"Confident, yet would he in naught confide, save in his God that holds of Heav'en the throne; so few baptizèd stood their King beside, there were an hundred Moors for every one: Judge any sober judgment, and decide 'twas deed of rashness or by brav'ery done to fall on forces whose exceeding might a cent'ury showèd to a single Knight.
"Order five Moorish Kings the hostile host of whom Ismár, so called, command doth claim; all of long Warfare large experience boast, wherein may mortals win immortal fame: And gallant dames the Knights they love the most 'company, like that brave and beauteous Dame, who to beleaguered Troy such aidance gave with woman-troops that drained Thermòdon's wave.
"The coolth serene, and early morning's pride, now paled the sparkling stars about the Pole, when Mary's Son appearing crucified in vision, strengthened King Afonso's soul. But he, adoring such appearance, cried, fired with a phrenzied faith beyond control: 'To th' Infidel, O Lord! to th' Infidel:[9] Not, Lord, to me who know Thy pow'er so well.'
"Such gracious marvel in such manner sent 'flamèd the Lusians' spirits fierce and high, towards their nat'ural King, that excellent Prince, unto whom love-boon none could deny: Aligned to front the foeman prepotent, they shouted res'onant slogan to the sky, and fierce the 'larum rose, 'Real, real, for high Afonso, King of Portugal!'
"Accomplishèd his act of arms victorious, home to his Lusian realm Afonso[10] sped, to gain from Peace-tide triumphs great and glorious, as those he gained in wars and battles dread; when the sad chance, on History's page memorious, which can unsepulchre the sheeted dead, befell that ill-starr'd, miserable Dame who, foully slain, a thronèd Queen became.
"Thou, only thou, pure Love, whose cruel might obligeth human hearts to weal and woe, thou, only thou, didst wreak such foul despight, as though she were some foul perfidious foe. Thy burning thirst, fierce Love, they say aright, may not be quencht by saddest tears that flow; Nay, more, thy sprite of harsh tyrannick mood would see thine altars bathed with human blood.
"He placed thee, fair Ignèz! in soft retreat, culling the first-fruits of thy sweet young years, in that delicious Dream, that dear Deceit, whose long endurance Fortune hates and fears: Hard by Mondego's yearned-for meads thy seat, where linger, flowing still, those lovely tears, until each hill-born tree and shrub confest the name of Him deep writ within thy breast.[11]