Classic Poem

While on bright Tago's banks reclin'd,
And all to Love's soft joys resign'd,
Rodrigo panted on fair Caba's breast,
Sudden, a Seer of future woes,
The River's awful God arose,
And thus with boding groans the fearless chief addrest.

In vain, while horrors round thee rise,
Thy arms enfold their ravish'd prize,
The prize so fatal to thy princely line:
Soon shall the Moor, so Fate has said,
Avenge the violated Maid,
And wrest Iberia's throne from Odin's race divine.

In vain, with Gothic pride elate,
To suit thy shadowy dream of state,
Corduba rears her gilded roof on high:
No Child of thine in years to come
Shall revel in the gorgeous dome:
Its alter'd echoes now to barbarous tongues reply.

On Calpe's rocks with threatening hand
I see the injur'd Father stand,
All torn his beard, and rent his hoary hair:
See, now he points to Libya's coast,
Now hails aloud the turban'd host,
And waves his purple flag of vengeance in the air!

With oars, that sparkle to the Sun,
Swift o'er the level waves they run,
Their broad sails whiten on the crowded main;
And now their clashing arms I hear,
The trumpet's clang invades my ear,
Loud neigh the fiery steeds, and paw the rattling plain.

With Ceuta's race, renown'd in fight,
Fierce Barca's swarthy Sons unite;
Tunis her moonèd ensigns wide displays;
With flaming scimitar and shield
Morocco's squadrons shake the field,
On Alla's name they call, and shout the Prophet's praise.

O'er her rich meads with lifted lance
Fair Betis sees their ranks advance,
Proud Seville hears, Granada shakes with dread,
Sad Douro listens to the roar,
Ill-fated Minho foams with gore,
And distant Ebro groans with mountains of the dead.

To arms, great Chief, to arms with speed!
Let the sword rage, the battle bleed!
Ken'st thou not yet th' approaching storm from far?
Bid, bid thy Knights their falchions wave,
Nor thou be slow the day to save,
But like a Comet blaze in the dark van of war!

Yet ah! in vain: nor spear, nor spell
The ruthless Saracen can quell,
That crush'd stern Afric with his iron yoke:
He safely sheath'd in ribs of mail
Defies thy sharpest arrowy hail,
Laughs at the javelin's hiss, and mocks the sabre's stroke.

Five bloody Suns with headlong rage
Each host an equal war shall wage,
Each see by turns his doubtful scale ascend;
The sixth shall view thy flight forlorn,
Thy shatter'd arms, thy banners torn,
While Spain's proud neck beneath the victor's heel shall bend.