Book III

Oh now, Calliope, thy potent aid!What to the king th' illustrious GAMA saidClothe in immortal verse. With sacred fireMy 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 wand'ring thought to Daphne run:May never Clytia, nor Leucothoë's prideHenceforth 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 list'ning world shall knowThat Aganippe's streams from Tagus flow.Oh, let no more the flowers of Pindus shineOn 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 woo'd the illustrious chief's reply,And keen attention watch'd on every eye;When slowly turning with a modest grace,The noble VASCO rais'd his manly face;O mighty king (he cries), at thy commandThe martial story of my native landI tell; but more my doubtful heart had joy'dHad 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 fail a narrative so long,Yet, well assur'd 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 reignsAnd that where flaming heat 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 boundThe whirling Tanais parts from Asian ground,As tumbling from the Scythian mountains coldTheir crooked way the rapid waters holdTo dull Mæotis' lake. Her eastern lineMore to the south, the Phrygian waves confine:Those waves, which, black with many a navy, boreThe 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 length'ning 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 num'rous 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 Ausonia 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 DaneHoist the white sail and plough the foamy way,Cheer'd by whole months of one continual day:Between these shores and Tanais' rushing tideLivonia's sons and Russia's hordes reside.Stern as their clime the tribes, whose sires of yoreThe name, far dreaded, of Sarmatians bore.Where, fam'd of old, th' Hercynian forest lower'd,Oft seen in arms the Polish troops are pour'dWide foraging the downs. The Saxon race,The Hungar dext'rous in the wild-boar chase,The various nations whom the Rhine's cold waveThe 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 tideWhere 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 shoneIn all the arts, in all the Muses' 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 neighb'ring ground;And where Antenor anchor'd in the soundProud 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 shows;Around her sides his arms old ocean throws;The dashing waves the ramparts aid supply;The hoary Alps high tow'ring 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 mournsTo Heaven more grateful than the pride of war,And all the triumphs of the victor's car.Onward fair Gallia opens to the viewHer 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 glist'ning to the moon!Rolls his white wave, and here the cold Garoon;Here the deep Rhine the flow'ry margin laves,And here the rapid Rhone impervious raves.Here the gruff mountains, faithless to the vowsOf 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 trainOf 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 boilFam'd for the godlike Theban's latest toil,Against one coast the Punic strand extends,Around 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 rear'dIn conquer'd Naples; and for art rever'd,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 plainBy 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 loved 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 quellThe Moorish tyrants, and from Spain expel;Nor could their burning wilds conceal their flight,Their burning wilds confess'd 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 treach'rous 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 rais'd her drooping head,And o'er the wond'ring world her conquests spread.Thus rose her power: the lands of lordly SpainWere 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 crestAnd shatter'd mail his awful force confess'd.From Calpe's summits to the Caspian shoreLoud-tongued renown his godlike actions bore.And many a chief from distant regions cameTo share the laurels of Alonzo's fame;Yet, more for holy Faith's unspotted causeTheir spears they wielded, than for Fame's applause.Great were the deeds their thund'ring arms display'd,And still their foremost swords the battle sway'd.And now to honour with distinguish'd meedEach hero's worth the gen'rous king decreed.The first and bravest of the foreign bandsHungaria'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 dowerWhate'er his sword might rescue from the Moor;And soon on Hagar's race the hero poursHis warlike fury--soon the vanquish'd MoorsTo him far round the neighb'ring 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,Deliver'd Judah Henry's might confess'dOn Jordan's bank the victor-hero strode,Whose hallow'd waters bath'd 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 oppos'd,By Tagus' stream his honour'd age he clos'd;Yet still his dauntless worth, his virtue lived,And all the father in the son survived.And soon his worth was prov'd, the parent dameAvow'd 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 lac'd helmet grasps his beardless chin.Her fiercest firebrands Civil Discord wav'd,Before her troops the lustful mother rav'd;Lost to maternal love, and lost to shame,Unaw'd 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 profan'd.

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 knifeThat 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 chainsHis rage the parent's agèd limbs constrains.Heaven frown'd--Dark vengeance lowering on his brows,And sheath'd in brass, the proud Castilian rose,Resolv'd the rigour to his daughter shownThe 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 headBy 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 num'rous 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, distress'd 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 Castile the suppliant noble bows,And faithful homage for his prince he vows.The proud Castile accepts his honour'd faith,And peace succeeds the dreadful scenes of death.Yet well, alas, the generous Egas knewHis 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 gen'rous 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 subdu'd,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 restor'd.

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 rageThat dar'd 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 armèd 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 yearsBeside 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 greyThe 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 inflam'd,"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 show."

The Lusian host, enraptur'd, mark'd the signThat 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:Fir'd at the sound, with fiercer ardour glowsThe Heaven-made monarch; on the wareless foesRushing, he speeds his ardent bands along:So, when the chase excites the rustic throng,Rous'd 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 groundHis 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 sidesHangs 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 prizeWith hollow thund'ring 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 blazeFrom 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 rockStands the bold Lusian firm; the purple woundsGush horrible; deep, groaning rage resounds;Reeking behind the Moorish backs appearThe shining point of many a Lusian spear;The mailcoats, hauberks, and the harness steel'd,Bruis'd, hack'd, 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 stagg'ring, grapple with the stagg'ring 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.Defil'd 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 sov'reign on the battle groundThree days encamp'd, 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 heav'nly sign,The pledge of conquest by the aid divine.

Nor long his falchion in the scabbard slept,His warlike arm increasing laurels reap'd:From Leyra's walls the baffled Ismar flies,And strong Arroncha falls his conquer'd prize;That hononr'd town, through whose Elysian grovesThy smooth and limpid wave, O Tagus, roves.Th' illustrious Santarene confess'd his power,And vanquish'd Mafra yields her proudest tower.The Lunar mountains saw his troops displayTheir marching banners and their brave array:To him submits fair Cintra's cold domain,The soothing refuge of the Naiad 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 Lisbon, whose embattled wallRose 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 boreFrom Elbe, from Rhine, and Albion's misty shore;To rescue Salem's long-polluted shrineTheir 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 prideFalls thund'ring,--black the smoking breach yawns wide.As, when th' imprison'd waters burst the mounds,And roar, wide sweeping, o'er the cultur'd 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 towersDefied of old the banded Gothic powers,Whose harden'd nerves in rig'rous climates train'dThe 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' shoreThe name Vandalia from the Vandals bore.

When Lisbon'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 murm'ring riv'lets 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 valesNot for himself the Moorish peasant sows;For Lusian hands the yellow harvest glows:And you, fair lawns, beyond the Tagus' wave,Your golden burdens for Alonzo save;Soon shall his thund'ring might your wealth reclaim,And your glad valleys hail their monarch's name.

Nor sleep his captains while the sov'reign wars;The brave Giraldo's sword in conquest shares,Evora's frowning walls, the castled holdOf that proud Roman chief, and rebel bold,Sertorious dread, whose labours still remain;Two hundred arches, stretch'd in length, sustainThe marble duct, where, glist'ning 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 fateThat gives to human life so short a date.Proud Beja's castled walls his fury storms,And one red slaughter every lane deforms.The ghosts, whose mangled limbs, yet scarcely cold,Heap'd, sad Trancoso's streets in carnage roll'd,Appeas'd, 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 confess'd his happy star,Their fated doom produc'd a nobler war.Badaja's king, a haughty Moor, beheldHis towns besieg'd, 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 betrayThe madd'ning 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 eyeBehold 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 affrightOf 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 wag'd the conqu'ring 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 beheldThose walls subdued, which saw his troops expell'd;Enrag'd he saw them own the victor's sway,And hems them round with battailous array.With gen'rous ire the brave Alonzo glows;By Heaven unguarded, on the num'rous foesHe 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 trodThe raging steed, and headlong as he rodeDash'd the fierce monarch on a rampire bar--Low grovelling in the dust, the pride of war,The great Alonzo lies. The captive's fateSucceeds, 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 prideWhere northern Phasis rolls his icy tide;Though hot Syene, where the sun's fierce rayBegets no shadow, own'd thy conqu'ring sway;Though from the tribes that shiver in the gleamOf cold Boötes' wat'ry glist'ning 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 implor'dThe One true God, and, as he taught, ador'd;Though Cappadocia's realm thy mandate sway'd,And base Sophenia's sons thy nod obey'd;Though vex'd Cilicia's pirates wore thy bands,And those who cultur'd fair Armenia's lands,Where from the sacred mount two rivers flow,And what was Eden to the pilgrim show;Though from the vast Atlantic's bounding waveTo where the northern tempests howl and raveRound Taurus' lofty brows: though vast and wideThe various climes that bended to thy pride;No more with pining anguish of regretBewail the horrors of Pharsalia's fate:For great Alonzo, whose superior nameUnequall'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 aton'd, confess'd that Heaven was just,Again in splendour he the throne ascends:Again his bow the Moorish chieftain bends.Wide round th' embattl'd gates of SantareenTheir 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 Lisbon's walls he brought with votive care.And now the monarch, old and feeble grown,Resigns the falchion to his valiant son.O'er Tagus' waves the youthful hero pass'd,And bleeding hosts before him shrunk aghast.Chok'd with the slain, with Moorish carnage dy'd,Sevilia's river roll'd the purple tide.Burning for victory, the warlike boySpares not a day to thoughtless rest or joy.Nor long his wish unsatisfied remains:With the besiegers' gore he dyes the plainsThat circle Beja's wall: yet still untam'd,With all the fierceness of despair inflam'd,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 Tagus' shoresFar 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 plund'ring bands far round the region haste,The mournful region lies a naked waste.And now, enclos'd in Santareen's high towers,The brave Don Sancho 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 smould'ring 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 inflam'd, 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 meadsThe branching river of Mondego spreads,Long worn with warlike toils, and bent with years,The king reposed, when Sancho's fate he hears.His limbs forget the feeble steps of age,And the hoar warrior burns with youthful rage.His daring vet'rans, 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 welt'ring 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 woeful 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 wond'ring 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 Sancho to the throne succeeds,Already far renown'd for val'rous deeds;Let Betis', ting'd 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 cultur'd, and her valleys sow'd;But Lisbon's monarch reap'd. The winds of heavenRoar'd high--and headlong by the tempest driven,In Tagus' breast a gallant navy soughtThe shelt'ring port, and glad assistance brought.The warlike crew, by Frederic the Red,To rescue Judah's prostrate land were led;When Guido's troops, by burning thirst subdu'd,To Saladin, the foe, for mercy su'd.Their vows were holy, and the cause the same,To blot from Europe's shores the Moorish name.In Sancho's cause the gallant navy joins,And royal Sylves to their force resigns.Thus, sent by Heaven, a foreign naval bandGave Lisbon's ramparts to the sire's command.

Nor Moorish trophies did alone adornThe hero's name; in warlike camps though born,Though fenc'd with mountains, Leon's martial race.Smile at the battle-sign, yet foul disgraceTo Leon's haughty sons his sword achiev'd:Proud Tui's neck his servile yoke receiv'd;And, far around, falls many a wealthy town,O valiant Sancho, humbled to thy frown.

While thus his laurels flourish'd wide and fairHe dies: Alonzo reigns, his much-lov'd heir.Alcazar lately conquer'd from the Moor,Reconquer'd, streams with the defenders' gore.

Alonzo dead, another Sancho 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 thoseWhom to dispense that sacred power he chose.By various counsels waver'd, and confus'dBy seeming friends, by various arts, abus'd;Long undetermin'd, blindly rash at last,Enrag'd, unmann'd, untutor'd by the past.Yet, not like Nero, cruel and unjust,The slave capricious of unnatural lust.Nor had he smil'd had flames consum'd 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 prepar'd,As heap'd the board when Rome's proud tyrant far'd.Nor dar'd 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 echo'd, murmurs through the hills.Alarm'd, Bolonia's warlike Earl awakes,And from his listless brother's minions takesThe awful sceptre.--Soon was joy restor'd,And soon, by just succession, Lisbon's lordBeloved, Alonzo, nam'd the Bold, he reigns;Nor may the limits of his sire's domainsConfine his mounting spirit. When he ledHis smiling consort to the bridal bed,"Algarbia's realm," he said, "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 fireBespoke the genuine lineage of his sire.Now, heavenly peace wide wav'd her olive bough,Each vale display'd the labours of the plough,And smil'd with joy: the rocks on every shoreResound 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 flow'ry banks invite their stay.Now Coimbra shines Minerva's proud abode;And fir'd with joy, Parnassus' bloomy godBeholds another dear-lov'd Athens rise,And spread her laurels in indulgent skies;Her wreath of laurels, ever green, he twinesWith threads of gold, and baccaris adjoins.Here castle walls in warlike grandeur lower,Here cities swell, and lofty temples tower:In wealth and grandeur each with other vies:When old and lov'd 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 warHe views the stern Castile with watchful care.Yet, when the Libyan nations cross'd 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 givenThat fearful name, "the Scourge of angry Heaven,"The fields of trembling Italy o'erranWith 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 num'rous host,To those who dar'd the seas from Libya's coast.Aw'd by the fury of such pond'rous forceThe proud Castilian tries each hop'd resource;Yet, not by terror for himself inspir'd,For Spain he trembl'd, and for Spain was fir'd.His much-lov'd bride, his messenger, he sends,And, to the hostile Lusian lowly bends.The much-lov'd daughter of the king implor'd,Now sues her father for her wedded lord.The beauteous dame approach'd the palace gate,Where her great sire was thron'd in regal state:On her fair face deep-settled grief appears,And her mild eyes are bath'd in glist'ning tears;Her careless ringlets, as a mourner's, flowAdown 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 cried,"That furious Afric pours her peopled tide--Her barb'rous nations, o'er the fields of Spain?Morocco's lord commands the dreadful train.Ne'er since the surges bath'd 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 opposeTo the barb'd darts of Spain's innum'rous foes:Then haste, O monarch, thou whose conqu'ring spearHas 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 fateBe fix'd, 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'dTo grant her wand'ring son the promis'd aid.Great Jove was mov'd to hear the fair deplore,Gave all she ask'd, and griev'd she ask'd no more.So griev'd Alonzo's noble heart. And nowThe warrior binds in steel his awful brow;The glitt'ring squadrons march in proud array,On burnish'd shields the trembling sunbeams 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 admir'd,And his keen eyes new warmth, new force inspir'd.Proudly he march'd, and now, in Tarif's plainThe two Alonzos join their martial train:Right to the foe, in battle-rank updrawn,They pause--the mountain and the wide-spread lawnAfford not foot-room for the crowded foe:Aw'd with the horrors of the lifted blowPale look'd our bravest heroes. Swell'd with pride, }The foes already conquer'd Spain divide, }And, lordly o'er the field the promis'd victors stride. }So, strode in Elah's vale the tow'ring heightOf Gath's proud champion; so, with pale affright,The Hebrews trembled, while with impious prideThe huge-limb'd foe the shepherd boy defied: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 bar'dThe shining blade, and proud Morocco dar'dHis conqu'ring 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 blowsA 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 thund'ring hero flies;And his bold arm the brave Castilian joinsIn dreadful conflict with the Moorish lines.

The parting sun now pour'd the ruddy blaze,And twinkling Vesper shot his silv'ry raysAthwart the gloom, and clos'd the glorious day,When, low in dust, the strength of Afric lay.Such dreadful slaughter of the boastful MoorNever on battle-field was heap'd before;Not he whose childhood vow'd eternal hateAnd desp'rate war against the Roman state:Though three strong coursers bent beneath the weightOf 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 plainWith such wide streams of gore, and hills of slain;Nor thine, O Titus, swept from Salem's landSuch floods of ghosts, rolled down to death's dark strand;Though, ages ere she fell, the prophets oldThe dreadful scene of Salem's fall foretold,In words that breathe wild horror: nor the shore,When carnage chok'd the stream, so smok'd with gore,When Marius' fainting legions drank the flood,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 Lisbon's shores the happy chief return'd,In glorious peace and well-deserv'd repose,His course of fame, and honour'd age to close.When now, O king, a damsel's fate severe,A fate which ever claims the woeful tear,Disgraced his honours----On the nymph's 'lorn headRelentless 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 controlThe hind's rude heart, and tear the hero's soul;Thou, ruthless power, with bloodshed never cloy'd,'Twas thou thy lovely votary destroy'd.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 wak'd thy boding fears,The conscious stream receiv'd thy pearly tears;And now, as hope reviv'd the brighter flame,Each echo sigh'd thy princely lover's name.Nor less could absence from thy prince removeThe 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 damesRefus'd, dread rage the father's breast inflames;He, with an old man's wintry eye, surveysThe youth's fond love, and coldly with it weighsThe people's murmurs of his son's delayTo 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 sireResolves 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 possess'd!

Dragg'd from her bower, by murd'rous ruffian hands,Before the frowning king fair Inez stands;Her tears of artless innocence, her airSo mild, so lovely, and her face so fair,Mov'd the stern monarch; when, with eager zeal,Her fierce destroyers urg'd the public weal;Dread rage again the tyrant's soul possess'd,And his dark brow his cruel thoughts confess'd;O'er her fair face a sudden paleness spread,Her throbbing heart with gen'rous 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 (for her hands were bound);Then, on her infants turn'd the piteous glance,The look of bleeding woe; the babes advance,Smiling in innocence of infant age,Unaw'd, unconscious of their grandsire's rage;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(Inspir'd by nature with the lust of blood),Have yet been mov'd 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 denyThat 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 couldst not, then, a helpless damsel slay,Whose sole offence in fond affection lay,In faith to him who first his love confess'd,Who first to love allur'd 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 flowsFrom 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 barb'rous clime:Give me to wander o'er the burning plainsOf Libya's deserts, or the wild domainsOf 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 lion's roaring, and the tiger's yell,There, with mine infant race, consign'd to dwell,There let me try that piety to find,In vain by me implor'd 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 rearThese 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 snowTouch'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 urg'd her speedy doom;Again, dark rage diffus'd its horrid gloomO'er stern Alonzo's brow: swift at the sign,Their swords, unsheath'd, 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,Fulfilled 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 murd'ring steel:That snowy neck, whose matchless form sustain'dThe loveliest face where all the graces reign'd,Whose charms so long the gallant prince enflam'd,That her pale corse was Lisbon's queen proclaim'd,That snowy neck was stain'd 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 embru'd.As when a rose, ere-while 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 died away,And pale in death the beauteous Inez lay:With dreadful smiles, and crimson'd with her blood,Round the wan victim the stern murd'rers 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 oldA sudden night unwonted horror castO'er that dire banquet, where the sire's repastThe son's torn limbs supplied!--Yet you, ye vales!Ye distant forests, and ye flow'ry dales!When pale and sinking to the dreadful fall,You heard her quiv'ring 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 grovesBewail'd the memory of her hapless loves:Her griefs they wept, and, to a plaintive rillTransform'd their tears, which weeps and murmurs still.To give immortal pity to her woeThey taught the riv'let through her bowers to flow,And still, through violet-beds, the fountain poursIts plaintive wailing, and is named Amours.Nor long her blood for vengeance cried in vain:Her gallant lord begins his awful reign,In vain her murd'rers for refuge fly,Spain's wildest hills no place of rest supply.The injur'd 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 wav'd the awful bladeOf red-arm'd Justice. From the shades of nightHe dragg'd the foul adulterer to light:The robber from his dark retreat was led,And he who spilt the blood of murder, bled.Unmov'd he heard the proudest noble plead;Where Justice aim'd her sword, with stubborn speedFell the dire stroke. Nor cruelty inspir'd,Noblest humanity his bosom fir'd.The caitiff, starting at his thoughts, repress'dThe seeds of murder springing in his breast.His outstretch'd arm the lurking thief withheld,For fix'd as fate he knew his doom was seal'd.Safe in his monarch's care the ploughman reap'd,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 degen'rate son,Fernando the Remiss, ascends the throne.With arm unnerv'd the listless soldier layAnd 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 adult'rous lust:Such was his rage for beauteous Leonore,Her from her husband's widow'd arms he tore:Then with unbless'd, unhallow'd nuptials stain'dThe sacred altar, and its rites profan'd.Alas! the splendour of a crown, how vain,From Heaven's dread eye to veil the dimmest stain!To conqu'ring Greece, to ruin'd Troy, what woes,What ills on ills, from Helen's rape arose!Let Appius own, let banish'd Tarquin tellOn 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'dIn vengeance of the crime; and streams of bloodThe 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 rapt'rous graces of the fair!Oh! what defence, if fix'd on him, he spyThe 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.