The Lusiad Part 10

Nor these alone confess'd his happy star, Their fated doom produc'd a n.o.bler war.

Badaja's[223] king, a haughty Moor, beheld His towns besieg'd, 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 l.u.s.tful veins betray The madd'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 echoes with the wild affright Of flying squadrons; down their arms they throw, And dash from rock to rock to shun the foe.

The foe! what wonders may not virtue dare!

But sixty hors.e.m.e.n wag'd the conqu'ring war.[224]

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; Enrag'd he saw them own the victor's sway, And hems them round with battailous array.

With gen'rous ire the brave Alonzo glows; By Heaven unguarded, on the num'rous 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 grovelling 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; And Heaven a.s.sented--Now the hour was come, And the dire curse was fallen Alonzo's doom.[225]

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[226] rolls his icy tide; Though hot Syene,[227] where the sun's fierce ray Begets no shadow, own'd thy conqu'ring sway; Though from the tribes that s.h.i.+ver in the gleam Of cold Bootes' wat'ry glist'ning 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,[228] famous for the fleece of gold; Though Judah's land, whose sacred rites implor'd The One true G.o.d, and, as he taught, ador'd; Though Cappadocia's realm thy mandate sway'd, And base Sophenia's sons thy nod obey'd; Though vex'd Cilicia's pirates wore thy bands, And those who cultur'd fair Armenia's lands, Where from the sacred mount two rivers flow, And what was Eden to the pilgrim show; 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 Unequall'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 aton'd, confess'd that Heaven was just, Again in splendour he the throne ascends: Again his bow the Moorish chieftain bends.

Wide round th' embattl'd gates of Santareen Their s.h.i.+ning 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 (His sainted name the Cape shall ever bear),[229]

To Lisbon's walls he brought with votive care.

And now the monarch, old and feeble grown, Resigns the falchion to his valiant son.

O'er Tagus' waves the youthful hero pa.s.s'd, And bleeding hosts before him shrunk aghast.

Chok'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 dyes the plains That circle Beja's wall: yet still untam'd, With all the fierceness of despair inflam'd, The raging Moor collects his distant might; Wide from the sh.o.r.es of Atlas' starry height, From Amphelusia's cape, and Tingia's[230] bay, Where stern Antaeus held his brutal sway, The Mauritanian trumpet sounds to arms; And Juba's realm returns the hoa.r.s.e alarms; The swarthy tribes in burnish'd armour s.h.i.+ne, Their warlike march Abyla's shepherds join.

The great Miramolin[231] on Tagus' sh.o.r.es Far o'er the coast his banner'd thousands pours; Twelve kings and one beneath his ensigns stand, And wield their sabres at his dread command.

The plund'ring bands far round the region haste, The mournful region lies a naked waste.

And now, enclos'd in Santareen's high towers, The brave Don Sancho shuns th' unequal powers; A thousand arts the furious Moor pursues, And ceaseless, still the fierce a.s.sault renews.

Huge clefts of rock, from horrid engines whirl'd, In smould'ring 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 inflam'd, 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[232] spreads, Long worn with warlike toils, and bent with years, The king reposed, when Sancho's fate he hears.

His limbs forget the feeble steps of age, And the h.o.a.r warrior burns with youthful rage.

His daring vet'rans, long to conquest train'd, He leads--the ground with Moorish blood is stain'd; Turbans, and robes of various colours wrought, And s.h.i.+ver'd spears in streaming carnage float.

In harness gay lies many a welt'ring steed, And, low in dust, the groaning masters bleed.

As proud Miramolin[233] in horror fled, Don Sancho's javelin stretch'd him with the dead.

In wild dismay, and torn with gus.h.i.+ng 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; But pale disease now 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 sh.o.r.e for thee, Alonzo,[234] mourns, Alonzo's name each woeful bay returns; 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 wond'ring 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-echoes trill the lay, Till blus.h.i.+ng morn brings on the noiseful day.

The youthful Sancho to the throne succeeds, Already far renown'd for val'rous deeds; Let Betis',[235] ting'd 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 cultur'd, and her valleys sow'd; But Lisbon's monarch reap'd. The winds of heaven[236]

Roar'd high--and headlong by the tempest driven, In Tagus' breast a gallant navy sought The shelt'ring port, and glad a.s.sistance brought.

The warlike crew, by Frederic the Red,[237]

To rescue Judah's prostrate land were led; When Guido's troops, by burning thirst subdu'd, To Saladin, the foe, for mercy su'd.

Their vows were holy, and the cause the same, To blot from Europe's sh.o.r.es the Moorish name.

In Sancho'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 fenc'd with mountains, Leon's martial race.

Smile at the battle-sign, yet foul disgrace To Leon's haughty sons his sword achiev'd: Proud Tui's neck his servile yoke receiv'd; And, far around, falls many a wealthy town, O valiant Sancho, humbled to thy frown.

While thus his laurels flourish'd wide and fair He dies: Alonzo reigns, his much-lov'd heir.

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

Alonzo dead, another Sancho 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 confus'd By seeming friends, by various arts, abus'd; Long undetermin'd, blindly rash at last, Enrag'd, unmann'd, untutor'd by the past.

Yet, not like Nero, cruel and unjust, The slave capricious of unnatural l.u.s.t.

Nor had he smil'd had flames consum'd his Troy; Nor could his people's groans afford him joy; Nor did his woes from female manners spring, Unlike the Syrian,[238] or Sicilia's king.

No hundred cooks his costly meal prepar'd, As heap'd the board when Rome's proud tyrant far'd.[239]

Nor dar'd the artist hope his ear to[240] gain, By new-form'd arts to point the stings of pain.

But, proud and high the Lusian spirit soar'd, And ask'd a G.o.dlike hero for their lord.

To none accustom'd but a hero's sway, Great must he be whom that bold race obey.

Complaint, loud murmur'd, every city fills, Complaint, loud echo'd, murmurs through the hills.

Alarm'd, Bolonia's warlike Earl[241] awakes, And from his listless brother's minions takes The awful sceptre.--Soon was joy restor'd, And soon, by just succession, Lisbon's lord Beloved, Alonzo, nam'd the Bold, he reigns; Nor may the limits of his sire's domains 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' sh.o.r.es his might unrivall'd held.

And now brave Diniz reigns, whose n.o.ble fire Bespoke the genuine lineage of his sire.

Now, heavenly peace wide wav'd her olive bough, Each vale display'd the labours of the plough, And smil'd with joy: the rocks on every sh.o.r.e Resound the das.h.i.+ng of the merchant-oar.

Wise laws are form'd, and const.i.tutions weigh'd, And the deep-rooted base of Empire laid.

Not Ammon's son[242] with larger heart bestow'd, Nor such the grace to him the Muses owed.

From Helicon the Muses wing their way, Mondego's[243] flow'ry banks invite their stay.

Now Coimbra s.h.i.+nes Minerva's proud abode; And fir'd with joy, Parna.s.sus' bloomy G.o.d Beholds another dear-lov'd Athens rise, And spread her laurels in indulgent skies; Her wreath of laurels, ever green, he twines With threads of gold, and baccaris[244] adjoins.

Here castle walls in warlike grandeur lower, Here cities swell, and lofty temples tower: In wealth and grandeur each with other vies: When old and lov'd 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 Castile with watchful care.

Yet, when the Libyan nations cross'd the main, And spread their thousands o'er the fields of Spain, The brave Alonzo drew his awful steel, And sprung to battle for the proud Castile.

When Babel's haughty queen[245] unsheath'd the sword, And o'er Hydaspes' lawns her legions pour'd; When dreadful Attila,[246] 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; Granada's mongrels join their num'rous host, To those who dar'd the seas from Libya's coast.

Aw'd by the fury of such pond'rous force The proud Castilian tries each hop'd resource; Yet, not by terror for himself inspir'd, For Spain he trembl'd, and for Spain was fir'd.

His much-lov'd bride,[247] his messenger, he sends, And, to the hostile Lusian lowly bends.

The much-lov'd daughter of the king implor'd, Now sues her father for her wedded lord.

The beauteous dame approach'd the palace gate, Where her great sire was thron'd in regal state: On her fair face deep-settled grief appears, And her mild eyes are bath'd in glist'ning tears; Her careless ringlets, as a mourner's, flow Adown her shoulders, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 cried, "That furious Afric pours her peopled tide-- Her barb'rous nations, o'er the fields of Spain?

Morocco's lord commands the dreadful train.

Ne'er since the surges bath'd the circling coast, Beneath one standard march'd so dread a host: Such the dire fierceness of their brutal rage, Pale are our bravest youth as palsied age.

By night our fathers' shades confess their fear,[248]

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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s oppose To the barb'd darts of Spain's innum'rous foes: Then haste, O monarch, thou whose conqu'ring spear Has chill'd Malucca's[249] sultry waves with fear: Haste to the rescue of distress'd Castile, (Oh! be that smile thy dear affection's seal!) And speed, my father, ere my husband's fate Be fix'd, 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[250] seen, When Jove, her sire, the beauteous mourner pray'd To grant her wand'ring son the promis'd aid.

Great Jove was mov'd to hear the fair deplore, Gave all she ask'd, and griev'd she ask'd no more.

So griev'd Alonzo's n.o.ble heart. And now The warrior binds in steel his awful brow; The glitt'ring squadrons march in proud array, On burnish'd s.h.i.+elds the trembling sunbeams play: The blaze of arms the warlike rage inspires, And wakes from slothful peace the hero's fires.