Classic Poem

Up from the south comes a wail of woe,
Up from the golden strand,
Up from the isle where the blossoms glow
Gorgeous as Eden-land.
Full is the hour of a fervent power,
Stern grow the spirits gay.
But there rises a wail, for her sons are dead,
And the star that soared from the ocean-bed,
For the fourth time whelmed in a sea blood-red,
Struggles with feeble ray.

Proudly the palm-tree of Bolivar
Sank at the earliest blow;
Sped the Black Eagle unchecked and far,
Till struck by an ambushed foe;
And Lopez' fate, like a ship of state,
Swept to a grander doom.
Say, men who hold the awful key
To the weal or woe of her destiny,
Say, shall Cuba's last struggle be
Wrapped like the rest in gloom?

The curse that has laid our land in waste
Blackens her bosom still.
The cup Columbia did but taste,
Cuba has drained of ill.
We know full well what a very hell
The Spanish rule must be.
But lust of gold draws our eyes away;
And the tyrant's squadrons may go or stay;
And Cuba must fight as fight she may, —
For little indeed care we.

O for a land that could boast a rule
Of principle, not of gold!
O for the sway of a brainless fool
Who could not be bought and sold!
O that the truth of our nation's youth
Might flush in her matron veins!
For there was a time when we dared do right
In the sight of man and in God's own sight,
And valued our mission, grand and bright,
More than our paltry gains.