« ForrigeFortsett »
« A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
But not my mother earth.
Its hearth is desolate;
My dog howls at the gate.
« ‘Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or tremble at the gale?
Our ship is swift and strong:
More merrily along.'
a 'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Am sorrowful in mind;
A mother whom I love,
But thee—and one above.'
a ‘My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.''Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry.
«'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or shiver at the gale?'-
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
« ‘My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake,
What answer shall she make?'-
Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.'
« For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?
We late saw streaming o'er.
Nor perils gathering near;
No thing that claims a tear.
« And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea :
When none will sigh for me?
Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again,
He'd tear me where he stands.
« With thee, my bark, I 'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
So not again to mine.
And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My native land—Good night!»
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
XV. Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land! What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand! But man would mar thein with an impious hand: And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge Gainst those who most transgress his high command, With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.
XVI. What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold! Her image floating on that noble tide, Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, But now whereon a thousand keels did ride Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, And to the Lusians did her aid afford: A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,
Than those whereof such things the bard relates, Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates?
The vine on high, the willow-branch below,