Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Spain, Portugal, Belgium, and Holland: Vols. XIV–XV. 1876–79.

Spain: Trocadero

Stanzas

By Thomas Campbell (1777–1844)

BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell,

Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain,

There is a victory in dying well

For Freedom,—and ye have not died in vain;

For, come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain

To honor, ay, embrace your martyred lot,

Cursing the bigot’s and the Bourbon’s chain,

And looking on your graves, though trophied not,

As holier hallowed ground than priests could make the spot!

What though your cause be baffled,—freemen cast

In dungeons, dragged to death, or forced to flee,—

Hope is not withered in affliction’s blast,—

The patriot’s blood ’s the seed of Freedom’s tree;

And short your orgies of revenge shall be,

Cowled demons of the Inquisitorial cell!

Earth shudders at your victory, for ye

Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell,

The baser, ranker sprung, autochthones of Hell!

Go to your bloody rites again,—bring back

The hall of horrors, and the assessor’s pen,

Recording answers shrieked upon the rack;

Smile o’er the gaspings of spine-broken men;

Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den;—

Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal

With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,

To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel

No eye may search, no tongue may challenge or reveal!

Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime

Too proudly, ye oppressors!—Spain was free,

Her soil has felt the footprints, and her clime

Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty;

And these even parting scatter as they flee

Thoughts, influences, to live in hearts unborn,

Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key

From Persecution, show her mask off-torn,

And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn.

Glory to them that die in this great cause;

Kings, bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,

Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:

No! manglers of the martyr’s earthly frame!

Your hangman fingers cannot touch his fame!

Still in your prostrate land there shall be some

Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom’s vestal flame.

Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,

But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.