Translated from the Spanish of Herrera

A voice of woe, a murmur of lament,A spirit of deep fear and mingled ire;Let such record the day, the day of wailFor Lusitania’s bitter chastening sent!She who hath seen her power, her fame expire,And mourns them in the dust, discrown’d and pale.And let the awful taleWith grief and horror every realm o’ershade,From Afric’s burning mainTo the far sea, in other hues array’d,And the red limits of the Orient’s reign,Whose nations, haughty though subdued, beholdChrist’s glorious banner to the winds unfold.

Alas! for those that in embattled power,And vain array of chariots and of horse,O desert Libya! sought thy fatal coast!And trusting not in Him, the eternal sourceOf might and glory, but in earthly force,Making the strength of multitudes their boast,A flush’d and crested host,Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trodeTheir path of pride, as o’er a conquer’d landGiven for the spoil; nor raised their eyes to God:And Israel’s Holy One withdrew his hand,Their sole support;--and heavily and proneThey fell--the car, the steed, the rider, all o’erthrown!

It came, the hour of wrath, the hour of woe,Which to deep solitude and tears consign’dThe peopled realm, the realm of joy and mirth.A gloom was on the heavens, no mantling glowAnnounced the morn--it seem’d as nature pined,And boding clouds obscured the sunbeam’s birth;While, startling the pale earth,Bursting upon the mighty and the proudWith visitation dread,Their crests the Eternal, in his anger, bow’d,And raised barbarian nations o’er their head,The inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold,But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncontroll’d.

Then was the sword let loose, the flaming swordOf the strong infidel’s ignoble hand,Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the crownOf thy fair knighthood; and the insatiate horde,Not with thy life content, O ruin’d land!Sad Lusitania! even thy bright renownDefaced and trampled down;And scatter’d, rushing as a torrent-flood,Thy pomp of arms and banners;--till the sandsBecame a lake of blood--thy noblest blood!--The plain a mountain of thy slaughter’d bands.Strength on thy foes, resistless might was shed;On thy devoted sons--amaze, and shame, and dread.

Are these the conquerors, these the lords of fight,The warrior men, the invincible, the famed,Who shook the earth with terror and dismay,Whose spoils were empires?--They that in their mightThe haughty strength of savage nations tamed,And gave the spacious Orient realms of dayTo desolation’s sway,Making the cities of imperial nameE’en as the desert-place?Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flameThus has their glory closed its dazzling raceIn one brief hour? Is this their valour’s doom,On distant shores to fall, and find not even a tomb?

Once were they, in their splendour and their pride,As an imperial cedar on the browOf the great Lebanon! It rose, array’dIn its rich pomp of foliage, and of wideMajestic branches, leaving far belowAll children of the forest. To its shadeThe waters tribute paid,Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter thereWhose flight is of the loftiest through the sky,And the wild mountain-creatures made their lairBeneath; and nations by its canopyWere shadow’d o’er. Supreme it stood, and ne’erHad earth beheld a tree so excellently fair.

But all elated, on its verdant stem,Confiding solely in its regal height,It soar’d presumptuous, as for empire born;And God for this removed its diadem,And cast it from its regions of delight,Forth to the spoiler, as a prey and scorn,By the deep roots uptorn!And lo! encumbering the lone hills it lay,Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state;While, pale with fear, men hurried far away,Who in its ample shade had found so lateTheir bower of rest; and nature’s savage raceMidst the great ruin sought their dwelling-place.

But thou, base Libya! thou whose arid sandHath been a kingdom’s deathbed, where one fateClosed her bright life and her majestic fame,--Though to thy feeble and barbarian handHath fall’n the victory, be not thou elate!Boast not thyself, though thine that day of shame,Unworthy of a name!Know, if the Spaniard in his wrath advance,Aroused to vengeance by a nation’s cry,Pierced by his searching lance,Soon shalt thou expiate crime with agony,And thine affrighted streams to ocean’s floodAn ample tribute bear of Afric’s Paynim blood.