Such dreadful slaughter of the boastful Moor
Never on battle-field was heap'd before.
Not he whose childhood vow'd eternal hate
And desperate war against the Roman state,
Though three strong coursers bent beneath the weight
Of rings of gold, by many a Roman knight,
Erewhile, the badge of rank distinguish'd, worn,
From their cold hands at Cannæ's slaughter torn;
Not his dread sword bespread the reeking plain
With such wide streams of gore, and hills of slain;
Nor thine, O Titus, swept from Salem's land
Such floods of ghosts, roll'd down to death's dark strand;
Though, ages ere she fell, the prophets old
The dreadful scene of Salem's fall foretold,
In words that breathe wild horror: Nor the shore,
When carnage choak'd the stream, so smoak'd with gore,
When Marius' fainting legions drank the flood,[1]
Yet warm and purpled with Ambronian blood;
Not such the heaps as now the plains of Tarif strew'd.
While glory thus Alonzo's name adorn'd,
To Lisboa's shores the happy chief return'd,
In glorious peace and well-deserved repose,
His course of fame, and honoured age to close.
- ↑ ——so smoak'd with gore, when Marius' fainting legions——When the soldiers of Marius complained of thirst, he pointed to a river near the camp of the Ambrones; there, says he, you may drink, but it must be purchased with blood. Lead us on, they replied, that we may have something liquid, though it be blood. The Romans forcing their way to the river, the channel was filled with the dead bodies of the slain. Vid. Plut.
