The Prophecy of Tagus

As by Tagus' billowy bed 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:

"In an evil hour dost thou, Ruthless spoiler, wanton here! Shouts and clangours 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!

Oh what wail and weeping spring 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!

Flames and furies, griefs and broils, 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!

For the throne—the hall—the bower— 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.

Hark, how frightfully forlorn 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.

See, their spears the Arabs shake, 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.

Swift their mighty ships they climb, 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.

Sheer across Alcides' strait 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?

In the hallowed Gadite bay 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 scimeter!

Agony of toil and sweat The sole recompense must be Of each horse and horseman yet, Plumeless serf and plumed grandee. Sullied in thy silver flow, Stream of proud Sevilla, weep! Many a broken helm shalt thou Hurry to the bordering deep.

Many a turban and tiar, 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 'tis sunrise on the plains— Oh loved land! thy doom is sealed, Madden, madden in thy chains!"