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By day, the huntsmen of the wild—by night, Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire's light. They from their bleak majestic home have caught A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought, While all around them bids the soul arise, To blend with Nature's dread sublimities. —But these are lofty dreams, and must not be Where tyranny is near:—the bended knee, The eye, whose glance no inborn grandeur fires, And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires; Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down On regal conquerors, and defy their frown. What warrior-band is toiling to explore The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadow'd o'er? Startling with martial sounds each rude recess, Where the deep echo slept in loneliness. These are the sons of Spain!—Your foes are near: O, exiles of the wild sierra! hear! Hear! wake! arise! and from your inmost caves Pour like the torrent in its might of waves!

Who leads the invaders on?—his features bear The deep-worn traces of a calm despair;