Classic Poem

O Sun of Lusitane, are those thy rays
Of glory set for evermore, that erst
On rising Lisboa pour'd so bright a blaze,
And gilded Tajo's stream, and proudly burst
From foul eclipse, what time Braganza first
Uprais'd the banner of his prostrate reign,
And cried, " To arms, thou race in freedom nurst,
Arouse thee as of yore! be free again!
Art thou for ever set, O Sun of Lusitane? "

Heaven wills not so: lo! from long death-like sleep
Waked by the storm of war, by murder's yell,
Upstarts the Angel of the Western steep,
And shaking off the loathsome dews that fell
From Slavery's poison-tree, whose blighting spell
Hath numb'd so long his darken'd sense, — behold!
He climbs once more his mountain citadel,
Where hovering amid hero-saints of old,
He sounds the trump that bursts the slumbers of the bold.

And at the fury of that blast I mark
Ten thousand swords flash upward to the sky:
Swords, that inglorious rust no more shall cark,
Quick glancing in the light of Liberty.
And infants lisp their fathers' battle cry,
And mothers quit the cradle-side to hear,
And from the cell of spotless Piety
The spouse of Heaven, that shrank if man came near,
Moves forth with downcast look, but not in maiden fear.

'Tis not the blush of maiden shame that dyes,
Nor fear that blanches her unveiled cheek;
But she hath heard her weeping country's cries,
Heard how the spoiler made Heaven's altars reek
With innocent blood, and drown'd the infants' shriek
In fiendish laughter. She hath heard the tale,
And her sick heart hath sunk as it would break
For human kind: so shrinks she, sad and pale,
Till fouler wrongs are told, and sterner longings swell.

Longings of sacred vengeance, — for the fair,
The chaste, the pious, dragged to insult dire,
Dragged by the uplifted arm, or streaming hair,
Then left in shame and horror to expire.
The altars saw, and shudder'd; and the fire
Of holy lamps, that lighted saints to prayer,
And witness'd throbs erewhile of pure desire,
Trembling sank down, and cast a pale cold glare,
Like miner's torch half-quench'd in some sepulchral air.

For glory couldst thou dare the monstrous deep?
For empire couldst thou stretch thy eagle wings,
Where ocean's echoes lay in lifeless sleep,
Save when they caught the storm's wild murmurings?
Couldst thou be brave for gold? and shall no stings
Of holy vengeance thrill thee? shall no arm
Be bared for blood, now while each valley rings
With thy oppressors' shout? shall baneful charm
Unnerve thee, Lusitane? shall shape of toil or harm?

Far mightier spells the priests of Freedom try,
Of power to rouse from their entombed rest
The mailed forms of chiefs, whom Victory
Hath lull'd to sleep upon their country's breast.
Now starting at her well-remember'd 'hest,
Within yon circle, lo! they take their stand,
Of heroes girt for war, holy and blest,
Thence towards the West and North they wave their brand,
And to their banner call the free of heart and hand.

'Tis done: for not unmark'd by Albion pass'd
That voice, that gleam: her giant arm is rais'd,
Her sail is spread. And hark! Castile as fast
Echoes the shout, and lifts her shield emblazed
With deeds of high emprize. O ever praised,
Yet ever wept! Thy banner iSunfurl'd,
Thy waken'd Eagle on the sun hath gazed.
So on they fare in faith, till they have hurl'd
Their triple bolt on guilt, defenders of a world.