"Their hot white foam is by the chargers proud Scattered in fleece around; Uprises from their nostrils a dense cloud; And as they paw the ground A thick dust blackens the pure air like smoke, "The stately cedar and the res'nous pine No more, on mountain's brow, The feathered mother and her nest enshrine; The briny deep to people they repair, And for green leaves fling canvass on the air. "War, monster dire! what baleful planet's force Away! away! quick measure back thy course; Who joy in burnished mail, whose ruthless mood "But unavoidable if war's alarms,Lusians, our cause is just! In battle will we crimson our bright arms; All hope of future years in joy to run; Only in battle may sweet peace be won. "The Albuquerques and Castros from the tomb. Arise on Lusia's sight; Although for centuries they've lain in gloom Unvisited by light, Portugal they forget not, of whose story Their names and their achievements are the glory." We shall close our selections from the Parnaso Lusitano with part of B. M. Curvo Semedo's long Dithyrambic Address to his Mistress, which is highly spoken of by Portugueze critics, though we must confess we do not ourselves very much delight in it. We imitate the irregularity in rhyme and metre of the original. It begins thus: "Sword-armed Orion rains destruction down, Th' affrighted world assailing; Rebellious howling whirlwinds, Terrible thundering tempests, Constitute his wild army. Savagely winter peers through murky air, Flapping cach gelid wing, Horrible storms, loud roaring, round him cling; By fierce north-easters raging now, Beneath the palsying influences shed From his cold blast thy del'cate white limbs tremble, The bitter season how eschew? And brimming goblets whilst we quaff, This comfortable winter-mastering process occupies some pages, which we pass over. The fortunate result is thus commemo "A vine wreath placed To the banquet spread By the god of the thyrsus- But what do I see? Two Celias and two me's! If mine eyes, by cloudiness troubled, Into Bacchus transformed am I ! The god adore! In nectar divine Will I evermore Expect me awhile, sweet Celia, here, Oh Heav'ns! what raptures in me blaze! If we do Almeida Garrett injustice in presenting his tale imHad mediately after this tipsy rhapsody, the fault is not ours. Fonseca included any of his earlier verses in the Parnaso Lusitano, we should have placed our specimens of them in happy juxta position to the blank verse; but his poem being taken as a separate book, we know not how to locate it otherwise. We shall, however, try to sober our readers down to the temperature of narrative poetry by a few prefatory words of prose. We have already intimated that the long slighted Chacra has at length found a cultivated admirer; and this admirer is the Senhor Almeida Garrett, whose attention seems to have been recalled to what formed the delight of his infancy, by the universal modern rage for old national legends and songs. He has collected the fragments of many mutilated Chacras, and in the introduction to Adozinda speaks of publishing them, with versions so far modernizing them as to ren der the language and stories intelligible. We earnestly pray him not to let this desigu make itself air. We are great lovers of such lore; and the Portugueze nature is so essentially poetical, that we are satisfied Lusitanian lispings in numbers must be amongst the sweetest of early remains. Adozinda is not exactly a specimen of what this work would be; in it the Chacra fragments having grown into a poetical romance in four short cantos, and being altered, as well as dilated and completed. They could not else have appeared in these days of refinement; for the tale is founded on a passion revolting to human nature, and requires the utmost delicacy of management to render it endurable. Our author has done much to soften its offensiveness; indeed, as much as in most parts of the continent will, we conceive, be thought sufficient. English readers are, however, more fastidious; and there are parts of his poem which we could neither translate nor even insinuate comfortably. We must therefore tell the story briefly in our own way; first giving the description of Don Sisnando's return home from the Moorish wars, and concluding with extracts from the catastrophe. As usual we imitate the metre of the original, to which belongs the intermixture of unrhymed lines. "Lo! what crowds seek Landim Palace Where it towers above the river ! Sounds of war and sounds of mirth Through its lofty walls are ringing! Shakes the drawbridge, groans the earth Under troops in armour bright; Steeds, caparisoned for fight, Onward tramp-o'erhead high flinging Banners, where the red cross glows, Don Sisnando's self is here! From his breastplate flashes light; Plumes that seem of mountain snow O'er his dazzling helmet wave; "Open, open, castle portals! "Welcome! welcome, Don Sisnando!" * Weeps her joy Auzenda meek, Recovering from his conjugal transports, Don Sisnando asks for his daughter: "At his side his daughter fair Trembling stands with downcast air. Three long years had Don Sisnando Fixed upon his lovely daughter; Breathes with icy lips a kiss. Whilst of tears a torrent gushes, Tears she may no more command." Our hint as to the revolting character of the story may, perhaps, have prepared the reader to perceive that the father has fallen in love with his own daughter. Adozinda had been forewarned of the horrors awaiting her by a hermit, to whom she, as a child, had persuaded her ungentle father to grant hospitality, and she has ever since habitually passed her nights in solitary prayer in a haunted grotto. Here her father surprises her, and she only escapes the impetuosity of his loathsome passion by promising to admit him to her chamber the following night. Her still beautiful mother takes her place; and the father, enraged at discovering the holy fraud, shuts up Adozinda, without clothes or drink, for seven years and a day, in a roofless tower, where a Moorish king had so imprisoned a faithless wife. He then retires to his chamber where none may intrude: Dawns at length th' appointed day; Adozinda's years of doom, Years and day, at eve expire, Scorched i' th' sun's meridian ray Hark! what accents force their way? "That was Adozinda fair, And she lives! she lives!" they shout; |
