Dazed by the flash of swords, and gleaming arms,

And, as the foggy clouds from bright sunrise,

Or wax dissolved in noonday's golden light, May shrink before thy radiance, scared and blind, Their dull and clouded sight

As dark and dim as their ungracious mind.

II.

Thou, who in holy zeal and generous rage
Hast peopled watery Neptune's billowy breast
With mast-trees, like tall forests, tossing high,

And rank'd each knight of thine, with lance in rest,
Against presumptuous Britain war to wage,
Without delay or dread, with pageantry

Of numbers that might ocean-waves outvie,
With sails that might exhaust the fabled store
Of Eolus for winds to waft them o'er;
Doubt not, those English pirates soon shall stain
The green and whitening main

With dark and crimson gore,

And strew with costly wrecks old Ocean's floor.
Yea, though from far the trophies hither come,
Thy ports and strands shall see the spoils outspread,
Proud banners gather'd home,

Batter'd and captive ships, and weltering dead.

III.

O Island, once so Catholic, so strong,

Fortress of Faith, now Heresy's foul shrine, Camp of train'd War, and Wisdom's sacred School; The time hath been, such majesty was thine, The lustre of thy crown was first in song. Now the dull weeds that spring by Stygian pool Were fitting wreath for thee. Land of the rule

Of Arthurs, Edwards, Henries! Where are they? Their Mother where, rejoicing in their sway, Firm in the strength of Faith? To lasting shame Condemn'd, through guilty blame

Of her, who rules thee now.

O hateful Queen, so hard of heart and brow,
Wanton by turns, and cruel, fierce, and lewd,
Thou distaff on the throne, true virtue's bane,
Wolflike in every mood,

May Heaven's just flame on thy false tresses rain!

IV.

Meantime do thou, dear Country, turn thine eye Southward to watch the Ionian waves, thick sown With Turkish masts and sail-yards; mark their pride, Whose yoke on many a Christian neck is thrown, Whose chains gall Christian hands, whose navies fly

By many a sandy creek, and, while they ride
At anchor, spoil fair islands far and wide,

And multiply their captives. For such foe,
So insolent, if thy just wrath be slow,
Thy Christian ardour cold, yet mark from far
The ensigns of their war,

Their standard's mock profane,

That to believing eyes, as in disdain

Of Christ's most holy Cross, exalts in sight, Streaming and trembling in the fitful gale, With spangled crescents bright

The portent of a horse's triple tail.

V.

Gaze on those horned moons of silvery ray,
And watch them, while thy hope is on the prize
Of naval glory from the British war;

Lest the fell hawks to spoil, unheeded, rise, And sweep along thy coasts, and truss their prey, Spurning thy keys, which now their outlet bar, Beyond the pillars of the Western Star.

No, let the time instruct thee: hoist on high Thy topsails, bid thy streamers flout the sky : Arm thy brave sons, great Mother; bid Castille, And Leon, firm as steel,

Uplift in battle line

Above their feudal blazonry the sign

Of Judah's Lion: He shall nerve their hands,

Till Pagan wrecks shall throng the sea's deep flow, And of their felon bands

The floating turbans tell the dead below.

VI.

My song, since my rude lyre.

Doth now to strains of martial trump aspire,

Hereafter, if the augury be not vain,

The fiery zone alike, and icy car,

Shall hear me sing of Spain,

Her deeds of high emprize, and laurel'd crowns of war.

THE WINNING OF CALES.

BY CERVANTES.

We saw a banded confraternity,

By soldiers call'd a squadron, men, whose blows Were dreaded more by friends, than English foes, Holding an Easter May-game in July;

All plumed, as if they meant to mount and fly:
What wonder, if, ere fifteen days had close,
This pomp of Babel vanish'd, as it rose,
Giants, and dwarfs, with all their surquedry!
Oft, like a valiant bull-calf, at their drill

Had stout Becerro roar'd; pale grew the sun Beneath their smoke; earth trembled at their din: But all too late at Cales to fight or kill;

The English Earl was gone; his booty won; And in grand triumph march'd our grand Duke in!

See Note.