"The third year now passes away; thrice has my foe
been changed:
"The winter rages on the sea; the summer, by its furious
heats.
"The Spaniard has been my least enemy;--more cruel
than arms, a pestilence has risen among us; no funeral is
without another; the dying never perish by a single death.
"Fortune! why do'st thou hesitate? By what reward
do'st thou detain the manes mingled in blood?
"Who, dying, will, after the destruction of the enemy,
occupy these tombs?--This is enquired.--
The contest is only for sterile dust."
With the following poetical translation of these verses, the writer has
been favoured by Mr. Sotheby, the elegant translator of "Oberon."
Scant battle-field of Chiefs, thro' earth renown'd,
Opprest, I loftier tow'r;--and, now, while Fate
Dreads to destroy, in foreign soil I stand.
Thrice chang'd the year, thrice have we chang'd the Foe.
Fierce Winter chafes the Deep, the Summer burns
With fell disease: less fell th' Iberian sword.
Pages:
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88