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The Lusiad

or, the discovery of India. An Epic Poem. Translated from The Original Portuguese of Luis de Camohens [by W. J. Mickle]
  

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 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
BOOK III.
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 


85

BOOK III.

Oh now, Calliope, thy potent aid!
What to the King th' illustrious Gama said
Cloath 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 blooming God, to thee incline his heart;
From thee, the Mother of his darling Son,
May never wandering thought to Daphne run:

86

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:
Fired 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 wooe'd 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:

87

Yet though reluctance faulter on my tongue,
Though day would fail 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 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 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.

88

Wide to the north beneath the pole she spreads;
Here piles of mountains rear their rugged heads,
Here winds on winds in endless tempests rowl,
The valleys sigh, the lengthening ecchoes 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 controul'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.

89

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,
Chear'd by whole months of one continual day:
Between these shores and Tanais' 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' Hircinian 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 chace,
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:

90

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 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 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 force supply;
The hoary Alps high towering to the sky,
From shore to shore a rugged barrier spread,
And lour destruction on the hostile tread.
But now no more her hostile spirit burns,
There now the saint in humble vespers mourns;

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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 Seyn, how fair when glistening to the moon!
Rolls his white wave, and here the cold Garoon;
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.
Against one coast the Punic strand extends,
Each shore to close the midland ocean bends,

92

Where lock'd with land the struggling currents boil,
Famed for the godlike Theban's latest toil ,
Around her shores two various oceans swell,
And various nations in her bosom dwell;
Such deeds of valour dignify their names,
That each the lordly right of honour claims.
Proud Arragon, who twice her standard rear'd
In conquer'd Naples; and for art revered,
Galicia's prudent sons; the fierce Navar,
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;

93

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 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 atchiev'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;

94

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.

95

And now to honour with distinguish'd 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.

96

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 he 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
Avow'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)

97

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.

98

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 parents aged limbs constrains.
Heaven frown'd—Dark vengeance lowring 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 whizzing javelins sung,
The Hauberks rattled, and the bucklers rung.
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;

99

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 rites 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.

100

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 eccho 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,

101

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!

102

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 ecchoing 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 chace 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 trusts his potent horns,
Around and round the nimble mastiff turns;
Now by the neck, now by the gory sides
He hangs, 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 out, down falls the furious prize
With hollow thundering sound, and raging dies:

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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 cloaths with many a woeful cry,
And scatter'd devious to the mountains fly:
Such sudden dread the trembling Moors alarms,
And thus 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
The Lusian hero stands; the purple wounds
Gush horrible, deep groaning rage resounds;
Reeking behind the Moorish backs appear
The shining point of many a Lusian spear;

104

The mailcoats, 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 rowl; 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:

105

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

106

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,

107

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 Lisbon, whose embattled wall
Rose by the hand that wrought proud Ilion's fall;

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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 smoaking 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;

109

Each lane, each street resounds the conflict's roar,
And every threshold reeks with tepid gore.
Thus fell the City, whose unconquer'd towers
Defy'd 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 Lisbon's towers before the Lusian fell,
What fort, what rampart might his arms repell!
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:

110

And you, fair lawns, beyond the Tagus' 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,
Sertorius 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.
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.

111

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 noble 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 mad'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 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 ecchoes with the wild affright
Of flying squadrons, down their arms they throw,
And dash from rock to rock to shun the foe.

112

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 groveling 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;

113

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;

114

Though Cappadocia's realm thy mandate sway'd,
And base Sophenia's sons thy nod obey'd;
Though vext Cicilia's 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
Unequal'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 Santareen
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,

115

(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 faulchion to his valiant son.
O'er Tagus' 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 dies 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 Abeyla's shepherds join.
The great Miramolin on Tagus' shores
Far o'er the coast his banner'd thousands pours;

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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;

117

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 Sanco'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;
And pale disease soon 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;

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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 ecchoes 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 Lisbon's monarch reapt. The winds of heaven
Roar'd high—and headlong by the tempest driven,

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In Tagus' breast a gallant navy sought
The sheltering 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 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 Lisbon'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
To Leon's haughty sons his sword atchieved;
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.

120

Alcazar lately conquer'd from the Moor,
Reconquer'd, streams with the defenders' gore.
Alonzo dead, 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.

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But proud and high the Lusian spirit soar'd,
And ask'd a godlike hero for their Lord.
To none accustom'd but an hero's sway,
Great must he be whom that bold race obey.
Complaint, loud murmur'd, every city fills,
Complaint, loud murmur'd, vibrates 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

122

Confine his mounting spirit. When he led
His 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 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,
Not 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.

123

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 Casteel with watchful care.
Yet when the Lybian nations crost the main,
And spread their thousands o'er the fields of Spain,
The brave Alonzo drew his awful steel
And sprung to battel for the proud Casteel.
When Babel's haughty Empress bared 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'erran
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;

124

Granada's mongrels join their numerous host,
To those who dared the seas from Lybia'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 were 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.

125

Ne'er since the surges bathed the circling coast,
Beneath one standard march'd so dread an host:
Such the dire fierceness of their brutal rage,
Pale are our bravest youth as palsied age.
By night our father's 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 Casteel,
(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,

126

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 eccho far around;
Far on each side the clouds of dust arise,
The drum's rough rattling rowls 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 Alonzoes 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:
Awed with the horrors of the lifted blow

127

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 large-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' infernal 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 lances rattle and the splinters sing,
And the broad faulchions on the bucklers ring:
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;

128

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,
Sheer 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 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,

129

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, to the Stygian coast,
From blood-stain'd Salem sent so many a ghost;
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,
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-deserved repose,
His course of fame, and honoured age to close.
When now, O king, a Damsel's fate severe,
A fate which ever claims the woful tear,

130

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 controul
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 eccho sigh'd thy princely lover's name.
Nor less could absence from thy prince remove
The dear remembrance of his distant love:

131

Thy looks, thy smiles, still meet his ravish'd eyes,
And all thy beauteous charms before him rise:
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 wintery eye, surveys
The youth's fond love, and coldly with it weighs
The peoples' 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;

132

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, 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,
Unawed, 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 tygers, or the 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,

133

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,
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!

134

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:

135

Give me to wander o'er the burning plains
Of Libya's desarts, 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 tygers 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 woful, 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,

136

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 an 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:

137

That snowy neck, whose matchless form sustain'd
The loveliest face where all the Graces reign'd,
Whose charms so long the gallant Prince inflamed,
That her pale corse was Lisbon's queen proclamed,
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 imbrew'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 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!

138

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 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.

139

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.

140

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 toil'd,
And force and violence was far exiled.
Pedro the just the peopled towns proclaim,
And every field resounds her Monarch's name.

141

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 terrible the hour, when 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, unhallow'd nuptials stain'd
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!

142

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 smiles 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!

143

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.

To conclude the notes on this book, it may not be unnecessary to observe, that Camoens, in this Episode, has happily adhered to a principal rule of the Epopea. To paint the manners and characters of the age in which the action is placed, is as requisite in the Epic Poem, as it is to preserve the unity of the character of an Individual. That gallantry of bravery and romantic cast of the military adventures, which characterised the Spaniards and Portuguese during the Moorish wars, is happily supported by Camoens in its most just and striking colours. In history we find surprising victories obtained over the Infidels: In the Lusiad we find the heroes breathing that enthusiasm which led them to conquest, that enthusiasm of military honours so strongly expressed by Alonzo V. of Portugal, at the seige of Arzila. In storming the citadel, the Count de Marialva, a brave old officer, lost his life. The King leading his only son, the Prince Don Juan, to the body of the Count, while the blood yet streamed from his wounds; “Behold, he cried, that great man! May God grant you, my son, to imitate his virtues. May your honour, like his, be complete!”

END OF THE THIRD BOOK.
 

Calliope—the Muse of Epic Poesy, and mother of Orpheus. Daphne, daughter of the river Peneus, flying from Apollo, was turned into the laurel. Clytia was metamorphosed into the Sun-flower, and Leucothoe, who was buried alive by her Father for yielding to the solicitations of Apollo, was by her Lover changed into an Incense tree. The physical meaning of these fables is obvious.

The preface to the speech of Gama, and the description of Europe which follows, are happy imitations of the manner of Homer. When Camoens describes countries, or musters an army, it is after the example of the great models of antiquity: By adding some characteristical feature of the climate or people, he renders his narrative pleasing, picturesque, and poetical.

In the year 409 the city of Rome was sacked, and Italy laid desolate by Alaric, king of the Scandian and other northern tribes. In mentioning this circumstance Camoens has not fallen into the common error of little Poets, who on every occasion bewail the outrage which the Goths and Vandals did to the Arts and Sciences. A complaint founded on ignorance. The Southern nations of Europe were sunk into the most contemptible degeneracy. The Sciences, with every branch of manly literature, were almost unknown. For near two centuries no Poet of note had adorned the Roman Empire. Those arts only, the abuse of which have a certain and fatal tendency to enervate the mind, the arts of Music and Cookery, were passionately cultivated in all the refinements of effeminate abuse. The art of war was too laborious for their delicacy, and the generous warmth of heroism and patriotism was incompatible with their effeminacy. On these despicable Sybarites the North poured her brave and hardy sons, who, though ignorant of polite literature, were possessed of all the manly virtues of the Scythians in a high degree. Under their conquests Europe wore a new face, which however rude, was infinitely preferable to that which it had lately worn. And however Ignorance may talk of their barbarity, it is to them that England owes her constitution, which, as Montesquieu observes, they brought from the woods of Saxony. The spirit of gallantry and romantic attachment to the fair sex, which distinguished the Northern Heroes, will make their manners admired, while, considered in the same point, the polished ages of Greece and Rome excite our horror and detestation. To add no more, it is to the irruption of these brave barbarians that modern Europe owes those remains of the spirit of Liberty, and some other of the greatest advantages, which she may at present possess.

Sybaris, a city in Grecia Magna, whose inhabitants were so effeminate, that they ordered all the cocks to be killed, that they might not be disturbed by their early crowing.

She was daughter to Bebryx, a king of Spain, and concubine to Hercules. Having wandered one day from her lover she was destroyed by wild beasts, on one of the mountains which bear her name. Diodorus Siculus, and others, derive the name of the Pyrenians from πυρ fire. To support which etymology they relate, that by the negligence of some shepherds the antient forests on these mountains were set on fire, and burned with such vehemence, that the melted metals spouted out and ran down from the sides of the hills. The allusion to this old tradition is in the true spirit of Homer and Virgil. C.

Hercules, says the fable, to crown his labours, separated the two mountains Calpe and Abyla, the one now in Spain, the other in Africa, in order to open a canal for the benefit of commerce; on which the ocean rushed in, and formed the Mediterranean, the Egean, and Euxin seas.

The assassination of Viriatus. See the note on Book I. p. 13.

Don Alonzo, king of Spain, apprehensive of the superior number of the Moors, with whom he was at war, demanded assistance from Philip I. of France, and of the duke of Burgundy. According to the military spirit of the nobility of that age, no sooner was his desire known than numerous bodies of troops thronged to his standard. These, in the course of a few years, having shewn signal proofs of their courage, the king distinguished the leaders with different marks of his regard. To Henry, a younger son of the duke of Burgundy he gave his daughter Teresa in marriage, with the sovereignty of the countries to the south of Galicia, commissioning him to enlarge his boundaries by the expulsion of the infidels. Under the government of this great man, who reigned by the title of Count, his dominion was greatly enlarged, and became more rich and populous than before. The two provinces of Entro Minho e Douro, and Fra los Montes, were subdued, with that part of Beira which was held by the Moorish king of Lamego, whom he constrained to pay tribute. Many thousands of Christians, who had either lived in miserable subjection to the Moors, or in desolate independency in the mountains, took shelter under the protection of Count Henry. Great multitudes of the Moors also chose rather to submit and remain in their native country under a mild government, than be exposed to the severities and the continual feuds and seditions of their own governors. These advantages, added to the great fertility of the soil of Henry's dominions, will account for the numerous armies and the frequent wars of the first sovereigns of Portugal.

Camoens, in making the founder of the Portuguese monarchy a younger son of the king of Hungary, has followed the old chronologist Galvan. The Spanish and Portuguese historians differ widely in their accounts of the parentage of this gallant stranger. Some bring him from Constantinople, and others from the house of Lorrain. But the clearest and most probable account of him is in the chronicle of Fleury, wherein is preserved a fragment of French history, written by a Benedictine monk in the beginning of the twelfth century, and in the time of Count Henry. By this it appears, that he was a younger son of Henry the only son of Robert the first duke of Burgundy, who was a younger brother of Henry I of France. Fanshaw having an eye to this history, has taken the unwarrantable liberty to alter the fact as mentioned by his author.

Amongst these Henry, saith the history,
A younger son of France, and a brave prince,
Had Portugal in lot.—
And the same king did his own daughter tie
To him in wedlock, to infer from thence
His firmer love.

Nor are historians agreed on the birth of Donna Teresa, the spouse of Count Henry. Brandam, and other Portuguese historians, are at great pains to prove she was the legitimate daughter of Alonzo and the beautiful Ximena de Guzman. But it appears from the more authentic chronicle of Fleury, that Ximena was only his concubine. And it is evident from all the historians, that Donna Urraca, the heiress of her father's kingdom, was younger than her half-sister, the wife of Count Henry.

His expedition to the Holy Land is mentioned by some monkish writers, but from the other parts of his history it is highly improbable. Camoens however shews his judgment in adopting every traditionary circumstance that might give an air of solemnity to his poem.

Don Alonzo Enriquez, son of Count Henry, was only entered into his third year when his father died. His mother assumed the reins of government, and appointed Don Fernando Perez de Traba to be her minister. When the young prince was in his eighteenth year, some of the nobility, who either envied the power of Don Perez, or were really offended with the reports that were spread of his familiarity with the prince's mother, of his intention to marry her, and to exclude the lawful heir, easily persuaded the young Count to take arms, and assume the sovereignty. A battle ensued, in which the prince was victorious. Teresa it is said, retired into the castle of Legonaso, where she was taken prisoner by her son, who condemned her to perpetual imprisonment, and ordered chains to be put upon her legs. That Don Alonzo made war against his mother, vanquished her party, and that she died in prison about two years after, A. D. 1130, are certain. But the cause of the war, that his mother was married to, or intended to marry Don Perez, and that she was put in chains, are uncertain.

The Scylla here alluded to was, according to fable, the daughter of Nisus king of Megara, who had a purple lock, in which lay the fate of his kingdom. Minos of Crete made war against him, for whom Scylla conceived so violent a passion, that she cut off the fatal lock while her father slept. Minos on this was victorious, but rejected the love of the unnatural daughter, who in despair flung herself from a rock, and in the fall was changed into a lark.

The Universal Historians having related this story of Egas, add, “All this is very pleasant and entertaining, but we see no sufficient reason to affirm that there is one syllable of it true”

When Darius laid seige to Babylon, one of his Lords, named Zopyrus, having cut off his nose and ears, persuaded the enemy that he had received these indignities from the cruelty of his master. Being appointed to a chief command in Babylon, he betrayed the city to Darius. Vid. Justin.

The Spanish and Portuguese histories afford several instances of the Moorish Chiefs being attended in the field of battle by their mistresses, and of the romantic gallantry and Amazonian courage of these ladies.

Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, who, after having signalized her valour at the seige of Troy, was killed by Achilles.

Thermodon, a river of Scythia in the country of the Amazons.

Quales Threïciæ cum flumina Thermodontis
Pulsant, et pictis bellantur Amazones armis:
Seu circum Hippolyten, seu cum se Martia curru
Penthesilea refert: magnoque ululante tumultu
Fœminea exultant lunatis agmina peltis.

Virg. En. IX.

It may, perhaps, be agreeable to the Reader, to see the description of a Bull-fight, as managed by Homer.

As when a lion, rushing from his den,
Amidst the plain of some wide-water'd fen,
(Where num'rous oxen, as at ease they feed,
At large expatiate o'er the ranker mead;)
Leaps on the herds before the herdsman's eyes;
The trembling herdsman far to distance flies:
Some lordly bull (the rest dispers'd and fled)
He singles out, arrests, and lays him dead.
Thus from the rage of Jove-like Hector flew
All Greece in heaps; but one he seiz'd, and slew;
Mycenian Periphas. ------

Pope. Il. XV.

There is a passage in Xenophon, upon which perhaps Camoens had his eye. Επει δε εληξεν η μαχη, παρην ιδειν, την μεν γην αιματι πεφυρμενην, &c. “When the battle was over one might behold, through the whole extent of the field, the ground purpled with blood, the bodies of friends and enemies stretched over each other, the shields pierced, the spears broken, and the drawn swords, some scattered on the earth, some plunged in the bosoms of the slain, and some yet grasped in the hands of the dead soldiers.”

As it was necessary in the preface to give a character of the French translation of the Lusiad, some support of that character is necessary in the notes. To point out every instance of the unpoetical taste of Castera, were to give his paraphrase of every fine passage in Camoens. His management of this battle will give an idea of his manner, it is therefore transcribed. “Le Portugais heurte impetuesement les soldats d'Ismar, les renverse et leur ouvre le sein à coups de lance; on se rencontre, on se choque avec une fureur qui ébranleroit le sommet de montagnes. La terre tremble sous les pas des coursiers sougueux; l'impitoyable Erinnys voit des blessures enormes et de coups dignes d'elles: les guerriers de Lusus brisent, coupent, taillent, enfoncent plastrons, armures, boucliers, cuirasses et turbans; la Parque étend ses ailes affreuses sur les Mauritains, l'un expire en mordant la poussiere, l'autre implore le secours de son prophete; têtes jambes et bras volent et bondissent de toutes parts, l'œil n'apperçoit que visages couverts d'une paleur livide, que corps déchirés et qu'entrailles palpitantes.” Had Castera seriously intended to burlesque his Author he could scarcely have better succeeded. As translation cannot convey a perfect idea of an author's manner, it is therefore not attempted. The attack was with such fury that it shook the tops of the mountains: This bombast, and the wretched anticlimax ending with turbans, are not in the original; from which indeed the whole is extremely wide. Had he added any poetical image, any flower to the embroidery of his Author, the increase of the richness of the tissue would have rendered his work more pleasing. It was therefore his interest to do so. But it was not in the feelings of Castera to translate the Lusiad with the spirit of Camoens.

This memorable battle was fought in the plains of Ourique, in 1139. The engagement lasted six hours; the Moors were totally routed with incredible slaughter. On the field of battle Alonzo was proclaimed king of Portugal. The Portuguese writers have given many fabulous accounts of this victory. Some affirm, that the Moorish army amounted to 380,000, others, 480,000, and others swell it to 600,000, whereas Don Alonzo's did not exceed 13,000. Miracles must also be added. Alonzo, they tell us, being in great perplexity, sat down to comfort his mind by the perusal of the Holy Scriptures. Having read the story of Gideon, he sunk into a deep sleep, in which he saw a very old man in a remarkable dress come into his tent, and assure him of victory. His chamberlain coming in, waked him, and told him there was an old man very importunate to speak with him. Don Alonzo ordered him to be brought in, and no sooner saw him than he knew him to be the old man whom he had seen in his dream. This venerable person acquainted him, that he was a fisherman, and had led a life of penance for sixty years on an adjacent rock, where it had been revealed to him, that if the Count marched his army the next morning, as soon as he heard a certain bell ring, he should receive the strongest assurance of victory. Accordingly, at the ringing of the bell, the Count put his army in motion, and suddenly beheld in the eastern sky, the figure of the Cross, and Christ upon it, who promised him a complete victory, and commanded him to accept the title of King, if it was offered him by the army. The same writers add, that as a standing memorial of this miraculous event, Don Alonzo changed the arms which his father had given, of a cross azure in a field argent, for five escutcheons, each charged with five bezants, in memory of the wounds of Christ. Others assert, that he gave in a field argent five escutcheons azure, in the form of a Cross, each charged with five bezants argent, placed salterwise, with a point sable, in memory of five wounds he himself received, and of five Moorish kings slain in the battle. There is an old record, said to be written by Don Alonzo, in which the story of the vision is related upon his Majesty's oath. The Spanish Critics, however, have discovered many inconsistencies in it. They find the language intermixed with phrases not then in use: it bears the date of the year of our Lord, at a time when that æra had not been introduced into Spain; and John, Bishop of Coimbra, signs as a witness before John, Metrapolitan of Braja, which is contrary to ecclesiastical rule. These circumstances, however, are not mentioned to prove the falsehood of the vision, but to vindicate the character of Don Alonzo from any share in the oath which passes under his name. The truth is, the Portuguese were always unwilling to pay any homage to the King of Castile. They adorned the battle which gave birth to their Monarchy, with miracle, and the new Sovereignty with a command from heaven, circumstances extremely agreeable both to the military pride and the superstition of these times. The regal dignity and constitution of the Monarchy, however, were not settled till about six years after the battle of Ourique. For mankind, say the Universal Historians, were not then so ignorant and barbarous, as to suffer a change of government to be made without any farther ceremony, than a tumultuous huzza. An account of the coronation of the first king of Portugal, and the principles of liberty which then prevailed in that kingdom, are worthy of our attention. The arms of Don Alonzo having been attended with glorious success, in 1145 he called an assembly of the Prelates, Nobility, and Commons, at Lamego. When the assembly opened, he appeared, seated on the throne, but without any other marks of regal dignity. Laurence de Viegas then demanded of the assembly, whether, according to the election on the field of battle at Ourique, and the briefs of Pope Eugenius III. they chused to have Don Alonzo Enriquez for their king? To this they answered they were willing. He then demanded, if they desired the Monarchy should be elective or hereditary. They declared their intention to be, that the crown should descend to the heirs male of Alonzo. Laurence de Viegas then asked, “Is it your pleasure that he be invested with the ensigns of Royalty? He was answered in the affirmative, and the Archbishop of Braga placed the crown upon his head, the king having his sword drawn in his hand. As soon as crowned Alonzo thus addressed the assembly; “Blessed be God, who has always assisted me, and has enabled me, with this sword, to deliver you from all your enemies. I shall ever wear it for your defence. You have made me a king, and it is but just that you should share with me in taking care of the state. I am your king, and as such let us make laws to secure the happiness of this kingdom.” Eighteen short statutes were then framed and assented to by the people. Laurence de Viegas at length proposed the great question, Whether it was their pleasure that the king should go to Leon, do homage and pay tribute to that prince, or to any other. Upon which, every man drawing his sword, cried with a loud voice, “We are free, and our king is free; we owe our liberty to our courage. If the king shall at any time submit to such an act, he deserves death, and shall not reign either over us, or among us.” The king rising up, approved this declaration, and declared, that if any of his descendents consented to such a submission, he was unworthy to succeed, and should be reputed incapable of wearing the crown.

Fanshaw's translation of this is curious. He is literal in the circumstances, but the debasements marked in italic are his own:

In these five shields he paints the recompence

(Os trinta Dinheiros; the thirty Denarii, says Camoens.)

For which the Lord was sold, in various ink
Writing his history, who did dispense
Such favour to him, more then heart could think.

(Writing the remembrance of him, by whom he was favoured, in various colours. Camoens.)

In every of the five he paints five-pence
So sums the thirty by a cinque-fold cinque
Accounting that which is the center, twice,
Of the five cinques, which he doth place cross-wise.

The tradition, that Lisbon was built by Ulysses, and thence called Olyssipolis, is as common as, and of equal authority with that, which says, that Brute landed a colony of Trojans in England, and gave the name of Britannia to the island.

The conquest of Lisbon was of the utmost importance to the infant Monarchy. It is one of the finest ports in the world, and ere the invention of cannon, was of great strength. The old Moorish wall was flanked by seventy-seven towers, was about six miles in length, and fourteen in circumference. When beseiged by Don Alonzo, according to some, it was garrisoned by an army of 200,000 men. This, not to say impossible, is highly incredible. However, that it was strong and well garrisoned is certain, as also that Alonzo owed the conquest of it to a fleet of adventurers, who were going to the Holy Land, the greatest part of which were English. One Udal op Rhys, in his tour through Portugal, says, that Alonzo gave them Almada, on the side of the Tagus opposite to Lisbon, and that Villa Franca was peopled by them, which they called Cornualla, either in honour of their native country, or from the rich meadows in its neighbourhood, where immense herds of cattle are kept, as in the English Cornwall.

This assertion of Camoens is not without foundation, for it was by treachery that Herimeneric, the Goth, got possession of Lisbon.

The aqueduct of Sertorius, here mentioned, is one of the grandest remains of antiquity. It was repaired by John III. of Portugal, about A. D. 1540.

The history of this battle wants authenticity.

As already observed, there is no authentic proof that Don Alonzo used such severity to his mother as to put her in chains. Brandan says it was reported that Don Alonzo was born with both his legs growing together, and that he was cured by the prayers of his tutor Egas Nunio. Legendary as this may appear, this however is deduceable from it, that from his birth there was something amiss about his legs. When he was prisoner to his son in law Don Fernando king of Leon, he recovered his liberty ere his leg, which was fractured in the battle, was restored, on condition that as soon as he was able to mount on horseback, he should come to Leon, and in person do homage for his dominions. This condition, so contrary to his coronation agreement, he found means to avoid. He ever after affected to drive in a calash, and would never mount on horseback more. This his natural and afterwards political infirmity, the superstitious of those days ascribed to the curses of his mother.

Tu quoque littoribus nostris, Æneïa nutrix,
Æternam moriens famam, Caïeta dedisti.

Virg. En. VII.

Miramolin, not the name of a person, but a title, quasi, Soldan. The Arabs call it Emir-Almoumini, the Emperor of the Faithful.

In this poetical exclamation, expressive of the sorrow of Portugal on the death of Alonzo, Camoens has happily imitated some passages of Virgil.

------ Ipsæ te, Tityre, pinus,
Ipsi te fontes, ipsa hæc arbusta vocabant.
Ecl. I. ------ Eurydicen vox ipsa et frigida lingua,
Ah miseram Eurydicen, anima fugiente, vocabat:
Eurydicen toto referebant flumine ripæ.
G. IV. ------ littus, Hyla, Hyla, omne sonaret.
Ecl. VI

The Portuguese, in their wars with the Moors, were several times assisted by the English and German crusades. In the present instance the fleet was mostly English, the troops of which nation were, according to agreement, rewarded with the plunder, which was exceeding rich, of the city of Silves. Nuniz de Leon as cronicas das Reis de Port.

Sardinapalus.

Heliogabalus, infamous for his gluttony.

Alluding to the history of Phalaris.

Camoens, who was quite an enthusiast for the honour of his country, has in this instance disguised the truth of history. Don Sancho was by no means the weak Prince here represented, nor did the miseries of his reign proceed from himself. The clergy were the sole authors of his and the public calamities. The Roman See was then in the height of its power, which it exerted in the most tyrannical manner. The ecclesiastical courts had long claimed the sole right to try an ecclesiastic, and to prohibit a Priest to say mass for a twelvemonth, was by the brethren his judges, esteemed a sufficient punishment for murder, or any other capital crime. Alonzo II. the father of Don Sancho, attempted to establish the authority of the King's courts of justice over the offending Clergy. For this the Archbishop of Braga excommunicated Gonzalo Mendez, the Chancellor, and Honorius the Pope excommunicated the King, and put his dominions under an interdict. The exterior offices of Religion were suspended, the vulgar fell into the utmost dissoluteness of manners; Mahommedism made great advances, and public confusion every where prevailed. By this policy the Holy Church constrained the nobility to urge the King to a full submission to the Papal chair. While a negotiation for this purpose was on foot Alonzo died, and left his son to struggle with an enraged and powerful Clergy. Don Sancho was just, affable, brave, and an enamoured husband. On this last virtue faction first fixed its envenomed fangs. The Queen was accused of arbitrary influence over her husband, and, according to the superstition of that age, she was believed to have disturbed his senses by an enchanted draught. Such of the nobility as declared in the King's favour were stigmatized, and rendered odious, as the creatures of the Queen. The confusions which ensued were fomented by Alonzo, Earl of Bologne, the King's brother, by whom the King was accused as the author of them. In short, by the assistance of the Clergy and Pope Innocent IV. Sancho was deposed, and soon after he died at Toledo. The beautiful Queen, Donna Mencia, was seized upon, and conveyed away by one Raymond Portocarrero, and was never heard of more. Such are the triumphs of Faction!

The Baccaris, or Lady's glove, an herb to which the Druids and ancient Poets ascribed magical virtues.

------ Baccare frontem
Cingite, ne vati noceat mala lingua futuro.
Virg. Ecl. VII.

Attila, a king of the Huns, surnamed The Scourge of God. He lived in the fifth century. He may be reckoned among the greatest conquerors.

The Princess Mary. She was a Lady of great beauty and virtue, but was exceedingly ill used by her husband, who was violently attached to his mistresses, though he owed his crown to the assistance of his father-in-law, the king of Portugal.

Camoens says, “A mortos faz espanto,” to give this elegance in English required a paraphrase. There is something wildly great, and agreeable to the superstition of that age, to suppose that the dead were troubled in their graves, on the approach of so terrible an army. The French translator, contrary to the original, ascribes this terror to the ghost of only one Prince, by which this stroke of Camoens, in the spirit of Shakespeare, is reduced to a piece of unmeaning frippery.

See the first Æneid.

It may perhaps be objected, that this is ungrammatical. But

------ Usus
Quem penes arbitrium eft, et jus et norma loquendi.

and Dryden, Pope, &c. often use wove as a participle in place of the harsh sounding woven, a word almost incompatible with the elegance of versification. The more harmonious word ought therefore to to be used; and use will ascertain its definition in grammar.

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.

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 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, thro' the interest of his beloved Inez. The favour shewn 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 28th year when his amour with his beloved Inez commenced.

Ad cœlum tendens ardentia lumina frustra,
Lumina nam teneras arcebant vincula palmas.
Virg. Æn. 2.

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 Camoens is also strongly marked in his writings. One may venture to affirm, that there is no poem of equal length that abounds with so many impassioned encomiums on the fair sex as the Lusiad. The genius of Camoens 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, by Mr. Mallet—but of this we need say nothing: it is one of the many neglected unsufferable loads of unanimated dulness, which, though honoured with the approbation of Mr. Garrick, have disgraced the English theatre, and rendered Modern Tragedy a name of contempt. The other two are by M. de la Motte, 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 Mallet's 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,
Immclez 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 Camoens, 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 extract.

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?
[OMITTED] Aora, senor, aora,
Aora es tiempo de monstrar
El mucho poder que tiene
Vuestra real Magestad.
[OMITTED] 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.

To give the character of Alphonso IV. will throw light on this inhuman transaction. He was an undutiful son, an unnatural brother, and a cruel father; a great and fortunate warrior, diligent in the execution of the laws, and a Machavilian politician. That good might be attained by villainous means, was his favourite maxim. When the enemies of Inez had persuaded him that her death was necessary to the welfare of the state, he took a journey to Coimbra, that he might see the lady, when the prince his son was absent on a hunting party. Donna Inez with her children threw herself at his feet. The king was moved with the distress of the beautiful suppliant, when his three counsellors, Alvaro Gonsalez, Diego Lopez Pacheco, and Pedro Coello, reproaching him for his disregard to the state, he relapsed to his former resolution. She was dragged from his presence. and brutally murdered by the hands of his three counsellors, who immediately returned to the king with their daggers reeking with the innocent blood of the princess his daughter-in-law. Alonzo, says La Neufville, avowed the horrid assassination, as if he had done nothing for which he ought to be ashamed.

At an old royal castle near Mondego, there is a rivulet called the fountain of Amours. According to tradition, it was here that Don Pedro resided with his beloved Inez. The fiction of Camoens, founded on the popular name of the rivulet, is in the spirit of Homer.

When the Prince was informed of the death of his beloved Inez, he was transported into the most violent fury. He took arms against his father. The country between the rivers Minho and Doura was laid desolate: but by the interposition of the Queen and the Archbishop of Braga the Prince relented, and the further horrors of a civil war were prevented. Don Alonzo was not only reconciled to his son, but laboured by every means to oblige him, and to efface from his memory the injury and insult he had received. The Prince, however, still continued to discover the strongest marks of affection and grief. When he succeeded to the crown, one of his first acts was a treaty with the King of Castile, whereby each Monarch engaged to give up such malecontents, as should take refuge in each other's dominions. In consequence of this, Pedro Coello and Alvaro Gonsalez, who, on the death of Alonzo, had fled to Castile, were sent prisoners to Don Pedro. Diego Pecheco, the third murderer, made his escape. The other two were put to death with the most exquisite tortures, and most justly merited, if exquisite torture is in any instance to be allowed. After this the King, Don Pedro, summoned an assembly of the states at Cantanedes. Here, in the presence of the Pope's nuncio, he solemnly swore on the holy Gospels, that having obtained a dispensation from Rome, he had secretly, at Braganza, espoused the Lady Inez de Castro, in the presence of the Bishop of Guarda, and of his master of the wardrobe; both of whom confirmed the truth of the oath. The Pope's Bull, containing the dispensation, was published; the body of Inez was lifted from the grave, was placed on a magnificent throne, and with the proper Regalia, crowned Queen of Portugal. The nobility did homage to her skeleton, and kissed the bones of her hand. The corps was then intered at the royal monastery of Alcobaça, with a pomp before unknown in Portugal, and with all the honours due to a Queen. Her monument is still extant, where her statue is adorned with the diadem and the royal robe. This, with the legitimation of her children, and the care he took of all who had been in her service, consoled him in some degree, and rendered him more conversable than he had hitherto been; but the cloud which the death of his Inez brought over the natural cheerfulness of his temper, was never totally dispersed.—A circumstance strongly characteristic of the rage of his resentment must not be omitted. When the murderers were brought before him, he was so transported with indignation, that he struck Pedro Coello several blows on the face with the shaft of his whip. Some grave writers have branded this action as unworthy of the Magistrate and the Hero; those who will, may add, of the Philosopher too: Something greater however belongs to Don Pedro: A regard which we do not feel for any of the three, will, in every bosom, capable of genuine love, inspire a tender sympathy for the agonies of his heart, when the presence of the inhuman murderers presented to his mind the horrid scene of the butchery of his beloved spouse.

The impression left on the philosophical mind by these historical facts, will naturally suggest some reflections on human nature. Every man is proud of being thought capable of love; and none more so than those who have the least title to the name of Lover; those whom the French call Les hommes de Galanterie, whose only happiness is in variety, and to whom the greatest beauty and mental accomplishments lose every charm after a few months enjoyment. Their satiety they scruple not to confess, but are not aware, that in doing so, they also confess, that the principle which inspired their passion was gross, and selfish. To constitute a genuine Love, like that of Don Pedro, requires a nobleness and goodness of heart, totally incompatible with an ungenerous mind. The youthful fever of the veins may, for a while, inspire an attachment to a particular object; but an affection so unchangeable and sincere as that of the Prince of Portugal, can only spring from a bosom possessed of the finest feelings and of every virtue.

History cannot afford an instance of any Prince who has a more eminent claim to the title of just than Pedro I. His diligence to correct every abuse was indefatigable, and when guilt was proved his justice was inexorable. He was dreadful to the evil, and beloved by the good, for he respected no persons, and his inflexible severity never digressed from the line of strict justice. An anecdote or two will throw some light on his character. A Priest having killed a Mason, the king dissembled his knowledge of the crime, and left the issue to the Ecclesiastical Court, where the Priest was punished by one year's suspension from saying mass. The king on this privately ordered the Mason's son to revenge the murder of his father. The young man obeyed, was apprehended, and condemned to death. When his sentence was to be confirmed by the king, Pedro enquired, what was the young man's trade. He was answered, that he followed his father's. Well then, said the king, I shall commute his punishment, and interdict him from meddling with stone or mortar for a twelve month. After this he fully established the authority of the king's courts over the Clergy, whom he punished with death when their crimes were capital. When solicited to refer the causes of such criminals to a higher tribunal, he would answer very calmly, That is what I intend to do: I will send them to the highest of all tribunals, to that of their Maker and mine. Against Adulterers he was particularly severe, often declaring it his opinion, that conjugal infidelity was the source of the greatest evils, and that therefore to restrain it was the interest and duty of the Sovereign. Though the fate of his beloved Inez chagrined and soured his temper, he was so far from being naturally sullen or passionate, that he was rather of a gay and sprightly disposition, affable and easy of access; delighted in music and dancing; a lover of learning, was himself a man of letters, and an elegant Poet. Vide Le Clede, Mariana, Faria.

This lady, named Leonora de Tellez, was the wife of Don Juan Lorenzo Acugna, a nobleman of one of the most distinguished families in Portugal. After a sham process this marriage was dissolved, and the king privately espoused to her, though at this time he was publicly married by proxy to Donna Leonora of Arragon. A dangerous insurrection, headed by one Velasquez, a taylor, drove the king and his adulterous bride from Lisbon. Soon after he caused his marriage to be publickly celebrated in the province between the Doure and Minho. Henry king of Castile, being informed of the general discontent that reigned in Portugal, marched a formidable army into that kingdom, to revenge the injury offered to some of his subjects, whose ships had been unjustly seized at Lisbon. The desolation hinted at by Camoens ensued. After the subjects of both kingdoms had severely suffered, the two kings ended the war, much to their mutual satisfaction, by an inter-marriage of their bastard children.

Judges, chap. xix. and xx.

2 Samuel, chap. iii. 10. “The sword shall never depart from thine house.”

Alcidem lanas nere coëgit amor. Ovid.