Nor long her blood for vengeance cried in vain:
Her gallant lord begins his awful reign,
In vain her murderers for refuge fly,
Spain's wildest hills no place of rest supply.
The injur'd lover's and the monarch's ire,
And stern-brow'd Justice in their doom conspire:
In hissing flames they die, and yield their souls in fire.
_Mickle's Translation, Canto III._
THE SPIRIT OF THE CAPE.
Vasco de Gama relates the incidents of his voyage from Portugal to the
King of Melinda. The southern cross had appeared in the heavens and the
fleet was approaching the southern point of Africa. While at anchor in a
bay the Portuguese aroused the hostility of the savages, and hastily set
sail.
"Now, prosp'rous gales the bending canvas swell'd;
From these rude shores our fearless course we held:
Beneath the glist'ning wave the god of day
Had now five times withdrawn the parting ray,
When o'er the prow a sudden darkness spread,
And, slowly floating o'er the mast's tall head
A black cloud hover'd: nor appear'd from far
The moon's pale glimpse, nor faintly twinkling star;
So deep a gloom the low'ring vapor cast,
Transfix'd with awe the bravest stood aghast.
Meanwhile, a hollow bursting roar resounds,
As when hoarse surges lash their rocky mounds;
Nor had the black'ning wave nor frowning heav'n
The wonted signs of gath'ring tempest giv'n.
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