No More Learning

Battle of
Ourique against the Moors; great slaughter of the Moors. Alonzo
proclaimed King of Portugal on the battle-field of Ourique. At Badajoz
he is wounded and taken prisoner: resigns the kingdom to his son, Don
Sancho. Hearing that thirteen Moorish kings, headed by the Emperor of
Morocco, were besieging Sancho in Santarem, he hastens to deliver his
son: gains a great battle, in which the Moorish Emperor is slain.
Victories of Sancho; capture of Sylves from the Moors, and of Tui from
the King of Leon. Conquest of Alcazar de Sul by Alfonso II. Deposition
of Sancho II. Is succeeded by Alphonso III. , the conqueror of Algarve;
succeeded by Dionysius, founder of the University of Coimbra. His son,
Alfonso the Brave. Affecting story of the fair Inez, who is crowned
Queen of Portugal after her assassination. Don Pedro, her husband,
rendered desperate by the loss of his mistress, is succeeded by the weak
and effeminate Ferdinand. His wife Eleonora, torn from the arms of her
lawful husband, dishonours his reign.


Oh now, Calliope, thy potent aid!
What to the king th' illustrious GAMA said
Clothe in immortal verse.
With sacred fire
My breast, If e'er it loved thy lore, inspire:
So may the patron[175] of the healing art,
The god of day to thee consign his heart;
From thee, the mother of his darling son,[176]
May never wand'ring thought to Daphne run:
May never Clytia, nor Leucothoe's pride
Henceforth with thee his changeful love divide.
Then aid, O fairest nymph, my fond desire,
And give my verse the Lusian warlike fire:
Fir'd by the song, the list'ning world shall know
That Aganippe's streams from Tagus flow.
Oh, let no more the flowers of Pindus shine
On thy fair breast, or round thy temples twine:
On Tago's banks a richer chaplet blows,
And with the tuneful god my bosom glows:
I feel, I feel the mighty power infuse,
And bathe my spirit in Aonian[177] dews!

Now silence woo'd the illustrious chief's reply,
And keen attention watch'd on every eye;
When slowly turning with a modest grace,
The noble VASCO rais'd his manly face;
O mighty king (he cries), at thy[178] command
The martial story of my native land
I tell; but more my doubtful heart had joy'd
Had other wars my praiseful lips employ'd.
When men the honours of their race commend,
The doubts of strangers on the tale attend:
Yet, though reluctance falter on my tongue,
Though day would fail a narrative so long,
Yet, well assur'd no fiction's glare can raise,
Or give my country's fame a brighter praise;
Though less, far less, whate'er my lips can say,
Than truth must give it, I thy will obey.

Between that zone where endless winter reigns
And that where flaming heat consumes the plains;
Array'd in green, beneath indulgent skies,
The queen of arts and arms, fair Europe lies.
Around her northern and her western shores,
Throng'd with the finny race old ocean roars;
The midland sea,[179] where tide ne'er swell'd the waves,
Her richest lawns, the southern border, laves.
Against the rising morn, the northmost bound
The whirling Tanais[180] parts from Asian ground,
As tumbling from the Scythian mountains cold
Their crooked way the rapid waters hold
To dull Maeotis'[181] lake. Her eastern line
More to the south, the Phrygian waves confine:
Those waves, which, black with many a navy, bore
The Grecian heroes to the Dardan shore;
Where now the seaman, rapt in mournful joy,
Explores in vain the sad remains of Troy.
Wide to the north beneath the pole she spreads;
Here piles of mountains rear their rugged heads,
Here winds on winds in endless tempests roll,
The valleys sigh, the length'ning echoes howl.
On the rude cliffs, with frosty spangles grey,
Weak as the twilight, gleams the solar ray;
Each mountain's breast with snows eternal shines,
The streams and seas eternal frost confines.
Here dwelt the num'rous Scythian tribes of old,
A dreadful race! by victor ne'er controll'd,
Whose pride maintain'd that theirs the sacred earth,
Not that of Nile, which first gave man his birth.
Here dismal Lapland spreads a dreary wild,
Here Norway's wastes, where harvest never smil'd,
Whose groves of fir in gloomy horror frown,
Nod o'er the rocks, and to the tempest groan.
Here Scandia's clime her rugged shores extends,
And, far projected, through the ocean bends;
Whose sons' dread footsteps yet Ausonia[182] wears,
And yet proud Rome in mournful ruin bears.
When summer bursts stern winter's icy chain,
Here the bold Swede, the Prussian, and the Dane
Hoist the white sail and plough the foamy way,
Cheer'd by whole months of one continual day:
Between these shores and Tanais'[183] rushing tide
Livonia's sons and Russia's hordes reside.