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668 The Refugee. [JUNE, 



Now the last charge! 



The sun goes down in blood, 



T> * A "'a 1 



But not so red fc oT 



As the grassy bed, 



Of the thousand Moors who firmly stood 

 With sabre and with targe. 



Charge ! charge once more ! 

 The infidels must yield ; 



Bravely they've fought, 



And dearly bought 

 Shall be the trampled field, 



Sodden with human gore. 



Charge, charge again ! 

 What is it now to die ? 



Conquer'd who'd live ? 

 And who'd not give 

 ' ib> His life for victory, 



A victory for Spain ? 



JULIA. It thrills me. 



EARL. Aye ; the air is bold and stirring, 



And makes the pulse of an old warrior beat 

 With youthful quickness. 



RIBEIRO. You should hear the song 



In its own country ; you should be a Spaniard 

 To hear it. These things ever speak to me 

 With such a mingled voice of memory 

 And melody. To hear them in one's land, 

 The noble hymns of war, chanted aloud 

 By myriad armies, ringing round the hills, 

 The lion-voice of freemen. I have heard it 

 Oh ! I have heard it once, when my own tent 

 Was the mausoleum of my ancestors, 

 Who had joined in the same song, ere they led forth 

 Their bands to conquest. Yes, I've heard the song, 

 When my own name was the battle-word, a name 

 Had been among the victor cries of Spain 

 For ages, and had never lost its spell 

 Till now, when freedom joined with it, a cause 

 The noblest and the last it e'er shall grace. 

 Yes, it was something that the very word 

 Was a historic record, and would raise 

 A flush in every cheek, in every heart 

 A throb of glorious pride, that Spain should own it, 

 And here an unknown, an unheard of sound. 

 Would I had died then with it ! for my country 

 Is now a ruin, a sad wreck, where honour 

 Lies buried, and the fame of my great forefathers 



