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Long had the doubtful conflict raged O er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide. T was in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr s grave The flower of his beloved land, The nation s flag to save. By rivers of their fathers gore His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too. Full many a norther s breath has swept O er Angostura s plain, And long the pitying sky has wept Above its moldered slain. The raven s scream, or eagle s flight, Or shepherd s pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air.