So spake the brave Montañez, Butrago's Lord was he; And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee;
He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill;
He died, God wot! but not before his sword had drunk its fill.
Spanish Ballad. Tr. J. G. Lockhart.
Lima, whence I bent my pilgrim way
not to the beauties tune my lay,
For thoughts would rise which I should now forsake.
The humble garb of wool about me bound,
Formed to no fashion, but a lowly vest,
And feet which naked tread the stony ground,
From worldly converse long have closed my breast. The gaysome throng, who loudly laud thy name, Seeing thy gentle Lima 'neath the care
Of one, a noble prince and monarch's heir,
The more thou writ'st the more will sound thy fame. Brother, though I on thee less praise bestow,
Jointly let ours to God eternal flow.
Fra Agostinho da Cruz. Tr. J. Adamson,
WRITTEN AFTER VISITING THE CONVENT OF ARRABIDA, NEAR SETUBAL.
APPY the dwellers in this holy house;
For surely never worldly thoughts intrude
On this retreat, this sacred solitude,
Where Quiet with Religion makes her home.
And who tenant such a goodly scene,
How should ye be but good where all is fair,
And where the mirror of the mind reflects
Serenest beauty? O'er these mountain-wilds
The insatiate eye with ever-new delight
Roams raptured, marking now where to the wind
The tall tree bends its many-tinted boughs
With soft, accordant sound; and now the sport
Of joyous sea-birds o'er the tranquil deep;
And now the long-extending stream of light,
Where the broad orb of day refulgent sinks
Beneath old Ocean's line. To have no cares
That eat the heart, no wants that to the earth
Chain the reluctant spirit, to be freed
From forced communion with the selfish tribe
Who worship Mammon, - yea, emancipate
From this world's bondage, even while the soul
Inhabits still its corruptible clay,-
Almost, ye dwellers in this holy house,
Almost I envy you. You never see
Pale Misery's asking eye, nor roam about
Those huge and hateful haunts of crowded men,
Where Wealth and Power have built their palaces,
Fraud spreads his snares secure, man preys on man,
Iniquity abounds, and rampant Vice,
With an infection worse than mortal, taints
Ye tenants of this sacred solitude,
Here to abide, and, when the sun rides high,
Seek some sequestered dingle's coolest shade;
And, at the breezy hour, along the beach
Stray with slow step, and gaze upon the deep,
And while the breath of evening fanned my brow,
And the wild waves with their continuous sound
Soothed my accustomed ear, think thankfully
That I had from the crowd withdrawn in time,
And found a harbor. Yet may yonder deep
Suggest a less unprofitable thought,
Monastic brethren! Would the mariner,
Though storms may sometimes swell the mighty waves,
And o'er the reeling bark with thundering crash
Impel the mountainous surge, quit yonder deep,
And rather float upon some tranquil sea,
Whose moveless waters never feel the gale,
In safe stagnation? Rouse thyself, my soul!
No season this for self-deluding dreams;
It is thy spring-time; sow, if thou wouldst reap;
Then, after honest labor, welcome rest,
In full contentment not to be enjoyed
Unless when duly earned. O, happy then
To know that we have walked among mankind
More sinned against than sinning! happy then
To muse on many a sorrow overpast,
And think the business of the day is done,
And as the evening of our lives shall close, -
The peaceful evening, with a Christian's hope
Expect the dawn of everlasting day!
ALTER not, pilgrim here! with steady steps
Upward along this dark-o'ershadowed path
Tread cheerily this is the rugged path
That leads to Heaven. Hark! how the glittering stream,
That sparkles down the mountain, to thine ear
Sends its mild murmurs: round thy throbbing brow,
Pleasant the cool air breathes, and on thy way
The glorious sun shines radiant: canst thou pause?
O pilgrim, hie thee on with holy haste
And enter there, where all the hours are hours
Of life, and every hope, reality.
Francisco Manuel. Tr. R. Southey.
INSCRIPTION FOR THE DESERTO DE BUSACO.
EADER! thou standest upon holy ground,
Which Penitence hath chosen for itself,
And war, disturbing the deep solitude,
Hath left it doubly sacred. On these heights
The host of Portugal and England stood,
Arrayed against Massena, when the chief,
Proud of Rodrigo and Almeida won,
Pressed forward, thinking the devoted realm
Full sure should fall a prey. He in his pride
Scorned the poor numbers of the English foe,
And thought the children of the land would fly
From his advance, like sheep before the wolf,
Scattering, and lost in terror. Ill he knew
The Lusitanian spirit! Ill he knew
The arm, the heart, of England! Ill he knew
Her Wellington! He learnt to know them here,
That spirit and that arm, that heart, that mind,
Here on Busaco gloriously displayed,
When, hence repulsed, the beaten boaster wound
Below his course circuitous, and left
His thousands for the beasts and ravenous fowl.
The Carmelite who in his cell recluse
Was wont to sit, and from a skull receive
Death's silent lesson, wheresoe'er he walk,
Henceforth may find his teachers. He shall find
The Frenchmen's bones in glen and grove, on rock
And height, where'er the wolves and carrion birds
Have strewn them, washed in torrents, bare and bleached
By sun and rain, and by the winds of heaven.
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