# The Lusiads (tr. Mickle)/Book IV

THE
L U S I A D.
BOOK IV.
AS the tost vessel on the ocean rolls, When dark the night, and loud the tempest howls, When the lorn mariner in every wave That breaks and gleams, forebodes his watery grave; But when the dawn, all silent and serene, With soft-paced ray dispels the shades obscene, With grateful transport sparkling in each eye, The joyful crew the port of safety spy; Such darkling tempests, and portended fate, While weak Fernando lived, appall'd the state; Such when he dy'd, the peaceful morning rose, The dawn of joy, and sooth'd the public woes.
As blazing glorious o'er the shades of night, Bright in his east breaks forth the Lord of light, So valiant John with dazzling blaze appears, And from the dust his drooping nation rears. Though sprung from youthful passion's wanton loves, Great Pedro's son in noble soul he proves; And heaven announced him king by right divine, A cradled infant gave the wondrous sign: Her tongue had never lisp'd the mother's name, No word, no mimic sound her lips could frame, When heaven the miracle of speech inspired; She raised her little hands, with rapture fired, Let Portugal, she cried, with joy proclaim The brave Don John, and own her monarch's name.
The burning fever of domestic rage Now wildly raved, and mark'd the barbarous age;
Through every rank the headlong fury ran, And first red slaughter in the court began. Of spousal vows, and widow'd bed defiled, Loud fame the beauteous Leonore reviled. The adulterous noble in her presence bled, And, torn with wounds, his numerous friends lay dead. No more those ghastly deathful nights amaze, When Rome wept tears of blood in Scylla's days: More horrid deeds Ulysses' towers beheld: Each cruel breast where rankling envy swell'd, Accused his foe as minion of the queen; Accused, and murder closed the dreary scene. All holy ties the frantic transport braved, Nor sacred priesthood nor the altar saved. Thrown from a tower, like Hector's son of yore, The mitred head was dashed with brains and gore. Ghastly with scenes of death, and mangled limbs, And, black with clotted blood each pavement swims.
With all the fierceness of the female ire, When rage and grief to tear the breast conspire, The queen beheld her power, her honours lost, And ever when she slept th' adulterer's ghost,
All pale, and pointing at his bloody shroud, Seem'd ever for revenge to scream aloud.
Castile's proud monarch to the nuptial bed
In happier days her royal daughter led:
To him the furious queen for vengeance cries, Implores to vindicate his lawful prize, The Lusian sceptre, his by spousal right: The proud Castilian arms and dares the fight. To join his standard as it waves along, The warlike troops from various regions throng: Those who possess the lands by Rodrick given, What time the Moor from Turia's banks was driven; That race who joyful smile at war's alarms, And scorn each danger that attends on arms; Whose crooked ploughshares Leon's uplands tear, Now cased in steel in glittering arms appear, Those arms erewhile so dreadful to the Moor: The Vandals glorying in their might of yore March on; their helms, and moving lances gleam Along the flowery vales of Betis' stream: Nor staid the Tyrian islanders behind, On whose proud ensigns floating on the wind, Alcides' pillars tower'd: Nor wonted fear Withheld the base Galician’s sordid spear; Though still his crimson seamy scars reveal The sure-aim'd vengeance of the Lusian steel. Where tumbling down Cuenca's mountain side, The murmuring Tagus rolls his foamy tide,
Along Toledo's lawns, the pride of Spain, Toledo's warriors join the martial train: Nor less the furious lust of war inspires The Biscayneer, and wakes his barbarous fires, Which ever burn for vengeance, if the tongue Of hapless stranger give the fancy'd wrong. Nor bold Asturia, nor Guipuscoa's shore, Famed for their steely wealth, and iron ore, Delay'd their vaunting squadrons; o'er the dales Cased in their native steel, and belted mails, Blue gleaming from afar they march along, And join with many a spear the warlike throng. As thus, wide sweeping o'er the trembling coast, The proud Castilian leads his numerous host, The valiant John for brave defence prepares, And in himself collected greatly dares: For such high valour in his bosom glow'd, As Samson's locks by miracle bestow'd: Safe in himself resolved the hero stands, Yet calls the leaders of his anxious bands: The council summon'd, some with prudent mien, And words of grave advice their terrors screen; By sloth debased, no more the ancient fire Of patriot loyalty can now inspire; And each pale lip seem'd opening to declare For tame submission, and to shun the war; When glorious Nunio, starting from his seat, Claim'd every eye, and closed the cold debate:
Singling his brothers from the dastard train, His rolling looks, that flash'd with stern disdain, On them he fixt, then snatch'd his hilt in ire, While his bold speech bewray'd the soldier's fire, Bold and unpolish'd; while his burning eyes Seem'd as he dared the ocean, earth, and skies:
    Heavens! shall the Lusian nobles tamely yield!
Oh, shame! and yield untry'd the martial field! That land whose genius, as the god of war, Was own'd, where'er approach'd her thundering car; Shall now her sons their faith, their love deny, And, while their country sinks, ignobly fly! Ye timerous herd, are ye the genuine line Of those illustrious shades, whose rage divine, Beneath great Henry's standards awed the foe, For whom ye tremble, and would stoop so low! That foe, who, boastful now, then basely fled, When your undaunted sires the hero led, When seven bold earls in chains the spoil adorn'd, And proud Castile through all her kindreds mourn'd, Castile, your awful dread—yet, conscious, say, When Dinez reign'd, when his bold son bore sway, By whom were trodden down the bravest bands
'Twas your brave sires—and has one languid reign Fix'd in your tainted souls so deep a stain, That now degenerate from your noble sires, The last dim spark of Lusian flame expires? Though weak Fernando reign'd in war unskill'd, A godlike king now calls you to the field— Oh! could like his your mounting valour glow, Vain were the threatenings of the vaunting foe. Not proud Castile, oft by your sires o'erthrown, But every land your dauntless rage should own. Still if your hands benumb'd by female fear, Shun the bold war, hark! on my sword I swear, Myself alone the dreadful war shall wage— Mine be the fight—and, trembling with the rage Of valorous fire, his hand half-drawn display'd The awful terror of his shining blade,— I and my vassals dare the dreadful shock; My shoulders never to a foreign yoke Shall bend; and, by my sovereign's wrath I vow, And by that loyal faith renounced by you, My native land unconquer'd shall remain, And all my monarch's foes shall heap the plain.
The hero paused—'Twas thus the youth of Rome, The trembling few who 'scaped the bloody doom That dy'd with slaughter Cannæ's purple field, Assembled stood, and bow'd their necks to yield;
When nobly rising with a like disdain The young Cornelius raged, nor raged in vain: On his dread sword his daunted peers he swore, (The reeking blade yet black with Punic gore) While life remain'd their arms for Rome to wield, And but with life their conquer'd arms to yield. Such martial rage brave Nunio's mien inspired; Fear was no more: with rapturous ardour fired, To horse, to horse, the gallant Lusians cry'd; Rattled the belted mails on every side, The spear-staff trembled; round their necks they waved Their shining falchions, and in transport raved, The king our guardian!—loud their shouts rebound, And the fierce commons echo back the sound. The mails that long in rusting peace had hung, Now on the hammer'd anvils hoarsely rung: Some soft with wool the plumy helmets line, And some the breast-plate's scaly belts entwine:
The gaudy mantles some, and scarfs prepare, Where various lightsome colours gaily flare; And golden tissue, with the warp enwove, Displays the emblems of their youthful love.
The valiant John, begirt with warlike state, Now leads his bands from fair Abrantes' gate; Whose lawns of green the infant Tagus laves, As from his spring he rolls his cooly waves. The daring van in Nunio's care could boast A general worthy of the unnumber'd host, Whose gaudy banners trembling Greece defy'd, When boastful Xerxes lash'd the Sestian tide: Nunio, to proud Castile as dread a name, As erst to Gaul and Italy the fame Of Attila's impending rage. The right Brave Roderic led, a chieftain train'd in fight; Before the left the bold Almada rode, And proudly waving o'er the centre nod The royal ensigns, glittering from afar, Where godlike John inspires and leads the war.
'Twas now the time, when from the stubbly plain The labouring hinds had borne the yellow grain; The purple vintage heapt the foamy tun, And fierce and red the sun of August shone; When from the gate the squadrons march along: Crowds prest on crowds, the walls and ramparts throng:
Here the sad mother rends her hoary hair, While hope's fond whispers struggle with despair: The weeping spouse to heaven extends her hands: And cold with dread the modest virgin stands; Her earnest eyes, suffused with trembling dew, Far o'er the plain the plighted youth pursue: And prayers and tears and all the female wail, And holy vows the throne of heaven assail.
Now each stern host full front to front appears, And one joint shout heaven's airy concave tears: A dreadful pause ensues, while conscious pride Strives on each face the heart-felt doubt to hide: Now wild and pale the boldest face is seen; With mouth half open and disordered mien Each warrior feels his creeping blood to freeze, And languid weakness trembles in the knees. And now the clangor of the trumpet sounds, And the rough rattling of the drum rebounds: The fife's shrill whistling cuts the gale; on high The flourish'd ensigns shine with many a dye Of blazing splendor: o'er the ground they wheel And chuse their footing, when the proud Castile Bids sound the horrid charge; loud bursts the sound, And loud Artabro's rocky cliffs rebound: The thundering roar rolls round on every side, And trembling sinks Guidana's rapid tide: The slow paced Durius rushes o'er the plain, And fearful Tagus hastens to the main.
Such was the tempest of the dread alarms, The babes that prattled in their nurses' arms Shriek'd at the sound: with sudden cold imprest, The mothers strained their infants to the breast, And shook with horror—now, far round, begin The bow strings whizzing, and the brazen din Of arms on armour rattling; either van Are mingled now, and man opposed to man: To guard his native fields the one inspires, And one the raging lust of conquest fires: Now with fixt teeth, their writhing lips of blue, Their eye-balls glaring of the purple hue, Each arm strains swiftest to impel the blow; Nor wounds they value now, nor fear they know, Their only passion to offend the foe. In might and fury, like the warrior god, Before his troops the glorious Nunio rode: That land, the proud invaders claim'd, he sows With their spilt blood, and with their corpses strews; Their forceful volleys now the cross-bows pour, The clouds are darken'd with the arrowy shower;
The white foam reeking o'er their wavy mane, The snorting coursers rage and paw the plain; Beat by their iron hoofs, the plain rebounds, As distant thunder through the mountains sounds: The ponderous spears crash, splintering far around; The horse and horsemen flounder on the ground; The ground groans with the sudden weight opprest, And many a buckler rings on many a crest. Where wide around the raging Nunio's sword With furious sway the bravest squadrons gored, The raging foes in closer ranks advance, And his own brothers shake the hostile lance.
Oh! horrid sight! yet not the ties of blood, Nor yearning memory his rage withstood; With proud disdain his honest eyes behold Whoe'er the traitor, who his king has sold. Nor want there others in the hostile band Who draw their swords against their native land; And, headlong driven, by impious rage accurst, In rank were foremost, and in fight the first. So sons and fathers, by each other slain, With horrid slaughter dyed Pharsalia's plain. Ye dreary ghosts, who now for treasons foul, Amidst the gloom of Stygian darkness howl; Thou Catiline, and, stern Sertorius, tell Your brother shades, and sooth the pains of hell; With triumph tell them, some of Lusian race Like you have earn'd the traitor's foul disgrace.
As waves on waves, the foes increasing weight Bears down our foremost ranks, and shakes the fight; Yet, firm and undismay'd great Nunio stands, And braves the tumult of surrounding bands. So, from high Ceuta's rocky mountains stray'd, The ranging lion braves the shepherd's shade;
The shepherds hastening o'er the Tetuan plain, With shouts surround him, and with spears restrain: He stops, with grinning teeth his breath he draws, Nor is it fear, but rage, that makes him pause; His threatening eye-balls burn with sparkling fire, And his stern heart forbids him to retire: Amidst the thickness of the spears he flings, So midst his foes the furious Nunio springs: The Lusian grass with foreign gore distain'd, Displays the carnage of the hero's hand.
« An ample shield the brave Giraldo bore, « Which from the vanquish'd Perez' arm he tore; « Pierced through that shield, cold death invades his eye, « And dying Perez saw his victor die. « Edward and Pedro, emulous of fame, « The same their friendship, and their youth the same, « Through the fierce Brigians hew'd their bloody way, « Till in a cold embrace the striplings lay. « Lopez and Vincent rush'd on glorious death, « And midst their slaughter'd foes resign'd their breath. « Alonzo glorying in his youthful might « Spurr'd his fierce courser through the staggering fight: « Shower'd from the dashing hoofs, the spatter'd gore « Flies round; but soon the rider vaunts no more: « Five Spanish swords the murmuring ghosts atone, « Of five Castilians by his arm o'erthrown.
« Transfix'd with three Iberian spears, the gay, « The knightly lover, young Hilario lay: « Though, like a rose, cut off in opening bloom, « The hero weeps not for his early doom; « Yet trembling in his swimming eye appears « The pearly drop, while his pale cheek he rears; « To call his loved Antonia's name he tries, « The name half utter'd, down he sinks, and dies.»
Now through his shatter'd ranks the monarch strode, And now before his rallied squadrons rode: Brave Nunio's danger from afar he spies, And instant to his aid impetuous flies. So when returning from the plunder'd folds, The lioness her empty den beholds, Enraged she stands, and listening to the gale, She hears her whelps low howling in the vale; The living sparkles flashing from her eyes, To the Massylian shepherd-tents she flies; She groans, she roars, and echoing far around The seven twin-mountains tremble at the sound:
So raged the king, and with a chosen train, He pours resistless o'er the heaps of slain. Oh bold companions of my toils, he cries, Our dear-loved freedom on our lances lies; Behold your friend, your monarch leads the way, And dares the thickest of the iron fray. Say, shall the Lusian race forsake their king, Where spears infuriate on the bucklers ring!
He spoke; then four times round his head he whirl'd His ponderous spear, and midst the foremost hurl'd; Deep through the ranks the forceful weapon past, And many a gasping warrior sigh'd his last.
With noble shame inspired, and mounting rage, His bands rush on, and foot to foot engage; Thick bursting sparkles from the blows aspire; Such flashes blaze, their swords seem dipt in fire; The belts of steel and plates of brass are riven, And wound for wound, and death for death is given.
The first in honour of Saint Jago's band, A naked ghost now sought the gloomy strand;
And he, of Calatrave the sovereign knight, Girt with whole troops his arm had slain in fight, Descended murmuring to the shades of night. Blaspheming heaven, and gash'd with many a wound Brave Nunio's rebel kindred gnaw'd the ground, And curst their fate, and dy'd. Ten thousand more Who held no title and no office bore, And nameless nobles who, promiscuous fell, Appeas'd that day the foaming dog of hell. Now, low the proud Castilian standard lies Beneath the Lusian flag, a vanquish'd prize. With furious madness fired, and stern disdain, The fierce Iberians to the fight again Rush headlong; groans and yellings of despair With horrid uproar rend the trembling air. Hot boils the blood, thirst burns, and every breast Pants, every limb with fainty weight opprest Slow now obeys the will's stern ire, and slow From every sword descends the feeble blow;
Till rage grew languid, and tired slaughter found No arm to combat, and no breast to wound. Now from the field Castile's proud monarch flies, In wild dismay he rolls his maddening eyes, And leads the pale-lipt flight, swift wing'd with fear, As drifted smoke; at distance disappear, The dusty squadrons of the scatter'd rear; Blaspheming heaven, they fly, and him who first Forged murdering arms, and led to horrid wars accurst.
The festive days by heroes old ordain'd The glorious victor on the field remain'd.
The funeral rites and holy vows he paid: Yet not the while the restless Nunio staid; O'er Tago's waves his gallant bands he led, And humbled Spain in every province bled: Sevilia's standard on his spear he bore, And Andalusia's ensigns, steept in gore. Low in the dust distrest Castilia mourn'd, And bathed in tears, each eye to heaven was turn'd; The orphan's, widow's, and the hoary sire's; And heaven relenting, quench'd the raging fires Of mutual hate: from England's happy shore The peaceful seas two lovely sisters bore. The rival monarchs to the nuptial bed, In joyful hour the royal virgins led,
And holy peace assum'd her blissful reign, Again the peasant joy'd, the landscape smiled again.
But John's brave breast to warlike cares inured, With conscious shame the sloth of ease endured, When not a foe awaked his rage in Spain, The valiant hero braved the foamy main; The first, nor meanest, of our kings who bore The Lusian thunders to the Afric shore. O'er the wild waves the victor-banners flow'd, Their silver wings a thousand eagles shew'd; And proudly swelling to the whistling gales The seas were whiten'd with a thousand sails. Beyond the columns by Alcides placed To bound the world, the zealous warrior past. The shrines of Hagar's race, the shrines of lust, And moon-crown'd mosques lay smoking in the dust. O'er Abyla's high steep his lance he raised, On Ceuta's lofty towers his standard blazed: Ceuta, the refuge of the traitor train, His vassal now, insures the peace of Spain.
But ah, how soon the blaze of glory dies! Illustrious John ascends his native skies.
His gallant offspring prove their genuine strain, And added lands increase the Lusian reign.
Yet not the first of heroes Edward shone; His happiest days long hours of evil own. He saw, secluded from the cheerful day, His sainted brother pine his years away. O glorious youth in captive chains, to thee What suiting honours may thy land decree!
Thy nation proffer'd, and the foe with joy For Ceuta's towers prepared to yield the boy; The princely hostage nobly spurns the thought Of freedom and of life so dearly bought,
The raging vengeance of the Moors defies, Gives to the clanking chains his limbs, and dies A dreary prison death. Let noisy fame No more unequall'd hold her Codrus' name; Her Regulus, her Curtius boast no more, Nor those the honour'd Decian name who bore. The splendor of a court, to them unknown, Exchang'd for deathful fate's most awful frown, To distant times, through every land, shall blaze The self-devoted Lusian's nobler praise.
Now to the tomb the hapless king descends, His son, Alonzo brighter fate attends. Alonzo! dear to Lusus' race the name; Nor his the meanest in the rolls of fame. His might resistless, prostrate Afric own'd, Beneath his yoke the Mauritanians groan'd, And still they groan beneath the Lusian sway. 'Twas his in victor-pomp to bear away The golden apples from Hesperia's shore, Which but the son of Jove had snatch'd before. The palm and laurel round his temples bound, Display'd his triumphs on the Moorish ground; When proud Arzilla's strength, Alcazer's towers, And Tingia, boastful of her numerous powers, Beheld their adamantine walls o'erturned, Their ramparts levell'd, and their temples burn'd. Great was the day: the meanest sword that fought Beneath the Lusian flag such wonders wrought
As from the muse might challenge endless fame, Though low their station, and untold their name.
Now stung with wild ambition's madning fires, To proud Castilia's throne the king aspires. The Lord of Arragon, from Cadiz' walls, And hoar Pyrene's sides his legions calls; The numerous legions to his standard throng, And war, with horrid strides, now stalks along. With emulation fired, the prince beheld His warlike sire ambitious of the field; Scornful of ease, to aid his arms he sped, Nor sped in vain: The raging combat bled; Alonzo's ranks with carnage gored, dismay Spread her cold wings, and shook his firm array; To flight she hurried; while with brow serene The martial boy beheld the deathful scene. With curving movement o'er the field he rode, Th' opposing troops his wheeling squadrons mow'd: The purple dawn and evening sun beheld His tents encampt assert the conquer'd field. Thus when the ghost of Julius hover'd o'er Philippi's plain, appeased with Roman gore.
Octavius' legions left the field in flight, While happier Marcus triumph'd in the fight.
When endless night had seal'd his mortal eyes, And brave Alonzo's spirit sought the skies, The second of the name, the valiant John, Our thirteenth monarch, now ascends the throne. To seize immortal fame, his mighty mind, What man had never dared before, design'd; That glorious labour which I now pursue, Through seas unsail'd to find the shores that view The day-star, rising from his watery bed, The first grey beams of infant morning shed. Selected messengers his will obey; Through Spain and France they hold their vent'rous way: Through Italy they reach the port that gave The fair Parthenope an honoured grave; That shore which oft has felt the servile chain, But now smiles happy in the care of Spain. Now from the port the brave advent'rers bore, And cut the billows of the Rhodian shore; Now reach the strand where noble Pompey bled; And now, repair'd with rest, to Memphis sped; And now, ascending by the vales of Nile, Whose waves pour fatness o'er the grateful soil,
Through Ethiopia's peaceful dales they stray'd, Where their glad eyes Messiah's rites survey'd: And now they pass the famed Arabian flood, Whose waves of old in wondrous ridges stood, While Israel's favour'd race the sable bottom trode: Behind them, glistening to the morning skies, The mountains named from Ishmael's offspring rise; Now round their steps the blest Arabia spreads Her groves of odour, and her balmy meads, And every breast, inspired with glee, inhales The grateful fragrance of Sabæa's gales: Now, past the Persian gulf their route ascends Where Tigris wave with proud Euphrates blends; Illustrious streams, where still the native shews Where Babel's haughty tower unfinish'd rose: From thence through climes unknown, their daring course Beyond where Trajan forced his way, they force; Carmanian hordes, and Indian tribes they saw, And many a barbarous rite, and many a law Their search explored; but, to their native shore, Enrich'd with knowledge, they return'd no more.
The glad completion of the fates' decree, Kind heaven reserved, Emmanuel, for thee. The crown, and high ambition of thy sires, To thee descending, waked thy latent fires; And to command the sea from pole to pole, With restless wish inflamed thy mighty soul.
Now from the sky the sacred light withdrawn, O'er heaven's clear azure shone the stars of dawn, Deep silence spread her gloomy wings around, And human griefs were wrapt in sleep profound. The monarch slumber'd on his golden bed, Yet anxious cares possest his thoughtful head; His generous soul, intent on public good, The glorious duties of his birth review'd. When sent by heaven a sacred dream inspired His labouring mind, and with its radiance fired: High to the clouds his towering head was rear'd, New worlds and nations fierce and strange, appear'd; The purple dawning o'er the mountains flow'd, The forest-boughs with yellow splendor glow'd; High from the steep two copious glassy streams Roll'd down, and glitter'd in the morning beams. Here various monsters of the wild were seen, And birds of plumage azure, scarlet, green: Here various herbs, and flowers of various bloom; There, black as night the forest's horrid gloom,
Whose shaggy brakes, by human step untrod, Darken'd the glaring lion's dread abode. Here as the monarch fix'd his wondering eyes, Two hoary fathers from the streams arise; Their aspect rustic, yet a reverend grace Appear'd majestic on their wrinkled face: Their tawny beards uncomb'd, and sweepy long, Adown their knees in shaggy ringlets hung; From every lock the crystal drops distil, And bathe their limbs as in a trickling rill; Gay wreaths of flowers, of fruitage, and of boughs, Nameless in Europe, crown'd their furrow'd brows. Bent o'er his staff, more silver'd o'er with years, Worn with a longer way, the one appears; Who now slow beckening with his wither'd hand, As now advanced before the king they stand;
O thou, whom worlds to Europe yet unknown, Are doom'd to yield, and dignify thy crown; To thee our golden shores the fates decree; Our necks, unbow'd before, shall bend to thee. Wide through the world resounds our wealthy fame; Haste, speed thy prows, that fated wealth to claim. From Paradise my hallowed waters spring; The sacred Ganges I, my brother king Th' illustrious author of the Indian name: Yet toil shall languish, and the fight shall flame; Our fairest lawns with streaming gore shall smoke, Ere yet our shoulders bend beneath the yoke;
But thou shalt conquer: all thine eyes survey, With all our various tribes, shall own thy sway.
He spoke; and melting in a silvery stream Both disappear'd; when waking from his dream, The wondering monarch, thrill'd with awe divine, Weighs in his lofty thoughts the sacred sign.
Now, morning bursting from the eastern sky, Spreads o'er the clouds the blushing rose's dye; The nations wake, and at the sovereign's call, The Lusian nobles crowd the palace hall. The vision of his sleep the monarch tells; Each heaving breast with joyful wonder swells: Fulfil, they cry: the sacred sign obey, And spread the canvas for the Indian sea. Instant my looks with troubled ardour burn'd, When keen on me his eyes the monarch turn'd: What he beheld I know not; but I know, Big swell'd my bosom with a prophet's glow: And long my mind, with wondrous bodings fired, Had to the glorious, dreadful toil aspired: Yet to the king, whate'er my looks betrayed, My looks the omen of success displayed. When with that sweetness in his mien exprest, Which unresisted wins the generous breast, Great are the dangers, great the toils, he cried, Ere glorious honours crown the victor's pride.
If in the glorious strife the hero fall, He proves no danger could his soul appall; And but to dare so great a toil, shall raise Each age's wonder, and immortal praise. For this dread toil new oceans to explore, To spread the sail where sail ne'er flow'd before, For this dread labour, to your valour due, From all your peers I name, O Vasco, you. Dread as it is, yet light the task shall be To you, my GAMA, as perform'd for me.—— My heart could bear no more——Let skies on fire, Let frozen seas, let horrid war conspire, I dare them all, I cried, and but repine That one poor life is all I can resign. Did to my lot Alcides' labours fall, For you my joyful heart would dare them all; The ghastly realms of death could man invade, For you my steps should trace the ghastly shade.
While thus with loyal zeal my bosom swell'd, That panting zeal my prince with joy beheld: Honour'd with gifts I stood, but honour'd more By that esteem my joyful sovereign bore. That generous praise which fires the soul of worth, And gives new virtues unexpected birth, That praise even now my heaving bosom fires, Inflames my courage, and each wish inspires.
Moved by affection, and allured by fame, A gallant youth, who bore the dearest name, Paulus my brother, boldly sued to share My toils, my dangers, and my fate in war; And brave Coello urged the hero's claim To dare each hardship, and to join our fame: For glory both with restless ardour burn'd, And silken ease for horrid danger spurn’d; Alike renown'd in council or in field, The snare to baffle, or the sword to wield. Through Lisbon's youth the kindling ardour ran, And bold ambition thrill'd from man to man; And each the meanest of the venturous band With gifts stood honour'd by the sovereign's hand. Heavens! what a fury swell'd each warrior's breast, When each, in turn, the smiling king addrest! Fired by his words the direst toils they scorn'd, And with the horrid lust of danger fiercely burn'd.
With such bold rage the youth of Mynia glow'd, When the first keel the Euxine surges plow'd; When bravely venturous for the golden fleece Orac'lous Argo sail'd from wondering Greece. Where Tago's yellow stream the harbour laves, And slowly mingles with the ocean waves,
In
In warlike pride my gallant navy rode, And proudly o'er the beach my soldiers strode. Sailors and land-men marshall'd o'er the strand, In garbs of various hue around me stand; Each earnest first to plight the sacred vow, Oceans unknown and gulfs untried to plow: Then turning to the ships their sparkling eyes, With joy they heard the breathing winds arise; Elate with joy beheld the flapping sail, And purple standards floating on the gale; While each presaged that great as Argo's fame, Our fleet should give some starry band a name.
Where foaming on the shore the tide appears, A sacred fane its hoary arches rears: Dim o'er the sea the evening shades descend, And at the holy shrine devout we bend: There, while the tapers o'er the altar blaze, Our prayers and earnest vows to heaven we raise. "Safe through the deep, where every yawning wave "Still to the sailor's eye displays his grave; "Through howling tempests, and through gulfs untry'd, "O! mighty God! be thou our watchful guide." While kneeling thus, before the sacred shrine, In holy faith's most solemn rite we join; Our peace with heaven the bread of peace confirms, And meek contrition every bosom warms: Sudden the lights extinguish'd, all around
Dread silence reigns, and midnight gloom profound; A sacred horror pants on every breath, And each firm breast devotes itself to death, An offer'd sacrifice, sworn to obey My nod, and follow where I lead the way. Now, prostrate round the hallow'd shrine we lie, Till rosy morn bespreads the eastern sky; Then, breathing fixt resolves, my daring mates March to the ships, while pour'd from Lisbon's gates, Thousands on thousands crowding, press along, A woeful, weeping, melancholy throng. A thousand white-robed priests our steps attend, And prayers, and holy vows to heaven ascend. A scene so solemn, and the tender woe Of parting friends, constrained my tears to flow. To weigh our anchors from our native shore— To dare new oceans never dared before— Perhaps to see my native coast no more— Forgive, O king, if as a man I feel, I bear no bosom of obdurate steel—
(The godlike hero here supprest the sigh, And wiped the tear-drop from his manly eye; Then, thus resuming—) All the peopled shore An awful, silent look of anguish wore; Affection, friendship, all the kindred ties Of spouse and parent languish'd in their eyes: As men they never should again behold, Self-offer'd victims to destruction sold, On us they fixt the eager look of woe, While tears o'er every cheek began to flow; When thus aloud, Alas! my son, my son, A hoary sire exclaims! Oh, whither run, My heart's sole joy, my trembling age's stay, To yield thy limbs the dread sea-monster's prey! To seek thy burial in the raging wave, And leave me cheerless sinking to the grave! Was it for this I watch'd thy tender years, And bore each fever of a father's fears! Alas, my boy!—His voice is heard no more, The female shriek resounds along the shore: With hair dishevell'd, through the yielding crowd A lovely bride springs on, and screams aloud; Oh! where, my husband, where to seas unknown, Where would'st thou fly me, and my love disown! And wilt thou, cruel, to the deep consign That valued life, the joy, the soul of mine: And must our loves, and all the kindred train Of rapt endearments, all expire in vain!
All the dear transports of the warm embrace, When mutual love inspired each raptured face! Must all, alas! be scatter'd in the wind, Nor thou bestow one lingering look behind!
Such, the lorn parents' and the spouses' woes, Such o'er the strand the voice of wailing rose; From breast to breast the soft contagion crept, Moved by the woeful sound the children wept; The mountain echoes catch the big-swoln sighs, And through the dales prolong the matron's cries; The yellow sands with tears are silver'd o'er, Our fate the mountains and the beach deplore. Yet firm we march, nor turn one glance aside On hoary parent, or on lovely bride. Though glory fired our hearts, too well we knew What soft affection and what love could do. The last embrace the bravest worst can bear: The bitter yearnings of the parting tear Sullen we shun, unable to sustain The melting passion of such tender pain.
Now, on the lofty decks prepared we stand, When towering o'er the crowd that veil'd the strand, A reverend figure fixt each wondering eye, And beckoning thrice he waved his hand on high,
And thrice his hoary curls he sternly shook, While grief and anger mingled in his look; Then to its height his faltering voice he rear'd, And through the fleet these awful words were heard:
O frantic thirst of honour and of fame, The crowd's blind tribute, a fallacious name;
What stings, what plagues, what secret scourges curst, Torment those bosoms where thy pride is nurst! What dangers threaten, and what deaths destroy The hapless youth, whom thy vain gleams decoy! By thee, dire tyrant of the noble mind, What dreadful woes are pour'd on human kind; Kingdoms and Empires in confusion hurl'd, What streams of gore have drench'd the hapless world! Thou dazzling meteor, vain as fleeting air, What new-dread horror dost thou now prepare! High sounds thy voice of India's pearly shore, Of endless triumphs and of countless store: Of other worlds so tower'd thy swelling boast, Thy golden dreams, when paradise was lost, When thy big promise steep'd the world in gore, And simple innocence was known no more. And say, has fame so dear, so dazzling charms? Must brutal fierceness and the trade of arms, Conquest, and laurels dipt in blood, be prized, While life is scorn'd, and all its joys despised! And say, does zeal for holy faith inspire To spread its mandates, thy avow'd desire? Behold the Hagarene in armour stands, Treads on thy borders, and the foe demands: A thousand cities own his lordly sway, A thousand various shores his nod obey. Through all these regions, all these cities, scorn'd Is thy religion, and thine altars spurn'd:
A foe renown'd in arms the brave require; That high-plumed foe, renown'd for martial fire, Before thy gates his shining spear displays, Whilst thou wouldst fondly dare the watery maze, Enfeebled leave thy native land behind, On shores unknown a foe unknown to find. Oh! madness of ambition! thus to dare Dangers so fruitless, so remote a war! That fame's vain flattery may thy name adorn, And thy proud titles on her flag be borne: Thee, Lord of Persia, thee, of India lord, O'er Ethiopia's vast, and Araby adored!
Curst be the man who first on floating wood, Forsook the beach, and braved the treacherous flood! Oh! never, never may the sacred Nine, To crown his brows, the hallowed wreath entwine; Nor may his name to future times resound; Oblivion be his meed, and hell profound! Curst be the wretch, the fire of heaven who stole, And with ambition first debauch'd the soul! What woes, Prometheus, walk the frighten'd earth! To what dread slaughter has thy pride given birth! On proud ambition's pleasing gales upborne, One boasts to guide the chariot of the morn:
And one on treacherous pinions soaring high, O'er ocean's waves dar'd sail the liquid sky: Dash'd from their height they mourn their blighted aim; One gives a river, one a sea the name! Alas! the poor reward of that gay meteor fame! Yet such the fury of the mortal race, Though fame's fair promise ends in foul disgrace, Though conquest still the victor's hope betrays, The prize a shadow, or a rainbow blaze, Yet still through fire and raging seas they run To catch the gilded shade, and sink undone!
             END OF THE FOURTH BOOK.
* ↑ The crown, and high ambition of thy sires.—Emmanuel was cousin to the late king John II. and grandson to king Edward, son of John I.
* ↑ One boasts to guide the chariot of the morn, &c. Alluding to the fables of Phacton and Icarus.