Page:The Lusiad (Camões, tr. Mickle, 1791), Volume 2.djvu/15

 Here Italy her beauteous landscapes shews; Around her sides his arms old ocean throws; The dashing waves the ramparts aid supply; The hoary Alps, high towering to the sky, From shore to shore a rugged barrier spread, And lower destruction on the hostile tread. But now no more her hostile spirit burns; There now the saint in humble vespers mourns; To heaven more grateful than the pride of war, And all the triumphs of the victor's car. Onward fair Gallia opens to the view Her groves of olive, and her vineyards blue: Wide spread her harvests o'er the scenes renown'd, Where Julius proudly strode with laurel crown'd. Here Seine,—how fair when glistening to the moon! Rolls his white wave, and here the cold Garcon; Here the deep Rhine the flowery margin laves; And here the rapid Rhone impervious raves. Here the gruff mountains, faithless to the vows Of lost Pyrene rear their cloudy brows; Whence, when of old the flames their woods devour'd, Streams of red gold and melted silver pour'd. And