Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Spain, Portugal, Belgium, and Holland: Vols. XIV–XV. 1876–79.
The Prophecy of Tagus
By Luis Ponce de León (1527–1591)A
King Rodrigo, safe from sight,
With the Lady Cava fed
On the fruit of loose delight,
From the river’s placid breast
Slow its ancient Genius broke;
Of the scrolls of Fate possessed,
Thus the frowning prophet spoke:
Ruthless spoiler, wanton here!
Shouts and clangors even now,
Even now assail mine ear;
Shout, and sound of clashing shield,
Shivered sword and rushing car,—
All the frenzy of the field!
All the anarchy of war!
Forth from this thine hour of mirth,
From yon fair and smiling thing
Who in evil day had birth!
In an evil day for Spain
Plighted is your guilty troth!
Fatal triumph! costly gain
To the sceptre of the Goth!
Slaughter, ravage, fierce alarms,
Anguish and immortal toils,
Thou dost gather to thine arms,—
For thyself and vassals,—those
Who the fertile furrow break,
Where the stately Ebro flows,
Who their thirst in Douro slake!
Murcian lord and Lusian swain,
For the chivalry and flower
Of all sad and spacious Spain!
Prompt for vengeance, not for fame,
Even now from Cadiz’ halls,
On the Moor, in Allah’s name,
Hoarse the Count,—the Injured calls.
Sounds his trumpet to the stars,
Citing Afric’s desert-born
To the gonfalon of Mars!
Lo, already loose in air
Floats the standard, peals the gong;
They shall not be slow to dare
Roderick’s wrath for Julian’s wrong.
Smite the wind, and war demand;
Millions in a moment wake,
Join, and swarm o’er all the sand:
Underneath their sails the sea
Disappears, a hubbub runs
Through the sphere of heaven alee,
Clouds of dust obscure the sun’s.
Cut the cables, slip from shore;
How their sturdy arms keep time
To the dashing of the oar!
Bright the frothy billows burn
Round their cleaving keels, and gales
Breathed by Eolus astern,
Fill their deep and daring sails.
He whose voice the floods obey,
With the trident of his state,
Gives the grand Armada way.—
In her sweet, subduing arms,
Sinner! dost thou slumber still,
Dull and deaf to the alarms
Of this loud inrushing ill?
Mark them mooring from the main
Rise, take horse, away! away!
Scale the mountain, scour the plain
Give not pity to thy hand,
Give not pardon to thy spur,
Dart abroad thy flashing brand,
Bare thy fatal cimeter!
The sole recompense must be
Of each horse and horseman yet,
Plumeless serf and plumed grandee.
Sullied is thy silver flow,
Stream of proud Sevilla, weep!
Many a broken helm shalt thou
Hurry to the bordering deep.
Moor and Noble’s slaughtered corse
Whilst the Furies of the war
Gore your ranks with equal loss!
Five days you dispute the field;
When ’t is sunrise on the plains,—
O loved land! thy doom is sealed,
Madden, madden in thy chains!”