To me, whom in their lays the shepherds call Actaea, daughter of the neighbouring stream, This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine, Which o'er the rocky entrance downward shoot,...
Come then, tell me, sage divine, Is it an offence to own That our bosoms e'er incline Toward immortal glory's throne? For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,...
Thou, heedless Albion, what, alas, the while Dost thou presume? O inexpert in arms, Yet vain of freedom, how dost thou beguile, With dreams of hope, these near and loud alarms?...
Come then, tell me, sage divine, Is it an offense to own That our bosoms e'er incline Toward immortal glory's throne? For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,...
Whither is Europe's ancient spirit fled? Where are those valiant tenants of her shore, Who from the warrior bow the strong dart sped, Or with firm hand the rapid pole-ax bore?...