national pride maintained throughout, and justified indeed by the nature of the subjects to which some of these productions are devoted. This last characteristic is blended with a deep and enthusiastic feeling of religion, which rather exalts than tempers the haughty confidence of the poet in the high destinies of his country. Spain is to him what Judea was to the bards who sang beneath the shadow of her palm-trees-the chosen and favoured land, whose people, severed from all others by the purity and devotedness of their faith, are peculiarly called to wreak the vengeance of Heaven upon the infidel. This triumphant conviction is powerfully expressed in his magnificent Ode on the Battle of Lepanto.

The impression of deep solemnity left upon the mind of the Spanish reader, by another of Herrera's lyric compositions, will, it is feared, be very inadequately conveyed through the medium of the following translation.]

"Voz de dolor, y canto de gemido," etc.

A VOICE of woe, a murmur of lament,
A spirit of deep fear and mingled ire;
Let such record the day, the day of wail
For Lusitania's bitter chastening sent!

She who hath seen her power, her fame expire,
And mourns them in the dust, discrown'd and pale.
And let the awful tale

With grief and horror every realm o'ershade,
From Afric's burning main

To the far sea, in other hues array'd,
And the red limits of the Orient's reign,
Whose nations, haughty though subdued, behold
Christ's glorious banner to the winds unfold.

Alas! for those that in embattled power,
And vain array of chariots and of horse,
O desert Libya! sought thy fatal coast!
And trusting not in Him, the eternal source
Of might and glory, but in earthly force,
Making the strength of multitudes their boast,
A flush'd and crested host,

Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trode
Their path of pride, as o'er a conquer'd land
Given for the spoil; nor raised their eyes to God:
And Israel's Holy One withdrew his hand,
Their sole support;-and heavily and prone
They fell-the car, the steed, the rider, all o'er-
thrown !

It came, the hour of wrath, the hour of woe,
Which to deep solitude and tears consign'd
The peopled realm, the realm of joy and mirth.
A gloom was on the heavens, no mantling glow
Announced the morn-it seem'd as nature pined,
And boding clouds obscured the sunbeam's birth;
While, startling the pale earth,
Bursting upon the mighty and the proud
With visitation dread,

Their crests the Eternal, in his anger, bow'd,

And raised barbarian nations o'er their head,
The inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold,
But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncon-
troll'd.

Then was the sword let loose, the flaming sword
Of the strong infidel's ignoble hand,
Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the crown
Of thy fair knighthood; and the insatiate horde,
Not with thy life content, O ruin'd land!
Sad Lusitania! even thy bright renown
Defaced and trampled down;

And scatter'd, rushing as a torrent-flood,
Thy pomp of arms and banners;-till the sands
Became a lake of blood-thy noblest blood!—
The plain a mountain of thy slaughter'd bands.
Strength on thy foes, resistless might was shed;
On thy devoted sons-amaze, and shame, and dread.

Are these the conquerors, these the lords of fight,
The warrior men, the invincible, the famed,
Who shook the earth with terror and dismay,
Whose spoils were empires?-They that in their
might

The haughty strength of savage nations tamed,
And gave the spacious Orient realms of day
To desolation's sway,

Making the cities of imperial name

E'en as the desert-place?

Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flame
Thus has their glory closed its dazzling race
In one brief hour? Is this their valour's doom,
On distant shores to fall, and find not even a
tomb?

Once were they, in their splendour and their pride,
As an imperial cedar on the brow

Of the great Lebanon! It rose, array'd
In its rich pomp of foliage, and of wide
Majestic branches, leaving far below
All children of the forest. To its shade
The waters tribute paid,

Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter there
Whose flight is of the loftiest through the sky,
And the wild mountain-creatures made their lair

Beneath; and nations by its canopy

Were shadow'd o'er. Supreme it stood, and ne'er Had earth beheld a tree so excellently fair.

But all elated, on its verdant stem,
Confiding solely in its regal height,
It soar'd presumptuous, as for empire born;
And God for this removed its diadem,
And cast it from its regions of delight,

SCENE I. The sea-shore near Lisbon.
SEBASTIAN, GONZALEZ, ZAMOR.

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 I 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 blessèd land,
Hath gain'd but richer beauty since we bade
Her glowing shores farewell. Seems it not thus?
Thy brow is clouded.

Gon. To mine eye the scene

ZAMOR, a young Arab. SYLVEIRA.

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.

Seb. 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,
Sway'd 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
Seem'd for that noble scene a canopy
Scarce too majestic, while it rang afar
To peals of warlike sound! My gallant bands!
Where are you now?

Gon. Bid the wide desert tell

Where sleep its dead! To mightier hosts than them
Hath it lent graves ere now; and on its breast
Is room for nations yet!

Seb. It cannot be

That deep remembrance from you! When once
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
Th' 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!

Seb. Thinkst thou, then,

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'rt one to make thy fearless heart a shield
Unto thy friend, in the dark stormy hour
When knightly crests are trampled, and proud
[one
Cleft, and strong breastplates shiver'd. Thou art
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

helms

Her weight of care to earth, those brief delights

Whose source is in a sunbeam, or a sound [wing
Which stirs the blood, or a young breeze, whose
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
A goodly heritage?

Zam. The land is fair;

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 th' 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 remember'd.

Zam. 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.

Zam. Then bid me not

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

R

Shalt be my chief, until I 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 wilds 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 thus faithful, for e'en yet
They may be fiercely tried.

[welcome.

Seb. I doubt them not. Even now my heart beats high to meet their 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 sunlight of his lowly board, Is touch'd by sickness; some familiar voice Greets him no more; and shall not fate and time Have done their work, since last we parted hence, Upon an empire? Ay, within those years, Hearts from their ancient worship have fall'n off, And bow'd before new stars; high names have sunk From their supremacy of place, and others Gone forth, and made themselves the mighty sounds At which thrones tremble. Oh! be slow to trust E'en those to whom your smiles were wont to seem As light is unto flowers. Search well the depths Of bosoms in whose keeping you would shrine The secret of your state. Storms pass not by Leaving earth's face unchanged.

Seb. Whence didst thou learn

The cold distrust which casts so deep a shadow O'er a most noble nature?

Gon. Life hath been

My stern and only teacher. I have known
Vicissitudes in all things, but the most
In human hearts. Oh! yet awhile tame down
That royal spirit, till the hour be come
When it may burst its bondage! On thy brow
The suns of burning climes have set their seal,
And toil, and years, and perils, have not pass'd
O'er the bright aspect, and the ardent eye,
As doth a breeze of summer. Be that change
The mask beneath whose shelter thou may'st read
Men's thoughts, and veil thine own.

Seb. Am I thus changed From all I was? And yet it needs must be, Since e'en my soul hath caught another hue From its long sufferings. Did I not array The gallant flower of Lusian chivalry, And lead the mighty of the land, to pour Destruction on the Moslem? I return, And as a fearless and a trusted friend, Bring, from the realms of my captivity, An Arab of the desert !-But the sun Hath sunk below th' Atlantic. Gonzalez, fear me not.

Let us hence[Exeunt.

SCENE II.-A Street in Lisbon illuminated.

MANY CITIZENS.

1st Cit. In sooth our city wears a goodly mien, With her far-blazing fanes, and festive lamps Shining from all her marble palaces, [lattice Countless as heaven's fair stars. The humblest Sends forth its radiance. How the sparkling waves Fling back the light!

2d Cit. Ay, 'tis a gallant show; And one which serves, like others, to conceal Things which must not be told.

3d Cit. What wouldst thou say?

2d Cit. That which may scarce, in perilous times

'Tis to Sebastian, and his waste of life, And power, and treasure, that we owe these bonds. 3d Cit. Talk not of bonds. May our new

monarch rule

The weary land in peace! But who art thou? Whence com'st thou, haughty stranger, that these

things,

Known to all nations, should be new to thee? Seb. (wildly.) I come from regions where the cities lie

In ruins, not in chains!

Exit with GONZALEZ and ZAMOR.

2d Cit. He wears the mien

Of one that hath commanded; yet his looks
And words were strangely wild.

1st Cit. Mark'd you his fierce

And haughty gesture, and the flash that broke From his dark eye, when King Sebastian's name Became our theme?

2d Cit. Trust me, there's more in this Than may be lightly said. These are no times To breathe men's thoughts i'th' open face of heaven And ear of multitudes. They that would speak Of monarchs and their deeds, should keep within Their quiet homes: Come, let us hence; and then We'll commune of this stranger.

SCENE III.-The Portico of a Palace.

SEBASTIAN, GONZALEZ, ZAMOR.

Seb. Withstand me not! I tell thee that my soul, With all its passionate energies, is roused Unto that fearful strength which must have way, E'en like the elements in their hour of might And mastery o'er creation.

Gon. But they wait

That hour in silence. Oh! be calm awhileThine is not come. My king

Seb. I am no king,

While in the very palace of my sires,

Ay, where mine eyes first drank the glorious light,
Where my soul's thrilling echoes first awoke
To the high sound of earth's immortal names,
Th' usurper lives and reigns. I am no king
Until I cast him thence.

Zam. Shall not thy voice

Be as a trumpet to th' awak'ning land?

Will not the bright swords flash like sun-bursts forth,

When the brave hear their chief?

Gon. Peace, Zamor! peace!

Child of the desert, what hast thou to do