them to roll?
Who in the fields of Zama, from the yoke
They fear'd, with direful slaughter to set free,
At length the sceptre of great Carthage broke,
With which she held her sovereignty, the sea?
Unswerving courage! that alone the shield
That turns adversity's sharp knife aside:
To joy turns sorrow; bids despair to yield
To glory, and of fortune learns to guide
The dubious whirlwind, victory in its train;
For a high-minded race commands its fate.
O, Spain! my country! covering thy domain,
The mourning shows how great thy suffering state;
But still hope on, and with undaunted brow,
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