'Now in the midst, distinguished above all,
With royal marks attending him, appears
Valorous Afonso, who, as Mareschal,
His lofty neck above his people rears;
And with his look alone to life doth call,
And warm with courage, every heart that fears:
Thus entering Spanish lands he might be seen,
Leading his lovely daughter she their Queen.
The two Afonsos, finally allied,
Are on Tarifa's plains arrayed in front
Of the besotted race, stretched far and wide,
For whom too small are e'en both field and mount. Nor throbs there breast so strong and full of pride, But that it must some anxious moments count, Save it feel clear reliance, in that hour,
That Christ makes war with his own people's power.
'Hagar's descendants now almost deride
The Christian forces, as but weak and mean,
And as their own, forsooth, the lands divide,
Beforehand, with the army Hagarene;
These having to themselves false name applied --
The famed appellative of Saracen—
Now by mere naked claim, as falsely shown,
The noble land of others call their own.
'E'en as the large-limbed giant rude, of yore,
By Saul, the King, with cause, so greatly feared,
Seeing the slender shepherd stand before,
Who but with pebbles armed, and strength, appeared,
With words of arrogance and hatred sore,
The frail and ill-clad stripling scoffed and sneered,
Who, whirling round his sling, forced him to know
How much more Faith than human power can do ;
'Desta arte o Mouro perfido despreza
O poder dos Christãos, e não entende,
Que está ajudado da alta fortaleza,
A quem o inferno horrifico se rende :
Com ella o Castelhano, e com destreza
De Marrocos o Rei commette, e offende:
O Portuguez, que tudo estima em nada,
Se faz temer ao reino de Granada.
'Eis as lanças, e espadas retiniam
Por cima dos arnezes : bravo estrago !
Chamam (segundo as leis, que alli seguiam)
Huns Mafamede, e os outros Sanct-Iago :
Os feridos com grita o céo feriam,
Fazendo de seu sangue bruto lago,
Onde outros meios mortos se affogavam,
Quando do ferro as vidas escapavam.
'Com esforço tamanho estrue, e mata
O Luso ao Granadil, que em pouco espaço
Totalmente o poder lhe desbarata,
Sem lhe valer defeza, ou peito de aço :
De alcançar tal victoria tão barata
Inda não bem contente o forte braço,
Vai ajudar ao bravo Castelhano,
Que pelejando está co'o Mauritano.
'Já se hia o Sol ardente recolhendo Para a casa de Thetis, e inclinado Para o Ponente, o vespero trazendo,
Estava o claro dia memorado:
Quando o poder do Mouro grande e horrendo
Foi pelos fortes Reis desbaratado
Com tanta mortandade, que a memoria
Nunca no mundo vio tão grão victoria.
Thus the perfidious Moor would fain despise The Christian force, and does not comprehend How that exalted fortress aid supplies,
To which e'en horrid Hell itself must bend :
On this and on his skill Castille relies,
Morocco's king to attack and to offend.
The Portuguese, who treats all things as light,
Makes all Granada tremble with affright.
'And now, behold, were ringing sword and spear
Upon the armour; slaughter to appal !
According to the faiths that flourished there,
Some on St. James, others on Mahmoud call!
The wounded with their cries assault the air,
Whose blood into a brutal pool doth fall,
Wherein are choked the others who, half dead,
Have from the sword, life scarcely saving, fled.
'The Lusian with such power destruction wrought On the Granadian, that in little space
His forces to a total rout were brought,
Defence of no avail, nor steel cuirass.
But in such victory so cheaply bought
His valiant arm finds not sufficient grace;
To aid the brave Castilian forth he goes,
Who still is fighting with his Moorish foes.
'And now went burning Sol down to his rest
In Thetis' caves; inclining on his way,
He led along the evening toward the West,
And closed was that bright memorable day;
When the great dreadful Moorish power o'erpressed
By the two valorous kings all routed lay,
With slaughter such, the memory of man
Counts not like victory since the world began. 18
'Não matou a quarta parte o forte Mario, Dos que morreram neste vencimento, Quando as aguas co'o sangue do adversario Fez beber ao exercito sedento:
Nem o Peno, asperissimo contrario
Do Romano poder de nascimento,
Quando tantos matou da illustre Roma,
Que alqueires tres de anneis dos mortos toma.
E se tu tantas almas só pudeste
Mandar ao reino escuro de Cocyto,
Quando a sancta Cidade desfizeste
Do povo, pertinaz no antiguo rito,
Permissão, e vingança foi celeste,
E não força de braço, ó nobre Tito ;
Que assi dos Vates foi prophetizado,
E despois por JESU certificado.
'Passada esta tão prospera victoria,
Tornado Afonso á Lusitana terra,
A se lograr da paz com tanta gloria,
Quanta soube ganhar na dura guerra :
O caso triste, e digno de memoria,
Que do sepulchro os homens desenterra,
Aconteceo da misera, e mesquinha,
Que, despois de ser morta, foi Rainha.
'Tu só, tu, puro Amor, com força crua,
Que os corações humanos tanto obriga,
Déste causa á molesta morte sua,
Como se fôra perfida inimiga :
Se dizem, fero Amor, que a sêde tua
Nem com lagrimas tristes se mitiga,
He porque queres, aspero e tyranno,
Tuas aras banhar em sangue humano.
'Not one fourth part the warlike Marius slew Of those who in this victory were slain,
When thro' the foeman's blood, the stream in view, He made his thirsty troops the water gain;
Nor Annibal, who, as Rome's power well knew,
Did from his birth his harshest hate retain ;
When having slain so many of great Rome,
Of dead knights' rings he sent three measures home.
'And if so many souls thou couldst alone
Consign unto Cocytus' realms of night,
When thou the sacred city hadst o'erthrown
Of people cleaving to the ancient rite,
The licence and revenge were not thine own,
O noble Titus! Heaven's own arm did fight;
For thus by prophets it was prophesied,
And afterwards by Jesus certified.
'This victory so prosperous being o'er,
And turning towards the Lusitanian land,
Afonso, hopeful as in war before,
So now in peace, high glory to command,
There came to pass that tale of woe full sore,
Which claims a record at kind Memory's hand
Who lights our tombs; her tale of piteous mien,
Who after being slain was crowned as Queen.
Thou, only thou, of cruel power, pure Love, Who o'er our human heart dost lord it so, The cause of her most mournful death didst prove,
As if she were thine own perfidious foe.
If saddest tears, fierce love, have vainly strove
To quench the thirsty flames that in thee glow,
'Tis that thy will, of harsh tyrannic mood,
Would bathe thy altars in our human blood.
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