There was tumult in the crowded strait, And a cry of wild dismay,
And many a warrior met his fate From a peasant's hand that day!
And the empire's banner then From its place of waving free, Went down before the shepherd-men, The men of the Forest-sea.*
With their pikes and massy clubs they brake The cuirass and the shield,
And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake From the reapers of the field!
The field-but not of sheaves
Proud crests and pennons lay,
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch-wood leaves, In the autumn tempest's way.
Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view'd, When the Austrian turn'd to fly, And the brave, in the trampling multitude, Had a fearful death to die!
And the leader of the war At eve unhelm'd was seen,
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, And a pale and troubled mien.
But the sons of the land which the freeman tills, Went back from the battle-toil,
To their cabin homes 'midst the deep green hills, All burden'd with royal spoil.
There were songs and festal fires
On the soaring Alps that night,
When children sprung to meet their sires From the wild Morgarten fight.
*Forest-sea, the lake of the four cantons is also so called.
Seb. With what young life and fragrance in its breath My native air salutes me! from the groves Of citron, and the mountains of the vine, And thy majestic tide thus foaming on
In power and freedom o'er its golden sands, Fair stream, my Tajo! youth, with all its glow And pride of feeling, through my soul and frame Again seems rushing, as these noble waves
Past their bright shores flow joyously. Sweet land, My own, my Fathers' land, of sunny skies And orange-bowers!-Oh! is it not a dream That thus 1 tread thy soil? Or do I wake From a dark dream but now! Gonzalez, say, Doth it not bring the flush of early life Back on th' awakening spirit thus to gaze On the far-sweeping river, and the shades Which in their undulating motion speak Of gentle winds amidst bright waters born, After the fiery skies and dark-red sands
Of the lone desert? Time and toil must needs Have changed our mien; but this, our blessed land, Hath gained but richer beauty since we bade Her glowing shores farewell. Seems it not thus? Thy brow is clouded.-
To mine eye the scene
Wears, amidst all its quiet loveliness,
A hue of desolation, and the calm,
The solitude and silence which pervade
Earth, air, and ocean, seem belonging less
To peace than sadness! We have proudly stood Even on this shore, beside the Atlantic wave, When it hath look'd not thus.
Ay, now thy soul Is in the past! Oh no, it look'd not thus When the morn smiled upon our thousand sails, And the winds blew for Afric! How that hour With all its hues of glory, seems to burst Again upon my vision! I behold
The stately barks, the arming, the array, The crests, the banners of my chivalry Swayed by the sea-breeze till their motion show'd Like joyous life! How the proud billows foam'd! And the oars flash'd, like lightnings of the deep, And the tall spears went glancing to the sun, And scattering round quick rays, as if to guide The valiant unto fame! Ay, the blue heaven Seemed for that noble scene a canopy
Scarce too majestic, while it rung afar
To peals of warlike sound! My gallant bands! Where are you now?
Where sleep its dead! To mightier hosts than them Hath it lent graves ere now; and on its breast
That all have perished! Many a noble man, Made captive on that war-field, may have burst His bonds like ours. Cloud not this fleeting hour, Which to my soul is as the fountain's draught To the parched lip of fever, with a thought
That deep remembrance from you! When once more Your place is 'midst earth's rulers, let it dwell Around you, as the shadow of your throne,
Wherein the land may rest. My king, this hour (Solemn as that which to the voyager's eye,
In far and dim perspective, doth unfold
A new and boundless world) may haply be The last in which the courage and the power
Of truth's high voice may reach you. Who may stand As man to man, as friend to friend, before
The ancestral throne of monarchs? Or, perchance, Toils, such as tame the loftiest to endurance, Henceforth may wait us here! But howsoe'er This be, the lessons now from sufferings past Befit all time, all change. Oh! by the blood, The free, the generous blood of Portugal, Shed on the sands of Afric,-by the names Which, with their centuries of high renown, There died, extinct for ever,-let not those Who stood in hope and glory at our side Here, on this very sea-beach, whence they pass'd To fall, and leave no trophy,-let them not
Be soon, be e'er forgotten! for their fate Bears a deep warning in its awfulness, Whence power might well learn wisdom! Think'st thou, then,
Seb. That years of sufferance and captivity, Such as have bow'd down eagle hearts ere now, And made high energies their spoil, have pass'd So lightly o'er my spirit? It is not thus! The things thou wouldst recall are not of those To be forgotten! But my heart hath still A sense, a bounding pulse for hope and joy, And it is joy which whispers in the breeze
Sent from my own free mountains. Brave Gonzalez! Thou art one to make thy fearles heart a shield Unto thy friend, in the dark stormy hour
When knightly crests are trampled, and proud helms Cleft, and strong breastplates shiver'd. Thou art one To infuse the soul of gallant fortitude Into the captive's bosom, and beguile
The long slow march beneath the burning noon With lofty patience; but for those quick bursts Those buoyant efforts of the soul to cast
Her weight of care to earth, those brief delights Whose source is in a sunbeam, or a sound
Which stirs the blood, or a young breeze, whose wing Wanders in chainless joy; for things like these Thou hast no sympathies!-And thou, my Zamor, Art wrapt in thought! I welcome thee to this, The kingdom of my fathers. Is it not
But he, the archer of the wilderness,
Beholdeth not the palms beneath whose shade His tents are scatter'd, and his camels rest; And therefore is he sad!
Seb. Thou must not pine With that sick yearning of the impatient heart, Which makes the exile's life one fever'd dream Of skies, and hills, and voices far away, And faces wearing the familiar hues Lent by his native sunbeams. I have known Too much of this, and would not see another Thus daily die. If it be so with thee,. My gentle Zamor, speak. Behold, our bark Yet, with her white sails catching sunset's glow, Lies within signal reach. If it be thus,
Then fare thee well-farewell, thou brave, and true, And generous friend! How often is our path Cross'd by some being whose bright spirit sheds A passing gladness o'er it, but whose course Leads down another current, never more To blend with ours! Yet far within our souls,
Amidst the rushing of the busy world,
Dwells many a secret thought which lingers yet Around that image. And e'en so, kind Zamor, Shalt thou be long remembered!
By the fame Of my brave sire, whose deeds the warrior tribes Tell round the desert's watchfire, at the hour Of silence, and of coolness, and of stars,
I will not leave thee! 'Twas in such an hour The dreams of rest were on me, and I lay Shrouded in slumber's mantle, as within The chambers of the dead. Who saved me then, When the pard, soundless as the midnight, stole Soft on the sleeper? Whose keen dart transfix'd The monarch of the solitudes? I woke, And saw thy javelin crimson'd with his blood, Thou, my deliverer! and my heart e'en then Call'd thee its brother.
Seb. For that gift of life With one of tenfold price, even freedom's self, Thou hast repaid me well.
Forsake thee! Though my father's tents may rise At times upon my spirit, yet my home
Shall be amidst thy mountains, Prince, and thou Shalt be my chief, until see thee robed
With all thy power. When thou canst need no more Thine Arab's faithful heart and vigorous arm, From the green regions of the setting sun
Then shall the wanderer turn his steps, and seek His orient wild's again.
Seb. Be near me still, And ever, O my warrior! I shall stand Again amidst my hosts a mail-clad king, Begirt with spears and banners, and the pomp And the proud sounds of battle. Be thy place Then at my side. When doth a monarch cease To need true hearts, bold hands? Not in the field Of arms, nor on the throne of power, nor yet The couch of sleep. Be our friend, we will not part. Gon. Be all thy friends then faithful, for e'en yet They may be fiercely tried.
I doubt them not. Even now my heart beats high to meet their welcome. Let us away!
Gon. Yet hear once more my liege: The humblest pilgrim from his distant shrine Returning, finds not e'en his peasant home Unchanged amidst its vineyards. Some loved face, Which made the sun-light of his lowly board, Is touch'd by sickness; some familiar voice Greets him no more; and shall not fate and time
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