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Translated by J. H. Wiffen
AS by Tagus’ billowy bed | |
| King Rodrigo, safe from sight, | |
| With the Lady Cava fed | |
| On the fruit of loose delight, | |
| From the river’s placid breast | 5 |
| Slow its ancient Genius broke; | |
| Of the scrolls of Fate possessed, | |
| Thus the frowning prophet spoke: | |
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| “In an evil hour dost thou, | |
| Ruthless spoiler, wanton here! | 10 |
| Shouts and clangors even now, | |
| Even now assail mine ear; | |
| Shout, and sound of clashing shield, | |
| Shivered sword and rushing car,— | |
| All the frenzy of the field! | 15 |
| All the anarchy of war! | |
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| “O, what wail and weeping spring | |
| Forth from this thine hour of mirth, | |
| From yon fair and smiling thing | |
| Who in evil day had birth! | 20 |
| In an evil day for Spain | |
| Plighted is your guilty troth! | |
| Fatal triumph! costly gain | |
| To the sceptre of the Goth! | |
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| “Flames and furies, griefs and broils, | 25 |
| Slaughter, ravage, fierce alarms, | |
| Anguish and immortal toils, | |
| Thou dost gather to thine arms,— | |
| For thyself and vassals,—those | |
| Who the fertile furrow break, | 30 |
| Where the stately Ebro flows, | |
| Who their thirst in Douro slake! | |
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| “For the throne, the hall, the bower, | |
| Murcian lord and Lusian swain, | |
| For the chivalry and flower | 35 |
| Of all sad and spacious Spain! | |
| Prompt for vengeance, not for fame, | |
| Even now from Cadiz’ halls, | |
| On the Moor, in Allah’s name, | |
| Hoarse the Count,—the Injured calls. | 40 |
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| “Hark, how frightfully forlorn | |
| Sounds his trumpet to the stars, | |
| Citing Afric’s desert-born | |
| To the gonfalon of Mars! | |
| Lo, already loose in air | 45 |
| Floats the standard, peals the gong; | |
| They shall not be slow to dare | |
| Roderick’s wrath for Julian’s wrong. | |
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| “See, their spears the Arabs shake, | |
| Smite the wind, and war demand; | 50 |
| Millions in a moment wake, | |
| Join, and swarm o’er all the sand: | |
| Underneath their sails the sea | |
| Disappears, a hubbub runs | |
| Through the sphere of heaven alee, | 55 |
| Clouds of dust obscure the sun’s. | |
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| “Swift their mighty ships they climb, | |
| Cut the cables, slip from shore; | |
| How their sturdy arms keep time | |
| To the dashing of the oar! | 60 |
| Bright the frothy billows burn | |
| Round their cleaving keels, and gales | |
| Breathed by Eolus astern, | |
| Fill their deep and daring sails. | |
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| “Sheer across Alcides’ strait | 65 |
| He whose voice the floods obey, | |
| With the trident of his state, | |
| Gives the grand Armada way.— | |
| In her sweet, subduing arms, | |
| Sinner! dost thou slumber still, | 70 |
| Dull and deaf to the alarms | |
| Of this loud inrushing ill? | |
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| “In the hallowed Gadite bay | |
| Mark them mooring from the main | |
| Rise, take horse, away! away! | 75 |
| Scale the mountain, scour the plain | |
| Give not pity to thy hand, | |
| Give not pardon to thy spur, | |
| Dart abroad thy flashing brand, | |
| Bare thy fatal cimeter! | 80 |
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| “Agony of toil and sweat | |
| The sole recompense must be | |
| Of each horse and horseman yet, | |
| Plumeless serf and plumed grandee. | |
| Sullied is thy silver flow, | 85 |
| Stream of proud Sevilla, weep! | |
| Many a broken helm shalt thou | |
| Hurry to the bordering deep. | |
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| “Many a turban and tiar, | |
| Moor and Noble’s slaughtered corse | 90 |
| Whilst the Furies of the war | |
| Gore your ranks with equal loss! | |
| Five days you dispute the field; | |
| When ’t is sunrise on the plains,— | |
| O loved land! thy doom is sealed, | 95 |
| Madden, madden in thy chains!” | |
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