Page:The Lusiad (Camões, tr. Mickle, 1791), Volume 1.djvu/463

 An impious people weaves a thousand snares: Oh fly these shores, unfurl the gather'd sail, Lo, Heaven, thy guide, commands the rising gale; Hark, loud it rustles, see, the gentle tide Invites thy prows; the winds thy lingering chide. Here such dire welcome is for thee prepared As Diomed's unhappy strangers shared; His hapless guests at silent midnight bled, On their torn limbs his snorting coursers fed, Oh fly, or here with strangers' blood imbrew'd Busiris' altars thou shalt find renew'd: Amidst his slaughter'd guests his altars stood Obscene with gore, and bark'd with human blood: Then thou, beloved of heaven, my counsel hear; Right by the coast thine onward journey steer, Till where the sun of noon no shade begets, But day with night in equal tenor sets. A sovereign there, of generous faith unstain'd, With ancient bounty, and with joy unfeign'd Your glad arrival on his shore shall greet, And soothe with every care your weary fleet.