The Lusiads (tr. Mickle)/Book III

by Luís de Camões

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THE

L U S I A D.

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BOOK III.

OH now, Calliope, thy potent aid!
What to the king th' illustrious GAMA said
Clothe in immortal verse. With sacred fire
My breast, if e'er it loved thy lore, inspire:
So may the patron of the healing art,
The god of day to thee consign his heart;
From thee, the mother of his darling son,
May never wandering thought to Daphne run:

May never Clytia, nor Leucothoe's pride
Henceforth with thee his changeful love divide.
Then aid, O fairest nymph, my fond desire,
And give my verse the Lusian warlike fire:
Fir’d by the song, the listening world shall know
That Aganippe's streams from Tagus flow.
Oh, let no more the flowers of Pindus shine
On thy fair breast, or round thy temples twine:
On Tago's banks a richer chaplet blows,
And with the tuneful god my bosom glows:
I feel, I feel the mighty power infuse,
And bathe my spirit in Aonian dews!

Now silence wooed th' illustrious chief's reply,
And keen attention watch'd on every eye;
When slowly turning with a modest grace,
The noble VASCO raised his manly face:
O mighty king, he cries, at thy command
The martial story of my native land
I tell; but more my doubtful heart had joy'd
Had other wars my praiseful lips employ'd.
When men the honours of their race commend,
The doubts of strangers on the tale attend:

Yet though reluctance falter on my tongue,
Though day would sail a narrative so long,
Yet, well assured no fiction's glare can raise,
Or give my country's fame a brighter praise;
Though less, far less, whate'er my lips can say,
Than truth must give it, I thy will obey.

Between that zone, where endless winter reigns,
And that, where flaming beat consumes the plains;
Array'd in green, beneath indulgent skies,
The queen of arts and arms fair Europe lies:
Around her northern and her western shores,
Throng'd with the finny race old ocean roars;
The midland sea, where tide ne'er swell'd the waves,
Her richest lawns, the southern border, laves.
Against the rising morn, the northmost bound
The whirling Tanais parts from Asian ground,
As tumbling from the Scythian mountains cold
Their crooked way the rapid waters hold
To dull Mæotis' lake: her eastern line
More to the south, the Phrygian waves confine:
Those waves, which, black with many a navy, bore
The Grecian heroes to the Dardan shore;
Where now the seaman rapt in mournful joy
Explores in vain the sad remains of Troy.
Wide to the north beneath the pole she spreads;
Here piles of mountains rear their rugged heads,
Here winds on winds in endless tempests roll,
The valleys sigh, the lengthening echoes howl.

On the rude cliffs with frosty spangles grey,
Weak as the twilight gleams the solar ray;
Each mountain's breast with snows eternal shines,
The streams and seas eternal frost confines.
Here dwelt the numerous Scythian tribes of old,
A dreadful race! by victor ne'er controll'd,
Whose pride maintain'd that theirs the sacred earth,
Not that of Nile, which first gave man his birth.
Here dismal Lapland spreads a dreary wild,
Here Norway's wastes where harvest never smil'd,
Whose groves of fir in gloomy horror frown,
Nod o'er the rocks, and to the tempest groan.
Here Scandia's clime her rugged shores extends,
And far projected, through the ocean bends;
Whose sons dread footsteps yet Ansonia wears,
And yet proud Rome in mournful ruin bears.

When summer bursts stern winter's icy chain,
Here the bold Swede, the Prussian, and the Dane
Hoist the white sail and plough the foamy way,
Cheer'd by whole months of one continual day.
Between these shores and Tanai's rushing tide
Livonia's sons and Russia's hords reside.
Stern as their clime the tribes, whose sires of yore
The name, far dreaded, of Sarmatians bore.

Where, famed of old, th' Hercynian forest lour'd,
Oft seen in arms the Polish troops are pour'd
Wide foraging the downs. The Saxon race,
The Hungar dextrous in the wild-boar chase,
The various nations whom the Rhine's cold wave
The Elbe, Amasis, and the Danube lave,
Of various tongues, for various princes known,
Their mighty lord the German emperor own.
Between the Danube and the lucid tide
Where hapless Helle left her name, and died,
The dreadful god of battles kindred race,
Degenerate now, possess the hills of Thrace.
Mount Hæmus here, and Rhodope renown'd,
And proud Byzantium, long with empire crown'd;
Their ancient pride, their ancient virtue fled,
Low to the Turk now bend the servile head.
Here spread the fields of warlike Macedon,
And here those happy lands where genius shone
In all the arts, in all the muse's charms,
In all the pride of elegance and arms,
Which to the heavens resounded Grecia's name,
And left in every age a deathless fame.
The stern Dalmatians till the neighbouring ground;
And where Antenor anchor'd in the sound
Proud Venice, as a queen, majestic towers,
And o'er the trembling waves her thunder pours.
For learning glorious, glorious for the sword,
While Rome's proud monarch reign'd the world's dread lord,

Here Italy her beauteous landscapes shews;
Around her sides his arms old ocean throws;
The dashing waves the ramparts aid supply;
The hoary Alps, high towering to the sky,
From shore to shore a rugged barrier spread,
And lower destruction on the hostile tread.
But now no more her hostile spirit burns;
There now the saint in humble vespers mourns;
To heaven more grateful than the pride of war,
And all the triumphs of the victor's car.
Onward fair Gallia opens to the view
Her groves of olive, and her vineyards blue:
Wide spread her harvests o'er the scenes renown'd,
Where Julius proudly strode with laurel crown'd.
Here Seine,—how fair when glistening to the moon!
Rolls his white wave, and here the cold Garcon;
Here the deep Rhine the flowery margin laves;
And here the rapid Rhone impervious raves.
Here the gruff mountains, faithless to the vows
Of lost Pyrene rear their cloudy brows;
Whence, when of old the flames their woods devour'd,
Streams of red gold and melted silver pour'd.

And now, as head of all the lordly train
Of Europe's realms, appears illustrious Spain.
Alas, what various fortunes has she known!
Yet ever did her sons her wrongs atone;
Short was the triumph of her haughty foes,
And still with fairer bloom her honours rose.
Where, lock'd with land the struggling currents boil,
Fam'd for the godlike Theban's latest toil,
Against one coast the Punic strand extends,
And round her breast the midland ocean bends:
Around her shores two various oceans swell,
And various nations in her bosom dwell;
Such deeds of valour dignify their names,
Each the imperial right of honour claims.
Proud Aragon, who twice her standard reared
In conquered Naples; and for art revered,
Galicia's prudent sons; the fierce Navarre;
And he far dreaded in the Moorish war,
The bold Asturian; nor Sevilia's race,
Nor thine, Granada, claim the second place.

Here too the heroes who command the plain
By Betis water'd; here the pride of Spain,
The brave Castilian pauses o'er his sword,
His country's dread deliverer and lord.
Proud o'er the rest, with splendid wealth array'd,
As crown to this wide empire, Europe's head,
Fair Lusitania smiles, the western bound,
Whose verdant breast the rolling waves surround,
Where gentle evening pours her lambent ray,
The last pale gleaming of departing day:
This, this, O mighty king, the sacred earth,
This the lov'd parent-soil that gave me birth.
And oh, would bounteous heaven my prayer regard,
And fair success my perilous toils reward,
May that dear land my latest breath receive,
And give my weary bones a peaceful grave.

Sublime the honours of my native land,
And high in heaven's regard her heroes stand;
By heaven's decree 'twas theirs the first to quell
The Moorish tyrants, and from Spain expel;
Nor could their burning wilds conceal their flight,
Their burning wilds confest the Lusian might.
From Lusus famed, whose honour'd name we bear,
(The son of Bacchus or the bold compeer,)

The glorious name of Lusitania rose,
A name tremendous to the Roman foes,
When her bold troops the valiant shepherd led,
And foul with rout the Roman eagles fled;
When haughty Rome achiev'd the treacherous blow,
That own'd her terror of the matchless foe.
But when no more her Viriatus fought,
Age after age her deeper thraldom brought;
Her broken sons by ruthless tyrants spurn'd,
Her vineyards languish'd, and her pastures mourn'd;
Till time revolving raised her drooping head,
And o'er the wondering world her conquests spread.
Thus rose her power: the lands of lordly Spain
Were now the brave Alonzo's wide domain;
Great were his honours in the bloody fight,
And fame proclaim'd him champion of the right.
And oft the groaning Saracen's proud crest
And shatter'd mail his awful force confest.
From Calpe's summits to the Caspian shore
Loud-tongued renown his godlike actions bore.
And many a chief from distant regions came
To share the laurels of Alonzo's fame;

Yet more for holy faith's unspotted cause
Their spears they wielded, than for fame's applause.
Great were the deeds their thundering arms display'd,
And still their foremost swords the battle sway'd.
And now to honour with distinguished meed
Each hero's worth, the generous king decreed.
The first and bravest of the foreign bands
Hungaria's younger son brave Henry stands.

To him are given the fields where Tagus flows,
And the glad king his daughter's hand bestows;
The fair Teresa shines his blooming bride,
And owns her father's love, and Henry's pride.
With her, besides, the sire confirms in dower
Whate'er his sword might rescue from the Moor;
And soon on Hagar's race the hero pours
His warlike fury—soon the vanquish'd Moors
To him far round the neighbouring lands resign,
And heaven rewards him with a glorious line.
To him is born, heaven's gift, a gallant son,
The glorious founder of the Lusian throne.
Nor Spain's wide lands alone his deeds attest,
Delivered Judah Henry's might confest.
On Jordan's bank the victor-hero strode,
Whose hallowed waters bathed the Saviour-God;

And Salem's gate her open folds display'd,
When Godfrey conquer'd by the hero's aid.
But now no more in tented fields opposed,
By Tagus' stream his honoured age lie closed;
Yet still his dauntless worth, his virtue lived,
And all the father in the son survived.
And soon his worth was proved, the parent dame
Avowed a second hymeneal flame.
The low-born spouse assumes the monarch's place,
And from the throne expels the orphan race.
But young Alphonso, like his sires of yore,
(His grandsire's virtues, as his name, he bore),
Arms for the fight, his ravish'd throne to win,
And the laced helmet grasps his beardless chin.
Her fiercest firebrands, civil discord waved,
Before her troops the lustful mother raved;

Lost to maternal love, and lost to shame,
Unawed she saw heaven's awful vengeance flame;
The brother's sword the brother's bosom tore,
And sad Guimaria's meadows blush’d with gore;
With Lusian gore the peasant's cot was stain'd,
And kindred blood the sacred shrine profaned.

Here, cruel Progne, here, O Jason's wife,
Yet reeking with your children's purple life,
Here glut your eyes with deeper guilt than yours;
Here fiercer rage her fiercer rancour pours.
Your crime was vengeance on the faithless sires,
But here ambition with foul lust conspires.
'Twas rage of love, O Scylla, urged the knife
That robb'd thy father of his fated life;
Here grosser rage the mother's breast inflames,
And at her guiltless son the vengeance aims;
But aims in vain; her slaughter'd forces yield,
And the brave youth rides victor o'er the field.
No more his subjects lift the thirsty sword,
And the glad realm proclaims the youthful lord.
But ah, how wild the noblest tempers run!
His filial duty now forsakes the son;

Secluded from the day, in clanking chains
His rage the parent's aged limbs constrains.
Heaven frown'd—Dark vengeance low'ring on his brows,
And sheath'd in brass, the proud Castilian rose,
Resolved the rigour to his daughter shewn,
The battle should avenge, and blood atone.
A numerous host against the prince he sped,
The valiant prince his little army led:
Dire was the shock; the deep-riven helms resound,
And foes with foes lie grappling on the ground.
Yet though around the stripling's sacred head
By angel hands etherial shields were spread;
Though glorious triumph on his valour smiled,
Soon on his van the baffled foe recoil'd:
With bands more numerous to the field he came,
His proud heart burning with the rage of shame.
And now in turn, Guimaria's lofty wall,
That saw his triumph, saw the hero fall:
Within the town immured, distrest he lay,
To stern Castilia's sword a certain prey.
When now the guardian of his infant years,
The valiant Egas, as a god appears;
To proud Casteel the suppliant noble bows,
And faithful homage for his prince he vows.
The proud Casteel accepts his honour'd faith,
And peace succeeds the dreadful scenes of death.
Yet well, alas, the generous Egas knew
His high-soul'd prince to man would never sue,

Would never stoop to brook the servile stain,
To hold a borrow'd, a dependent reign.
And now with gloomy aspect rose the day,
Decreed the plighted servile rights to pay;
When Egas to redeem his faith's disgrace,
Devotes himself, his spouse, and infant race.
In gowns of white, as sentenced felons clad,
When to the stake the sons of guilt are led,
With feet unshod they slowly moved along,
And from their necks the knotted halters hung.
And now, O king, the kneeling Egas cries,
Behold my perjured honour's sacrifice:
If such mean victims can atone thine ire,
Here let my wife, my babes, myself expire.
If generous bosoms such revenge can take,
Here let them perish for the father's sake:
The guilty tongue, the guilty hands are these,
Nor let a common death thy wrath appease;
For us let all the rage of torture burn,
But to my prince, thy son, in friendship turn.

He spoke, and bow'd his prostrate body low,
As one who waits the lifted sabre's blow;
When o'er the block his languid arms are spread,
And death, foretasted, whelms the heart with dread.
So great a leader thus in humbled state,
So firm his loyalty, his zeal so great,
The brave Alonzo's kindled ire subdued,
And, lost in silent joy, the monarch stood;

Then gave the hand, and sheath'd the hostile sword,
And to such honour honour'd peace restored.

Oh Lusian faith! oh zeal beyond compare!
What greater danger could the Persian dare,
Whose prince in tears, to view his mangled woe,
Forgot the joy for Babylon's o'erthrow.
And now the youthful hero shines in arms,
The banks of Tagus echo war's alarms:
O'er Ourique's wide campaign his ensigns wave,
And the proud Saracen to combat brave.
Though prudence might arraign his fiery rage
That dared, with one, each hundred spears engage,
In heaven's protecting care his courage lies,
And heaven, his friend, superior force supplies.
Five moorish kings against him march along,
Ismar the noblest of the armed throng;
Yet each brave monarch claim'd the soldier's name,
And far o'er many a land was known to fame.

In all the beauteous glow of blooming years,
Beside each king a warrior Nymph appears;
Each with her sword her valiant lover guards,
With smiles inspires him, and with smiles rewards.
Such was the valour of the beauteous maid,
Whose warlike arm proud Ilion's fate delay'd:
Such in the field the virgin warriors shone,
Who drank the limpid wave of Thermodon.

'Twas morn's still hour, before the dawning grey
The stars bright twinkling radiance died away;
When lo, resplendent in the heaven serene,
High o'er the prince the sacred cross was seen;
The godlike prince with faith's warm glow inflamed,
Oh, not to me, my bounteous God! exclaim'd,

 
Oh, not to me, who well thy grandeur know,
But to the pagan herd thy wonders shew!

The Lusian host, enraptured, mark'd the sign
That witness'd to their chief the aid divine:
Right on the foe they shake the beamy lance,
And with firm strides, and heaving breasts, advance;
Then burst the silence, hail, O king, they cry;
Our king, our king, the echoing dales reply.
Fired at the sound, with fiercer ardour glows
The heaven-made monarch; on the wareless foes
Rushing, he speeds his ardent bands along:
So when the chase excites the rustic throng,
Roused to fierce madness by their mingled cries,
On the wild bull the red-eyed mastiff flies:
The stern-brow'd tyrant roars and tears the ground,
His watchful horns portend the deathful wound;
The nimble mastiff, springing on the foe,
Avoids the furious sharpness of the blow:
Now by the neck, now by the gory sides
Hangs fierce, and all his bellowing rage derides:
In vain his eye-balls burn with living fire,
In vain his nostrils clouds of smoke respire;
His gorge torn down, down falls the furious prize
With hollow thundering sound, and raging dies.

Thus on the Moors the hero rush'd along,
Th' astonish'd Moors in wild confusion throng;
They snatch their arms, the hasty trumpet sounds,
With horrid yell the dread alarm rebounds;
The warlike tumult maddens o'er the plain,
As when the flame devours the bearded grain:
The nightly flames the whistling winds inspire,
Fierce through the braky thicket pours the fire:
Rous'd by the crackling of the mounting blaze,
From sleep the shepherds start in wild amaze;
They snatch their clothes with many a woeful cry,
And scatter'd devious to the mountains fly.
Such sudden dread the trembling Moors alarms,
Wild and confused they snatch the nearest arms;
Yet flight they scorn, and eager to engage,
They spur their foamy steeds, and trust their furious rage:
Amidst the horror of the headlong shock,
With foot unshaken as the living rock
Stands the bold Lusian firm; the purple wounds
Gush horrible, deep groaning rage resounds;

Reeking behind the Moorish backs appear
The shining point of many a Lusian spear;
The mail-coats, hauberks, and the harness steel'd,
Bruis'd, hackt, and torn, lie scatter'd o'er the field;
Beneath the Lusian sweepy force o'erthrown,
Crush'd by their batter'd mails the wounded groan;
Burning with thirst they draw their panting breath,
And curse their prophet as they writhe in death.
Arms sever'd from the trunks still grasp the steel,
Heads gasping roll; the fighting squadrons reel;

Fainty and weak with languid arms they close,
And staggering grapple with the staggering foes,
So when an oak falls headlong on the lake,
The troubled waters, slowly settling, shake:
So faints the languid combat on the plain,
And settling staggers o'er the heaps of slain.
Again the Lusian fury wakes its fires,
The terror of the Moors new strength inspires;
The scatter'd few in wild confusion fly,
And total rout resounds the yelling cry.
Defiled with one wide sheet of reeking gore,
The verdure of the lawn appears no more:
In bubbling streams the lazy currents run,
And shoot red flames beneath the evening sun.
With spoils enrich'd, with glorious trophies crown'd,
The heaven-made sovereign on the battle ground

Three days encampt, to rest his weary train,
Whose dauntless valour drove the Moors from Spain.
And now in honour of the glorious day,
When five proud monarchs fell his vanquish'd prey,

On his broad buckler, unadorn'd before,
Placed as a cross, five azure shields he wore,

In grateful memory of the heavenly sign,
The pledge of conquest by the aid divine.

Nor long his faulchion in the scabbard slept,
His warlike arm increasing laurels reapt:
From Leyra's walls the baffled Ismar flies,
And strong Arroncha falls his conquer'd prize;
That honour'd town, through whose Elysian groves
Thy smooth and limpid wave, O Tagus, roves.
Th' illustrious Santarene confest his power,
And vanquish'd Mafra yields her proudest tower.
The Lunar mountains saw his troops display
Their marching banners and their brave array;
To him submits fair Cintra's cold domain,
The soothing refuge of the Nayad train.
When love's sweet snares the pining nymphs would shun:
Alas, in vain from warmer climes they run:
The cooling shades awake the young desires,
And the cold fountains cherish love's soft fires.

And thou, famed Lisboa, whose embattled wall
Rose by the hand that wrought proud Ilion's fall;
Thou queen of cities, whom the seas obey,
Thy dreaded ramparts own'd the hero's sway.
Far from the north a warlike navy bore
From Elbe, from Rhine, and Albion's misty shore,
To rescue Salem's long-polluted shrine;
Their force to great Alonzo's force they join:
Before Ulysses' walls the navy rides,
The joyful Tagus laves their pitchy sides.
Five times the moon her empty horns conceal'd,
Five times her broad effulgence shone reveal'd,
When, wrapt in clouds of dust, her mural pride
Falls thundering,—black the smoking breach yawns wide.

As when th' imprison'd waters burst the mounds,
And roar, wide sweeping, o'er the cultured grounds;
Nor cot nor fold withstand their furious course;
So headlong rush'd along the hero's force.
The thirst of vengeance the assailants fires,
The madness of despair the Moors inspires;
Each lane, each street resounds the conflict's roar,
And every threshold reeks with tepid gore.

Thus fell the city, whose unconquer'd towers
Defied of old the banded Gothic powers,
Whose harden'd nerves in rigorous climates train'd
The savage courage of their souls sustain'd;
Before whose sword the sons of Ebro fled,
And Tagus trembled in his oozy bed;
Aw'd by whose arms the lawns of Betis' shore
The name Vandalia from the Vandals bore.

When Lisboa's towers before the Lusian fell,
What fort, what rampart might his arms repel!
Estremadura's region owns him lord,
And Torres-vedras bends beneath his sword;
Obidos humbles, and Alamquer yields,
Alamquer famous for her verdant fields,
Whose murmuring rivulets cheer the traveller's way,
As the chill waters o'er the pebbles stray.

Elva the green, and Moura's fertile dales,
Fair Serpa's tillage, and Alcazar's vales
Not for himself the Moorish peasant sows;
For Lusian hands the yellow harvest glows:
And you, fair lawns, beyond the Tago's wave,
Your golden burdens for Alonzo save;
Soon shall his thundering might your wealth reclaim,
And your glad valleys hail their monarch's name.

Nor sleep his captains while the sovereign wars;
The brave Giraldo's sword in conquest shares;
Evora's frowning walls, the castled hold
Of that proud Roman chief, and rebel bold,
Sertorious dread, whose labours still remain;
Two hundred arches, stretch'd in length, sustain
The marble duct, where, glistening to the sun,
Of silver hue the shining waters run.
Evora's frowning walls now shake with fear,
And yield obedient to Giraldo's spear.
Nor rests the monarch while his servants toil,
Around him still increasing trophies smile,
And deathless fame repays the hapless fate
That gives to human life so short a date.
Proud Beja's castled walls his fury storms,
And one red slaughter every lane deforms.

<poem>

The ghosts, whose mangled limbs, yet scarcely cold, Heapt sad Trancoso's streets in carnage roll'd, Appeased, the vengeance of their slaughter see, And hail th' indignant king's severe decree. Palmela trembles on her mountain's height, And sea-laved Zambra owns the hero's might. Nor these alone confest his happy star, Their fated doom produced a nobler war. Badaja's king, an haughty Moor, beheld His towns besieged, and hasted to the field. Four thousand coursers in his army neigh'd, Unnumber'd spears his infantry display'd; Proudly they march'd, and glorious to behold, In silver belts they shone, and plates of gold. Along a mountain's side secure they trod, Steep on each hand, and rugged was the road; When as a bull, whose lustful veins betray The maddening tumult of inspiring May; If, when his rage with fiercest ardour glows, When in the shade the fragrant heifer lows, If then perchance his jealous burning eye Behold a careless traveller wander by, With dreadful bellowing on the wretch he flies, The wretch defenceless torn and trampled dies. So rush'd Alonzo on the gaudy train, And pour'd victorious o'er the mangled slain; The royal Moor precipitates in flight;

The mountain echoes with the wild affright

Of flying squadrons; down their arms they throw,
And dash from rock to rock to shun the foe.
The foe! what wonders may not virtue dare!
But sixty horsemen waged the conquering war.
The warlike monarch still his toil renews;
New conquest still each victory pursues.
To him Badaja's lofty gates expand,
And the wide region owns his dread command.
When now enraged proud Leon's king beheld
Those walls subdued which saw his troops expell'd;
Enraged he saw them own the victor's sway,
And hems them round with battalous array.
With generous ire the brave Alonzo glows,
By heaven unguarded, on the numerous foes
He rushes, glorying in his wonted force,
And spurs with headlong rage his furious horse;
The combat burns, the snorting courser bounds,
And paws impetuous by the iron mounds:
O'er gasping foes and sounding bucklers trod
The raging steed, and headlong as he rode
Dash'd the fierce monarch on a rampire bar—
Low grovelling in the dust, the pride of war,
The great Alonzo lies. The captive's fate
Succeeds, alas, the pomp of regal state.
"Let iron dash his limbs," his mother cried,
"And steel revenge my chains:" she spoke, and died;

And heaven assented—Now the hour was come,
And the dire curse was fallen Alonzo's doom.

No more, O Pompey, of thy fate complain,
No more with sorrow view thy glory's stain;
Though thy tall standards tower'd with lordly pride
Where northern Phasis rolls his icy tide;
Though hot Syene, where the sun's fierce ray
Begets no shadow, own'd thy conquering sway;
Though from the tribes that shiver in the gleam
Of cold Bootes' watery glistening team,
To those who parch'd beneath the burning line,
In fragrant shades their feeble limbs recline,
The various languages proclaim'd thy fame,
And trembling own'd the terrors of thy name;
Though rich Arabia, and Sarmatia bold,
And Colchis, famous for the fleece of gold;

Though Judah's land, whose sacred rites implored
The one true God, and, as he taught, adored;
Though Cappadocia's realm thy mandate sway'd,
And base Sophenia's sons thy nod obey'd;
Though vext Cilicias pirates wore thy bands,
And those who cultured fair Armenia's lands,
Where from the sacred mount two rivers flow,
And what was Eden to the pilgrim shew;
Though from the vast Atlantic's bounding wave
To where the northern tempests howl and rave
Round Taurus' lofty brows: though vast and wide
The various climes that bended to thy pride;
No more with pining anguish of regret
Bewail the horrors of Pharsalia's fate:
For great Alonzo, whose superior name
Unequall'd victories consign to fame,
The great Alonzo fell—like thine his woe;
From nuptial kindred came the fatal blow.

When now the hero, humbled in the dust,
His crime atoned, confest that heaven was just,
Again in splendor he the throne ascends:
Again his bow the Moorish chieftain bends.
Wide round th' embattled gates of Santaraen
Their shining spears and banner'd moons are seen.
But holy rites the pious king preferr'd;
The martyr's bones on Vincent's cape interr'd

(His sainted name the cape shall ever bear),
To Lisboa's walls he brought with votive care.
And now the monarch, old and feeble grown,
Resigns the falchion to his valiant son.
O'er Tago's waves the youthful hero past,
And bleeding hosts before him shrunk aghast:
Choak'd with the slain, with moorish carnage dy'd,
Sevilia's river roll’d the purple tide.
Burning for victory, the warlike boy
Spares not a day to thoughtless rest or joy.
Nor long his wish unsatisfied remains:
With the besiegers' gore he dyes the plains
That circle Beja's wall: yet still untamed,
With all the fierceness of despair inflamed,
The raging Moor collects his distant might;
Wide from the shores of Atlas' starry height,
From Amphelusia's cape, and Tingia's bay,
Where stern Antæus held his brutal sway,
The Mauritanian trumpet sounds to arms;
And Juba's realm returns the hoarse alarms;
The swarthy tribes in burnish'd armour shine,
Their warlike march Abyla's shepherds join.
The great Miramolin on Tago's shores
Far o'er the coast his banner'd thousands pours;

Twelve kings and one beneath his ensigns stand,
And wield their sabres at his dread command.
The plundering bands far round the region haste,
The mournful region lies a naked waste.
And now enclosed in Santareen's high towers
The brave Don Sanco shuns th' unequal powers;
A thousand arts the furious Moor pursues,
And ceaseless still the fierce assault renews.
Huge clefts of rock, from horrid engines whirl'd,
In smouldering volleys on the town are hurl'd;
The brazen rams the lofty turrets shake,
And, mined beneath, the deep foundations quake;
But brave Alonzo's son, as danger grows,
His pride inflamed, with rising courage glows;
Each coming storm of missile darts he wards,
Each nodding turret, and each port he guards.

In that fair city, round whose verdant meads
The branching river of Mondego spreads,
Long worn with warlike toils, and bent with years
The king reposed, when Sanco's fate he hears.
His limbs forget the feeble steps of age,
And the hoar warrior burns with youthful rage.
His daring veterans, long to conquest train'd,
He leads—the ground with Moorish blood is stain'd;
Turbans, and robes of various colours wrought,
And shiver'd spears in streaming carnage float.
In harness gay lies many a weltering steed,
And low in dust the groaning masters bleed.

As proud Miramolin in horror fled,
Don Sancho's javelin stretch'd him with the dead.
In wild dismay, and torn with gushing wounds,
The rout wide scatter'd, fly the Lusian bounds.
Their hands to heaven the joyful victors raise,
And every voice resounds the song of praise;
"Nor was it stumbling chance, nor human might,
"'Twas guardian heaven," they sung, "that ruled the fight."

  This blissful day Alonzo's glories crown'd;
But pale disease now gave the secret wound;
Her icy hand his feeble limbs invades,
And pining languor through his vitals spreads.
The glorious monarch to the tomb descends,
A nation's grief the funeral torch attends.
Each winding shore for thee, Alonzo, mourns,
Alonzo's name each woful bay returns;
For thee the rivers sigh their groves among,
And funeral murmurs wailing, roll along;
Their swelling tears o'erflow the wide campaign;
With floating heads, for thee, the yellow grain,

For thee the willow bowers and copses weep,
As their tall boughs lie trembling on the deep;
Adown the streams the tangled vine-leaves flow,
And all the landscape wears the look of woe.
Thus, o'er the wondering world thy glories spread,
And thus thy mournful people bow the head;
While still, at eve, each' dale Alonzo sighs,
And, oh, Alonzo; every hill replies;
And still the mountain echoes trill the lay,
Till blushing morn brings on the noiseful day.

The youthful Sanco to the throne succeeds,
Already far renown'd for valorous deeds;
Let Betis tinged with blood his prowess tell,
And Beja's lawns, where boastful Afric fell.
Nor less, when king, his martial ardour glows,
Proud Sylves' royal walls his troops enclose:
Fair Sylves' lawns the Moorish peasant plough'd,
Her vineyards cultured, and her valleys sow'd;
But Lisboa's monarch reapt. The winds of heaven
Roar'd high—and headlong by the tempest driven,
In Tago's breast a gallant navy sought
The sheltering port, and glad assistance brought.

The warlike crew, by Frederick the Red,
To rescue Judah's prostrate land were led;
When Guido's troops, by burning thirst subdued,
To Saladine, the foe, for mercy sued.

Their vows were holy, and the cause the same,
To blot from Europe's shores the Moorish name.
In Sanco's cause the gallant navy joins,
And royal Sylves to their force resigns.
Thus sent by heaven a foreign naval band
Gave Lisboa's ramparts to the sire's command.

Nor Moorish trophies did alone adorn
The hero's name; in warlike camps though born,
Though fenced with mountains, Leon's martial race
Smile at the battle-sign, yet foul disgrace

<poem>

To Leon's haughty sons his sword achieved; Proud Tui's neck his servile yoke received; And far around falls many a wealthy town, O valiant Sanco, humbled to thy frown.

While thus his laurels flourish'd wide and fair,

He dies: Alonzo reigns, his much-loved heir. Alcazar lately conquer'd from the Moor, Reconquer'd, streams with the defenders' gore.

Alonzo dies: another Sanco reigns:

Alas, with many a sigh the land complains! Unlike his sire, a vain unthinking boy, His servants now a jarring sway enjoy. As his the power, his were the crimes of those Whom to dispense that sacred power he chose. By various counsels waver'd, and confused, By seeming friends, by various arts, abused; Long undetermined, blindly rash at last, Enraged, unmann'd, untutor'd by the past. Yet not like Nero, cruel and unjust, The slave capricious of unnatural lust: Nor had he smiled had flames consumed his Troy; Nor could his people's groans afford him joy; Nor did his woes from female manners spring,

Unlike the Syrian, or Sicilia's king.

No hundred cooks his costly meal prepared,
As heapt the board when Rome's proud tyrant fared:
Nor dared the artist hope his ear to gain,
By new-form'd arts to point the stings of pain.
But proud and high the Lusian spirit soar'd,
And ask'd a godlike hero for their Lord.
To none accustom'd but a hero's sway,
Great must he be whom that bold race obey.

Complaint, loud murmur'd, every city fills,
Complaint, loud echoed, murmurs through the hills.
Alarm'd, Bolonia's warlike Earl awakes,
And from his listless brother's minions takes

The awful sceptre.—Soon was joy restored,
And soon, by just succession, Lisbon's lord
Beloved, Alonzo, named the bold, he reigns;
Nor may the limits of his sire's domains
Confine his mounting spirit. When he led
His smiling consort to the bridal bed,
Algarbia's realm, he cried, shall prove thy dower,
And soon Algarbia conquer'd own'd his power.
The vanquish'd Moor with total rout expell'd,
All Lusus' shores his might unrivall'd held.
And now brave Diniz reigns, whose noble fire
Bespoke the genuine lineage of his sire.
Now, heavenly peace wide waved her olive bough,
Each vale display'd the labours of the plough
And smiled with joy: the rocks on every shore
Resound the dashing of the merchant-oar.
Wise laws are form'd, and constitutions weigh'd,
And the deep-rooted base of empire laid.

Not Ammon's son with larger heart bestow'd,
Nor such the grace to him the muses owed.
From Helicon the muses wing their way;
Mondego's flowery banks invite their stay.
Now Coimbra shines Minerva's proud abode;
And fired with joy, Parnassus' bloomy god
Beholds another dear-loved Athens rise,
And spread her laurels in indulgent skies;
Her wreath of laurels ever green he twines
With threads of gold, and Baccaris adjoins.
Here castle walls in warlike grandeur lour,
Here cities swell and lofty temples tower:
In wealth and grandeur each with other vies;
When old and loved the parent-monarch dies.
His son, alas, remiss in filial deeds,
But wise in peace and bold in fight, succeeds,
The fourth Alonzo: ever arm'd for war
He views the stern Castile with watchful care.
Yet when the Libyan nations crost the main,
And spread their thousands o'er the fields of Spain,
The brave Alonzo drew his awful steel,
And sprung to battle for the proud Castile.

When Babel's haughty queen unsheath'd the sword,
And o'er Hydaspes' lawns her legions pour'd;

When dreadful Attila, to whom was given
That fearful name, the Scourge of angry heaven,
The fields of trembling Italy o'er-ran
With many a Gothic tribe and northern clan;
Not such unnumber'd banners then were seen,
As now in fair Tartesia's dales convene;
Numidia's bow, and Mauritania's spear,
And all the might of Hagar's race was here;
Granada's mongrels join their numerous host,
To those who dared the seas from Libya's coast.
Awed by the fury of such ponderous force
The proud Castilian tries each hoped resource;
Yet not by terror for himself inspired,
For Spain he trembled, and for Spain was fired.
His much-loved bride his messenger he sends,
And to the hostile Lusian lowly bends.
The much-loved daughter of the king implored,
Now sues her father for her wedded lord.
The beauteous dame approach'd the palace gate,
Where her great sire was throned in regal state:
On her fair face deep-settled grief appears,
And her mild eyes are bathed in glistening tears;

Her careless ringlets, as a mourner's, flow
Adown her shoulders and her breasts of snow:
A secret transport through the father ran,
While thus, in sighs, the royal bride began:

And know'st thou not, O warlike king, she cry'd,
That furious Afric pours her peopled tide,
Her barbarous nations, o'er the fields of Spain?
Morocco's lord commands the dreadful train.
Ne'er since the surges bathed the circling coast,
Beneath one standard march'd so dread a host:
Such the dire fierceness of their brutal rage,
Pale are our bravest youth as palsied age.
By night our fathers' shades confess their fear,
Their shrieks of terror from the tombs we hear:
To stem the rage of these unnumber'd bands,
Alone, O sire, my gallant husband stands;
His little host alone their breasts oppose
To the barb'd darts of Spain's innumerous foes:
Then haste, O monarch, thou whose conquering spear
Has chill'd Malucca's sultry waves with fear;
Haste to the rescue of distress'd Castile,
(Oh! be that smile thy dear affection's seal!)

And speed, my father, ere my husband's fate
Be fixt, and I, deprived of regal state,
Be left in captive solitude forlorn,
My spouse, my kingdom, and my birth to mourn.

In tears, and trembling, spoke the filial queen:
So lost in grief was lovely Venus' seen,
When Jove, her sire, the beauteous mourner pray'd
To grant her wandering son the promised aid.
Great Jove was moved to hear the fair deplore,
Gave all she ask'd, and grieved she ask'd no more.
So grieved Alonzo's noble heart. And now
The warrior binds in steel his awful brow;
The glittering squadrons march in proud array,
On burnish'd shields the trembling sun-beams play:
The blaze of arms the warlike rage inspires,
And wakes from slothful peace the hero's fires.
With trampling hoofs Evora's plains rebound,
And sprightly neighings echo far around;
Far on each side the clouds of dust arise,
The drum's rough rattling rolls along the skies;
The trumpet's shrilly clangor sounds alarms,
And each heart burns, and ardent pants for arms.
Where their bright blaze the royal ensigns pour'd,
High o'er the rest the great Alonzo tower'd;
High o'er the rest was his bold front admired,
And his keen eyes new warmth, new force inspired.

Proudly he march'd, and now in Tarif's plain
The two Alonzos join their martial train:
Right to the foe, in battle-rank updrawn,
They pause—the mountain and the wide-spread lawn
Afford not foot-room for the crowded foe:
Aw’d with the horrors of the lifted blow
Pale look'd our bravest heroes. Swell'd with pride,
The foes already conquer'd Spain divide,
And lordly o'er the field the promised victors stride.
So strode in Elah's vale the towering height
Of Gath's proud champion; so with pale affright
The Hebrews trembled, while with impious pride
The huge-limb'd foe the shepherd boy defy'd:
The valiant boy advancing fits the string,
And round his head he whirls the sounding sling;
The monster staggers with the forceful wound,
And his huge bulk lies groaning on the ground.
Such impious scorn the Moor's proud bosom swell'd,
When our thin squadrons took the battle-field;
Unconscious of the power who led us on,
That power whose nod confounds th' eternal throne;
Led by that power, the brave Castilian bared
The shining blade, and proud Morocco dared;
His conquering brand the Lusian hero drew,
And on Granada's sons resistless flew;
The spear-staffs crash, the splinters hiss around,
And the broad bucklers rattle on the ground.

With piercing shrieks the Moors their prophet's name,
And ours their guardian saint aloud acclaim.
Wounds gush on wounds, and blows resound to blows
A lake of blood the level plain o'erflows;
The wounded gasping in the purple tide,
Now find the death the sword but half supplied.
Though wove and quilted by their ladies' hands,
Vain were the mail-plates of Granada's bands.
With such dread force the Lusian rush'd along,
Steep'd in red carnage lay the boastful throng.
Yet now disdainful of so light a prize,
Fierce o'er the field the thundering hero flies,
And his bold arm the brave Castilian joins
In dreadful conflict with the Moorish lines.

The parting sun now pour'd the ruddy blaze,
And twinkling Vesper shot his silvery rays
Athwart the gloom, and closed the glorious day,
When low in dust the strength of Afric lay.

Such

Such dreadful slaughter of the boastful Moor
Never on battle-field was heap'd before.
Not he whose childhood vow'd eternal hate
And desperate war against the Roman state,
Though three strong coursers bent beneath the weight
Of rings of gold, by many a Roman knight,
Erewhile, the badge of rank distinguish'd, worn,
From their cold hands at Cannæ's slaughter torn;
Not his dread sword bespread the reeking plain
With such wide streams of gore, and hills of slain;
Nor thine, O Titus, swept from Salem's land
Such floods of ghosts, roll'd down to death's dark strand;
Though, ages ere she fell, the prophets old
The dreadful scene of Salem's fall foretold,
In words that breathe wild horror: Nor the shore,
When carnage choak'd the stream, so smoak'd with gore,
When Marius' fainting legions drank the flood,^[1]
Yet warm and purpled with Ambronian blood;
Not such the heaps as now the plains of Tarif strew'd.

While glory thus Alonzo's name adorn'd,
To Lisboa's shores the happy chief return'd,
In glorious peace and well-deserved repose,
His course of fame, and honoured age to close.

When now, O king, a damsel's fate^[2] severe,
A fate which ever claims the woeful tear,
Disgraced his honours——On the nymph's lorn head
Relentless rage its bitterest rancour shed:
Yet such the zeal her princely lover bore,
Her breathless corse the crown of Lisbon wore.
'Twas thou, O love, whose dreaded shafts control
The hind's rude heart, and tear the hero's soul;
Thou ruthless power, with bloodshed never cloyed,
'Twas thou thy lovely votary destroyed.
Thy thirst still burning for a deeper woe,
In vain to thee the tears of beauty flow;
The breast that feels thy purest flames divine,
With spouting gore must bathe thy cruel shrine.

Such thy dire triumphs!—Thou, O nymph, the while,
Prophetic of the god's unpitying guile,
In tender scenes by love-sick fancy wrought,
By fear oft shifted as by fancy brought,
In sweet Mondego's ever-verdant bowers,
Languish'd away the slow and lonely hours:
While now, as terror waked thy boding fears,
The conscious stream received thy pearly tears;
And now, as hope revived the brighter flame,
Each echo sigh'd thy princely lover's name.
Nor less could absence from thy prince remove
The dear remembrance of his distant love:
Thy looks, thy smiles, before him ever glow,
And o'er his melting heart endearing flow:
By night his slumbers bring thee to his arms,
By day his thoughts still wander o'er thy charms:
By night, by day, each thought thy loves employ,
Each thought the memory or the hope of joy.
Though fairest princely dames invok'd his love,
No princely dame his constant faith could move:
For thee alone his constant passion burn'd,
For thee the proffer'd royal maids he scorn'd.
Ah, hope of bliss too high—the princely dames
Refused, dread rage the father's breast inflames;
He, with an old man's wintry eye, surveys
The youth's fond love, and coldly with it weighs
The people's murmurs of his son's delay
To bless the nation with his nuptial day.

(Alas, the nuptial day was past unknown,
Which, but when crown'd the prince could dare to own.)
And with the fair one's blood the vengeful sire
Resolves to quench his Pedro's faithful fire.
Oh, thou dread sword, oft stain'd with heroes' gore,
Thou awful terror of the prostrate Moor,
What rage could aim thee at a female breast,
Unarm'd, by softness and by love possest!

Dragg'd from her bower by murderous ruffian hands,
Before the frowning king fair Inez stands;
Her tears of artless innocence, her air
So mild, so lovely, and her face so fair,
Moved the stern monarch; when with eager zeal,
Her fierce destroyers urged the public weal;
Dread rage again the tyrant's soul possest,
And his dark brow his cruel thoughts confest;
O'er her fair face a sudden paleness spread,
Her throbbing heart with generous anguish bled,
Anguish to view her lover's hopeless woes,
And all the mother in her bosom rose.
Her beauteous eyes, in trembling tear-drops drown'd,
To heaven she lifted, but her hands were bound;^[3]
Then on her infants turn'd the piteous glance,
The look of bleeding woe; the babes advance,
Smiling in innocence of infant age,
Unawed, unconscious of their grandsire's rage;

<poem>

To whom, as bursting sorrow gave the flow, The native heart-sprung eloquence of woe, The lovely captive thus:—O monarch, hear, If e'er to thee the name of man was dear, If prowling tigers, or the wolf's wild brood, Inspired by nature with the lust of blood, Have yet been moved the weeping babe to spare, Nor left, but tended with a nurse's care, As Rome's great founders to the world were given; Shalt thou, who wear'st the sacred stamp of heaven, The human form divine, shalt thou deny That aid, that pity, which e'en beasts supply! Oh, that thy heart were, as thy looks declare, Of human mould, superfluous were my prayer; Thou could'st not then a helpless damsel slay,

Whose sole offence in fond affection lay,^[4]

In faith to him who first his love confest,
Who first to love allured her virgin breast.

In these my babes shalt thou thine image see,
And still tremendous hurl thy rage on me?

Me, for their sakes, if yet thou wilt not spare,
Oh, let these infants prove thy pious care!
Yet pity's lenient current ever flows
From that brave breast where genuine valour glows;
That thou art brave, let vanquish'd Afric tell,
Then let thy pity o'er mine anguish swell;
Ah, let my woes, unconscious of a crime,
Procure mine exile to some barbarous clime:
Give me to wander o'er the burning plains
Of Libya's deserts, or the wild domains
Of Scythia's snow-clad rocks and frozen shore;
There let me, hopeless of return, deplore.
Where ghastly horror fills the dreary vale,
Where shrieks and howlings die on every gale,
The lions roaring, and the tigers yell,
There with mine infant race, consign'd to dwell,
There let me try that piety to find,
In vain by me implored from human kind:
There in some dreary cavern's rocky womb,
Amid the horrors of sepulchral gloom,
For him whose love I mourn, my love shall glow,
The sigh shall murmur, and the tear shall flow:
All my fond wish, and all my hope, to rear
These infant pledges of a love so dear,
Amidst my griefs a soothing, glad employ,
Amidst my fears a woeful, hopeless joy.

In tears she utter'd—as the frozen snow
Touch'd by the spring's mild ray, begins to flow,

So just began to melt his stubborn soul,
As mild-ray'd pity o'er the tyrant stole;
But destiny forbade: with eager zeal,
Again pretended for the public weal,
Her fierce accusers urged her speedy doom;
Again dark rage diffused its horrid gloom
O'er stern Alonzo's brow: swift at the sign,
Their swords unsheathed around her brandish'd shine.
O foul disgrace, of knighthood lasting stain,
By men of arms a helpless lady slain!

Thus Pyrrhus, burning with unmanly ire,
Fulfill'd the mandate of his furious sire;
Disdainful of the frantic matron's prayer,
On fair Polyxena, her last fond care,
He rush'd, his blade yet warm with Priam's gore,
And dash'd the daughter on the sacred floor;

While mildly she her raving mother eyed,
Resign'd her bosom to the sword, and died.
Thus Inez, while her eyes to heaven appeal,
Resigns her bosom to the murdering steel:
That snowy neck, whose matchless form sustain'd
The loveliest face where all the graces reign'd,
Whose charms so long the gallant prince enflamed,
That her pale corse was Lisbon's queen proclaimed,
That snowy neck was stained with spouting gore,
Another sword her lovely bosom tore.
The flowers that glisten'd with her tears bedew'd,
Now shrunk and languish'd with her blood imbrew'd.
As when a rose, erewhile of bloom so gay,
Thrown from the careless virgin's breast away,
Lies faded on the plain, the living red,
The snowy white, and all its fragrance fled;
So from her cheeks the roses dy'd away,
And pale in death the beauteous Inez lay:
With dreadful smiles, and crimson'd with her blood,
Round the wan victim the stern murderers stood,
Unmindful of the sure, though future hour,
Sacred to vengeance and her lover's power.

O sun, couldst thou so foul a crime behold,
Nor veil thine head in darkness, as of old
A sudden night unwonted horror cast
O'er that dire banquet, where the sire's repast
The son's torn limbs supplied!—Yet you, ye vales!
Ye distant forests, and ye flowery dales!

When pale and sinking to the dreadful fall,
You heard her quivering lips on Pedro call;
Your faithful echoes caught the parting sound,
And Pedro! Pedro! mournful, sigh'd around.
Nor less the wood-nymphs of Mondego's groves
Bewail'd the memory of her hapless loves:
Her griefs they wept, and, to a plaintive rill
Transform'd their tears, which weeps and murmurs still.
To give immortal pity to her woe
They taught the riv'let through her bowers to flow,
And still, through violet beds, the fountain pours
Its plaintive wailing, and is named Amours.
Nor long her blood for vengeance cry'd in vain:
Her gallant lord begins his awful reign,
In vain her murderers for refuge fly,
Spain's wildest hills no place of rest supply.
The injured lover's and the monarch's ire,
And stern-brow'd justice in their doom conspire:
In hissing flames they die, and yield their souls in fire.

Nor this alone his stedfast soul display'd:
Wide o'er the land he waved the awful blade

Of red-arm'd justice. From the shades of night
He dragg'd the foul adulterer to light:
The robber from his dark retreat was led,
And he, who spilt the blood of murder, bled.
Unmoved he heard the proudest noble plead;
Where justice aim'd her sword, with stubborn speed
Fell the dire stroke. Nor cruelty inspired,
Noblest humanity his bosom fired.
The caitiff, starting at his thoughts, represt
The seeds of murder springing in his breast.
His outstretch'd arm the lurking thief withheld,
For fixt as fate he knew his doom was seal'd.
Safe in his monarch's care the ploughman reapt,
And proud oppression coward distance kept.
Pedro the Just the peopled towns proclaim,
And every field resounds her monarch's name.

Of this brave prince the soft degenerate son,
Fernando the remiss, ascends the throne.
With arm unnerved the listless soldier lay
And own'd the influence of a nerveless sway:
The stern Castilian drew the vengeful brand,
And strode proud victor o'er the trembling land.
How dread the hour, when injur'd heaven in rage,
Thunders its vengeance on a guilty age!
Unmanly sloth the king, the nation stain'd;
And lewdness, foster'd by the monarch, reign'd:

The monarch own'd that first of crimes unjust,
The wanton revels of adulterous lust:
Such was his rage for beauteous Leonore,
Her from her husband's widow'd arms he tore:
Then with unblest, unhallowed nuptials stained
The sacred altar, and its rites profaned.
Alas! the splendor of a crown how vain,
From heaven's dread eye to veil the dimmest stain!
To conquering Greece, to ruin'd Troy, what woes,
What ills on ills, from Helen's rape arose!
Let Appius own, let banish'd Tarquin tell
On their hot rage what heavy vengeance fell.
One female ravish'd Gibeah's streets beheld,
O'er Gibeah's streets the blood of thousands swell'd
In vengeance of the crime; and streams of blood
The guilt of Zion's sacred bard pursued.

Yet love full oft with wild delirium blinds,
And fans his basest fires in noblest minds:
The female garb the great Alcides wore,
And for his Omphale the distaff bore.
For Cleopatra's frown the world was lost:
The Roman terror, and the Punic boast,
Cannæ's great victor, for a harlot's smile,
Resign'd the harvest of his glorious toil.
And who can boast he never felt the fires,
The trembling throbbings of the young desires,
When he beheld the breathing roses glow,
And the soft heavings of the living snow;
The waving ringlets of the auburn hair,
And all the rapturous graces of the fair!
Oh! what defence, if fixt on him, he spy
The languid sweetness of the stedfast eye!
Ye who have felt the dear luxurious smart,
When angel-charms oppress the powerless heart,
In pity here relent the brow severe,
And o'er Fernando's weakness drop the tear.

END OF THE THIRD BOOK.

Footnotes

1. ——so smoak'd with gore, when Marius' fainting legions——When the soldiers of Marius complained of thirst, he pointed to a river near the camp of the Ambrones; there, says he, you may drink, but it must be purchased with blood. Lead us on, they replied, that we may have something liquid, though it be blood. The Romans forcing their way to the river, the channel was filled with the dead bodies of the slain. Vid. Plut.
2. ——a damsel's fate severe——This unfortunate lady, Donna Inez de Castro, was the daughter of a Castilian gentleman, who had taken refuge in the court of Portugal. Her beauty and accomplishments attracted the regard of Don Pedro, the king's eldest son, a prince of a brave and noble disposition. La Neufville, Le Clede, and other historians, assert, that she was privately married to the prince, ere she had any share in his bed. Nor was his conjugal fidelity less remarkable than the ardour of his passion. Afraid, however, of his father's resentment, the severity of whose temper he well knew, his intercourse with Donna Inez, passed at the court as an intrigue of gallantry. On the accession of Don Pedro the Cruel, to the throne of Castile, many of the disgusted nobility were kindly received by Don Pedro, through the interest of his beloved Inez. The favour shown to these Castilians, gave great uneasiness to the politicians. A thousand evils were foreseen from the prince's attachment to his Castilian mistress: even the murder of his children by his deceased spouse, the princess Constantia, was surmised; and the enemies of Donna Inez, finding the king willing to listen, omitted no opportunity to increase his resentment against the unfortunate lady. The prince was about his twenty-eighth year when his amour with his beloved Inez commenced.
3. 
   

   Ad calum tendens ardentia lumina frustra,
   Lumina, nam teneras arcebant vincula palmas.   Virg. Æn. ii.

   
   
4. Whose sole offence in fond affection lay.—It has been observed by some critics, that Milton on every occasion is fond of expressing his admiration of music, particularly of the song of the nightingale, and the full woodland choir. If in the same manner we are to judge of the favourite taste of Homer, we shall find it of a less delicate kind. He is continually describing the feast, the huge chine, the savoury viands on the glowing coals, and the foaming bowl. The ruling passion of Camoëns is also strongly marked in his writings. One may venture to affirm, that there is no poem of equal length, which abounds with so many impassioned encomiums on the fair sex, and the power of their beauty, as the Lusiad. The genius of Camoëns seems never so pleased as when he is painting the variety of female charms; he feels all the magic of their allurements, and riots in his descriptions of the happiness and miseries attendant on the passion of love. As he wrote from his feelings, these parts of his works have been particularly honoured with the attention of the world. Tasso and Spenser have copied from his Island of Bliss, and three tragedies have been formed from this episode of the unhappy Inez. One in English, named Elvira; the other two are by M. de la Motte, a Frenchman, and Luis Velez de Guevara, a Spaniard. How these different writers have handled the same subject is not unworthy of the attention of the critic. The tragedy of M. de la Motte, from which Elvira is copied, is highly characteristic of the French drama. In the Lusiad, the beautiful victim expresses the strong emotions of genuine nature. She feels for what her lover will feel for her; the mother rises in her breast, she implores pity for her children; she feels the horrors of death, and would be glad to wander an exile with her babes, where her only solace would be the remembrance of her faithful passion. This, however, it appears, would not suit the taste of a Paris audience. On the French stage, the stern Roman heroes must be polite petit-maitres, and the tender Inez, a blustering amazon. Lee's Alexander cannot talk in a higher rant. She not only wishes to die herself, but desires that her children and her husband Don Pedro, may also be put to death.
   

   Hé bien, seigneur, suivez vos barbares maximes,
   On vous amene encor de nouvelles victimes,
   Immolez sans remords, et pour nous punir mieux,
   Ces gages d'un Hymen si coupable à vos yieux.
   Ils ignorent le sang, dont le ciel les a fit naitre,
   Par l'arrêt de leur mort faites les reconnaitre,
   Consommez votre ouvrage, et que les mêmes coups
   Rejoignent les enfans, et la femme, et l'epoux.

   The Spaniard, however, has followed nature and Camöens, and in point of poetical merit, his play is infinitely superior to that of the Frenchman. Don Pedro talks in the absence of his mistress with the beautiful simplicity of an Arcadian lover, and Inez implores the tyrant with the genuine tenderness of female affection and delicacy. The reader, who is acquainted with the Spanish tongue, will thank me for the following extracts:
   

   Ines.          A mis hijos me quitais?
               Rey Don Alonso, senor,
               Porque me quereis quitar
               La vida de tantas vezes?
               Advertid, senor mirad,
               Que el coraçon a pedaços
               Dividido me arancais.
   Rey.          Llevaldos, Alvar Gonçalez.
   Ines.         Hijos mios, donde vais?
              Donde vais sin vuestra madre?
               Falta en los hombres piedad?
               Adonde vais luzes mais?
               Como, que assi me dexais
               En el mayor desconsuelo
               En manos de la crueldad.
   Nino Alson. Consuelate madre mia,
               Y a Dios te puedas quedar,
               Que vamos con nuestro abuelo,
               Y no querrá hazernas mal.
   Ines.          Possible es, senor, Rey mio,
               Padre, que ansi me cerreis
               La puerta para el perdon?
                 *         *         *         *
               Aora, senor, aora,
               Aora es tiempo de monstrar
               El mucho poder que tiene
               Vuestra real Magestad.
                 *         *         *         *
               Como, senor? vos os vais
               Y a Alvar Gonçalez, y a Coello
               Inhumanos me entregais?
               Hijos, hijos de mi vida,
               Dexad me los abraçar;
               Alonso, mi vida hijo,
               Dionis, a mores, tornad,
               Tornad a ver vuestra madre:
               Pedro mio, donde estas
               Que ansi te olvidas de mi?
               Possible es que en tanto mal
               Me falta tu vista, esposo?
               Quien te pudiera avisar
               Del peligro en que afligida
               Dona Ines tu esposa esta.

   The drama, from which these extracts are taken, is entitled, Reynar despues de morir. And as they are cited for the tenderness of the original expression, a translation of them is not attempted.