And he, of Calatrave the sovereign knight,
Girt with whole troops his arm had slain in fight,
Descended murmuring to the shades of night.
Blaspheming heaven, and gash'd with many a wound
Brave Nunio's rebel kindred gnaw'd the ground,
And curst their fate, and dy'd. Ten thousand more
Who held no title and no office bore,
And nameless nobles who, promiscuous fell,
Appeas'd that day the foaming dog of hell.
Now, low the proud Castilian standard lies
Beneath the Lusian flag, a vanquish'd prize.
With furious madness fired, and stern disdain,
The fierce Iberians to the fight again
Rush headlong; groans and yellings of despair
With horrid uproar rend the trembling air.
Hot boils the blood, thirst burns, and every breast
Pants, every limb with fainty weight opprest
Slow now obeys the will's stern ire, and slow
From every sword descends the feeble blow;
Page:The Lusiad (Camões, tr. Mickle, 1791), Volume 2.djvu/91
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