'Flames and furies, griefs and broils,
Slaughter, ravage, fierce alarms,
Anguish and immortal toils
Thou dost gather to thine arms,—
For thyself and vassals—those
Who the fertile furrow break,
Where the stately Ebro flows.
Who their thirst in Douro slake!
'For the throne—the hall—the bower—
Murcian lord and Lusian swain—
For the chivalry a flower
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 Injur'd calls.
'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
Floats the standard—peals the gong;
They shall not be slow to dare
Roderick's wrath for Julian's wrong.
'See their spears the Arabs shake,
Smite the wind, the war demand;
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, a-lee,
Clouds of dust obscure the sun's.
'Swift their mighty ships they climb,
Cut the cables, slip from shore;
How their sturdy arms keep time
To the dashing of the oar!
Bright the frothy billows burn
Round their cleaving keels, and gales,
Breathed by Æolus astern,
Fill their deep and daring sails.
'Sheer across Alcides' strait,
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,
Dull and deaf to the alarms
Of this loud inrushing ill?
'In the hallow'd Gadite bay,
Mark them mooring from the main;
Rise, take horse!—away! away!
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 scimitar.
'Agony of toil and sweat
The sole recompence must be
Of each horse, and horseman yet,
Plumeless serf, and plumed grandee.
Sullied in thy silver flow,
Stream of proud Sevilla, weep!
Many a broken helm shalt thou
Hurry to the bordering deep.
'Many a turban and tiar,
Moor, and noble's slaughtered corse,
Whilst the furies of the war
Gore your ranks with equal loss!
Five days you dispute the field;
When 'tis sunrise on the plains,—
O loved land! thy doom is seal'd—
Madden—madden in thy chains!'"