That on the sick man's weary couch he lay,
Pining to share my battles!

Ye winds that sweep

CHORUS.

The conquer'd billows of the western deep,
Or wander where the morn

'Midst the resplendent Indian heavens is born,
Waft o'er bright isles, and glorious worlds the fame
Of the crown'd Spaniard's name :

Till in each glowing zone

Its might the nations own,

And bow to him the vassal knee

Whose sceptre shadows realms from sea to sea.

Seb. Away-away! this is no place for him Whose name hath thus resounded, but is now A word of desolation.

[Exit.

ODE ON THE DEFEAT

OF KING SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL, AND HIS ARMY, IN AFRICA.

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF HERRERA.

FERDINAND De Herrera, surnamed the Divine, was a Spanish poet, who lived in the reign of Charles V., and is still considered by the Castilians as one of their classic writers. He aimed at the introduction of a new style into Spanish poetry, and his lyrics are distinguished by the sustained majesty of their language, the frequent recurrence of expressions and images, derived apparently from a fervent study of the prophetic books of Scripture, and the lofty tone of national pride maintained throughout, and justified indeed by the nature of the subjects to which some of these productions are devoted. This last characteristic is blended with a deep and enthusiastic feeling of religion, which rather exalts than tempers the haughty confidence of the poet in the high destinies of his country. Spain is to him what Judea was to the bards who sung beneath the shadow of her palm-trees-the chosen and favoured land, whose people, severed from all others by the purity and devotedness of their faith, are peculiarly called to wreak the vengeance of Heaven upon the infidel.

This triumphant conviction is powerfully expressed in his magnificent Ode on the Battle of Lepanto.

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

"Voz de dolor, y canto de gemido," &c.

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

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

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

To the far sea, in other hues array'd,

And the red limits of the Orient's reign,

Whose nations, haughty though subdued, behold
Christ's glorious banner to the winds unfold.

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

Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trode

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

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

Bursting upon the mighty and the proud
With visitation dread,

Their crests the Eternal, in his anger, bow'd,
And raised barbarian nations o'er their head,
The inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold,
But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncontroll'd.

Then was the sword let loose, the flaming sword
Of the strong infidel's ignoble hand,

Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the crown
Of thy fair knighthood; and the insatiate horde,
Not with thy life content, O ruin'd land!
Sad Lusitania! even thy bright renown
Defaced and trampled down;

And scatter'd, rushing as a torrent flood,
Thy pomp of arms and banners ;-till the sands
Became a lake of blood-thy noblest blood!—
The plain a mountain of thy slaughter'd bands.

Strength on thy foes, resistless might was shed;
On thy devoted sons-amaze, and shame, and dread.

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

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

Making the cities of imperial name

E'en as the desert place?

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

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

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

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

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