the bright dawn forget,
Looks sadly hopeless, from the vacant sky,
To that where late the glorious day-star set!

Yet all's not midnight dark, if in your land
There be some gallant hearts to brave the strife;
One single generous blow from Freedom's hand
May speak again our sunniest hopes to life;
If but one blessed drop in living veins
Be worthy those who teach us from the dead,
Vengeance and weapons both are in your chains,
Hurled fearlessly upon your despot's head!

Yet, if no memory of the living past
Can wake ye now to brave the indignant strife,
'T were nothing wise, at least, that we should last
When death itself might wear a look of life!
Ay, when the oppressive arm is lifted high,
And scourge and torture still conduct to graves,
To strike, though hopeless still--to strike and die!
They live not, worthy freedom, who are slaves!

As the song proceeded, Bolivar stood forward as one wrapt in ecstasy.
The exultation brightened in his eye, and his manner was that of a
soul in the realization of its highest triumph. Not so the Bogotans by
whom he was surrounded. They felt the terrible sarcasm which the
damsel's song conveyed--a sarcasm immortalized to all the future, in
the undying depths of a song to be remembered. They felt the
humiliation of such a record, and hung their heads in shame. At the
close of the ballad, Bolivar exclaimed to Joachim de Zalabariata, the
father:

"Bring the child before us. She is worthy to be a prime minister. A
prime minister? No! the hero of the forlorn hope! a spirit to raise a
fallen standard from the dust, and to tear down and trample that of
the enemy. Bring her forth, Joachim. Had you _men_ of Bogota but a
tithe of a heart so precious! Nay, could her heart be divided amongst
them--it might serve a thousand--there were no viceroy of Spain within
your city now!"

And when the father brought her forth from the little cabinet, that
girl, flashing with inspiration--pale and red by turns--slightly made,
but graceful--very lovely to look upon--wrapt in loose white garments,
with her long hair, dark and flowing, unconfined, and so long that it
was easy for her to walk upon it[4]--the admiration of the Liberator
was insuppressible.

"Bless you forever," he cried, "my fair Priestess of Freedom! You, at
least, have a free soul, and one that is certainly inspired by the
great divinity of earth.