CUBA

CUBA.
JAMES BARRON HOPE
272.1

O’er thy purple hills, O Cuba!
Through thy valleys of romance,
All thy glorious dreams of freedom
Are but dreamt as in a trance.

Mountain pass and fruitful valley-
Mural town and spreading plain
Show the footstep of the Spaniard
In his burning lust for gain.

Since the caravel of Colon
Grated first upon thy strand,
Ev’rything about thee, Cuba,
Shows the iron Spanish hand.

Hear that crash of martial music?
From the plaza how it swells!
How it trembles with the meaning
Of the story that it tells!

Turn thy step up to Altares-
There was done a deed of shame!
Helpless men were coldly butchered-
“Tis a part of Spanish fame!

Wander now down to the Punta,
Lay thy hand upon thy throat-
Thou wilt see a Spanish emblem
In the dark and grim garrote.

In the Morro-in the market-
In the shadow-in the sun-
Thou wilt see the bearded Spaniard
Where a gold piece may be won.

And they fatten on thee, Cuba!
Gay soldado-cunning priest!
How these vultures flock and hover
On thy tortured breast to feast.

Thou, Prometheus of the ocean,
Bound down-not for what thou’st done;
But for fear thy social statue
Should start living in the sun!

And we give thee tears, O Cuba!
And our prayers to God uplift,
That at last the flame celestial
May come down to thee-a gift!