Page:The Lusiad (Camões, tr. Mickle, 1791), Volume 2.djvu/55

 Such dreadful slaughter of the boastful Moor Never on battle-field was heap'd before. Not he whose childhood vow'd eternal hate And desperate war against the Roman state, Though three strong coursers bent beneath the weight Of rings of gold, by many a Roman knight, Erewhile, the badge of rank distinguish'd, worn, From their cold hands at Cannæ's slaughter torn; Not his dread sword bespread the reeking plain With such wide streams of gore, and hills of slain; Nor thine, O Titus, swept from Salem's land Such floods of ghosts, roll'd down to death's dark strand; Though, ages ere she fell, the prophets old The dreadful scene of Salem's fall foretold, In words that breathe wild horror: Nor the shore, When carnage choak'd the stream, so smoak'd with gore, When Marius' fainting legions drank the flood, Yet warm and purpled with Ambronian blood; Not such the heaps as now the plains of Tarif strew'd.


 * While glory thus Alonzo's name adorn'd,

To Lisboa's shores the happy chief return'd, In glorious peace and well-deserved repose, His course of fame, and honoured age to close. When