| |
| I HAVE a vague remembrance | |
| Of a story that is told | |
| In some ancient Spanish legend | |
| Or chronicle of old. | |
| |
| It was when brave King Sanchez | 5 |
| Was before Zamora slain, | |
| And his great besieging army | |
| Lay encamped upon the plain. | |
| |
| Don Diego de Ordoñez | |
| Sallied forth in front of all, | 10 |
| And shouted loud his challenge | |
| To the warders on the wall. | |
| |
| All the people of Zamora, | |
| Both the born and the unborn, | |
| As traitors did he challenge | 15 |
| With taunting words of scorn. | |
| |
| The living, in their houses, | |
| And in their graves, the dead! | |
| And the waters of their rivers, | |
| And their wine, and oil, and bread! | 20 |
| |
| There is a greater army, | |
| That besets us round with strife, | |
| A starving, numberless army, | |
| At all the gates of life. | |
| |
| The poverty-stricken millions | 25 |
| Who challenge our wine and bread, | |
| And impeach us all as traitors, | |
| Both the living and the dead. | |
| |
| And whenever I sit at the banquet, | |
| Where the feast and song are high, | 30 |
| Amid the mirth and the music | |
| I can hear that fearful cry. | |
| |
| And hollow and haggard faces | |
| Look into the lighted hall, | |
| And wasted hands are extended | 35 |
| To catch the crumbs that fall. | |
| |
| For within there is light and plenty, | |
| And odors fill the air; | |
| But without there is cold and darkness, | |
| And hunger and despair. | 40 |
| |
| And there in the camp of famine, | |
| In wind and cold and rain, | |
| Christ, the great Lord of the army, | |
| Lies dead upon the plain! | |
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