Page:The Lusiad (Camões, tr. Mickle, 1791), Volume 1.djvu/463

An impious people weaves a thousand snares:
Oh fly these shores, unfurl the gather'd sail,
Lo, Heaven, thy guide, commands the rising gale;
Hark, loud it rustles, see, the gentle tide
Invites thy prows; the winds thy lingering chide.
Here such dire welcome is for thee prepared
As Diomed's unhappy strangers shared;
His hapless guests at silent midnight bled,
On their torn limbs his snorting coursers fed,
Oh fly, or here with strangers' blood imbrew'd
Busiris' altars thou shalt find renew'd:
Amidst his slaughter'd guests his altars stood
Obscene with gore, and bark'd with human blood:
Then thou, beloved of heaven, my counsel hear;
Right by the coast thine onward journey steer,
Till where the sun of noon no shade begets,
But day with night in equal tenor sets.
A sovereign there, of generous faith unstain'd,
With ancient bounty, and with joy unfeign'd
Your glad arrival on his shore shall greet,
And soothe with every care your weary fleet.