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How name ye this fair land? Why—is it not The free, the chivalrous Portugal? the land By the proud ransom of heroic blood Won from the Moor of old? Did that red stream Sink to the earth, and leave no fiery current In the veins of noble men, that so its tide, Full swelling at the sound of hostile steps, Might be a kingdom's barrier?

. That high blood Which should have been our strength, profusely shed By the rash King Sebastian, bathed the plains Of fatal Alcazar. Our monarch's guilt Hath brought this ruin down.

. Must this be heard, And borne, and unchastised? Man, darest thou stand Before me face to face, and thus arraign Thy sovereign?

(aside to Sebastian. ) Shall I lift the sword, my Prince, Against thy foes?

. Be still!—or all is lost.

. I dare speak that which all men think and know. 'Tis to Sebastian, and his waste of life, And power, and treasure, that we owe these bonds.

. Talk not of bonds. May our new monarch rule The weary land in peace! But who art thou, Whence com'st thou, haughty stranger, that these things, Known to all nations, should be new to thee?