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PORTUGAL.
AN ODE.
England weeps for thee, Portugal!
O thou wert once the loveliest land
Of southern Europe's blooming band,
Most beautiful of all!
And many an eye thy beauty can recal;
Thy silver shore, thy golden river,
Thy citron groves where sun-beams quiver,
On the dark leaves and snowy flowers,
Fragrant as Araby's blest bowers,
When Evening breezes fall;
The vine-clad hill; the olive shade,
Where at the merry vintage feast,
Danc'd lightsome youth, and black-ey'd maid,
From pleasant toil releas'd;
Such scene will many a heart recal,
And weep thy ruin, Portugal.
O thou wert once the loveliest land
Of southern Europe's blooming band,
Most beautiful of all!
And many an eye thy beauty can recal;
Thy silver shore, thy golden river,
Thy citron groves where sun-beams quiver,
On the dark leaves and snowy flowers,
Fragrant as Araby's blest bowers,
When Evening breezes fall;
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Where at the merry vintage feast,
Danc'd lightsome youth, and black-ey'd maid,
From pleasant toil releas'd;
Such scene will many a heart recal,
And weep thy ruin, Portugal.
The sick man sought thy lovely shore,
When Art was foil'd and hope was o'er,
When in each gasping laboring breath,
Life seem'd to fly the victor Death;
Yet even then thy breeze could fling
Life, health, and healing, from his wing:
Oh! bid that healing gale dispense,
On thy sick sons, its influence;
Thou bidd'st in vain: the very air
Is heavy with thy soul's despair.
Thy teeming earth still reeks with blood;
Thy full-gorg'd ravens loathe their food;
And corses of th' unburied slain
Taint thy pure breeze, and load thy plain.
O wretched land! th' invading foe
Has laid thy smoking hamlets low;
'Tis terrible to hear the strife!
He came like the dread earthquake's shock,
Palace and Church, and Cot, to rock;
Or like the dire Volcano's flame,
The devastating ruin came,
And swept away thy life.
When Art was foil'd and hope was o'er,
When in each gasping laboring breath,
Life seem'd to fly the victor Death;
Yet even then thy breeze could fling
Life, health, and healing, from his wing:
Oh! bid that healing gale dispense,
On thy sick sons, its influence;
Thou bidd'st in vain: the very air
Is heavy with thy soul's despair.
Thy teeming earth still reeks with blood;
Thy full-gorg'd ravens loathe their food;
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Taint thy pure breeze, and load thy plain.
O wretched land! th' invading foe
Has laid thy smoking hamlets low;
'Tis terrible to hear the strife!
He came like the dread earthquake's shock,
Palace and Church, and Cot, to rock;
Or like the dire Volcano's flame,
The devastating ruin came,
And swept away thy life.
The roofless barns, the untill'd fields,
Mark the fell spoiler's way;
The fruitful vale no harvest yields,
Nor promise for a future day;
The villages, the soldier's prey,
In hopeless desolation frown;
And many a wide and populous town,
Seat of calm peace, of fair renown,—
Beneath their direful sway,
Unpeopled now and overthrown,
Breathes such a sad and dreary stillness,
Filling the awe-struck heart with chillness,
As if pale Pestilence, with brooding wing,
O'er the lone walls was hovering.
O see along the silent street,
Full many a corse is lying!
Such sight is horrible to meet,
'Tis worse to see the dying.
O not the red plague slew them here;
War, War, thou wert the murderer!
Mark the fell spoiler's way;
The fruitful vale no harvest yields,
Nor promise for a future day;
The villages, the soldier's prey,
In hopeless desolation frown;
And many a wide and populous town,
Seat of calm peace, of fair renown,—
Beneath their direful sway,
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Breathes such a sad and dreary stillness,
Filling the awe-struck heart with chillness,
As if pale Pestilence, with brooding wing,
O'er the lone walls was hovering.
O see along the silent street,
Full many a corse is lying!
Such sight is horrible to meet,
'Tis worse to see the dying.
O not the red plague slew them here;
War, War, thou wert the murderer!
The yawning wound, the mangled limb,
The death-fix'd face, with gashes grim;
The babe dash'd from its mother's arms,
The virgin's violated charms;
The graves torn wide for hidden gold,
The convent ruins scarcely cold;
Where still one sainted sister straying,
Her white hands cross'd upon her breast,
Poor sufferer! soon to be at rest,
For each departed soul is praying!—
Doth not each corse, each wound proclaim,
War, fiend-like War! the murderer's name?
The death-fix'd face, with gashes grim;
The babe dash'd from its mother's arms,
The virgin's violated charms;
The graves torn wide for hidden gold,
The convent ruins scarcely cold;
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Her white hands cross'd upon her breast,
Poor sufferer! soon to be at rest,
For each departed soul is praying!—
Doth not each corse, each wound proclaim,
War, fiend-like War! the murderer's name?
Th' invader flies!—and peace once more
May heal thy devastated shore:
But famine dwells on vale and hill;
The iron hoofs indent the plain;
No harvest blooms; all, all, is still,
Still as despair's cold sullen reign.
Oh bitter are the scalding tears that steal
From the fond dying mother's half-clos'd eyes,
Who stills with her last bit her infant's cries,
Nor knows if it may taste another meal!
May heal thy devastated shore:
But famine dwells on vale and hill;
The iron hoofs indent the plain;
No harvest blooms; all, all, is still,
Still as despair's cold sullen reign.
Oh bitter are the scalding tears that steal
From the fond dying mother's half-clos'd eyes,
Who stills with her last bit her infant's cries,
Nor knows if it may taste another meal!
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O dreadful are the husband's groans, who sees
His bride's fair form with hunger shrinking,
To the low tomb each moment sinking,
Yet smiling in her pangs, his grief to ease.
Still famine sits within thy gate,
And thou art sad and desolate,
Queen of the golden shore!
Can aught uprear thy fallen state,
Thy vanish'd bliss restore?
His bride's fair form with hunger shrinking,
To the low tomb each moment sinking,
Yet smiling in her pangs, his grief to ease.
Still famine sits within thy gate,
And thou art sad and desolate,
Queen of the golden shore!
Can aught uprear thy fallen state,
Thy vanish'd bliss restore?
Yes,—England: from the Gailic band,
'Twas English valor clear'd thy land!
And English bounty shall recal
Thy people to their ruin'd wall;
Shall bid the golden harvest wave,
The hungry feed, the dying save;
For England weeps thy woes, O Portugal!
'Twas English valor clear'd thy land!
And English bounty shall recal
Thy people to their ruin'd wall;
Shall bid the golden harvest wave,
The hungry feed, the dying save;
For England weeps thy woes, O Portugal!
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