The lovely dames implore the courtly train,

With tears implore them, but implore in vain :

So famed, fo dreaded tower'd each boastful knight,
The damfels' lovers fhunn'd the proffer'd fight.
Of arm unable to repel the strong,

The heart's each feeling conscious of the wrong,
When robb'd of all the female breaft holds dear,
Ah heaven, how bitter flows the female tear!
To Lancaster's bold duke the damfels fue;
Adown their cheeks, now paler than the hue
Of snowdrops trembling to the chilly gale,
The flow-paced crystal tears their wrongs bewail.
When down the beauteous face the dew-drop flows,
What manly bofom can its force oppose !
His hoary curls th' indignant hero shakes,

And all his youthful rage restored awakes:

Though loth, he cries, to plunge my bold compeers
In civil difcord, yet appease your tears:
From Lufitania-for on Lufian ground

Brave Lancaster had ftrode with laurel crown'd;
Had mark'd how bold the Lufian heroes fhone,
What time he claim'd the proud Caftilian throne,

How

ably fufpending the mind of the reader after the storm is raised by the machinations of Bacchus, may be cited as a confirmation of the opinion of that judicious poet.

C

What time be claim'd the proud Caftilian throne.. -John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, claimed the crown of Caftile in the right of his wife, Donna Conftantia, daughter of Don Pedro, the late king. Affifted by his fon-in-law, John I. of Portugal, he entered Galicia, and was proclaimed king of Caftile at the city of St. Jago de Compoftella. He afterwards relinquished his pretenfions on the marriage of his daughter Catalina with the infant Don Henry of Caftile. See the note, p. 22. vol. ii,

How matchlefs pour'd the tempeft of their might,
When thundering at his fide they ruled the fight:
Nor lefs their ardent paffion for the fair,

Generous and brave, he view'd with wondering care,
When crown'd with roses to the nuptial bed
The warlike John his lovely daughter led—
From Lufitania's clime, the hero cries,

The gallant champions of your fame shall rise :
Their hearts will burn, for well their hearts I know,

To pour your vengeance on the guilty foe.

Let courtly phrafe the heroes' worth admire,

And for your injured names that worth require :

Let all the foft endearments of the fair,

And words that weep your wrongs, your wrongs declare,

Myself the heralds to the chiefs will fend,

And to the king, my valiant fon, commend.

He fpoke; and twelve of Lufian race he names,
All noble youths, the champions of the dames.
The dames by lot their gallant champions " choose,
And each her hero's name exulting views,
Each in a various letter hails her chief,

And earnest for his aid relates her grief:

Each to the king her courtly homage sends,
And valiant Lancaster their caufe commends.

Soon

"The dames by lot their gallant champions choofe.-The ten champions, who in the fifth book of the Jerufalem are fent by Godfrey for the affiftance of Armida, are chofen by lot. Taffo, who had read the Lufiad, and admired its author, undoubtedly had the Portuguese poet in his eye.

Soon as to Tagus' fhores the heralds came,

Swift through the palace pours the sprightly flame

Of high-foul'd chivalry; the monarch glows

First on the listed field to dare the foes;

But regal ftate withheld. Alike their fires,
Each courtly noble to the toil aspires:
High on his helm, the envy of his peers,
Each chofen knight the plume of combat wears.
In that proud port half circled by the wave,
Which Portugallia to the nation gave,

A deathless name, a speedy floop receives
The sculptured bucklers, and the clasping greaves,
The fwords of Ebro, fpears of lofty fize,
And breast-plates flaming with a thousand dyes,
Helmets high plumed, and, pawing for the fight,
Bold fteeds, whose harness shone with filvery light
Dazzling the day. And now the rifing gale
Invites the heroes, and demands the fail,
When brave Magricio thus his peers addreft,
Oh, friends in arms, of equal powers confeft,
Long have I hoped through foreign climes to stray,
Where other streams than Douro wind their way;
To note what various fhares of blifs and woe
From various laws and various cuftoms flow.
Nor deem that, artful, I the fight decline;
England fhall know the combat fhall be mine.

Oporto, called by the Romans Calle. Hence Portugal.

By

By land I speed, and fhould dark fate prevent,
For death alone shall blight my firm intent,
Small may the forrow for my abfence be,

For yours were conqueft, though unshared by me.
Yet fomething more than human warms my breast,
And fudden whispers, In our fortunes bleft,
Nor envious chance, nor rocks, nor whelmy tide,
Shall our glad meeting at the lift divide.

He faid; and now the rites of parting friends
Sufficed, through Leon and Casteel he bends.
On many a field enrapt the hero ftood,

And the proud scenes of Lufian conqueft viewed.
Navar he past, and past the dreary wild,
Where rocks on rocks o'er yawning glyns are piled;
The wolf's dread range, where to the evening skies
In clouds involved the cold Pyrenians rise.
Through Gallia's flowery vales and wheaten plains
He strays, and Belgia now his steps detains.
There, as forgetful of his vow'd intent,

In various cares the fleeting days he spent:

His peers the while direct to England's ftrand,

Plough the chill northern wave; and now at land,

Adorn'd

Y Yet fomething more than human warms my breast,
And fudden whifpers-

In the Portuguese,

Mas fe a verdade o efprito me adevinha.

Literally, "But if my spirit truly divine." Thus rendered by Fanshaw,

But in my aug'ring ear a bird doth fing.

Adorn'd in armour, and embroidery gay,
To lordly London hold the crowded way.
Bold Lancaster receives the knights with joy;
The feast and warlike fong each hour employ.
The beauteous dames attending wake their fire,
With tears enrage them, and with smiles infpire.
And now with doubtful blushes rose the day,
Decreed the rites of wounded fame to pay.
The English monarch gives the lifted bounds,
And, fixt in rank, with shining spears furrounds.
Before their dames the gallant knights advance,
Each like a Mars, and shake the beamy lance:
The dames, adorn'd in filk and gold, display
A thousand colours glittering to the day:
Alone in tears, and doleful mourning, came,
Unhonour'd by her knight, Magricio's dame.
Fear not our prowefs, cry the bold Eleven,
In numbers, not in might, we stand uneven;
More could we fpare, fecure of dauntless might,
When for the injured female name we fight.

Beneath a canopy of regal ftate,

High on a throne the English monarch fate;
All round, the ladies and the barons bold,
Shining in proud array, their ftations hold.
Now o'er the theatre the champions pour,
And facing three to three, and four to four,
Flourish their arms in prelude. From the bay
Where flows the Tagus, to the Indian fea,