<poem> The ghosts, whose mangled limbs, yet scarcely cold, Heapt sad Trancoso's streets in carnage roll'd, Appeased, the vengeance of their slaughter see, And hail th' indignant king's severe decree. Palmela trembles on her mountain's height, And sea-laved Zambra owns the hero's might. Nor these alone confest his happy star, Their fated doom produced a nobler war. Badaja's king, an haughty Moor, beheld His towns besieged, and hasted to the field. Four thousand coursers in his army neigh'd, Unnumber'd spears his infantry display'd; Proudly they march'd, and glorious to behold, In silver belts they shone, and plates of gold. Along a mountain's side secure they trod, Steep on each hand, and rugged was the road; When as a bull, whose lustful veins betray The maddening tumult of inspiring May; If, when his rage with fiercest ardour glows, When in the shade the fragrant heifer lows, If then perchance his jealous burning eye Behold a careless traveller wander by, With dreadful bellowing on the wretch he flies, The wretch defenceless torn and trampled dies. So rush'd Alonzo on the gaudy train, And pour'd victorious o'er the mangled slain; The royal Moor precipitates in flight;
The mountain echoes with the wild affright
