 | Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems by the late Thomas Russell |  |
36
ODE
Imitated from ODA DEL MAESTRO FR. LUIS DE LEON.
I
While on bright Tago's banks reclin'd,And all to Love's soft joys resign'd,
Rodrigo panted on fair Caba's breast,
Sudden, a Seer of future woes,
The River's awful God arose,
And thus with boding groans the fearless Chief addrest.
II
In vain, while horrours round thee rise,Thy arms enfold their ravish'd prize,
The prize so fatal to thy princely line:
Soon shall the Moor, so Fate has said,
Avenge the violated Maid,
And wrest Iberia's throne from Odin's race divine.
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III
In vain, with Gothic pride elate,To suit thy shadowy dream of state,
Corduba rears her gilded roof on high:
No Child of thine in years to come
Shall revel in the gorgeous dome:
It's alter'd Echoes now to barbarous tongues reply.
IV
On Calpe's rocks with threatening handI see the injur'd Father stand,
All-torn his beard, and rent his hoary hair:
See, now he points to Libya's coast,
Now hails aloud the turban'd host,
And waves his purple flag of vengeance in the air.
V
With oars, that sparkle to the Sun,Swift o'er the level waves they run,
Their broad sails whiten on the crouded main;
And now their clashing arms I hear,
The trumpet's clang invades my ear,
Loud neigh the fiery steeds, and paw the rattling plain.
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VI
With Ceuta's race, renown'd in fight,Fierce Barca's swarthy Sons unite;
Tunis her mooned ensigns wide displays;
With flaming scymetar and shield
Morocco's squadrons shake the field,
On Alla's name they call, and shout the Prophet's praise.
VII
O'er her rich meads with lifted lanceFair Betis sees their ranks advance,
Proud Seville hears, Granada shakes with dread,
Sad Douro listens to the roar,
Ill-fated Minho foams with gore,
And distant Ebro groans with mountains of the dead.
VIII
To arms, great Chief, to arms with speed!Let the sword rage, the battle bleed!
Ken'st thou not yet th' approaching storm from fat?
Bid, bid thy Knights their faulchions wave,
Nor thou be slow the day to save,
But like a Comet blaze in the dark van of war!
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IX
Yet ah! in vain: nor spear, nor spellThe ruthless Saracen can quell,
That crush'd stern Afric with his iron yoke:
He safely sheath'd in ribs of mail
Defies thy sharpest arrowy hail,
Laughs at the javelin's hiss, and mocks the sabre's stroke.
X
Five bloody Suns with headlong rageEach host an equal war shall wage,
Each see by turns his doubtful scale ascend;
The sixth shall view thy flight forlorn,
Thy shatter'd arms, thy banners torn,
While Spain's proud neck beneath the victor's heel shall bend.
| Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems by the late Thomas Russell | |