Rogero determined to profit by this advice; but when he was driven from the narrow path to Logistilla's domain and met Alcina he fell under the power of her beauty, and thought Astolpho a traducer. The days passed so gayly in her beautiful home that Rogero forgot the pagan cause, forgot his duty, forgot Bradamant, and was roused from his lethargy only by Melissa, to whom Bradamant had given the magic ring to enable her to find and rescue her lover. Melissa found the young knight when apart from Alcina, and gave him the ring that he might with it be enabled to see the enchantress in her true form. She then instructed him how to escape and seek the kingdom of Logistilla. Rogero was disgusted when the beautiful enchantress appeared as a hideous, wrinkled old woman, but concealing his change of feeling, waited until the opportunity presented itself to get his armor, take a steed, and pass by the warders of the gate. With great difficulty he reached a stream which separated Alcina's lands from those of Logistilla, and while ferrying across was overtaken by the boats of Alcina. With the help of Atlantes' shield, they were overcome, and Alcina was forced to depart, weeping, with only one boat, while Rogero entered the castle of the fairy Logistilla, from whom he learned many noble lessons.

Here came the other knights freed from Alcina's enchantment by Melissa, and Melissa herself with Astolpho, on the hippogrif, which she had learned to control. Astolpho was in his own armor and bore his wondrous spear, which had the power of overthrowing every one whom it so much as touched.

After a short rest among the pleasant gardens of Logistilla, Rogero departed on the hippogrif, and although anxious to see his Bradamant again, took the opportunity to pass over all the known world by this novel method of travel. He saw the troops in England gathering to go to the aid of Charlemagne, and rescued the beautiful Angelica, who had been taken by pirates and sold to the people of Ebuda, who chained her upon a rock as a victim for the orc. Rogero put the orc to sleep with his magic shield, giving Angelica the ring that the sight of the shield might not affect her as well. But when, charmed by the maid, he became too lover-like in his attentions, she put the ring in her mouth and disappeared. The angry Rogero turned, only to find that his hippogrif had broken its rein and was gone. Hastening through the forest, vexed with himself and the maiden, he fancied he saw 'Bradamant carried off by a giant, and following her, entered a magic castle of Atlantes, where he spent his days vainly trying to overtake his beloved and her captor.

Orlando could think only of his lost Angelica; and forgetful of the fact that his uncle Charlemagne was sorely pressed by the heathen, he stole from the camp one night in disguise, and went in search of her. Passing the isle of Ebuda he slew the ore, rescued Olympia, who was exposed as its victim, avenged her wrongs, and continued on his way until he reached the castle of Atlantes, and, fancying he saw Angelica, entered, and began the mad round of pursuit with many other Christian and pagan knights who were rendered unconscious of one another's presence by the magic of the wizard.

Hither came Angelica, invisible by means of the ring, to find a knight to protect her on her way to Cathay. Unfortunately as she showed herself to Sacripant, she was seen by Ferrau and Orlando, and all three pursued her from the castle. When they were sufficiently removed from it Angelica slipped the ring in her mouth and disappeared, and Ferrau and Orlando began to quarrel about Orlando's helmet, which the Moor was determined to win and wear. As Ferrau wore no helm until he could win Orlando's, that paladin hung his on a tree while they fought. Unseen by them, Angelica took it down, intending to restore it to Orlando later, and slipped away. When the knights discovered her absence they went in search of her, and Ferrau, coming upon her, took the helmet as she disappeared in fright. Orlando, assuming another crest, which he did not need, as his body was charmed and could not be hurt by any weapon, went forward, still in search of his love, and on the way encountered and almost totally destroyed two squadrons of Moors, and rescued from a robber's cave the beautiful Isabel, betrothed of Zerbino.

Melissa returned to Bradamant with the news that while Rogero was freed from the enchantment of Aleina, he was imprisoned in Atlantes' castle, from which she herself could rescue him by slaying the wizard, who would appear to her in the form of her lover. Bradamant resolved to do so; but when she saw the seeming Rogero set upon by two giants, she forgot her resolution, believed Melissa to be false, and spurring after him, became a prisoner in that wondrous castle, through which day and night she pursued her ever-fleeing lover.

When the Moors discovered the destruction of the two squadrons, Mandricardo, the Tartar king, determined to seek and do battle with the knight (unknown to him by name) who had wrought such destruction. The Tartar wore the arms of Hector save the sword, which was the property of Orlando, and until he gained it, he bore no weapon save the lance. With this, however, he stormed through the battlefield, striking terror to the hearts of all. With it alone, he destroyed a band of men conveying to Rodomont, the Saracen chief, his betrothed bride, Doralice, and won the maid for himself.

Outside Paris raged the infidel, chief among them the giant King Rodomont. Smiting those of his troops who hesitated to mount the scaling ladders, he waded through the wet moat, scaled the first wall, leaped the dry ditch, mounted the second wall, and ran alone through the city, spreading terror, death, and fire, while Charlemagne, ignorant of his presence, was busied in the defence of one of the gates against Agramant.

Now Rinaldo's army approached, unsuspected by the heathen, because of the aid of Silence, summoned by Saint Michael. Through these, welcomed by Charlemagne, Rodomont cut his way, hewing down fifteen or twenty foes at once, and, casting himself into the Seine, escaped, angry that he had not succeeded in destroying the city.

Discord, also summoned by Michael to the aid of the Christians, informed Rodomont on his return to the camp of the capture of Doralice, and the chief set forth raging, in search of Mandricardo, thoughtlessly abandoning King Agramant, struggling against the English re-inforcements. As night fell on a furious battle, the Moors were driven back, and Charlemagne pitched his tents without the city, opposite those of the Moors.

In the Moorish camp were two youths who loved one another with a love passing wonderful, Medoro and Cloridan. Both served Dardinello, and had crossed the sea with him. As they stood on guard that night they talked of their lord's death on the field that day, and Medoro suggested that they go in search of his body and bury it. Cloridan agreed, and they crept through the sleeping lines of the Christians, slaughtering many, found the body, and were hurrying into the forest when they heard the troops of Zerbino. Cloridan fled, fancying that Medoro would do the same, but on finding himself unaccompanied, retraced his footsteps, only to see his friend surrounded by a troop of horsemen. From his ambush he shot his arrows at the foe, until Zerbino in wrath seized Medoro by the throat, exclaiming, "Thou shall die for this!" But when Medoro prayed to be allowed first to bury his lord, pity touched Zerbino, and he freed the youth, who fell, however, wounded by a thrust from a churlish horseman, in pursuit of whom Zerbino at once fled. Cloridan sprang in among the horsemen and fell dead by their thrusts at the side of the unconscious Medoro.

The bleeding youth was found by Angelica, who passed by, clad in rustic raiment; and the maid, struck with his beauty, recalled her knowledge of chirturgery and revived him. After Dardinello was buried, she and a shepherd assisted Medoro to a neighboring cottage, where she attended him until his wound was healed. But as he grew well, Angelica, who had scorned the suit of the proudest knights, fell sick of love for the humble youth, and resolved to take him with her to Cathay.

When Astolpho left the castle of Logistilla he carried with him as her gift a book from which he could learn to overcome all magic cheats, and a horn whose sound would put the boldest man to flight. Following her directions, he sailed past Scythia and India into the Persian Gulf, and there disembarking, passed through Arabia and along the Red Sea. There he overcame the giant Caligorantes, slew Orillo, who guarded the outlet of the Nile, and met there the brother knights Gryphon and Aquilant. Gryphon, led astray by an unworthy love, stole away from his brother, but was found again after many adventures, and the three, together with Sansonet and Marphisa, a warlike virgin, embarked for France. A great storm arose, and the vessel was forced to land in Syria. This was the land of the Amazons, and the troop escaped only by the warning and assistance of Guido, the savage, who was a bondsman in the land.

Astolpho became separated from the rest of the party and reached Europe alone. One day, while he was stooping to drink at a spring in the forest, a rustic sprang from a thicket, and leaping upon Rabican, rode him away. Astolpho, hastening after him, entered the enchanted castle of Atlantes, and soon recognized it as a house of magic. He broke the spell by the aid of his book, freed the captive knights, and finding the hippogrif, which he had learned to guide from Melissa, mounted it and rode away.

When the castle was destroyed, Rogero recognized Bradamant and clasped her in his arms, rejoicing to find her again. The maid, anxious to avoid further separation, promised to wed him if he would become a Christian, and demand her of her father, Duke Aymon. Rogero gladly promised to do so. and the two were hastening to Vallombrosa that he might be baptized when they encountered a maid, who prayed them to hasten to the relief of a youth doomed to death by fire. They hurried on, but paused to free Guido the savage, Gryphon. Aquilant, and Sansonet, who had been imprisoned by Pinabel, and Bradamant, pursuing Pinabel into the forest, slew him. But there, unfortunately, she lost her way, and while she was wandering about, Rogero, ignorant of her whereabouts, pushed on and freed the youth, who proved to be Bradamant's brother.

As Bradamant wandered through the forest she found Astolpho, who had just made a bridle for the hippogrif, and recognizing him, took his horse and spear in charge. A long time she wandered forlorn. She did not know the way to Vallombrosa; she did not know the whereabouts of Rogero. Her home was in sight, but if her mother saw her she would not again be suffered to depart. As she stood debating with herself, she was recognized by one of her brothers, and was forced to accompany him home. Thence she secretly sent her maid Hippalca to Vallombrosa with Rogero's horse Frontino, and a message explaining her absence.

After the capture of Doralice, Mandricardo hastened on, and overtook Orlando just as he had freed Zerbino and united him to Isabel. Recognizing Orlando by his crest as the chief who had destroyed the squadrons, the Tartar challenged him to combat. In courtesy to his foe, who would bear no sword until he could have Durindana, Orlando hung the blade on a tree, and the two knights spurred their steeds and broke their lances together. Then grappling, each endeavored to unhorse the other. The breaking of Orlando's saddle girth caused his fall just as he had slipped the bridle from the head of his enemy's horse, and the frightened steed, freed from its rein, ran madly through the wood, followed by Doralice.

Orlando told Zerbino to inform Mandricardo if he overtook him that he would wait in that spot three days for him to return and renew the combat, and bade the lovers farewell. As he wandered through the region while waiting, he found a peaceful little spot where a limpid rill rippled through a meadow dotted here and there with trees. Here the weary warrior sought repose; but as he looked about him he espied the name of Angelica carved on the trees, entwined with that of Medoro. Persuading himself that this was a fanciful name by which the maid intended to signify himself, he entered a little ivy-covered grotto, arching over a fountain, and there discovered on the rocky wall some verses in which Medoro celebrated his union with Angelica. For a moment he stood as if turned to stone. Unable to weep, he again mounted his horse and sought a peasant's house to pass the night. There he heard the story of Angelica's infatuation, and saw the bracelet she had left them in return for their hospitality. The unhappy Orlando passed a sleepless night, weeping and groaning, and the next morning hastened to the forest that he might give way to his grief unobserved. There madness came upon him, and he uprooted the hateful trees, cut the solid stone of the grotto with his sword, making a desolation of the beautiful spot, and, casting off his armor, ran naked through the country, pillaging, burning, and slaying.

Zerbino and Isabel sought the spot in a few days to learn if Mandricardo had returned, found the scattered armor, and heard of Orlando's madness from a shepherd. Lamenting over their protector's misfortune, they gathered up the armor, hung it on a sapling, and wrote thereon Orlando's name. But while they were thus engaged, Mandricardo arrived, took the long coveted sword, and gave Zerbino, who attempted to prevent the theft, a mortal wound. The unhappy Isabel, intent on self-destruction, was comforted by a hermit, who promised to take her to a monastery near Marseilles.

Mandricardo had had but a few moments for repose after this combat with Zerbino, when the furious Rodomont overtook him and a terrible combat between the two began, the beautiful cause of it looking on with interest. But so strong were the champions that the struggle might have been prolonged indefinitely had not a messenger announced to the knights that they must postpone their private quarrels for a moment and hasten to the relief of King Agramant.

After Rogero had freed Richardetto, Bradamant's brother, and had attempted in vain to find Bradamant, he was troubled by the thought of King Agramant. He was determined to wed the warrior maid and become a Christian, but first came his vow to the pagan king. He therefore wrote her a note, saying that honor required his presence with Agramant for at least fifteen or twenty days, but after that time he would find means to justify himself with Agramant and would meet her at Vallombrosa to be baptized.

He, with Richardetto, Aldigier, and Marphisa, whom they met on her way to the pagan camp, rode on together, and freed Vivian and Malagigi from the Moors and Manganese. While they rested at a little fountain, Hippalca rode up, and told them that she had just met Rodomont, who took Frontino from her. She also managed secretly to give Rogero Bradamant's message and receive his letter in return.

While the party still remained at the fountain, Rodomont came up with Mandricardo and Doralice, and all engaged in a fierce battle, which was at last interrupted by Malagigi, who, versed in wizard arts, conjured a demon into Doralice's horse so that it ran away; and Rodomont and Mandricardo, frightened by her screams, started in pursuit.

With the assistance of Rogero, Marphisa, Rodomont, and Mandricardo, Agramant was enabled to drive Charlemagne back into Paris, where he was saved only by the interposition of Discord, who stirred up the old quarrels between Rodomont, Mandricardo, Rogero, and Gradasso over weapons, bearings, and horses, until Agramant announced that they should settle their difficulties by single combat, drawing lots to see who should first engage in battle. But when they were ready for the lists, fresh quarrels broke out, until the king despaired of ever having peace in his ranks. Finally, at his command, Doralice publicly declared Mandricardo her choice, and the furious Rodomont fled from the camp. On his way to Africa he found a little abandoned church between France and Spain, and decided to remain there instead of returning home. From this spot he saw Isabel on her way to Marseilles, and falling in love with her, he slew the hermit, dragged her to his retreat, and tried to win her. But she, loathing him and faithful to Zerbino, caused him to slay her, pretending that she was rendered invulnerable by an ointment which she had prepared, and the secret of which she would impart to him. The unhappy Rodomont walled up the church to form her tomb, and threw a narrow bridge across the stream. On this bridge he met every knight who came thither, and having overthrown him, took his arms to deck the tomb, on which he determined to hang a thousand such trophies. If the vanquished knight was a Moor he was set free without his arms; if a Christian he was imprisoned. Thither came the mad Orlando, and wrestled with Rodomont on the bridge until both fell into the stream. The madman then passed on through the country and met Medoro and Angelica on their way to India. They escaped with difficulty, Medoro's horse falling a victim to the madman, who continued to lay waste the land until he reached Zizera on the bay of Gibraltar, and, plunging into the sea, swam to Africa.

After Doralice had decided the quarrel between Mandricardo and Rodomont, Rogero and the Tartar met in the lists to decide their quarrel over their bearings. The battle was fearful, and when both fell to the ground it was supposed that Mandricardo was the victor. But when the crowd rushed to the lists they found the Tartar dead and Rogero only wounded. But the cheers of the crowd gave little pleasure to the hero, who grieved that he must lie on a sick-bed instead of seeking Bradamant, according to his promise. Bradamant too, who had looked forward so eagerly to the day he had set, wept when it came without her lover. Soon she heard that Rogero's coming was prevented by his wounds; but when she also heard that he was attended by the warrior maid Marphisa, and that their names were frequently coupled in the pagan camp, she at once felt the pangs of jealousy. Unable to endure it longer, she armed herself, changing her usual vest for one whose colors denoted her desperation and desire to die, and set forth to meet and slay Marphisa, taking with her the spear left her by Astolpho, whose magic properties she did not know. With this she overthrew Rodomont and caused him to depart from his tomb and free his captives, and then, proceeding to Aries, challenged Rogero, who was sadly puzzled, not recognizing his challenger on account of her changed vest. Several knights attacked her before Rogero came forth, only to be overthrown by the spear, and then Marphisa, who had rushed forth before Rogero could arm, met her, and the two women fought like tigers. When Rogero at last went forth he recognized Bradamant's voice, and suspecting the cause of her hostility, implored her to withdraw with him to a wood near by to hear his explanation. Marphisa followed them and attacked Bradamant so fiercely that Rogero was forced to her rescue, and lifting his sword would have struck the maid had he not been stopped by a voice from a tomb near by. It was that of Atlatites, who announced to Rogero and Marphisa that they were brother and sister, children of Rogero of Pisa and Galiciella; that Rogero had been treacherously slain and his town betrayed to Almontes, who cast Galiciella adrift on the sea. Atlantes rescued her, and took her children when she died; but Marphisa was stolen from him by a band of Arabs.

From this speech it was plainly the duty of Rogero and Marphisa to espouse the cause of Charlemagne and take arms against Agramant, who was their enemy. Bradamant and Marphisa then embraced, bade Rogero farewell, and proceeded to Charlemagne's camp, where Marphisa was received with honor and baptized, while Rogero promised to follow them as soon as he could find an excuse to leave Agramant.

When Astolpho left Bradamant in the forest, he quickly rose in the air and passed rapidly over the kingdoms of the world, Aragon, Navarre, Cadiz, Egypt, Morocco, Fez, over the sandy desert until he reached the kingdom of Nubia, whose king he rescued from the harpies by the sound of his magic horn. Then, mounted on his hippogrif again, he rose to the terrestrial Paradise, where he was welcomed by John, who informed him that he was sent thither by the grace of God that he might get instruction how to furnish aid to Charles and the Church, who were sorely in need of it. With John he rose in a chariot to the Heaven of the Moon, where, after seeing many strange things, he was given the wits of Orlando enclosed in a vial. They had been taken from him as a punishment for his loving a pagan, but were now to be restored to him that he might aid Charlemagne in conquering the Moors. Astolpho then descended to Nubia, restored sight to its king, and asking for his forces, went with them into Africa and attacked Biserta, the city of Agramant.

When these tidings were borne to Agramant he was greatly troubled, and desiring to end the war in Europe and hasten to his own country, he proposed to Charlemagne that the war be decided by single combat between two champions. Great was the agony of Rogero, the pagan champion, when he recognized in his opponent Rinaldo, the brother of Bradamant. He would never dare to slay him, so he parried the blows rained upon him, and struck back so feebly that the spectators, not understanding his motives, deemed him unable to cope with Rinaldo. But Melissa, determined that Merlin's prophecy should come true, appeared to Agramant in the guise of Rodomont, and urged him to break the compact and fall upon the Christians. Delighted to have the mighty king with him again, Agramant did not scruple to break his word, and rushed upon the Christian forces, breaking up the combat. After a sharp conflict, the Saracens were put to flight and Agramant hastened into Africa.

His people in Biserta, their strength drained by the long war, were unable to withstand the Christian foe, soon re-enforced by a powerful enemy. One day, as Astolpho and his friends were standing on the beach, a madman came raging towards them, whom Astolpho recognized as Orlando. The warriors attempted in vain to hold him until Astolpho ordered the ship's hawsers to be brought, and knotting them flung them at the count's limbs, and so threw him down and tied him. Then, after having had his body cleansed from mud and filth, he stopped his mouth with herbs so that he could breathe only through his nostrils, and holding the vial there, the lost senses were quickly inhaled, and Orlando was himself again, astonished and delighted to find himself with his friends.

With Orlando's help, Biserta was soon taken, and Agramant, who had met the Christian fleet under the leadership of Dudon and had barely escaped with his life, saw from afar the flames devouring his beloved city.

Landing with Sobrino upon a little isle, he found there King Sericane, who advised him to challenge the Christians to single combat in order to decide the outcome of the war, he, Gradasso, and Sobrino to stand in the lists against three Christian champions. Orlando agreed to do so, and selected for his companions in the fight Brandimart and Olivier. But the pagans were no match for Orlando, whom no weapon could injure, and Agramant and Gradasso soon fell, while Sobrino was wounded. But the joy over the Christian victory was not unalloyed by sorrow, for Olivier was severely wounded and the beloved Brandimart was slain.

The champions were now joined by Rinaldo, who after the breaking of the pact by Agramant, had set off for India in search of Angelica, whom he still madly loved. But Disdain guided his steps to the Fountain of Hate, one draught of which changed his love to loathing, so that he abandoned his undertaking and hastened to join the Christian forces in Africa.

Olivier's wound proved slow to heal, and when at last the warriors heard of a hermit on a lonely isle who could help him, they hastened to take their wounded comrade thither. There they found Rogero, who had been shipwrecked while sailing to Africa, and had been baptized by the hermit, who was warned in a dream of his coming. The Christian warriors gladly welcomed Rogero to their ranks, for they knew of his valor; and Rinaldo, who had learned how the young hero had saved the life of Richardetto and had preserved Vivian and Malagigi, embraced him, and at the suggestion of the hermit, plighted him to his sister. Before they left the isle, Sobrino was converted by the pious hermit, and Olivier's wound was healed.

The knights were received with the greatest honor by Charlemagne, especially Rogero, the new convert. But what unhappiness awaited him! In his absence Bradamant's father had promised the maid to Leo, the son of the Greek emperor, Constantine, in spite of her prayers and entreaties.

Although Bradamant declared that she would die sooner than wed another, the heart-broken Rogero hastily departed for Constantinople to slay his rival. In his absence, Bradamant besought Charlemagne not to compel her to marry Leo unless he could defeat her in single combat; and her angry parents, on learning of this, took her from the court and shut her up in the tower of Rocca Forte. Rogero, in the mean time, reached Leo's realms just as the Greeks engaged in battle with the Bulgarians. Because of his hatred for Leo, he fought with the Bulgarians, and when their king fell he rallied their scattered troops and put the Greeks to flight. Rogero then followed the fleeing Greeks unaccompanied, and being recognized, was taken captive that night as he slept in a hostelry. At the entreaty of a kinswoman whose son Rogero had slain that day, the emperor surrendered his captive to her, and he was thrust into a gloomy dungeon, where he suffered agonies from hunger and cold. But Leo, who had admired his valor in battle and had longed to know him, rescued him, recovered his horse and armor, and by his generosity compelled Rogero to admire him as much as he had before hated him. The news of Charlemagne's decree now reached Leo, and he, fearing to fight Bradamant, asked the unknown knight of the unicorn to take his place. Rogero's heart sank within him, but he dared not refuse. His life was Leo's, and he must sacrifice himself for him, must either slay Bradamant, or be slain by her for his deliverer's sake. He accompanied Leo to France, and feigning a cheerfulness he did not feel, changed armor and steed that he might not be known, and, while Leo remained in his tent outside the city, entered the lists and encountered Bradamant, who was determined to slay her hated suitor. Rogero was equally determined not to slay her nor to allow himself to be conquered. When twilight fell and king and court saw that while the young knight had not overcome the maid, he had not allowed himself to be overcome, they declared that the couple were well matched and that they should wed.

The hopeless Rogero hastened back to Leo's camp, changed armor and steed, and during the night stole away from the hateful place to the greenwood that he might die there, since he could never possess his beloved. At the same time, Bradamant gave way to her grief in such a manner that Marphisa, already indignant at the treatment of her brother, appeared before the king in his behalf. She declared that Rogero and Bradamant had already exchanged all the vows of those who marry and therefore she was not free to wed another. She then suggested that since the matter had gone so far, Leo and Rogero should meet in the lists to decide to whom the lady belonged.

Leo at once set out in search of his knight of the unicorn, who he believed would defend him from all peril, and found him in the forest, almost fainting from fasting and sleeplessness. The Greek embraced Rogero tenderly and implored him to betray the cause of his grief, and so tender were his words and so gracious his manner that Rogero could not but unbosom himself. And when Leo learned that his unknown champion was no other than Rogero himself he declared that he would gladly forego Bradamant for him, and would rather have forfeited his life than caused such grief to such a faithful friend.

Joy filled the court when the story of Rogero's fidelity was made known, and the joy was increased when ambassadors came from Bulgaria, seeking the unknown knight of the unicorn that they might offer their throne to him. Duke Aymon and his wife were reconciled when they found that Rogero was to be a king, and the wedding was celebrated with the greatest splendor, Charlemagne providing for Bradamant as though she were his daughter.

In the midst of the celebrations Rodomont appeared to defy Rogero, and that knight, nothing loath, met him in the lists. The Moor fell under Rogero's blows, and all the Christian court rejoiced to see the last of the pagan knights fall by the hand of their champion.



SELECTION FROM THE ORLANDO FURIOSO.

THE DEATH OF ZERBINO.

As Orlando talked with Zerbino, whose life he had saved and to whom he had given his lady Isabel, also rescued by him, Mandricardo the Tartar king came up and challenged Orlando to single combat. While they fought, Mandricardo's steed, from which Orlando had slipped the rein, became unmanageable, and fled with its rider. Orlando asked Zerbino and Isabel to tell Mandricardo, if they overtook him, that he would wait for him in that place for three days to renew the battle. But while waiting, Orlando learned of Angelica's love for Medoro, and losing his senses from grief, threw away his armor, and went wandering through France. Zerbino and Isabel returned to the place to see if Mandricardo had returned, and there learned of Orlando's condition.

Far off, he [Zerbino] saw that something shining lay, And spied Orlando's corselet on the ground; And next his helm; but not that head-piece gay Which whilem African Almontes crowned: He in the thicket heard a courser neigh, And, lifting up his visage at the sound, Saw Brigliadoro the green herbage browse, With rein yet hanging at his saddle-bows,

For Durindane, he sought the greenwood, round, Which separate from the scabbard met his view; And next the surcoat, but in tatters, found; That, in a hundred rags, the champaign strew, Zerbino and Isabel, in grief profound, Stood looking on, nor what to think they knew: They of all matters else might think, besides The fury which the wretched count misguides.

Had but the lovers seen a drop of blood, They might have well believed Orlando dead: This while the pair, beside the neighboring flood, Beheld a shepherd coming, pale with dread. He just before, as on a rock he stood, Had seen the wretch's fury; how he shed His arms about the forest, tore his clothes, Slew hinds, and caused a thousand other woes.

Questioned by good Zerbino, him the swain Of all which there had chanced, informed aright. Zerbino marvelled, and believed with pain, Although the proofs were clear: This as it might, He from his horse dismounted on the plain, Full of compassion, in afflicted plight; And went about, collecting from the ground The various relics which were scattered round.

Isabel lights as well; and, where they lie Dispersed, the various arms uniting goes.

* * * * *

Here Prince Zerbino all the arms unites, And hangs like a fair trophy, on a pine. And, to preserve them safe from errant knights, Natives or foreigners, in one short line Upon the sapling's verdant surface writes, ORLANDO'S ARMS, KING CHARLES'S PALADINE. As he would say, "Let none this harness move, Who cannot with its lord his prowess prove!"

Zerbino having done the pious deed, Is bowning him to climb his horse; when, lo! The Tartar king arrives upon the mead. He at the trophied pine-tree's gorgeous show, Beseeches him the cause of this to read; Who lets him (as rehearsed) the story know. When, without further pause, the paynim lord Hastes gladly to the pine, and takes the sword.

"None can (he said) the action reprehend, Nor first I make the faulchion mine to-day; And to its just possession I pretend Where'er I find it, be it where it may. Orlando, this not daring to defend, Has feigned him mad, and cast the sword away; But if the champion so excuse his shame, This is no cause I should forego my claim."

"Take it not thence," to him Zerbino cried, "Nor think to make it thine without a fight: If so thou tookest Hector's arms of pride, By theft thou hadst them, rather than by right." Without more parley spurred upon each side, Well matched in soul and valor, either knight. Already echoed are a thousand blows; Nor yet well entered are the encountering foes.

In 'scaping Durindane, a flame in show (He shifts so swiftly), is the Scottish lord. He leaps about his courser like a doe, Where'er the road best footing does afford. And well it is that he should not forego An inch of vantage; who, if once that sword Smite him, will join the enamored ghosts, which rove Amid the mazes of the myrtle grove.

As the swift-footed dog, who does espy Swine severed from his fellows, hunts him hard, And circles round about; but he lies by Till once the restless foe neglect his guard; So, while the sword descends, or hangs on high, Zerbino stands, attentive how to ward, How to save life and honor from surprise; And keeps a wary eye, and smites and flies.

On the other side, where'er the foe is seen To threaten stroke in vain, or make it good, He seems an Alpine wind, two hills between, That in the month of March shakes leafy wood; Which to the ground now bends the forest green, Now whirls the broken boughs, at random strewed. Although the prince wards many, in the end One mighty stroke he cannot 'scape or fend.

In the end he cannot 'scape one downright blow, Which enters, between sword and shield, his breast. As perfect was the plate and corselet, so Thick was the steel wherein his paunch was drest: But the destructive weapon, falling low, Equally opened either iron vest; And cleft whate'er it swept in its descent, And to the saddle-bow, through cuirass, went.

And, but that somewhat short the blow descends It would Zerbino like a cane divide; But him so little in the quick offends, This scarce beyond the skin is scarified. More than a span in length the wound extends; Of little depth: of blood a tepid tide To his feet descending, with a crimson line, Stains the bright arms which on the warrior shine.

'T is so, I sometimes have been wont to view A hand more white than alabaster, part The silver cloth with ribbon red of hue; A hand I often feel divide my heart. Here little vantage young Zerbino drew From strength and greater daring, and from art; For in the temper of his arms and might, Too much the Tartar king excelled the knight.

The fearful stroke was mightier in show, Than in effect, by which the prince was prest; So that poor Isabel, distraught with woe, Felt her heart severed in her frozen breast. The Scottish prince, all over in a glow, With anger and resentment was possest, And putting all his strength in either hand, Smote full the Tartar's helmet with his brand.

Almost on his steed's neck the Tartar fell, Bent by the weighty blow Zerbino sped; And, had the helmet been unfenced by spell The biting faulchion would have cleft his head. The king, without delay, avenged him well, "Nor I for you till other season," said, "Will keep this gift;" and levelled at his crest, Hoping to part Zerbino to the chest.

Zerbino, on the watch, whose eager eye Waits on his wit, wheels quickly to the right; But not withal so quickly, as to fly The trenchant sword, which smote the shield outright, And cleft from top to bottom equally; Shearing the sleeve beneath it, and the knight Smote on his arm; and next the harness rended, And even to the champion's thigh descended.

Zerbino, here and there, seeks every way By which to wound, nor yet his end obtains; For, while he smites upon that armor gay, Not even a feeble dint the coat retains. On the other hand, the Tartar in the fray Such vantage o'er the Scottish prince obtains, Him he has wounded in seven parts or eight, And reft his shield and half his helmet's plate.

He ever wastes his blood; his energies Fail, though he feels it not, as't would appear; Unharmed, the vigorous heart new force supplies To the weak body of the cavalier. His lady, during this, whose crimson dyes Were chased by dread, to Doralice drew near, And for the love of Heaven, the damsel wooed To stop that evil and disastrous feud.

Doralice, who as courteous was as fair, And ill-assured withal, how it would end, Willingly granted Isabella's prayer, And straight to truce and peace disposed her friend. As well Zerbino, by the other's care, Was brought his vengeful anger to suspend; And, wending where she willed, the Scottish lord, Left unachieved the adventure of the sword.

For to leave Durindana such misdeed To him appeared, it past all other woes; Though he could hardly sit upon his steed, Through mighty loss of life-blood, which yet flows. Now, when his anger and his heat secede, After short interval, his anguish grows; His anguish grows, with such impetuous pains, He feels that life is ebbing from his veins.

For weakness can the prince no further hie, And so beside a fount is forced to stay: Him to assist the pitying maid would try, But knows not what to do, nor what to say. For lack of comfort she beholds him die; Since every city is too far away, Where in this need she could resort to leech, Whose succor she might purchase or beseech.

She, blaming fortune, and the cruel sky, Can only utter fond complaints and vain. "Why sank I not in ocean," (was her cry), "When first I reared my sail upon the main?" Zerbino, who on her his languid eye Had fixt, as she bemoaned her, felt more pain Than that enduring and strong anguish bred, Through which the suffering youth was well-nigh dead.

"So be thou pleased, my heart," (Zerbino cried), "To love me yet, when I am dead and gone, As to abandon thee without a guide, And not to die, distresses me alone. For did it me in place secure betide To end my days, this earthly journey done, I cheerful, and content, and fully blest Would die, since I should die upon thy breast

"But since to abandon thee, to whom a prize I know not, my sad fate compels, I swear, My Isabella, by that mouth, those eyes, By what enchained me first, that lovely hair; My spirit, troubled and despairing, hies Into hell's deep and gloomy bottom; where To think, thou wert abandoned so by me, Of all its woes the heaviest pain will be."

At this the sorrowing Isabel, declining Her mournful face, which with her tears o'erflows, Towards the sufferer, and her mouth conjoining To her Zerbino's, languid as a rose; Rose gathered out of season, and which, pining Fades where it on the shadowy hedgerow grows, Exclaims, "Without me think not so, my heart, On this your last, long journey to depart.

"Of this, my heart, conceive not any fear. For I will follow thee to heaven or hell; It fits our souls together quit this sphere, Together go, for aye together dwell. No sooner closed thine eyelids shall appear, Than either me internal grief will quell, Or, has it not such power, I here protest, I with this sword to-day will pierce my breast.

"I of our bodies cherish hope not light, That they shall have a happier fate when dead; Together to entomb them, may some wight, Haply by pity moved, be hither led." She the poor remnants of his vital sprite Went on collecting, as these words she said; And while yet aught remains, with mournful lips, The last faint breath of life devoutly sips.

'T was here his feeble voice Zerbino manned, Crying, "My deity, I beg and pray, By that love witnessed, when thy father's land Thou quittedst for my sake; and, if I may In anything command thee, I command, That, with God's pleasure, thou live-out thy day; Nor ever banish from thy memory, That, well as man can love, have I loved thee.

"God haply will provide thee with good aid, To free thee from each churlish deed I fear; As when in the dark cavern thou wast stayed, He sent, to rescue thee. Andante's peer; So he (grammercy!) succored thee dismayed At sea, and from the wicked Biscayneer. And, if thou must choose death, in place of worse, Then only choose it as a leaser curse."

I think not these last words of Scotland's knight Were so exprest, that he was understood: With these, he finished, like a feeble light, Which needs supply of wax, or other food. —Who is there, that has power to tell aright The gentle Isabella's doleful mood? When stiff, her loved Zerbino, with pale face, And cold as ice, remained in her embrace.

On the ensanguined corse, in sorrow drowned, The damsel throws herself, in her despair, And shrieks so loud that wood and plain resound For many miles about; nor does she spare Bosom or cheek; but still, with cruel wound, One and the other smites the afflicted fair; And wrongs her curling locks of golden grain, Aye calling on the well-loved youth in vain.

She with such rage, such fury, was possest, That, in her transport, she Zerbino's glaive Would easily have turned against her breast, Ill keeping the command her lover gave; But that a hermit, from his neighboring rest, Accustomed oft to seek the fountain-wave, His flagon at the cooling stream to fill, Opposed him to the damsel's evil will.

The reverend father, who with natural sense Abundant goodness happily combined, And, with ensamples fraught and eloquence, Was full of charity towards mankind, With efficacious reasons her did fence, And to endurance Isabel inclined; Placing, from ancient Testament and new, Women, as in a mirror, for her view.

The holy man next made the damsel see, That save in God there was no true content, And proved all other hope was transitory, Fleeting, of little worth, and quickly spent; And urged withal so earnestly his plea, He changed her ill and obstinate intent; And made her, for the rest of life, desire To live devoted to her heavenly sire.

Not that she would her mighty love forbear For her dead lord, nor yet his relics slight; These, did she halt or journey, everywhere Would Isabel have with her, day and night. The hermit therefore seconding her care, Who, for his age, was sound and full of might, They on his mournful horse Zerbino placed, And traversed many a day that woodland waste.

* * * * *

He thought to bear her to Provence, where, near The city of Marseilles, a borough stood, Which had a sumptuous monastery; here Of ladies was a holy sisterhood.

Rose's Translation, Canto XXIV.



THE LUSIAD.

"The discovery of Mozambique, of Melinda, and of Calcutta has been sung by Camoens, whose poem has something of the charm of the Odyssey and of the magnificence of the Aeneid."

MONTESQUIEU.

The Portuguese epic, the Lusiad, so-called from Lusitania, the Latin name for Portugal, was written by Luis de Camoens.

He was born in Lisbon in 1524, lost his father by shipwreck in infancy, and was educated by his mother at the University of Coimbra. On leaving the university he appeared at court, where his graces of person and mind soon rendered him a favorite. Here a love affair with the Donna Catarina de Atayde, whom the king also loved, caused his banishment to Santarem. At this place he began the Lusiad, and continued it on the expedition against the Moors in Africa sent out by John III., an expedition on which he displayed much valor and lost an eye. He was recalled to court, but jealousies soon drove him thence to India, whither he sailed in 1553, exclaiming, "Ungrateful country, thou shall not possess my bones." In India his bravery and accomplishments won him friends, but his imprudences soon caused his exile to China, where he accumulated a small fortune and finished his poem. Happier circumstances permitted him to return to Goa; but on the way the ship laden with his fortune sank, and he escaped, saving only his poem. After sixteen years of misfortune abroad, Camoens returned to Lisbon in 1569. The pestilence that was then raging delayed the publication of the Lusiad until 1572. The poem received little attention; a small pension was bestowed on the poet, but was soon withdrawn, and the unfortunate Camoens was left to die in an almshouse. On his death-bed he deplored the impending fate of his country, which he alone could see. "I have loved my country. I have returned not only to die on her bosom, but to die with her."

The Lusiad tells the story of the voyage of Vasco da Gama. The sailors of Prince Henry of Portugal, commander of the Portuguese forces in Africa, had passed Cape Nam and discovered the Cape of Storms, which the prince renamed the Cape of Good Hope. His successor Emmanuel, determined to carry out the work of his predecessor by sending out da Gama to undertake the discovery of the southern passage to India. The Portuguese were generally hostile to the undertaking, but da Gama, his brother, and his friend Coello gathered a company, part of which consisted of malefactors whose sentence of death was reversed on condition that they undertake the voyage, and reached India.

The Lusiad is divided into ten cantos, containing one thousand one hundred and two stanzas. Its metre is the heroic iambic, in rhymed octave stanzas.

The Lusiad is marred by its mythological allusions in imitation of Homer and Virgil, but these are forgotten when the poet sings in impassioned strains of his country's past glory.

The Lusiad is simple in style; its subject is prosaic; it is a constant wonder that out of such unpromising materials Camoens could construct a poem of such interest. He could not have done so had he not been so great a poet, so impassioned a patriot.

Camoens was in one sense of the word a practical man, like Ariosto; he had governed a province, and governed it successfully. But he had also taken up arms for his country, and after suffering all the slights that could be put upon him by an ungrateful and forgetful monarch, still loved his native land, loved it the more, perhaps, that he had suffered for it and was by it neglected. He foresaw, also, as did no one else, the future ruin of his country, and loved it the more intensely, as a parent lavishes the fondest, most despairing affection on a child he knows doomed to early death.

The Lusiad is sometimes called the epic of commerce; it could be called far more appropriately the epic of patriotism.



BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE LUSIAD.

J. Adamson's Memoirs of Life and Writing of Camoens, 2 vols., 1820 (vol. 2, account of works of Camoens in Portuguese and other languages, and of the works founded on his life or suggested by his writings);

R. F. Burton's Camoens, his Life and his Lusiad, 2 vols., 1881;

M. W. Shelley's Lives of the most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of Italy, Spain, and Portugal, vol. 3;

F. Bouterwek's History of Spanish and Portuguese Literature, 1823 (Tr. by T. Ross);

Chambers's Repository, no. 32, Spirit of Camoens's Lusiad; W. T. Dobson's Classic Poets, pp. 240-278;

Montgomery's Men of Italy, iii., 295;

Sismondi's Literature of the South of Europe, ii., 475-528;

Southey's Sketch of Portuguese Literature in vol. i. of Quarterly Review, 1809;

Fortnightly Review, i., 184;

Quarterly, i., 235;

Monthly Review, clx., 505;

Edinburgh Review, 1805, vi., 43;

New England Magazine, liii., 542;

Revue de Deux Mondes, 1832, vi., 145.



STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE LUSIAD. The Lusiad, Tr. by J. J.

Aubertin, 2 vols., 1881 (Portuguese text and English Tr., in verse);

The Lusiad, Englished by R. F. Burton, 2 vols., 1881;

The Lusiad, Tr. into Spenserian verse by R. F. Duff, 1880;

The Lusiad, Tr. by Sir Richard Fanshawe, 1655;

The Lusiad, Tr. by W. J. Mickle, 3 vols., Ed. 5, 1807;

The Lusiad, Tr. by T. M. Musgrave (blank verse), 1826;

The Lusiad, Tr. by Edward Quillinan, with notes by John Adamson, 1853.



THE STORY OF THE LUSIAD.

When Jupiter, looking down from Olympus, saw the Lusitanian fleet sailing over the heretofore untravelled seas, he called the gods together, and reviewing the past glory of the Portuguese, their victories over the Castilians, their stand against the Romans, under their shepherd-hero Viriatus, and their conquest of Africa, he foretold their future glories and their discovery and conquest of India.

Bacchus, who had long since made conquests in India, fearful lest his ancient honors should be forgotten, bitterly opposed the scheme of the Portuguese; Venus, however, was favorable to them, and Mars interceded, counselling Jove not to heed Bacchus, but to permit the Lusitanians to reach India's shore in safety.

When the council of the gods was dismissed, Mercury was sent to guide the Armada, which made its first landing at Mozambique. Canoes with curious palm-leaf sails, laden with dark-skinned natives, swarmed round the ships and were hailed with joy by Gama and his men, who invited them on board. A feast was spread for them, and to them Gama declared his intention of seeking India. Among them was a Moor who had at first thought the Portuguese Moors, on account of their dark skins. Feigning cordiality while plotting their ruin, he offered them a pilot to Quiloa, where, he assured them, they would find a Christian colony. He and his friends also laid a plot to place some soldiers in ambush to attack Gama's men when they landed next day to get water; in this way many would be destroyed, and certain death awaited the survivors at Quiloa, whither the promised pilot would conduct them. But the Moors had not counted on the strength of the Portuguese. Gama's vengeance was swift and certain. The thunder of his guns terrified the Moors, and the regent implored his pardon, and with make-believe tears insisted on his receiving at his hands the promised pilot.

Many questions were asked by Gama concerning the spicy shores of India, of the African coasts, and of the island to the north. "Quiloa, that," replied the Moor, "where from ancient times, the natives have worshipped the blood-stained image of the Christ." He knew how the Moorish inhabitants hated the Christians, and was secretly delighted when Gama directed him to steer thither.

A storm swept the fleet past Quiloa, but the pilot, still determined on revenge, pointed out the island town of Mombaca, as a stronghold of the Christians, and steering the fleet thither, anchored just outside the bar. Bacchus, now intent on the destruction of the Lusitanians, assumed the character of a priest to deceive the heralds sent ashore by Gama, who assured their commander that they saw a Christian priest performing divine rites at an altar above which fluttered the banner of the Holy Ghost. In a few moments the Christian fleet would have been at the mercy of the Moors, but Cytherea, beholding from above the peril of her favorites, hastily descended, gathered together her nymphs, and formed an obstruction, past which the vessels strove in vain to pass. As Gama, standing high on the poop, saw the huge rock in the channel, he cried out, and the Moorish pilots, thinking their treason discovered, leaped into the waves.

Warned in a dream by Mercury that the Moors were preparing to cut his cables, De Gama roused his fleet and set sail for Melinda, whose monarch, Mercury had told him, was both powerful and good.

The fleet, decorated with purple streamers and gold and scarlet tapestry in honor of Ascension Day sailed with drums beating and trumpets sounding, into the harbor of Melinda, where they were welcomed by the kind and truthful people. The fame of the Lusitanians had reached Melinda, and the monarch gladly welcomed them to his land. His herald entreated them to remain with him, and brought them sheep, fowls, and the fruits of the earth, welcome gifts to the mariners. Gama had vowed not to leave the ship until he could step on Indian ground, so the next day the king and the commander, clad in their most splendid vestments, met in barges, and the monarch of Melinda asked Gama to tell him of the Lusian race, its origin and climate, and of all his adventures up to the time of his arrival at Melinda.

"O king," said Gama, "between the zones of endless winter and eternal summer lies beautiful Europe, surrounded by the sea. To the north are the bold Swede, the Prussian, and the Dane; on her south-eastern line dwelt the Grecian heroes, world-renowned, and farther south are the ruins of proud Rome. Among the beauteous landscapes of Italy lies proud Venice, queen of the sea, and north of her tower the lofty Alps. The olive groves and vineyards of fair Gallia next greet the eye, and then the valorous fields of Spain, Aragon, Granada, and—the pride of Spain—Castile. On the west, a crown to it, lies Lusitania, on whom last smiles the setting sun,—against whose shores roll the waves of the western sea.

"Noble are the heroes of my country. They were the first to rise against the Moors and expel them from the kingdom. The forces of Rome were routed by our shepherd-hero, Viriatus. After his death our country languished until Alonzo of Spain arose, whose renown spread far and wide because of his battles against the Moors.

"Alonzo rewarded generously the heroes who fought under him, and to Prince Henry of Hungaria he gave the fields through which the Tagus flows and the hand of his daughter. To them was born a son, Alfonso, the founder of the Lusian throne. After the death of his father Henry, Alfonso's mother became regent, and ere long wedded her minister Perez and plotted to deprive her young son of his inheritance. The eighteen year old son arose, won the nobility to his side, and defeated his guilty mother and her husband in the battle of Guimaraens. Forgetful of the reverence due to parents, he cruelly imprisoned his mother, whose father, the king of Spain, indignant at such treatment of his daughter, now marched against the young prince and defeated him. As he lay in prison, his faithful guardian Egas knelt before the king, and vowed that his master, if released, would pay homage to him. Well he knew that his master would never bow his proud head to pay homage to Castile. So when the day arrived, Egas, and all his family, clad in gowns of white like sentenced felons, with unshod feet, and with the halter around their necks, sought Castile. 'O king, take us as a sacrifice for my perjured honor. Turn in friendship to the prince thy grandson, and wreak thy vengeance on us alone.'

"Fortunately Alonzo was noble enough to release the self-sacrificing Egas, and to forgive his grandson.

"The young Alfonso, pardoned by his grandfather, proceeded to Ourique, whither marched five Moorish kings. Over his head appeared the sacred cross; but he prayed heaven to show it to his army instead, that they might be inspired with the hope of victory. Filled with joy at the token, the Portuguese defeated the Moors, and on the bloody battle-field Alfonso was proclaimed King of Portugal, and from that day placed on his hitherto unadorned buckler five azure shields, arranged as a cross. He continued the wars with the Moors until, wounded and taken prisoner at Badajoz, he resigned the throne to his son, Don Sancho, who in turn won many victories. Alfonso II., Sancho II., Alfonso III., and Alfonso the Brave succeeded him. At the court of the latter was a beautiful maiden, Inez de Castro, whom Alfonso's son Don Pedro had married secretly. The courtiers, fearful lest Pedro should show favor to the Castilians because Inez was the daughter of a Castilian, told the king of his son's amour. In the absence of Pedro, Inez was led before the king, bringing with her her children, to help her to plead for mercy. But the king was merciless, his counsellors, brutal, and at his signal they stabbed her. Pedro never recovered from the shock given him by the fate of his beautiful wife, and after his succession to the throne, as a partial atonement for her suffering, he had her body taken from the grave and crowned Queen of Portugal.

"The weak Fernando, who took his wife Eleanora from her lawful husband, succeeded Pedro, and their daughter Beatrice not being recognized by the Portuguese, at his death Don John, a natural brother, came to the throne. In the mean time a Spanish prince had married Beatrice and invaded Portugal, claiming it as his right. The Portuguese were divided until Nuno Alvarez Pereyra came forward. 'Has one weak reign so corrupted you?' he cried. 'Have you so soon forgotten our brave sires? Fernando was weak, but John, our godlike king, is strong. Come, follow him! Or, if you stay, I myself will go alone; never will I yield to a vassal's yoke; my native land shall remain unconquered, and my monarch's foes, Castilian or Portuguese, shall heap the plain!'

"Inspired by Nuno's eloquence the Lusians took the field and defeated the Spanish in the battle of Aljubarota. Still dissatisfied, Nuno pressed into Spain and dictated the terms of peace at Seville. Having established himself upon the throne of Portugal, John carried the war into Africa, which wars were continued after his death by his son Edward. While laying siege to Tangier, Edward and his brother Fernando were taken prisoners, and were allowed to return home only on promise to surrender Ceuta. Don Fernando remained as the hostage they demanded. The Portuguese would not agree to surrender Ceuta, and Don Fernando was forced to languish in captivity, since the Moors would accept no other ransom. He was a patriotic prince than whom were none greater in the annals of Lusitania.

"Alfonso V., victorious over the Moors, dreamed of conquering Castile, but was defeated, and on his death was succeeded by John II., who designed to gain immortal fame in a way tried by no other king. His sailors sought a path to India, but 'though enriched with knowledge' they perished at the mouth of the Indus. To his successor, Emmanuel, in a dream appeared the rivers Ganges and Indus, hoary fathers, rustic in aspect, yet with a majestic grace of bearing, their long, uncombed beards dripping with water, their heads wreathed with strange flowers, and proclaimed to him that their countries were ordained by fate to yield to him; that the fight would be great, and the fields would stream with blood, but that at last their shoulders would bend beneath the yoke. Overjoyed at this dream, Emmanuel proclaimed it to his people. I, O king, felt my bosom burn, for long had I aspired to this work. Me the king singled out, to me the dread toil he gave of seeking unknown seas. Such zeal felt I and my youths as inspired the Mynian youths when they ventured into unknown seas in the Argo, in search of the golden fleece.

"On the shore was reared a sacred fane, and there at the holy shrine my comrades and I knelt and joined in the solemn rites. Prostrate we lay before the shrine until morning dawned; then, accompanied by the 'woful, weeping, melancholy throng' that came pressing from the gates of the city, we sought our ships.

"Then began the tears to flow; then the shrieks of mothers, sisters, and wives rent the air, and as we waved farewell an ancient man cried out to us on the thirst for honor and for fame that led us to undertake such a voyage.

"Soon our native mountains mingled with the skies, and the last dim speck of land having faded, we set our eyes to scan the waste of sea before us. From Madeira's fair groves we passed barren Masilia, the Cape of Green, the Happy Isles, Jago, Jalofo, and vast Mandinga, the hated shore of the Gorgades, the jutting cape called by us the Cape of Palms, and southward sailed through the wild waves until the stars changed and we saw Callisto's star no longer, but fixed our eyes on another pole star that rises nightly over the waves. The shining cross we beheld each night in the heavens was to us a good omen.

"While thus struggling through the untried waves, and battling with the tempests, now viewing with terror the waterspouts, and the frightful lightnings, now comforted by the sight of mysterious fire upon our masts, we came in sight of land, and gave to the trembling negro who came to us some brass and bells. Five days after this event, as we sailed through the unknown seas, a sudden darkness o'erspread the sky, unlighted by moon or star. Questioning what this portent might mean, I saw a mighty phantom rise through the air. His aspect was sullen, his cheeks were pale, his withered hair stood erect, his yellow teeth gnashed; his whole aspect spoke of revenge and horror.

"'Bold are you,' cried he, 'to venture hither, but you shall suffer for it. The next proud fleet that comes this way shall perish on my coast, and he who first beheld me shall float on the tide a corpse. Often, O Lusus, shall your children mourn because of me!' 'Who art thou?' I cried. 'The Spirit of the Cape,' he replied, 'oft called the Cape of Tempests.'"

The king of Melinda interrupted Gama. He had often heard traditions among his people of the Spirit of the Cape. He was one of the race of Titans who loved Thetis, and was punished by Jove by being transformed into this promontory.

Gama continued: "Again we set forth, and stopped at a pleasant coast to clean our barks of the shell-fish. At this place we left behind many victims of the scurvy in their lonely graves. Of the treason we met with at Mozambique and the miracle that saved us at Quiloa and Mombas, you know already, as well as of your own bounty."

Charmed with the recital of Gama, the King of Melinda had forgotten how the hours passed away. After the story was told the company whiled away the hours with dance, song, the chase, and the banquet, until Gama declared that he must go on to India, and was furnished with a pilot by the friendly king.

Bacchus, enraged at seeing the voyage so nearly completed, descended to the palace of Neptune, with crystal towers, lofty turrets, roofs of gold, and beautiful pillars inwrought with pearls. The sculptured walls were adorned with old Chaos's troubled face, the four fair elements, and many scenes in the history of the earth. Roused by Bacchus, the gods of the sea consented to let loose the winds and the waves against the Portuguese.

During the night, the Lusians spent the time in relating stories of their country. As they talked, the storm came upon them, and the vessels rose upon the giant waves, so that the sailors saw the bottom of the sea swept almost bare by the violence of the storm. But the watchful Venus perceived the peril of her Lusians, and calling her nymphs together, beguiled the storm gods until the storm ceased. While the sailors congratulated themselves on the returning calm, the cry of "Land!" was heard, and the pilot announced to Gama that Calicut was near.

Hail to the Lusian heroes who have won such honors, who have forced their way through untravelled seas to the shores of India! Other nations of Europe have wasted their time in a vain search for luxury and fame instead of reclaiming to the faith its enemies! Italy, how fallen, how lost art thou! and England and Gaul, miscalled "most Christian!" While ye have slept, the Lusians, though their realms are small, have crushed the Moslems and made their name resound throughout Africa, even to the shores of Asia.

At dawn Gama sent a herald to the monarch; in the mean time, a friendly Moor, Moncaide, boarded the vessel, delighted to hear his own tongue once more. Born at Tangiers, he considered himself a neighbor of the Lusians; well he knew their valorous deeds, and although a Moor, he now allied himself to them as a friend. He described India to the eager Gama: its religions, its idolaters, the Mohammedans, the Buddhists, the Brahmins. At Calicut, queen of India, lived the Zamorin, lord of India, to whom all subject kings paid their tribute.

His arrival having been announced, Gama, adorned in his most splendid garments, and accompanied by his train, also in bright array, entered the gilded barges and rowed to the shore, where stood the Catual, the Zamorin's minister. Moncaide acted as an interpreter. The company passed through a temple on their way to the palace, in which the Christians were horrified at the graven images there worshipped. On the palace walls were the most splendid pictures, relating the history of India. One wall, however, bore no sculptures; the Brahmins had foretold that a foreign foe would at some time conquer India, and that space was reserved for scenes from those wars.

Into the splendid hall adorned with tapestries of cloth of gold and carpets of velvet, Gama passed, and stood before the couch on which sat the mighty monarch. The room blazed with gems and gold; the monarch's mantle was of cloth of gold, and his turban shone with gems. His manner was majestic and dignified; he received Gama in silence, only nodding to him to tell his story.

Gama proclaimed that he came in friendship from a valorous nation that wished to unite its shores with his by commerce. The monarch responded that he and his council would weigh the proposal, and in the mean time Gama should remain and feast with them.

The next day the Indians visited the fleet, and after the banquet Gama displayed to his guests a series of banners on which were told the history of Portugal and her heroes. First came Lusus, the friend of Bacchus, the hero-shepherd Viriatus, the first Alonzo, the self-sacrificing Egas, the valiant Fuaz, every hero who had strengthened Lusitania and driven out her foes, down to the gallant Pedro and the glorious Henry.

Awed and wondering at the deeds of the mighty heroes, the Indians returned home. In the night Bacchus appeared to the king, warning him against the Lusians and urging him to destroy them while in his power. The Moors bought the Catual with their gold. They also told the king that they would leave his city as soon as he allied himself with the odious strangers. When Gama was next summoned before the king he was received with a frown.

"You are a pirate! Your first words were lies. Confess it; then you may stay with me and be my captain."

"I know the Moors," replied Gama. "I know their lies that have poisoned your ears. Am I mad that I should voluntarily leave my pleasant home and dare the terrors of an unknown sea? Ah, monarch, you know not the Lusian race! Bold, dauntless, the king commands, and we obey. Past the dread Cape of Storms have I ventured, bearing no gift save friendly peace, and that noblest gift of all, the friendship of my king. I have spoken the truth. Truth is everlasting!"

A day passed and still Gama was detained by the power of the Catual, who ordered him to call his fleets ashore if his voyage was really one of friendship.

"Never!" exclaimed Gama. "My fleet is free, though I am chained, and they shall carry to Lisbon the news of my discovery."

As he spoke, at a sign from the Catual, hostile ships were seen surrounding the Lusian vessels. "Not one shall tell on Lisbon's shores your fate."

Gama smiled scornfully, as the fleet swept on towards his vessels. Loud sounded the drums, shrill the trumpets. The next moment sudden lightning flashed from Gama's ships and the skies echoed with the thunder of the guns.

No word fell from Gama's lips as, the battle over, they saw the sea covered with the torn hulks and floating masts; but the populace raged around the palace gates, demanding justice to the strangers.

The troubled king sought to make peace with Gama.

"My orders have been given. To-day, when the sun reaches its meridian, India shall bleed and Calicut shall fall. The time is almost here. I make no terms. You have deceived me once."

The Moors fell fainting on the floor; the monarch trembled. "What can save us?" he cried.

"Convey me and my train to the fleet. Command at once; it is even now noon."

Once more safe within his ship, with him the faithful Moncaide, who had kept him informed of the treason of the Moors, his ships laden with cinnamon, cloves, pepper, and gems, proofs of his visit, Gama, rejoicing, set sail for home.

Venus saw the fleet setting out, and planned a resting-place for the weary sailors, a floating isle with golden sands, bowers of laurel and myrtle, beautiful flowers and luscious fruits. Here the sea nymphs gathered, Thetis, the most beautiful, being reserved for Gama, and here days were spent in joyance.

At the banquet the nymphs sang the future glories of the Lusians, and taking Gama by the hand, led him and his men to a mountain height, whence they could look upon a wondrous globe, the universe. The crystal spheres whirled swiftly, making sweet music, and as they listened to this, they saw the sun go by, the stars, Apollo, the Queen of Love, Diana, and the "yellow earth, the centre of the whole." Asia and Africa were unrolled to their sight, and the future of India, conquered by the Lusians, Cochin China, China, Japan, Sumatra,—all these countries given to the world by their voyage around the terrible cape.

"Spread thy sails!" cried the nymphs; "the time has come to go!"

The ships departed on their homeward way, and the heroes were received with the wildest welcome by the dwellers on Tago's bosom.



SELECTIONS FROM THE LUSIAD.

INEZ DE CASTRO.

During the reign of Alfonso the Brave, his son Don Pedro secretly wedded a beautiful maiden of the court, Inez de Castro. The courtiers, jealous because Inez was a Castilian, betrayed Pedro's secret to the king, who, in the absence of his son, had Inez brought before him and slain by hired ruffians.

While glory, thus, Alonzo's name adorn'd, To Lisbon's shores the happy chief return'd, In glorious peace and well-deserv'd repose, His course of fame, and honor'd age to close. When now, O king, a damsel's fate severe, A fate which ever claims the woful tear, Disgraced his honors—On the nymph's 'lorn head Relentless rage its bitterest rancor shed: Yet, such the zeal her princely lover bore, Her breathless corse the crown of Lisbon wore. 'Twas thou, O Love, whose dreaded shafts control The hind's rude heart, and tear the hero's soul; Thou, ruthless power, with bloodshed never cloy'd, 'Twas thou thy lovely votary destroy'd. Thy thirst still burning for a deeper woe, In vain to thee the tears of beauty flow; The breast that feels thy purest flames divine, With spouting gore must bathe thy cruel shrine. Such thy dire triumphs!—Thou, O nymph, the while, Prophetic of the god's unpitying guile, In tender scenes by love-sick fancy wrought, By fear oft shifted, as by fancy brought, In sweet Mondego's ever-verdant bowers, Languish'd away the slow and lonely hours: While now, as terror wak'd thy boding fears, The conscious stream receiv'd thy pearly tears; And now, as hope reviv'd the brighter flame, Each echo sigh'd thy princely lover's name. Nor less could absence from thy prince remove The dear remembrance of his distant love: Thy looks, thy smiles, before him ever glow, And o'er his melting heart endearing flow: By night his slumbers bring thee to his arms, By day his thoughts still wander o'er thy charms: By night, by day, each thought thy loves employ, Each thought the memory, or the hope, of joy. Though fairest princely dames invok'd his love, No princely dame his constant faith could move: For thee, alone, his constant passion burn'd, For thee the proffer'd royal maids he scorn'd. Ah, hope of bliss too high—the princely dames Refus'd, dread rage the father's breast inflames; He, with an old man's wintry eye, surveys The youth's fond love, and coldly with it weighs The people's murmurs of his son's delay To bless the nation with his nuptial day. (Alas, the nuptial day was past unknown, Which, but when crown'd, the prince could dare to own.) And, with the fair one's blood, the vengeful sire Resolves to quench his Pedro's faithful fire. Oh, thou dread sword, oft stain'd with heroes' gore, Thou awful terror of the prostrate Moor, What rage could aim thee at a female breast, Unarm'd, by softness and by love possess'd!

Dragg'd from her bower, by murd'rous ruffian hands, Before the frowning king fair Inez stands; Her tears of artless innocence, her air So mild, so lovely, and her face so fair, Mov'd the stern monarch; when, with eager zeal, Her fierce destroyers urg'd the public weal; Dread rage again the tyrant's soul possess'd, And his dark brow his cruel thoughts confess'd; O'er her fair face a sudden paleness spread, Her throbbing heart with gen'rous anguish bled, Anguish to view her lover's hopeless woes,

And all the mother in her bosom rose. Her beauteous eyes, in trembling tear-drops drown'd, To heaven she lifted (for her hands were bound); Then, on her infants turn'd the piteous glance, The look of bleeding woe; the babes advance, Smiling in innocence of infant age, Unaw'd, unconscious of their grandsire's rage; To whom, as bursting sorrow gave the flow, The native heart-sprung eloquence of woe, The lovely captive thus:—"O monarch, hear, If e'er to thee the name of man was dear, If prowling tigers, or the wolf's wild brood (Inspired by nature with the lust of blood), Have yet been mov'd the weeping babe to spare, Nor left, but tended with a nurse's care, As Rome's great founders to the world were given; Shall thou, who wear'st the sacred stamp of Heaven The human form divine, shalt thou deny That aid, that pity, which e'en beasts supply! Oh, that thy heart were, as thy looks declare, Of human mould, superfluous were my prayer; Thou couldst not, then, a helpless damsel slay, Whose sole offence in fond affection lay, In faith to him who first his love confess'd, Who first to love allur'd her virgin breast. In these my babes shalt thou thine image see, And, still tremendous, hurl thy rage on me? Me, for their sakes, if yet thou wilt not spare, Oh, let these infants prove thy pious care! Yet, Pity's lenient current ever flows From that brave breast where genuine valor glows; That thou art brave, let vanquish'd Afric tell, Then let thy pity o'er my anguish swell; Ah, let my woes, unconscious of a crime, Procure mine exile to some barb'rous clime: Give me to wander o'er the burning plains Of Libya's deserts, or the wild domains Of Scythia's snow-clad rocks, and frozen shore; There let me, hopeless of return, deplore: Where ghastly horror fills the dreary vale, Where shrieks and howlings die on every gale, The lion's roaring, and the tiger's yell, There with my infant race, consigned to dwell, There let me try that piety to find, In vain by me implor'd from human kind: There, in some dreary cavern's rocky womb, Amid the horrors of sepulchral gloom, For him whose love I mourn, my love shall glow, The sigh shall murmur, and the tear shall flow: All my fond wish, and all my hope, to rear These infant pledges of a love so dear, Amidst my griefs a soothing glad employ, Amidst my fears a woful, hopeless joy."

In tears she utter'd—as the frozen snow Touch'd by the spring's mild ray, begins to flow, So just began to melt his stubborn soul, As mild-ray'd Pity o'er the tyrant stole; But destiny forbade: with eager zeal (Again pretended for the public weal), Her fierce accusers urg'd her speedy doom; Again, dark rage diffus'd its horrid gloom O'er stern Alonzo's brow: swift at the sign, Their swords, unsheath'd, around her brandish'd shine. O foul disgrace, of knighthood lasting stain, By men of arms a helpless lady slain!

Thus Pyrrhus, burning with unmanly ire, Fulfilled the mandate of his furious sire; Disdainful of the frantic matron's prayer, On fair Polyxena, her last fond care, He rush'd, his blade yet warm with Priam's gore, And dash'd the daughter on the sacred floor; While mildly she her raving mother eyed, Resigned her bosom to the sword, and died. Thus Inez, while her eyes to heaven appeal, Resigns her bosom to the murd'ring steel: That snowy neck, whose matchless form sustain'd The loveliest face, where all the graces reign'd, Whose charms so long the gallant prince enflam'd, That her pale corse was Lisbon's queen proclaim'd, That snowy neck was stain'd with spouting gore, Another sword her lovely bosom tore. The flowers that glisten'd with her tears bedew'd, Now shrunk and languished with her blood embru'd. As when a rose ere-while of bloom so gay, Thrown from the careless virgin's breast away, Lies faded on the plain, the living red, The snowy white, and all its fragrance fled; So from her cheeks the roses died away, And pale in death the beauteous Inez lay: With dreadful smiles, and crimson'd with her blood, Round the wan victim the stern murd'rers stood, Unmindful of the sure, though future hour, Sacred to vengeance and her lover's power.

O Sun, couldst thou so foul a crime behold, Nor veil thine head in darkness, as of old A sudden night unwonted horror cast O'er that dire banquet, where the sire's repast The son's torn limbs supplied!—Yet you, ye vales! Ye distant forests, and ye flow'ry dales! When pale and sinking to the dreadful fall, You heard her quiv'ring lips on Pedro call; Your faithful echoes caught the parting sound, And Pedro! Pedro! mournful, sigh'd around. Nor less the wood-nymphs of Mondego's groves Bewail'd the memory of her hapless loves: Her griefs they wept, and, to a plaintive rill Transform'd their tears, which weeps and murmurs still. To give immortal pity to her woe They taught the riv'let through her bowers to flow, And still, through violet-beds, the fountain pours Its plaintive wailing, and is named Amours. Nor long her blood for vengeance cried in vain: Her gallant lord begins his awful reign, In vain her murderers for refuge fly, Spain's wildest hills no place of rest supply. The injur'd lover's and the monarch's ire, And stern-brow'd Justice in their doom conspire: In hissing flames they die, and yield their souls in fire. Mickle's Translation, Canto III.



THE SPIRIT OF THE CAPE.

Vasco de Gama relates the incidents of his voyage from Portugal to the King of Melinda. The southern cross had appeared in the heavens and the fleet was approaching the southern point of Africa. While at anchor in a bay the Portuguese aroused the hostility of the savages, and hastily set sail.

"Now, prosp'rous gales the bending canvas swell'd; From these rude shores our fearless course we held: Beneath the glist'ning wave the god of day Had now five times withdrawn the parting ray, When o'er the prow a sudden darkness spread, And, slowly floating o'er the mast's tall head A black cloud hover'd: nor appear'd from far The moon's pale glimpse, nor faintly twinkling star; So deep a gloom the low'ring vapor cast, Transfix'd with awe the bravest stood aghast. Meanwhile, a hollow bursting roar resounds, As when hoarse surges lash their rocky mounds; Nor had the black'ning wave nor frowning heav'n The wonted signs of gath'ring tempest giv'n. Amazed we stood. 'O thou, our fortune's guide, Avert this omen, mighty God!' I cried; 'Or, through forbidden climes adventurous stray'd, Have we the secrets of the deep survey'd, Which these wide solitudes of seas and sky Were doom'd to hide from man's unhallow'd eye? Whate'er this prodigy, it threatens more Than midnight tempests, and the mingled roar, When sea and sky combine to rock the marble shore.'

"I spoke, when rising through the darken'd air, Appall'd, we saw a hideous phantom glare; High and enormous o'er the flood he tower'd, And 'thwart our way with sullen aspect lower'd: An earthy paleness o'er his cheeks was spread, Erect uprose his hairs of wither'd red; Writhing to speak, his sable lips disclose, Sharp and disjoin'd, his gnashing teeth's blue rows; His haggard beard flow'd quiv'ring on the wind, Revenge and horror in his mien combin'd; His clouded front, by with'ring lightnings scar'd, The inward anguish of his soul declar'd. His red eyes, glowing from their dusky caves, Shot livid fires: far echoing o'er the waves His voice resounded, as the cavern'd shore With hollow groan repeats the tempest's roar. Cold gliding horrors thrill'd each hero's breast, Our bristling hair and tott'ring knees confess'd Wild dread, the while with visage ghastly wan, His black lips trembling, thus the fiend began:—

"'O you, the boldest of the nations, fir'd By daring pride, by lust of fame inspir'd, Who, scornful of the bow'rs of sweet repose, Through these my waves advance your fearless prows, Regardless of the length'ning wat'ry way, And all the storms that own my sov'reign sway, Who, mid surrounding rocks and shelves explore Where never hero brav'd my rage before; Ye sons of Lusus, who with eyes profane Have view'd the secrets of my awful reign, Have passed the bounds which jealous Nature drew To veil her secret shrine from mortal view; Hear from my lips what direful woes attend, And, bursting soon, shall o'er your race descend.

"'With every bounding keel that dares my rage, Eternal war my rocks and storms shall wage, The next proud fleet that through my drear domain, With daring search shall hoist the streaming vane, That gallant navy, by my whirlwinds toss'd, And raging seas, shall perish on my coast: Then he, who first my secret reign descried, A naked corpse, wide floating o'er the tide, Shall drive—Unless my heart's full raptures fail, O Lusus! oft shall thou thy children wail; Each year thy shipwreck'd sons thou shalt deplore, Each year thy sheeted masts shall strew my shore.

"'With trophies plum'd behold a hero come, Ye dreary wilds, prepare his yawning tomb. Though smiling fortune bless'd his youthful morn, Though glory's rays his laurell'd brows adorn, Full oft though he beheld with sparkling eye The Turkish moons in wild confusion fly, While he, proud victor, thunder'd in the rear, All, all his mighty fame shall vanish here. Quiloa's sons, and thine, Mombaz, shall see Their conqueror bend his laurell'd head to me; While, proudly mingling with the tempest's sound, Their shouts of joy from every cliff rebound.

"'The howling blast, ye slumb'ring storms prepare, A youthful lover and his beauteous fair Triumphant sail from India's ravag'd land; His evil angel leads him to my strand. Through the torn hulk the dashing waves shall roar, The shatter'd wrecks shall blacken all my shore. Themselves escaped, despoil'd by savage hands, Shall, naked, wander o'er the burning sands, Spar'd by the waves far deeper woes to bear, Woes, e'en by me, acknowledg'd with a tear. Their infant race, the promis'd heirs of joy, Shall now, no more, a hundred hands employ; By cruel want, beneath the parents' eye, In these wide wastes their infant race shall die; Through dreary wilds, where never pilgrim trod Where caverns yawn, and rocky fragments nod, The hapless lover and his bride shall stray, By night unshelter'd, and forlorn by day. In vain the lover o'er the trackless plain Shall dart his eyes, and cheer his spouse in vain. Her tender limbs, and breast of mountain snow, Where, ne'er before, intruding blast might blow, Parch'd by the sun, and shrivell'd by the cold Of dewy night, shall he, fond man, behold. Thus, wand'ring wide, a thousand ills o'er past, In fond embraces they shall sink at last; While pitying tears their dying eyes o'erflow, And the last sigh shall wail each other's woe.

"'Some few, the sad companions of their fate, Shall yet survive, protected by my hate, On Tagus' banks the dismal tale to tell, How, blasted by my frown, your heroes fell.'

"He paus'd, in act still further to disclose A long, a dreary prophecy of woes: When springing onward, loud my voice resounds, And midst his rage the threat'ning shade confounds.

"'What art thou, horrid form that rid'st the air? By Heaven's eternal light, stern fiend, declare.' His lips he writhes, his eyes far round he throws, And, from his breast, deep hollow groans arose, Sternly askance he stood: with wounded pride And anguish torn, 'In me, behold,' he cried, While dark-red sparkles from his eyeballs roll'd, 'In me the Spirit of the Cape behold, That rock, by you the Cape of Tempests nam'd, By Neptune's rage, in horrid earthquakes fram'd, When Jove's red bolts o'er Titan's offspring flam'd. With wide-stretch'd piles I guard the pathless strand, And Afric's southern mound, unmov'd, I stand: Nor Roman prow, nor daring Tyrian oar Ere dash'd the white wave foaming to my shore; Nor Greece nor Carthage ever spread the sail On these my seas, to catch the trading gale. You, you alone have dar'd to plough my main, And with the human voice disturb my lonesome reign."

"He spoke, and deep a lengthen'd sigh he drew, A doleful sound, and vanish'd from the view: The frighten'd billows gave a rolling swell, And, distant far, prolong'd the dismal yell, Faint and more faint the howling echoes die, And the black cloud dispersing, leaves the sky. High to the angel-host, whose guardian care Had ever round us watch'd, my hands I rear, And Heaven's dread King implore: 'As o'er our head The fiend dissolv'd, an empty shadow fled; So may his curses, by the winds of heav'n, Far o'er the deep, their idle sport, be driv'n!'"

With sacred horror thrill'd, Melinda's lord Held up the eager hand, and caught the word. "Oh, wondrous faith of ancient days," he cries, "Concealed in mystic lore and dark disguise! Taught by their sires, our hoary fathers tell, On these rude shores a giant spectre fell, What time from heaven the rebel band were thrown: And oft the wand'ring swain has heard his moan. While o'er the wave the clouded moon appears To hide her weeping face, his voice he rears O'er the wild storm. Deep in the days of yore, A holy pilgrim trod the nightly shore; Stern groans he heard; by ghostly spells controll'd, His fate, mysterious, thus the spectre told:

"'By forceful Titan's warm embrace compress'd, The rock-ribb'd mother, Earth, his love confess'd: The hundred-handed giant at a birth, And me, she bore, nor slept my hopes on earth; My heart avow'd my sire's ethereal flame; Great Adamastor, then, my dreaded name. In my bold brother's glorious toils engaged, Tremendous war against the gods I waged: Yet, not to reach the throne of heaven I try, With mountain pil'd on mountain to the sky; To me the conquest of the seas befell, In his green realm the second Jove to quell. Nor did ambition all my passions hold, 'Twas love that prompted an attempt so bold. Ah me, one summer in the cool of day, I saw the Nereids on the sandy bay, With lovely Thetis from the wave advance In mirthful frolic, and the naked dance. In all her charms reveal'd the goddess trod, With fiercest fires my struggling bosom glow'd; Yet, yet I feel them burning in my heart, And hopeless, languish with the raging smart. For her, each goddess of the heavens I scorn'd, For her alone my fervent ardor burn'd. In vain I woo'd her to the lover's bed, From my grim form, with horror, mute she fled. Madd'ning with love, by force I ween to gain The silver goddess of the blue domain; To the hoar mother of the Nereid band I tell my purpose, and her aid command: By fear impell'd, old Doris tried to move, And win the spouse of Peleus to my love. The silver goddess with a smile replies, 'What nymph can yield her charms a giant's prize! Yet, from the horrors of a war to save, And guard in peace our empire of the wave, Whate'er with honor he may hope to gain, That, let him hope his wish shall soon attain.' The promis'd grace infus'd a bolder fire, And shook my mighty limbs with fierce desire. But ah, what error spreads its dreadful night, What phantoms hover o'er the lover's sight!

"The war resign'd, my steps by Doris led, While gentle eve her shadowy mantle spread, Before my steps the snowy Thetis shone In all her charms, all naked, and alone. Swift as the wind with open arms I sprung, And, round her waist with joy delirious clung: In all the transports of the warm embrace, A hundred kisses on her angel face, On all its various charms my rage bestows, And, on her cheek, my cheek enraptur'd glows. When oh, what anguish while my shame I tell! What fix'd despair, what rage my bosom swell! Here was no goddess, here no heavenly charms, A rugged mountain fill'd my eager arms, Whose rocky top, o'erhung with matted brier, Received the kisses of my am'rous fire. Wak'd from my dream, cold horror freez'd my blood; Fix'd as a rock, before the rock I stood; 'O fairest goddess of the ocean train, Behold the triumph of thy proud disdain; Yet why,' I cried, 'with all I wish'd decoy, And, when exulting in the dream of joy, A horrid mountain to mine arms convey?' Madd'ning I spoke, and furious sprung away. Far to the south I sought the world unknown, Where I, unheard, unscorn'd, might wail alone, My foul dishonor, and my tears to hide, And shun the triumph of the goddess' pride. My brothers, now, by Jove's red arm o'erthrown, Beneath huge mountains pil'd on mountains groan; And I, who taught each echo to deplore, And tell my sorrows to the desert shore, I felt the hand of Jove my crimes pursue, My stiff'ning flesh to earthy ridges grew, And my huge bones, no more by marrow warm'd, To horrid piles, and ribs of rock transform'd, Yon dark-brow'd cape of monstrous size became, Where, round me still, in triumph o'er my shame, The silv'ry Thetis bids her surges roar, And waft my groans along the dreary shore.'"