The Lusiad Part 11

With trampling hoofs Evora's plains rebound, And sprightly neighings echo far around; Far on each side the clouds of dust arise, The drum's rough rattling rolls along the skies; The trumpet's shrilly clangor sounds alarms, And each heart burns, and ardent, pants for arms.

Where their bright blaze the royal ensigns pour'd, High o'er the rest the great Alonzo tower'd; High o'er the rest was his bold front admir'd, And his keen eyes new warmth, new force inspir'd.

Proudly he march'd, and now, in Tarif's plain The two Alonzos join their martial train: Right to the foe, in battle-rank updrawn, They pause--the mountain and the wide-spread lawn Afford not foot-room for the crowded foe: Aw'd with the horrors of the lifted blow Pale look'd our bravest heroes. Swell'd with pride, } The foes already conquer'd Spain divide, } And, lordly o'er the field the promis'd victors stride. } So, strode in Elah's vale the tow'ring height Of Gath's proud champion;[251] so, with pale affright, The Hebrews trembled, while with impious pride The huge-limb'd foe the shepherd boy[252] defied: The valiant boy advancing, fits the string, And round his head he whirls the sounding sling; The monster staggers with the forceful wound, And his huge bulk lies groaning on the ground.

Such impious scorn the Moor's proud bosom swell'd, When our thin squadrons took the battle-field; Unconscious of the Power who led us on, That Power whose nod confounds th' eternal throne; Led by that Power, the brave Castilian bar'd The s.h.i.+ning blade, and proud Morocco dar'd His conqu'ring brand the Lusian hero drew, And on Granada's sons resistless flew; The spear-staffs crash, the splinters hiss around, And the broad bucklers rattle on the ground: With piercing shrieks the Moors their prophet's name, And ours, their guardian saint, aloud acclaim.

Wounds gush on wounds, and blows resound to blows A lake of blood the level plain o'erflows; The wounded, gasping in the purple tide, Now find the death the sword but half supplied.

Though wove[253] and quilted by their ladies' hands, Vain were the mail-plates of Granada's bands.

With such dread force the Lusian rush'd along, Steep'd in red carnage lay the boastful throng.

Yet now, disdainful of so light a prize, Fierce o'er the field the thund'ring hero flies; And his bold arm the brave Castilian joins In dreadful conflict with the Moorish lines.

The parting sun now pour'd the ruddy blaze, And twinkling Vesper shot his silv'ry rays Athwart the gloom, and clos'd the glorious day, When, low in dust, the strength of Afric lay.

Such dreadful slaughter of the boastful Moor Never on battle-field was heap'd before; Not he whose childhood vow'd[254] eternal hate And desp'rate war against the Roman state: Though three strong coursers bent beneath the weight Of rings of gold (by many a Roman knight, Erewhile, the badge of rank distinguish'd, worn), From their cold hands at Cannae's[255] slaughter torn; Not his dread sword bespread the reeking plain With such wide streams of gore, and hills of slain; Nor thine, O t.i.tus, swept from Salem's land Such floods of ghosts, rolled down to death's dark strand; Though, ages ere she fell, the prophets old The dreadful scene of Salem's fall foretold, In words that breathe wild horror: nor the sh.o.r.e, When carnage chok'd the stream, so smok'd with gore, When Marius' fainting legions drank the flood, Yet warm, and purpled with Ambronian[256] blood; Not such the heaps as now the plains of Tarif strew'd.

While glory, thus, Alonzo's name adorn'd, To Lisbon's sh.o.r.es the happy chief return'd, In glorious peace and well-deserv'd repose, His course of fame, and honour'd age to close.

When now, O king, a damsel's fate[257] severe, A fate which ever claims the woeful tear, Disgraced his honours----On the nymph's 'lorn head Relentless rage its bitterest rancour shed: Yet, such the zeal her princely lover bore, Her breathless corse the crown of Lisbon wore.

'Twas thou, O Love, whose dreaded shafts control The hind's rude heart, and tear the hero's soul; Thou, ruthless power, with bloodshed never cloy'd, 'Twas thou thy lovely votary destroy'd.

Thy thirst still burning for a deeper woe, In vain to thee the tears of beauty flow; The breast that feels thy purest flames divine, With spouting gore must bathe thy cruel shrine.

Such thy dire triumphs!--Thou, O nymph, the while, Prophetic of the G.o.d's unpitying guile, In tender scenes by love-sick fancy wrought, By fear oft s.h.i.+fted, as by fancy brought, In sweet Mondego's ever-verdant bowers, Languish'd away the slow and lonely hours: While now, as terror wak'd thy boding fears, The conscious stream receiv'd thy pearly tears; And now, as hope reviv'd the brighter flame, Each echo sigh'd thy princely lover's name.

Nor less could absence from thy prince remove The dear remembrance of his distant love: Thy looks, thy smiles, before him ever glow, And o'er his melting heart endearing flow: By night his slumbers bring thee to his arms, By day his thoughts still wander o'er thy charms: By night, by day, each thought thy loves employ, Each thought the memory, or the hope, of joy.

Though fairest princely dames invok'd his love, No princely dame his constant faith could move: For thee, alone, his constant pa.s.sion burn'd, For thee the proffer'd royal maids he scorn'd.

Ah, hope of bliss too high--the princely dames Refus'd, dread rage the father's breast inflames; He, with an old man's wintry eye, surveys The youth's fond love, and coldly with it weighs The people's murmurs of his son's delay To bless the nation with his nuptial day.

(Alas, the nuptial day was past unknown, Which, but when crown'd, the prince could dare to own.) And, with the fair one's blood, the vengeful sire Resolves to quench his Pedro's faithful fire.

Oh, thou dread sword, oft stain'd with heroes' gore, Thou awful terror of the prostrate Moor, What rage could aim thee at a female breast, Unarm'd, by softness and by love possess'd!

Dragg'd from her bower, by murd'rous ruffian hands, Before the frowning king fair Inez stands; Her tears of artless innocence, her air So mild, so lovely, and her face so fair, Mov'd the stern monarch; when, with eager zeal, Her fierce destroyers urg'd the public weal; Dread rage again the tyrant's soul possess'd, And his dark brow his cruel thoughts confess'd; O'er her fair face a sudden paleness spread, Her throbbing heart with gen'rous anguish bled, Anguish to view her lover's hopeless woes, And all the mother in her bosom rose.

Her beauteous eyes, in trembling tear-drops drown'd, To heaven she lifted (for her hands were bound);[258]

Then, on her infants turn'd the piteous glance, The look of bleeding woe; the babes advance, Smiling in innocence of infant age, Unaw'd, unconscious of their grandsire's rage; To whom, as bursting sorrow gave the flow, The native heart-sprung eloquence of woe, The lovely captive thus:--"O monarch, hear, If e'er to thee the name of man was dear, If prowling tigers, or the wolf's wild brood (Inspir'd by nature with the l.u.s.t of blood), Have yet been mov'd the weeping babe to spare, Nor left, but tended with a nurse's care, As Rome's great founders[259] to the world were given; Shalt thou, who wear'st the sacred stamp of Heaven, The human form divine, shalt thou deny That aid, that pity, which e'en beasts supply!

Oh, that thy heart were, as thy looks declare, Of human mould, superfluous were my prayer; Thou couldst not, then, a helpless damsel slay, Whose sole offence in fond affection lay, In faith to him who first his love confess'd, Who first to love allur'd her virgin breast.

In these my babes shalt thou thine image see, And, still tremendous, hurl thy rage on me?

Me, for their sakes, if yet thou wilt not spare, Oh, let these infants prove thy pious care![260]

Yet, Pity's lenient current ever flows From that brave breast where genuine valour glows; That thou art brave, let vanquish'd Afric tell, Then let thy pity o'er mine anguish swell; Ah, let my woes, unconscious of a crime, Procure mine exile to some barb'rous clime: Give me to wander o'er the burning plains Of Libya's deserts, or the wild domains Of Scythia's snow-clad rocks, and frozen sh.o.r.e; There let me, hopeless of return, deplore: Where ghastly horror fills the dreary vale, Where shrieks and howlings die on every gale, The lion's roaring, and the tiger's yell, There, with mine infant race, consign'd to dwell, There let me try that piety to find, In vain by me implor'd from human kind: There, in some dreary cavern's rocky womb, Amid the horrors of sepulchral gloom, For him whose love I mourn, my love shall glow, The sigh shall murmur, and the tear shall flow: All my fond wish, and all my hope, to rear These infant pledges of a love so dear, Amidst my griefs a soothing glad employ, Amidst my fears a woeful, hopeless joy."

In tears she utter'd--as the frozen snow Touch'd by the spring's mild ray, begins to flow, So, just began to melt his stubborn soul, As mild-ray'd Pity o'er the tyrant stole; But destiny forbade: with eager zeal (Again pretended for the public weal), Her fierce accusers urg'd her speedy doom; Again, dark rage diffus'd its horrid gloom O'er stern Alonzo's brow: swift at the sign, Their swords, unsheath'd, around her brandish'd s.h.i.+ne.

O foul disgrace, of knighthood lasting stain, By men of arms a helpless lady[261] slain!

Thus Pyrrhus,[262] burning with unmanly ire, Fulfilled the mandate of his furious sire; Disdainful of the frantic matron's[263] prayer, On fair Polyxena, her last fond care, He rush'd, his blade yet warm with Priam's gore, And dash'd the daughter on the sacred floor; While mildly she her raving mother eyed, Resign'd her bosom to the sword, and died.

Thus Inez, while her eyes to heaven appeal, Resigns her bosom to the murd'ring steel: That snowy neck, whose matchless form sustain'd The loveliest face where all the graces reign'd, Whose charms so long the gallant prince enflam'd, That her pale corse was Lisbon's queen[264] proclaim'd, That snowy neck was stain'd with spouting gore, Another sword her lovely bosom tore.

The flowers that glisten'd with her tears bedew'd, Now shrunk and languish'd with her blood embru'd.

As when a rose, ere-while of bloom so gay, Thrown from the careless virgin's breast away, Lies faded on the plain, the living red, The snowy white, and all its fragrance fled; So from her cheeks the roses died away, And pale in death the beauteous Inez lay: With dreadful smiles, and crimson'd with her blood, Round the wan victim the stern murd'rers stood, Unmindful of the sure, though future hour, Sacred to vengeance and her lover's power.

O Sun, couldst thou so foul a crime behold, Nor veil thine head in darkness, as of old[265]

A sudden night unwonted horror cast O'er that dire banquet, where the sire's repast The son's torn limbs supplied!--Yet you, ye vales!

Ye distant forests, and ye flow'ry dales!

When pale and sinking to the dreadful fall, You heard her quiv'ring lips on Pedro call; Your faithful echoes caught the parting sound, And Pedro! Pedro! mournful, sigh'd around.

Nor less the wood-nymphs of Mondego's groves Bewail'd the memory of her hapless loves: Her griefs they wept, and, to a plaintive rill Transform'd their tears, which weeps and murmurs still.

To give immortal pity to her woe They taught the riv'let through her bowers to flow, And still, through violet-beds, the fountain pours Its plaintive wailing, and is named Amours.[266]

Nor long her blood for vengeance cried in vain: Her gallant lord begins his awful reign, In vain her murd'rers for refuge fly, Spain's wildest hills no place of rest supply.

The injur'd lover's and the monarch's ire, And stern-brow'd Justice in their doom conspire: In hissing flames they die, and yield their souls in fire.[267]

Nor this alone his stedfast soul display'd: Wide o'er the land he wav'd the awful blade Of red-arm'd Justice. From the shades of night He dragg'd the foul adulterer to light: The robber from his dark retreat was led, And he who spilt the blood of murder, bled.

Unmov'd he heard the proudest n.o.ble plead; Where Justice aim'd her sword, with stubborn speed Fell the dire stroke. Nor cruelty inspir'd, n.o.blest humanity his bosom fir'd.

The caitiff, starting at his thoughts, repress'd The seeds of murder springing in his breast.

His outstretch'd arm the lurking thief withheld, For fix'd as fate he knew his doom was seal'd.

Safe in his monarch's care the ploughman reap'd, And proud oppression coward distance kept.

Pedro the Just[268] the peopled towns proclaim, And every field resounds her monarch's name.

Of this brave prince the soft degen'rate son, Fernando the Remiss, ascends the throne.

With arm unnerv'd the listless soldier lay And own'd the influence of a nerveless sway: The stern Castilian drew the vengeful brand, And strode proud victor o'er the trembling land.

How dread the hour, when injur'd heaven, in rage, Thunders its vengeance on a guilty age!

Unmanly sloth the king, the nation stain'd; And lewdness, foster'd by the monarch, reign'd: The monarch own'd that first of crimes unjust, The wanton revels of adult'rous l.u.s.t: Such was his rage for beauteous[269] Leonore, Her from her husband's widow'd arms he tore: Then with unbless'd, unhallow'd nuptials stain'd The sacred altar, and its rites profan'd.

Alas! the splendour of a crown, how vain, From Heaven's dread eye to veil the dimmest stain!

To conqu'ring Greece, to ruin'd Troy, what woes, What ills on ills, from Helen's rape arose!

Let Appius own, let banish'd Tarquin tell On their hot rage what heavy vengeance fell.

One female, ravish'd, Gibeah's streets[270] beheld, O'er Gibeah's streets the blood of thousands swell'd In vengeance of the crime; and streams of blood The guilt of Zion's sacred bard[271] pursued.

Yet Love, full oft, with wild delirium blinds, And fans his basest fires in n.o.blest minds; The female garb the great Alcides[272] wore, And for his Omphale the distaff[273] bore.

For Cleopatra's frown the world was lost: The Roman terror, and the Punic boast, Cannae's great victor,[274] for a harlot's smile, Resign'd the harvest of his glorious toil.

And who can boast he never felt the fires, The trembling throbbings of the young desires, When he beheld the breathing roses glow, And the soft heavings of the living snow; The waving ringlets of the auburn hair, And all the rapt'rous graces of the fair!

Oh! what defence, if fix'd on him, he spy The languid sweetness of the stedfast eye!

Ye who have felt the dear, luxurious smart, When angel-charms oppress the powerless heart, In pity here relent the brow severe, And o'er Fernando's weakness drop the tear.

To conclude the notes on this book, it may not be unnecessary to observe that Camoens, in this episode, has happily adhered to a princ.i.p.al rule of the Epopea. To paint the manners and characters of the age in which the action is placed, is as requisite in the epic poem as it is to preserve the unity of the character of an individual. That gallantry of bravery and romantic cast of the military adventures, which characterised the Spaniards and Portuguese during the Moorish wars, is happily supported by Camoens in its most just and striking colours. In storming the citadel of Arzila, the Count de Marialva, a brave old officer, lost his life. The king, leading his only son, the Prince Don Juan, to the body of the count, while the blood yet streamed from his wounds: "Behold," he cried, "that great man! May G.o.d grant you, my son, to imitate his virtues. May your honour, like his, be complete!"

BOOK IV.

THE ARGUMENT.

STATE OF PORTUGAL ON THE DEATH OF DOM FERNANDO.

Beatrice, daughter of Fernando, not acknowledged by the Portuguese, the throne is occupied by Don John, a natural brother of Fernando. A Spanish prince having married Beatrice, the Spaniards invade Portugal, which they claim by right of marriage. The Portuguese, divided in council, are harangued in an eloquent speech by Don Nuno Alvarez Pereyra; he rallies the n.o.bility around the king, who conquers the Castilians on the gory field of Aljubarota. Nuno Alvarez, following up his victory, penetrates as far as Seville, where he dictates the terms of peace to the haughty Spaniards. Don John carries war against the Moors into Africa. His son, Edward, renews hostilities with the African Moors: his brother, Don Fernando, surnamed the Inflexible, taken prisoner, prefers death in captivity to the surrender of Ceuta to the Moors, as the price of his ransom. Alfonso V. succeeds to the throne of Portugal; is victorious over the Moors, but conquered by the Castilians. John II., the thirteenth king of Portugal, sends out adventurers to find a way, by land, to India; they perish at the mouth of the Indus. Emmanuel, succeeding to the throne, resolves on continuing the discoveries of his predecessors. The rivers Indus and Ganges, personified, appear in a vision to Emmanuel, who, in consequence, makes choice of Vasco de Gama to command an expedition to the East.

As the toss'd 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 wat'ry grave; But when the dawn, all silent and serene, With soft-pac'd 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 liv'd, appall'd the state; Such when he died, 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 pa.s.sion's wanton loves,[275]

Great Pedro's son in n.o.ble soul he proves; And Heaven announc'd him king by right divine;-- A cradled infant gave the wondrous sign.[276]

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 inspir'd: She raised her little hands, with rapture fir'd, "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 rav'd, and mark'd the barb'rous age; Through every rank the headlong fury ran, And first, red slaughter in the court began.

Of spousal vows, and widow'd bed defil'd, Loud fame the beauteous Leonore revil'd.

The adult'rous n.o.ble in her presence bled, And, torn with wounds, his num'rous 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[277] beheld: Each cruel breast, where rankling envy swell'd, Accus'd his foe as minion of the queen; Accus'd, and murder closed the dreary scene.

All holy ties the frantic transport brav'd, Nor sacred priesthood, nor the altar sav'd.

Thrown from a tower, like Hector's son of yore, The mitred head[278] was dash'd 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,[279]

And ever, when she slept, th' adult'rer's ghost, All pale, and pointing at his b.l.o.o.d.y shroud, Seem'd ever for revenge to scream aloud.