INTRODUCTORY.

PORTUGAL.

N, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,

ΟΝ

And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, New shores descried make every bosom gay; And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, Aud Tagus dashing onward to the deep, His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;

And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,

And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics

reap.

LUSITANIA.

Lord Byron.

PROUD o'er the rest, with splendid wealth arrayed,

As crown to this wide empire, Europe's head,

Fair Lusitania smiles, the western bound,

Whose verdant breast the rolling waves surround,
Where gentle evening pours her lambent ray,

To them in vain the injured Muse bewails:

The last pale gleaming of departing day:
This, this, O mighty king, the sacred earth,
This the loved parent-soil that gave me birth.
And O, would bounteous Heaven my prayer regard,
And fair success my perilous toils reward,

May that dear land my latest breath receive,
And give my weary bones a peaceful grave.
Sublime the honors of my native land,

And high in Heaven's regard her heroes stand :
By Heaven's decree 't was theirs the first to quell
The Moorish tyrants, and from Spain expel;
Nor could their burning wilds conceal their flight,
Their burning wilds confessed the Lusian might.
From Lusus famed, whose honored name we bear,
(The son of Bacchus or the bold compeer,)
The glorious name of Lusitania rose,

A name tremendous to the Roman foes,
When her bold troops the valiant shepherd led,
And foul with rout the Roman eagles fled;

When haughty Rome achieved the treacherous blow,
That owned her terror of the matchless foe.
But when no more her Viriatus fought,
Age after age her deeper thraldom brought;
Her broken sons by ruthless tyrants spurned,
Her vineyards languished, and her pastures mourned;
Till time, revolving, raised her drooping head,
And o'er the wandering world her conquests spread.

Luis de Camoens. Tr. W. J. Mickle.

THE COMPLAINT OF CAMOENS.

ALAS, on Tago's hapless shores alone

The Muse is slighted, and her charms unknown; For this no Virgil here attunes the lyre,

No Homer here awakes the hero's fire.

On Tago's shores are Scipios, Cæsars born,

And Alexanders Lisboa's clime adorn,

But heaven has stamped them in a rougher mould,
Nor gave the polish to their genuine gold.
Careless and rude or to be known or know,
In vain to them the sweetest numbers flow;
Unheard, in vain their native poet sings,
And cold neglect weighs down the Muse's wings.
Even he whose veins the blood of Gama warms,
Walks by, unconscious of the Muse's charms:
For him no Muse shall leave her golden loom,
No palm shall blossom, and no wreath shall bloom;
Yet shall my labors and my cares be paid
By fame immortal, and by Gama's shade:
Him shall the song of every shore proclaim,
The first of heroes, first of naval fame.
Rude and ungrateful though my country be,
This proud example shall be taught by me,
"Where'er the hero's worth demands the skies,
To crown that worth some generous bard shall rise.”

*

Ye gentle Nymphs of Tago's rosy bowers, Ah, see what lettered patron-lords are yours!

Dull as the herds that graze their flowery dales,
To them in vain the injured Muse bewails:
No fostering care their barbarous hands bestow,
Though to the Muse their fairest fame they owe.
Ah, cold may prove the future priest of Fame
Taught by my fate: yet will I not disclaim
Your smiles, ye Muses of Mondego's shade,
Be still my dearest joy your happy aid!
And hear my vow; nor king nor loftiest peer
Shall e'er from me the song of flattery hear;
Nor crafty tyrant, who in office reigns,
Smiles on his king, and binds the land in chains;
His king's worst foe: nor he whose raging ire,
And raging wants, to shape his course, conspire;
True to the clamors of the blinded crowd,
Their changeful Proteus, insolent and loud;
Nor he whose honest mien secures applause,
Grave though he seem, and father of the laws,
Who, but half-patriot, niggardly denies
Each other's merit, and withholds the prize:
Who spurns the Muse, nor feels the raptured strain
Useless by him esteemed, and idly vain :

For him, for these, no wreath my hand shall twine;
On other brows the immortal rays shall shine :
He who the path of honor ever trod,

True to his king, his country, and his God,

On his blessed head my hands shall fix the crown Wove of the deathless laurels of renown.

Luis de Camoens. Tr. W. J. Mickle.

IN

PORTUGAL.

Alcobaça.

GONZALO HERMIGUEZ.

arms and in anger, in struggle and strife, Gonzalo Hermiguez won his wife;

He slew the Moor who from the fray
Was rescuing Fatima that day.

In vain she shrieked; Gonzalo pressed
The Moorish prisoner to his breast:
That breast in iron was arrayed;

The gauntlet was bloody that grasped the maid;
Through the beaver-sight his eye

Glared fierce and red and wrathfully;

And, while he bore the captive away,
His heart rejoiced, and he blest the day.

:

Under the lemon-walk's odorous shade
Gonzalo Hermiguez wooed the maid
The ringlets of his raven hair
Waved upon the evening air;

And gentle thoughts, that raise a sigh,
Softened the warrior's dark-brown eye,