For thee the willow bowers and copses weep,
As their tall boughs lie trembling on the deep;
Adown the streams the tangled vine-leaves flow,
And all the landscape wears the look of woe.
Thus, o'er the wondering world thy glories spread,
And thus thy mournful people bow the head;
While still, at eve, each' dale Alonzo sighs,
And, oh, Alonzo; every hill replies;
And still the mountain echoes trill the lay,
Till blushing morn brings on the noiseful day.
The youthful Sanco to the throne succeeds,
Already far renown'd for valorous deeds;
Let Betis tinged with blood his prowess tell,
And Beja's lawns, where boastful Afric fell.
Nor less, when king, his martial ardour glows,
Proud Sylves' royal walls his troops enclose:
Fair Sylves' lawns the Moorish peasant plough'd,
Her vineyards cultured, and her valleys sow'd;
But Lisboa's monarch reapt. The winds of heaven
Roar'd high—and headlong by the tempest driven,
In Tago's breast a gallant navy sought
The sheltering port, and glad assistance brought.
The
