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(From Agnes)
AT length they see the waters gleam | |
| Amid the fragrant bowers | |
| Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream | |
| Her belt of ancient towers. | |
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| Red is the orange on its bough, | 5 |
| To-morrow’s sun shall fling | |
| O’er Cintra’s hazel-shaded brow | |
| The flush of April’s wing. | |
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| The streets are loud with noisy mirth, | |
| They dance on every green; | 10 |
| The morning’s dial marks the birth | |
| Of proud Braganza’s queen. | |
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| At eve beneath their pictured dome | |
| The gilded courtiers throng; | |
| The broad moidores have cheated Rome | 15 |
| Of all her lords of song. | |
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| Ah! Lisbon dreams not of the day, | |
| Pleased with her painted scenes, | |
| When all her towers shall slide away | |
| As now these canvas screens! | 20 |
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| The spring has passed, the summer fled, | |
| And yet they linger still, | |
| Though autumn’s rustling leaves have spread | |
| The flank of Cintra’s hill. * * * * * | |
| Three hours the first November dawn | 25 |
| Has climbed with feeble ray | |
| Through mists like heavy curtains drawn | |
| Before the darkened day. | |
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| How still the muffled echoes sleep! | |
| Hark! hark! a hollow sound,— | 30 |
| A noise like chariots rumbling deep | |
| Beneath the solid ground. | |
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| The channel lifts, the water slides | |
| And bares its bar of sand, | |
| Anon a mountain billow strides | 35 |
| And crashes o’er the land. | |
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| The turrets lean, the steeples reel | |
| Like masts on ocean’s swell, | |
| And clash a long discordant peal, | |
| The death-doomed city’s knell. | 40 |
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| The pavement bursts, the earth upheaves | |
| Beneath the staggering town! | |
| The turrets crack, the castle cleaves, | |
| The spires come rushing down. | |
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| Around, the lurid mountains glow | 45 |
| With strange unearthly gleams; | |
| While black abysses gape below, | |
| Then close in jagged seams. | |
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| The earth has folded like a wave, | |
| And thrice a thousand score, | 50 |
| Clasped, shroudless in their closing grave, | |
| The sun shall see no more! | |
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