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THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS.
A SPANISH BALLAD, 1492
- HO! SPANIARDS! rise for Liberty—your country on ye calls,
- To fight to‐day, in proud array, before Granáda’s walls;
- A proud array is here to‐day, full fifty thousand strong,
- Of Fantassins and Cavaliers Gonzalo leads along.
I.
- From Leon to Granáda—from Corunna to Sevílle,
- Gather, Spaniards, gather, by the banks of the Xenil!
- Eight hundred years of blood and tears beneath a foreign sway—
- Eight hundred years of blood and tears must be avenged to‐day.
II.
- Think of your ancient glory, Oh ye lions of León!
- And how in ancient story your great lion name was won;
- Think of Zamora’s conquest field, and royal Douro’s flood—
- How ye bridged with Moslem corses, and swam it in their blood.
III.
- And, mountaineers, have ye no tears to be avenged to‐day—
- Asturians, and Gallicians, and wild dwellers by Vizcày?
- Ye, the unconquered remnant of the brave old Celtic race—
- For ne’er could Roman, Goth, or Moor, your nationhood efface.
IV.
- Ye, too, proud Gothic nobles! by your memories as men,
- Will never fail, or shrink, or quail to meet the Saracen;
- Ye, ’fore whose conquering arm were the bravest forced to yield,
- Who smote the Suevi in their tent—the Romans in the field.
V.
- Now, now, oh, shame and misery! a stranger rules your lands!—
- A stranger’s spoil is your native soil—a stranger’s voice commands;
- Ye, princes once and chieftains, ere the false foe crossed the flood,
- Now, drawers of their water and base hewers of their wood!
VI.
- And, Adalusian Brothers, of the old Vandalic race,
- Will ye alone ’midst Spaniards, be proud of your disgrace?
- They flatter, fawn, but hate you, these proud foes to whom you’ve sold
- Your Liberty for mocking smiles—your country for their gold.
VII.
- They own your stately palaces, they desecrate your shrines,
- They trample on your vineyards, yet ye stoop to drink their wines;
- Ye wear their silk, their gold, their gems, and to their feasts ye run;
- Now shame for ye, my brothers, is it thus that Freedom’s won?
VIII.
- Back to your wild sierras, better die there in your homes
- Than cringingly bow low beneath your masters’ haughty domes;
- Their Syrian silks, their Indian Indiam gems, go—fling them to the Sea,
- But keep their Syrian steel, for it will help to set us free.
IX.
- Oh! by your ancient memories, rise Prince, and Peer, and Chief—
- Smite down the foe that wrought our woe at Gebel el Taríf.
- The robber horde awaits your sword—draw, Spaniards! for your land!
- The crown ye lost by Roderic, regain it by Fernand!
X.
- No coward fears—eight hundred years ye’ve lived as slaves, not men;
- But swords makes bright each chartered right—ye’ll have your own again.
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- Brave hearts and leal of proud Castile—Revenge, on Mauritania!
- Rend earth and sky with your gathering cry: Charge! Cierra Espana!
XI.
- As tempests sweep the surging deep, thus on the Moorish ranks
- Dashes the Spanish chivalry; they charge on van and flanks.
- From Calpe’s rock the thunder‐shock re‐echoes o’er the main—
- Now, God and Santiago, for our Liberty and Spain!
XII.
- Little they think of mercy, these slaves of eight hundred years;
- Never they spare a foeman, these bold true Iberian spears.
- Crescènted hosts your taunting boasts this day find answer meet,
- For the light of Heaven is darkened by the dust of your flying feet.
XIII.
- Granàda falls! From the Castle walls tear down the Alien’s rag—
- On turret and Alcàzar, comrades, up with our ancient flag!
- It floats from the proud Alhambra! Thank God, we’ve lived to see
- Our ancient standard waving once again above the Free!
XIV.
- Pass out, ye weeping people; aye, weep—for never more
- Shall ye gather in Granàda by the sound of Atambór;
- For, by the rood, ye Moslem brood, we swore it in Castile,
- Never again should Spain be ruled by foreign Alquazil.
XV.
- O Moorish King! by suffering thou has earned a name to‐day—*
- But we give thee life, Abdallah; pass onwards on thy way.
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- Accursed race, the foul disgrace thy rule hath brought on Spain,
- Is cleansed away in blood to‐day—we drive thee ’cross the main.
XVI.
- By Elvira’s gate he goeth, all solemnly and slow—
- One last look at Granàda, ere they pass that gate of woe.
- “Oh, better far thy scimitar had laid thee with the dead,
- Than weep for what thou could’st not keep”—the proud Zoràya said.*
XVII.
- Allah, Allah Hu Akbar! what sorrow like my sorrows?
- Thus he goeth weeping by the way of Alpujarras;
- Allah, Allah Hu Akbar! on his tomb is written down—
- The King who lost a Kingdom when great Spain regained her Crown.
XVIII.
Abdallah is known in history as “El triste Rey.”
This taunt of the Sultana mother is related by Condé.
