O thou, who erst beheld me flushed with joy,
Behold me now!—malignant Fortune's toy—
Poor, sad, proscribed. O Guadalquivir, see
A homeless, hopeless wanderer in me!
Ungrateful country! Exiled from thy sward,
Is this, for my devotion, the reward?
Yet, in thy cause, have I not fought and bled?
Where are thy freedom and thy glory fled?
My mother! how thy name consoles my heart!
Thy tender love, at least, can ne'er depart.
Alas! that thou for me shouldst shed such tears,
And live a prey to agonising fears!
My brothers! ye for me will also grieve;
And thou, Angelica, whom I must leave!
Thou, who hast kindled in my soul a fire,
Which never can, but with my life, expire!
And ye, my friends, affectionate and true—
Ah! must I quit you all, ye faithful few!
Unhappy Spain! how, in this evil hour,
Strangers and tyrants crush thee with their power!
And if thy sons have fallen, it is not
From their corruption, but their piteous lot.
Yet liberty shall triumph once again,
Nor the avenger's sword be drawn in vain.
When will that glorious day's bright morning dawn?
May it arrive before long years be gone!
While yet the blood flows hotly in my veins,
And this right arm its sinewy force retains!
But if the laws of destiny shall place
Between this hour and that a lengthened space,
Still may it come before Death's cruel hand
Relentlessly hath waved its last command!
Oh, may these tearful eyes, my country, rest
Once more on thee—and thus once more be blest!
Though even on the grave's dark brink I stood
The prey of weakness, age, decrepitude!
Oh, may I press thy soil but once more free,
And rich and happy as thou wert—for me,
Though but a desert then, no love to bloom,
No friendships but those buried in the tomb!
Then let me seek my native vale once more,
And on the Guadalquivir's lovely shore,
Beneath the silent moon's pale, tranquil ray,
Chant to the winds my last expiring lay!
And be thy glory, Spain adored, its theme!
No more alone a hope, a wish, a dream:
Thy poet, then, would life contented close,
And, with his ancestors, go seek repose!
During the years of his exile, Don Angel de Saavedra visited France and Italy, as well as England; and in France he was compelled to have recourse to one of the amusements of his earlier years—painting, in order to maintain himself and his family, for he had at length married the Angelica apostrophised in his poem, "The Proscribed." An ode to
