Classic Poem

On the bridge of Bidassoa,
Gray with age, an abbot stands;
With his left hand France he blesses,
With his right the Spanish lands.
Great the need that bounteous heaven
Comfort sweet should here outpour,
Where from native soil so many
Issue, to return no more.

On the bridge of Bidassoa
Magic spells delude the sight;
Where, to one, dark shadows lower,
Sees another golden light.
Where to one gay roses waver,
Sees another barren sand;
This beholds a land of exile,
That , his welcome Father-land.

Peaceful flows the Bidassoa
To the sheep-bell's tinkling song;
Yonder in the mountains thunder
Cannon-peals the whole day long,
Till, at evening's fall, descendeth
Tow'rds the river's bank a band;
Slow their steps, and torn their banner,
Tracks of blood bedew the sand.

On the bridge of Bidassoa
Down awhile their guns they lay,
Strive to bind their wounds yet bleeding,
Count who still survive the day.
Long they 'wait each missing comrade,
None to swell the ranks appears;
Once again the drum is beaten,
Speaks a warrior, gray with years:

" Furl again the tattered banner
That for Freedom ever flew;
Once again across the frontier
Moves our band of warriors true.
Once again behold us seeking
Freedom's glorious rest afar;
Here we meet — not poor in honour,
Not without some favouring star.

Thou who dost of former battles
Honourable scars retain,
Thou, when all to-day are bleeding,
Mina! dost unscathed remain!
Whole and sound is our preserver,
Still secure the weal of Spain;
Glad at heart, we cross the river,
Homeward we return again! "

Mina from the stone arises
Where he sat so spent and still,
Slowly tow'rds the sun he turns him
Sinking now behind the hill.
Ah! his hand, his breast compressing,
Can no more the blood restrain;
On the bridge of Bidassoa
Olden wounds brake out again!