# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Ode on the Defeat of King Sebastian of Portugal, and his Army in Africa

ODE ON THE DEFEAT OF
KING SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL, AND
HIS ARMY, IN AFRICA.
Translated from the Spanish of Herrera.
Ferdinand de Herrera, surnamed the Divine, was a Spanish Poet, who lived in the reign of Charles V., and is still considered by the Castilians as one of their classic writers. He aimed at the introduction of a new style into Spanish Poetry, and his lyrics are distinguished by the sustained majesty of their language, the frequent recurrence of expressions and images, derived apparently from a fervent study of the prophetic books of Scripture, and the lofty tone of national pride maintained throughout, and justified indeed by the nature of the subjects to which some of these productions are devoted. This last ​characteristic is blended with a deep and enthusiastic feeling of religion, which rather exalts, than tempers, the haughty confidence of the poet in the high destinies of his country. Spain is to him, what Judea was to the bards who sung beneath the shadow of her palm trees; the chosen and favoured land, whose people, severed from all others by the purity and devotedness of their faith, are peculiarly called to wreak the vengeance of heaven upon the infidel. This triumphant conviction is powerfully expressed in his magnificent Ode on the Battle of Lepanto.
The impression of deep solemnity left upon the mind of the Spanish reader, by another of Herrera's lyric compositions, will, it is feared, be very inadequately conveyed through the medium of the following translation.
"Voz de dolor, y canto de gemido," &c.
A voice of woe, a murmur of lament, A spirit of deep fear and mingled ire; Let such record the day, the day of wail For Lusitania's bitter chastening sent! She who hath seen her power, her fame expire, And mourns them in the dust, discrowned and pale!
And let the awful tale With grief and horror every realm o'ershade,  From Afric's burning main To the far sea, in other hues arrayed, And the red limits of the Orient's reign, Whose nations, haughty though subdued, behold Christ's glorious banner to the winds unfold.
Alas! for those that in embattled power, And vain array of chariots and of horse, O desart Libya! sought thy fatal coast! And trusting not in Him, the eternal source Of might and glory, but in earthly force, Making the strength of multitudes their boast,  A flushed and crested host, Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trod Their path of pride, as o'er a conquered land Given for the spoil; nor raised their eyes to God; And Israel's Holy One withdrew his hand,
Their sole support;—and heavily and prone They fell—the car, the steed, the rider, all o'erthrown!
It came, the hour of wrath, the hour of woe, Which to deep solitude and tears consigned The peopled realm, the realm of joy and mirth; A gloom was on the heavens, no mantling glow Announced the morn—it seemed as nature pined, And boding clouds obscured the sunbeams birth;  While, startling the pale earth, Bursting upon the mighty and the proud  With visitation dread, Their crests the Eternal in his anger bowed, And raised barbarian nations o'er their head, The inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold, But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncontrolled.
Then was the sword let loose, the flaming sword Of the strong Infidel's ignoble hand,
Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the crown Of thy fair knighthood; and the insatiate horde, Not with thy life content, O ruined land! Sad Lusitania! even thy bright renown  Defaced and trampled down; And scattered, rushing as a torrent flood, Thy pomp of arms and banners;—till the sands Became a lake of blood—thy noblest blood!— The plain a mountain of thy slaughtered bands. Strength on thy foes, resistless might was shed; On thy devoted sons—amaze, and shame, and dread.
Are these the conquerors, these the lords of fight, The warrior men, the invincible, the famed, Who shook the earth with terror and dismay, Whose spoils were empires?—They that in their might The haughty strength of savage nations tamed, And gave the spacious orient realms of day  To desolation's sway,
Making the cities of imperial name  Even as the desart place? Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flame? Thus has their glory closed its dazzling race In one brief hour ? Is this their valour's doom, On distant shores to fall, and find not even a tomb?
Once were they, in their splendour and their pride, As an imperial cedar on the brow Of the great Lebanon! It rose, arrayed In its rich pomp of foliage, and of wide Majestic branches, leaving far below All children of the forest. To its shade  The waters tribute paid, Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter there Whose flight is of the loftiest through the sky, And the wild mountain-creatures made their lair Beneath; and nations by its canopy Were shadowed o'er. Supreme it stood, and ne'er Had earth beheld a tree so excellently fair.
But all elated, on its verdant stem, Confiding solely in its regal height, It soared presumptuous, as for empire born; And God for this removed its diadem, And cast it from its regions of delight, Forth to the spoiler, as a prey and scorn,  By the deep roots uptorn! And lo! encumbering the lone hills it lay, Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state, While, pale with fear, men hurried far away, Who in its ample shade had found so late Their bower of rest; and nature's savage race 'Midst the great ruin sought their dwelling-place.
But thou, base Libya, thou whose arid sand Hath been a kingdom's death-bed, where one fate Closed her bright life, and her majestic fame, Though to thy feeble and barbarian hand Hath fallen the victory, be not thou elate! Boast not thyself, though thine that day of shame,  Unworthy of a name!
Know, if the Spaniard in his wrath advance, Aroused to vengeance by a nation's cry,  Pierced by his searching lance, Soon shalt thou expiate crime with agony, And thine affrighted streams to ocean's flood An ample tribute bear of Afric's Paynim blood.