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1. A POEM OF GRATITUDE TO THE RIGHT ILLUSTRIOUS LORD SIR JOHN SCOTT, DIRECTOR OF THE ROYAL CHANCERY AND A TUTANUS OF THE MUSES
Behold, Scott’s expertise has restored the recuperating Muses. He fills the Delphic halls with Phoebus in his entirety and opens the inner chambers and secret shrines of the Pierian Muses, bidding our nation’s laurels to flourish once more. He bestows noble citizenship on Pegasian pursuits, and the Grampian crags burgeon with noble laurel. Honor, restored, is returned to bards, and life to the Muses. Under the protection of such a great champion, chattering Cirrha has abandoned its home and involved itself with the crystal waters of the Forth, Scottish rivers are carrying along Aonian streams, and a holy shuddering grips the Clyde, for this master of Scotstarvet has fetched the temples of Patara to our shores. In our woodlands, the Pierian land thrives all the more because of Caledonian frosts, not yet bereft of its god. For Scott forbids such great divinities to die, rescuing writings buried in squalid neglect and monuments defaced by great old age, retrieving them from the inhospitable shades and reserving them for better fates.
And, just as heaven’s lesser beacons shine thanks to Phoebus’ light, and the errant moon reflects her brother’s brilliance, so he imparts elegance, life and light to our national poets and animates our Phoebus, banishing deep night from our Aonian sky, and, bright with his rosy illumination, routs the mists from our Caledonian Olympus.
Oh you sublime glory of bards, to whom Pindus, Ascra, and Parnassus bow their heads, to whom Phoebus dedicates his holy quills, you alone steal all glory from the other Muses, just as the stars grow pale when the daystar renews the day, or as those fair rivers, the Don, gently letting its gem-bearing currents flow, or the Dee, more violently pouring forth its steeply descending water, disappear into the ocean, drowning their names as well as themselves.
Neither divine Themis nor the Muse claim you entirely. Rather, you share your time between different pursuits, just as Phoebus is at one time devoted to his lyre, and at another to his bow. You direct Themis under the King, on your shoulders you carry the greatest weight of government and trouble your capacious heart with the gravest of cares as an oracle of law to your people. No sooner does Phoebus lift himself from the eastern waters, and no sooner does he bathe his car in glassy water, than a bevy of lords and commoners and a crew of dependents wear out the threshold of your gateway.
But you take no less delight in indulging in the Boeotian frenzy, plying your Clarian lyre and enjoying your peaceful retreat, having visited the Dryads’ chambers and flowery Tempe, there where noble Scotstarvet beholds its ancient laurels, and you divide your days and your hours, combining Phoebus and Themis in your single brain. Not otherwise does blue Tethys receive in her watery bosom and capacious bank the rivers that flow down to her, confining the waters, and forbidding them to exceed their due limits. Thus in your eyes these different pursuits are in all respects equal, and their toil invites you to pass sleepless nights.
Oh you shining light of our realm, why remind us of the sordid mockeries suffered by our Muse? By what act of fate or stroke of divine intervention have you put your hand to this task? Was this because nothing escapes Phoebus’ sight and he consecrates his quills and lyre to you? Why not also so that (as in everything else) your mercy might make you equal to the great gods? Whatever the reason was, I am not speaking falsehoods: I have felt your divinity, and you have touched my heart with your gesture. And, just as when a soldier’s unconquerable amazement chills his bones at the sound of arms, as the storm of gunfire rages and battle is engaged, but then he catches sight of his captains’ flying banners and considers the rewards of true courage, and bravely takes fame’s better course and marches against the enemy, shaking off his terror and entering into the fray, not otherwise do I, a standard-bearer of the lofty Aeonian court, observe you, our nation’s leaders, and the stars of Fergus’ people, and, gingerly picking my way, ascend to Phoebus’ homestead, enter into his sacred precincts, and challenge the idle Muses to take up a song.
Why recall that fine token of your divine affection and your old Muses redolent of a twofold gift, I mean that gift sent me from the Aonian court, which my Muse worships as if it were the summits of that twin-peaked mountain, there where in amazement I absorbed Maeonides’ furies, the flowers of Seneca, the bright lights of pleasant Flaccus, and the thunderclouds and lightning-bolts of the Muse of Peleusium. Whatever things Maro’s carefulness, his mighty intellect and Thalia with that overflowing talent of hers heaped up in his pages the gods have bestowed on our northern Muses.
I believe that Claros, Tenedos, the temples of Patara, the goddess, the rivers and mountains, and Phoebus himself have bestowed upon you, and in my opinion these things surpass the fountain of Hermus, the touch of Midas, and the Thunderer’s rains.
So come, my bashful Thalia, cease your delays, seek the threshold of great Scott, stand at his holy gates. May the land give you a smooth journey, may the nor’wester restrain his blasts, and the Firth of Forth settle its heaving waves. From there you might ascend to that home where Edinburgh raises its lofty head from the earth and thrusts itself among the stars above, there where he discharges the great commissions of his sovereign, or where his learned library offers him a retreat. Dismiss all your fears, in his heart he carries no hard iron or adamant, sweet warmth suffuses his face, his unfeigned simplicity knows no artful deceit. This man has a single companion: mercy dwells in the palace of his heart, the single thing that makes mortals godlike. Do not be timid in reporting my words, you sweetest thing in nature, you august daughter of the gods, in exchange for such a great gift, and (this is the greatest of your gifts, which surpasses whatever the wealthy Tagus washes with its gold-bearing waves, I mean the good wishes and prayers I have to offer) tell him not to disdain my Muse, uncouth though she may be, on account of his sweetness of heart. Trust me (and the truth of what I say is not in vain), his favor will soften hard rocks and break up Marpessian marble. Scott, you draw me to yourself like magnetic force attracts iron, oh you light and greatest object of my longing, my hope, my unique darling, my wealth, my glory, my sole aspiration, you single beacon of my soul and marrow of my life. May God grant me to enjoy your speech, may He grant me to behold the hoary old age of this bard, let Him grant comeliness of face and bright lights to rival Phoebus, and the living and breathing spirits of a heavenly countenance.
Now a long farewell, you sweetest thing in nature, a long farewell, you holy man, and may you receive these souvenirs of my Muse. Be not ashamed to bear in mind Forbes the poet. Rather, have a pious care for your friend, for whom the name of Scott is nectar in the mouth and music in the ear. As long as there is life in these limbs, I shall not express my thanks in verse alone, but shall also heap the altars with prayers and vows. Then, when I die, this same urge will accompany me to the Elysian Halls, destined never to perish.
Most devoted to your greatness,
Great king, I Caledonia, who used to be healthy, have long been ailing and, now moribund, am scarce able to lift my disease-wasted limbs, pour forth my swan-song to you my father (as I contemplate these griefs and sad deaths in my nation). In the past I was a bride most welcome to my bridegroom. Clad in his clean garment, He went about as my sun, and He built me a house out of Mygdonian marble. Brandishing a two-edged sword before His face, with His hand He arranged the stars with their shining gold as my fair looking-glasses. Oh, the heaven and the fiery stars of the upper world! Oh, piety! I am ashamed to recall, as I grow filthy, undone by the deceit of profane suitors. My papal purple sweeps a long tract of the ground, the breeze ruffles the flowing bosom and sleeves of my shirt, my mitres have their ribbons, and a four-cornered cap arises from my elegant head. Long robes conceal my flanks, and sleeves of white linen my arms. A hanging cross chafes my unhappy neck, the ornaments of that Scarlet Whore. The mitre-wearing, whorish crew of Rome drinks me a toast with Italian philtres and whatever things Arminius has imbibed, fetched from black Hell. I would have been blessed, blessed indeed, had papists never defiled my Scottish rites. That was the first day of my evils, all my honor evaporated on that day, and and hence my world suffered its first eclipse.
And yet Rome did not dare commit open crime. Its tyranny grew over time, and the savage beast made a stealthy entry. Step by step, it mounted the stage of my church, and at length my fortune took a turn for the worse, as lust took the place of law and sin replaced piety. The result was violent force, royal wilfulness, and mad Rome’s vain superstition in lieu of old-fashioned religion. Thus it grew from a small seed, and the bishop’s government, that mad lust for power, gradually matured from its furtive youth. Now he alone presides, there being no Kirk elders. Now, in place of God’s holy Law, he plunges himself into the waves of civil life and wields the high reins of state. And, since Caesar’s power is confused with Jehovah’s, when Christ is neglected together with His congregation, the bishop’s fillet arrogantly mounts up to the summit of affairs and governs laws and rights both divine and human. Treading on the aristocratic necks of our lords, it keeps the commons in check and likewise our purple-clad nobility. Subject to this servile yoke, our commonwealth grieves, and our Kirk makes her moan, her arms defiled by all these stains, frantically raging and hoarse with her complaints. Our nobility is held in contempt and languishes, scarce any honor is paid to highborn blood, virtue is neglected while flattery rules, and boastful vainglory puffs up conspicuous Johnny-come-latelies. This rule of bishops confounds everything of mine: honors, rights, my ecclesiastical court, my vestments, shrines, altars, and rites. Heaven is confounded with Hell, earth with heaven, light with darkness, so that eager violence might establish Ausonian rituals.
And you too, Charles, are readying your weapons and threatening dire thunderbolts, you for whom the Dutch ocean provides subservient waters, you who are adored by Banna and by the crystal Isis, you who alone are blessed by having Bodotria as your great cradle. Why are you waging a cruel war? Why are you attacking your mother’s bowels, and defiling the bones of your forefathers with national bloodshed? Shall I become a bone of fatal contention? Shall I become a theater of savage war, where you first imbibed the breath of life and where a virginal crown was consecrated for your head? At least you should spare your cradle. Charles, I should be a watchword for your government. Take pity on your mother, do not seek to gain a triumph at her expense. Set a limit on your anger. Will a shattered Scotland, in whose arms you were born, be consigned to her own particular downfall? Shall I, who in my innocence created and gave birth to you, be taken captive by this your hand? Will chains now bind these dear arms which used to carry you? Will hatred and a wicked sword now drink from these breasts, welcome to you in your infancy? Will savage madness assault your personal home and your cradle? I swear by the pious gods and by your Themis, great king, if in my folly I have sought to break our league or your sacred laws, your tyranny will be my single cause for just fury.
Frequently storm-tossed as I am, I am yours, whatever I shall be: unhappy, a vagabond, a wretched exile. For your name will always be venerable to me and I shall regard your scepter as sacred. A prostrate Caledonia will plant kisses on your feet. Just allow me to enjoy my laws and serve God. Pardon me for saying so, but my ancestral liberty must be upheld by my virtue. I must repair religion, God’s worship, and my ruined rites. I have sworn so to do, my error consists in this.
Forgive me, Charles, it is He, the most high King of Kings, Whom I worship in my mind as the greatest, He Who has sanctified His covenants with strokes of lightning, He who makes the stars to turn in the spangled sky. He is the judge of mankind’s life and death and the judge of righteousness, and He holds a scales with evenly-balanced pans, correcting right and wrong with fair evaluation. He loathes the human race, so fertile in deceits, when violence alone is held in honor and the sword lays claim to the place of law. The Romish faith is now clear to me, is deceptions stand revealed. I shall cleave to Christ as my heavenly king, He Who wields the reins of His celestial government upon this earth, bearing seven stars in His victorious hand. And I shall drive off the She-Wolf, her hide, and her ravening cubs. If I should die, it only troubles me that this will be at your hands. Your sin doubles the evil and my protracted sorrow while, my fortune having changed, I ponder what I am and what I have been, and forever mourn the sacred bones of your peace-loving father.
Golden Peace, gliding down through the lofty air from heaven, is closing the gate of our Parrhasian Janus, and a happy Astraea is taking up new fasces. Her chariot gleams, with gold-gilded wheels and bright with the pure light of gems. Its pole glitters with precious stones of the Hydaspes, and happy Concord is stretching her wings, enclosing everything in her perpetual embrace. These three goddesses have made their enduring home on Caledonian soil. The horror of Mars, braying bugles and threatening weaponry hold no terror for the Scots. The Whore of Babylon, who lusts after our damage, does not aim a national sword at our civic neck, aware of the warlike Scotsman’s steadfastness.
The Furies’ torches have perished, raging Enyo has hidden her deadly self in perpetual darkness, and the gods’ mercy is enriching our northerly lands, showing us a new age with better days. Rome is grieving, the sad Spaniard weeps, the savage Whore is raging against her wretched adherents, damning mankind, heaven and its gods. Furiously dreading an Austrian downfall, she is rousing the Acheron itself and infesting black Avernus.
Oh, the changes in affairs and fortune! The land of the Thames howled for civil war under the northerly Bear, and was hot to provoke a foreign conflict, slaughter and killing, but it was Rome which hoped for happy triumphs, being adroit at rousing a native king to battle against his nation, his people, and his personal home, when she could not destroy it by force or open warfare. For she had harbored a grudge against the Scottish people, unconquered for many a century, and was furtively preparing to stain cruel hands with civic blood. But this nation, untouched by any foreign triumph, laughs at Ausonian fasces and Baetic scepters, being a race only animated by Grampian crowns.
Mad Rome, the Scots’ struggle was not against the King of Britain but rather against you. The cheering Scotsman surrenders the reins to you, great king. The Grampian man takes pride in you and plants kisses only on your scepter, and you rule this unconquered people as long as you remain lesser only to the Thunderer, subordinating your fasces to heaven alone. You frame your government exclusively with the help of reason, not arms, and you manage your father’s world in accordance with its ancestral laws. Although you dictate the lofty oracle of laws to your people and weigh counsels in your mind, you nevertheless give an ear to a man giving good advice, and you approve the decisions voted by your loyal Parliament. Thus you are pleasing to heaven and earth, and you mock the perjured deliberations of the Ausonian Jove, who threatened to introduce his standards to our national home along with you, my great commander. Thus your majesty adapts itself to the world of your father. Thus you attain the height of praise, thus the good-will of the Grampian nation grows and heaven contributes its applause. It mixes its celestial splendor together with yours, you crown, and, shining with bright light, you clear your Caledonian heaven of its clouds.
Charles, you single light and hope of your subjects, you must shatter Caesar’s eagles and break the proud Spaniard. Repair the churches of the Palatinate. Let your purple acknowledge your subjects, your Grampian-born captains, who surround your pavilions with their trusty soldiers and their encampments, which never feel fear.
Let that treacherous whore who presides over the Romish court, her breast embroidered with gold, her hair glittering with gold, trailing a shawl red with the blood of saints, learn not to attempt to fence in the northern Scots, nor to hawk the wantonness of her sluttish Rome. Why, wicked one, did you hope to deceive our senses? Come now, paint the cheeks of your fornicators, paint the filthy lips of your buggers, but chaste Scotland loathes the Whore’s foul amours and clings to the embrace of Christ.
Indeed, you could have struck us as comely and greatly pleasing. For at first you approached us in simple dress. But then you revealed yourself as royal, your wings spread more boastfully and you were clad in royal purple. At one time you bestow flatteries on your wretched devotees, at another you offer fine patrimonies to others. If someone spurns you, you threaten him with punishments and dire thunderbolts, and you seek destruction for its people and the father of its nation, unless a frantic Scotland throws up its hands in subservience. Now your crazed greed for power grows.
Change your location, Whore. Seek a home heated by some other sun, seek other lands across the sea, either the whirling sands of Libya and the warm south wind, or the barbaric Getes and the inhospitable shores of the Pontus. And take with you your devotees and your bastard British, those common enemies of their sovereign, their nation, and heaven.
Praise God for having won a bloodless victory, Scotland. Throughout the world, your piety proclaims your blessedness. Your glory fills both dwellings of the sun. The Dacian, the Gaul, the Iberian, the Batavian, the Belgian, the German and the Englishman prefer to live under the star of a far northern sky and to lead their lives amidst Caledonian frosts, there where a golden urn holds the seeds of heaven’s manna, where there is an incense-burner ruddy with , and the Ark of the Covenant, there where diamond sparkles and radiant topaz glows, and the Urmim and the Thummim and necklaces from a variety of treasuries, together with unvarnished simplicity, a guilt-filled dread of the holy godhead, and straightforward reverence with its pure worship.
Thus may Scotland continue, and may its golden centuries pass while it enjoys stable law. Thus let this nation suffer no eclipse, despise the Libyan commander, and laugh at the schemes of raging Rome, condemning its crafty hearts. Thus the glory of our nation and our northern honor will long endure, together with reverence for our ancient scepter, and later ages will celebrate a peaceful Charles. Let vengeful Rhamnusia shut unfriendly mouths.
TO THE RIGHT NOBLE AND CHOICE MAIDEN ELIZABETH SCOTT, DAUGHTER OF THAT RIGHT NOBLE AND RIGHT DISTINGUISHED GENTLEMAN SIR JOHN SCOTT OF SCOTSTARVET, DIRECTOR OF THE BRITISH KING’S CHANCERRY AND MEMBER OF THE ROYAL PRIVY COUNCIL FOR SCOTLAND
Oh you Scotswoman, most celebrated among Caledonian nymphs, oh you honor and great glory of your nation, for whose Phoebus has woven a garland of sacred laurel, teaching you to ply the quill of your own lyre, whom the Graces have reared in Paphian caves, and whom divine Minerva cherishes in her bosom, receive this Scorpiacum which Forbes offers you: for him, you alone are his Phoebus and his nine Muses. Just as the rising sun revives fading flowers, so you can animate my verses with your brilliance. You rule my talent, fairest nymph, and it is enough praise for me, Elizabeth, if I can be called your bard.
MASTER WILLIAM FORBES
You gods of the sea and the violated sacred precincts of the vast ocean, you realm of Neptune, stricken when its caverns were convulsed, and you, father Nereus, describe the monstrosities floating on the deep blown up into clouds of sulphur by gunfire, the far-flung watery tracts and bosom of the ocean fenced by naval patroling, the deep made to glow as Vulcan destroyed ships, the ruination of the Iberian fleet, and the noble triumphs of the Batavian victor. For you have tasted water thickened and empurpled by much blood, when out of fear the scaly tribe abandoned its familiar elements and the recesses of its crystal realm and gasped out its enfeebled life on dry sand. When Proteus perceived that the stools of his hot chamber were melting and that the green hair of his companion Doris was ablaze, he turned to his familiar arts. “While Mulciber is aglow in the water,” he said, ”I shall straightway become fire,” and the sea reflected his flickering image. You Who bear the circling stars and the day in Your sky-blue car and with Your rotation sweep through the void Aeolus’ swift legions, watering clods of earth and irrigating the world’s gardens with flowing waters, free this soul of mine of its mortal cares, grant it celestial draughts, and fill my Muse with Your holy spirit.
The ten-horned beast of seven-hilled Rome, seated on his lofty throne, resplendent with his dire priestly fillet, his temples bound with his triple tiara, moved by his everlasting hatreds and monstrous furies, convened a council, ill to behold. There gathered Abbadon’s lords, members of a profane race. With his voice he roused the marshes of the Styx, and the sons of Phlegethon with his great bawling. Having summoned the Sisters from far away in the valley of the Styx, thus he addressed his beloved Erynnis:
“My loyal handmaid, you know the secrets of my heart, my mind’s first impulses and its deep thoughts, without you my powers count for naught, my daughter. By your means I overthrow cities together with their great walls, by your means I provoke neighboring peoples to wage fierce battles against each other. Thanks to you I level smoking turrets to the ground, and inspire armed brothers to mutual wounding. You arm a people against its lords, you teach them how to slit kings’ weasands and work harm with dark poison. Such is your virtue, and your power along with that virtue.
“Far away in a northern sea lies a wealthy island, enclosed by the sea on all sides, called Great Britain, a world away from the world, free of fear thanks to Neptune’s wall, for the waters of liquid Tethys he has set in the way of her enemies. She is mighty in wealth and spirits, an object of fear to neighboring monarchs because of her strength, very keen in harsh warfare. She is a single island which contains two people: once upon a time these were disharmonious in their dispositions, but nowadays the Saxon has combined with the government of his ally the Saxon and the good-will which has joined the Thames with the Firth of Forth in amity has cemented these nations into one. The warlike Englishman’s rose with its two-colored petals adorns the tawny neck of the Caledonian lion, so much so that no human force, nor even the steel of the gods, would have the strength to remove it. Such is the concord of these peoples, such is their affection, such their strength against their common foe.
“Woe’s me, what should I recall? I sent a fleet outfitted with many a ship under your auspices, Spanish king, as the best hope of my empire. Beneath their crystal waves the sea and Thetis are said to have groaned under its immense weight. The Thames shuddered at its sight and the British shore trembled, but a hideous storm brewed up under an angry sky and the north wind thundered as the storm grew black. Fires, clouds, floods, and wrathful weather conspired together, all heaven fell implacably, hatefully disposed Jove’s lightning-bolts thundered, and Minerva, menacing with her Gorgon-fury and horrible with her savage aegis, confounded the fleet in the troubled water. Nor was fire behindhand: Vulcan hurled fireballs hissing with heat (I shudder to relate this), and the ships soon caught fire and were reduced to ashes.
“I likewise sought to ruin this nation with gunpowder, destroying its hateful Parliament along with its king, to catch them up in a blazing pyre and sudden commotion, and, by use of furtive fires exploding in a pitch-black thunderclap of a tornado, to turn Peers into flaming smithereens flying through the void together with their sovereign, just like a torch trails sparks behind it as it flies through the air. But, alas, the wild winds were ashamed to take part in such attempts and my hidden schemes stood revealed. All my plan was baffled, although by a thousand twists and terms it had sought to subordinate British necks to our yoke and gain mastery over this rebel people. I left nothing untried by land or sea, sparing neither strength and ships, nor lives and gold.”
Thus he spoke and, overflowing with groans, broke off his discourse. His wrath increased, and likewise the dark heart of that furious monster grew swollen with bile. His eyes, lurid with rheum, threatened something dire, just as that viper which guards the infernal cavern with its three sets of jaws puffs up its unsightly neck and tosses about its shaggy row of snakish arms as soon as Hercules’ chains have rattled on its neck. Hideously raging, with its struggling it seeks to break its bonds and, roaring with its captive throat, it arouses the realm of Erebus with its triple tongue, and next the shadowy halls of dark Dis resound with their bloodless shades. Scarce otherwise great Rome’s deadly monster threw all his council into confusion as he furiously gave vent to his voice. And next he spoke as follows:
“Whither am I being carried? Or where am I? Shall I vainly wage war against this dire nation all these years? After all these things is a man to believe that I am as powerful as God? That my power is equal to His? That I share a seat on the judges’ bench in common with God and Christ? That I have the ability to thrust wagon-loads of souls down to sad Tartarus and raise up an equal number from the realm of black Avernus, transferring them to their longed for heaven according to my will? Should I not prepare weapons, thunderbolts mixed in with clouds, so that this evil island would be aglow with insatiable flames? Why not overwhelm it with the foaming waters of the sea, so that this land would lie underwater, nameless? I should be able to destroy this wicked nation in a thousand ways. But I have chosen first to make an attempt on these rebels by craft. Just favor my attempts, Fury, for in your absence no glory accrues to my affairs. You must sow the saddest seeds of bloody warfare to that the Scotsman might hurl himself on the throat of the Saxon, and the Englishman slit his with a sword. Make the Firth of Forth run red with Saxon blood, and the Thames with Scottish. Make both these nations resort to violence and employ its own national weaponry. And them I shall — But better to restrain my first impulses. I have fourteen Grampian-born acolytes of fine frame, fourteen bulwarks of my kingdom, and I am unsure which of them is the best when it comes to mischiefmaking. You would swear they surpass the king of the Underworld when it comes to the dire crafts, and Lucifer in his pride. Neither the gold-bearing marches of the ruddy Pactolus nor Hermus with its tawny sands could satisfy them. No land breeds monsters so cruel and perverse in their powers, nor, I imagine, does Orcus possess them. Those servants have been swift to do my bidding, forging their way through my hateful enemies, through weaponry, through fires. With their desires and their prayers they have conjured you up, nor has anyone’s arrival been more welcome, oh you dearest thing in the world. They will give you eager embraces and kisses, You are their guardian spirit, their divinity, their tutelary goddess, and you are the sole intellect of the mitre-bearing crew. Meanwhile you will bear chalices filled with black poison and sweet philtres. Receive these helping gifts, armed with your flail of snakes, torches and black Cytaean goads, you creature of the night. Let Hecate’s hounds be companions for hissing Hydras, Besprinkle roads, shrines, houses, altars and churches. You have powers, your heart teems with deceits, and a thousand arts for evildoing are servants standing ready at your beck, they will swiftly shoot their hellish darts. Kindle the savage torches of wrath with your great monstrosities. Let all this dire island plunge into fires and furies.”
The royal palace resounds with the agreement of its lords and the prayers of those in favor of this plan. The rest voice their approval and add further impetus to the roaring Fury. The ferocious monster casts foam-flecked bridles on her harnessed snakes, and takes flight through the void, marking the clouds with her great circling course. Countless plagues of Erebus gather together: Need, gnawing Envy and dire Famine, Discord, Grief, Luxury and wanton, unrestrained License, the sad figure of Avarice, Forwardness, Disease, Fear, and a long line of sleepless Cares. They fly around her car, and she takes the lead in summoning the savage crew of her Sisters, her hair bound with foul serpents. She cleaves the lofty clouds in her noxious course, swifter than Jove’s rapid fire and shooting stars, as when a comet glides through the liquid air with its fire-spewing countenance, announcing the advent of savage enemies to cities or with its dire omen heralding a wretched plague, spreading horror through the mortal hearts of astonished nations, so that men’s minds are grief-stricken with fearful terror and the common folk’s joys are banished. Now at a leap she arrived at Lycaeon’s wain, the great and the lesser beasts. Diving-birds flew over the waters, and the stars became hidden under the dark cloud of Ariadne’s crown. The great sun experienced an eclipse. Then on swift winds she skimmed the British, surrounded by their foaming sea, the Orkneys scattered in the ocean, faraway Thule, and the remote Hebrides. She spewed forth foul monstrosities of Tartarus’ venom, foam from the maw of Cerberus and the Echidna’s venom, and poured her secret poison into the the Firth of Forth and Thames. Britain is riven into different parts, and now the same old border separates the English from the Scots, where squadrons of cavalry, swift as lightning, maintain their camps at every point.
Meanwhile an isolated Caledonia pondered great concerns in her heart, asking, “Why am I being so wildly distracted? Why am I, who used to be safe and sound, being thrust into savage battles? For religion, intended to guide souls to everlasting dwelling-places, gradually languishes, plunged in darkness, and I have grown weary of the divine Word. Greed conjoined with evil fraud, the monstrosity of dire avarice, murder, theft and foul plunder have mounted up to the lofty citadels of heaven, and once again (alas, this shames me) the Roman whore furnishes this ghastly philtre. Once more I have imbibed teachings I had once rejected, and so I lie prostrate, unsure of my future destiny and prey to my cruel enemy, exposed to foreign weapons. Wars rage on all sides, the clash of arms surrounds me, and now I am prey cast under the yoke for the benefit of the Roman tyrant who employs his artfulness to sow the seeds of civil war. Indeed, he plunges his steel into my guts and summons the neighboring English to war against Caledonia. You, God, must be propitious and come to the aid of this afflicted nation and compel this tottering nation to come into Christ’s sheepfolds. I pray you turn my enemies’ threats against their own bowels.”
A glum Caledonia tearfully poured forth words such as these, sadly making her moan. In his riverine chamber Father Forth heard her complaints and accused the Thames his brother. He made a long journey through the sea, plowing a furrow through the blue sea, boldly straying into unfamiliar waters, until he arrived at the damp halls of the Thames. Here was the first to speak with his placid mouth, “Alas, brother Thames, what evil Haemonian fodder, what Circe has transformed you with her charm? Not otherwise do the watery waves change when the northerlies blow, not otherwise are the Syrtes altered by the shifting wind. Did not God join our hands in a league, a league which Mars cannot undo with his harsh steel, nor Tethys with her gathered waters, or Etna with its fires, or the unbridled Erynnis? What Furies drive you to these unwholesome things? What sin? What error? Why attack your brother’s body with your sword, why do you assault him with a thick cluster of soldiers and aim your steel at his throat? Come, tell me, what harm from our regions has befallen you? Assuredly I have not taken up criminal arms against you, nor am I inspired to assail you with deceits or stealthy steel. Piety forbids this and the sworn treaties of our realm. Our shared way of life forbids this as long as we are bound beneath a single sovereign, an equal government, and sacred law. We share a single faith, a single God, and a single land. Neptune has hidden away our lands from all the world, and contributed his vast floods as our bulwarks. We should turn our face against our foreign foe. We should be using our steel to beat down Austrian arrogance and ward off the Hesperian enemy who threatens our border. We should be thrusting down into the darkness of Tartarus the hellish wrath of that Ausonian Jove and his proud Tiber. Let him who has destroyed the churches of the Palatine land atone for his daring enterprises, deservedly biting the dust together with his allied armaments and his captive tiara as he perishes.
“Bold Britain should boast of performing such services, lifting up her head to the starry sky. Oh the shame of it! We are rushing into a forbidden crime. Or are you hot with the provocations of anger, now buried, and our ancestral hatred? Already our soil has been too soaked with our blood, let not this Hydra of evils multiply itself once more. Let mutterings of war cease, let both of our nations ground their arms and take careful counsel for itself. My worship of justice and God, and my sweet love of my ancestral liberty, compel me to take up defensive arms, but to shoulder no weapons harming any man. No ravager will come from our territories: let our fields only feel the weapons of their farmer and suffer wounds only from the plough. What I am praying for is legitimate, I swear by heaven. But if any man bears impious standards against me, he will discover that I am no behindhand foe. I myself shall bear torches and arms, and nature will contribute its own strength. From the north Father Boreas will contribute his close-paced legions, and our lofty mountains are our walls. Thanks to these, I have withstood the wrath of Roman thunderbolts and Caesar’s threats, with my mighty virtue I have routed the Cimbri together with the savage Saxon, and those sons of Mars the English. And yet you, oh Thames, who were unable to despoil me of my kingdom, have robbed me of my beloved king. What more do you seek? He is mine indeed, but also yours, and I am touched by no envy. Rather I humbly adore a king who is rightfully mine and rightfully thine. Thus we exist under a single sovereign albeit scarcely under a single law: we are separated by the fact that just Themis has distinguished our two nations by their own laws rather than by our border. I am ruled by mine and preserve the laws of my forefathers intact. You use your own peculiar laws, and I shall use mine, and by my own virtue and that of my inhabitants I shall honor the unsullied crown of my nation, unconquered down through countless years. My lion will rear up against its enemies, and, even if the bitter Fates happen to deny me favorable outcomes, I shall be famed for my daring enterprises, and the victor will deplore his losses in war.”
Words such as these he vainly poured forth into empty air, and no sure replies were made to the old man. Meanwhile rumor raged through the vast cave that turreted ships were hastening hither. Pennants floated aloft on their mastheads. Their lofty poops, stars, and banners flying with their black eagles were visible. Glaucus said, “Now I catch site of our blood-thirsty enemies. The Spaniard is bringing savage arms against the Britons. Now the deceit of the Libyan tyrant stands revealed. How well these Spanish sailors recognize their opportunities. Hither, hither is heading the persistence, industry and effort of those Papists. Gods, destroy these savage plagues, these men responsible for civil discord, with your vengeful fire or by the gallows, or let the sea consume them with its raging waters. Their untimely rivalry has borne these fruits, the mitre-bearing crew has given birth to this fleet. Go forth, you ships, go forth you grim ships, let all the winds seize upon your bellied sails, and let all your thunder descend on this hateful fleet. So, you reefs, rapacious Scylla and Charybdis with your roaring, and nature in its entirety, you must muster all your powers. Aeolus and the wind must completely bridle these ships, and Thetis must drive this capsized fleet across all the face of the water.”
Glaucus had scarce finished these words when from a high cliff he perceived the ships and the handsome fleet covering the blue sea, as Nereus smoothed its way with cresting waves, embracing its ships, kissing its prows, and besprinkling its turreted galleons with his spray. Soon the battle-pennants of the Dutch fleet shone in the distance and its lesser lion, grim-visaged and shaking its wild neck and mane. Iron Mars lashed the waves with his savage spear and turned his face against the proud enemies. The waters shivered and all the sea was stricken with terror. Sails were lowered and both sides cast anchor. The strait was divided as Antonio chose a place near the land for his fleet, and Tromp, that glory of the Batavians, blockaded the blue waters of the sea and erected a wall of ships against the Spanish force. Now a vigilant watch protected the opposing fleets as sailors stood watch nights and days, never surrendering their weary eyes to delightful sleep, and whiled away their evenings by telling tales of battles.
The day of battle was at hand. Now the daystar revealed the world, Aurora displayed her rosy rising, and the sun made his rays dance in the shimmering water. The Dutch admiral summoned up Bellona, and eagerly hoisted his flying battle-flags to his topmasts, as magnificent as when Phaethon’s magnificent light reaches doorways in city, made ruddy by its splendor, and bathes halls and narrow rooms with its light. Straightway all the idleness of lazy sleep fled and with her admonitions Matuta recalled them to their chores. Each living was moved by its concern: the cattle abandoned their stables and night-time fodder and grazed grass bedewed by rime. The breezes resounded with the harmony of birdsong. The hands of artisans warmed to their work. The artist mixed his paints. The northern metalworker heated metal in his fire and turned it on his well-balanced lathe. For this man there grew shadowy shapes which remained indistinct until they were embroidered with soft threads of tawny gold. Another man’s fleeces were darkened with foams of Amyclaean copper, and now his wools were plunged into Tyrian purple. This fellow likewise took measurements of the starry sky with his staff, comparing stars, using his human powers to make trial of the elusive secrets of the crystal heaven and their etherial spheres. That one undertook the toil of the Sisters of that twin-peaked mountain, binding his greeny brows with everlasting laurel. Here we have one who sharpened swords at his whetstone, while another offered helmets that shone like fire, and a glassmaker, mixing his tinder, summoned pious Vesta to assist him in his efforts. As soon as the Batavian crews saw the battle-flags hoisted into sight, not otherwise did they grew optimistically hopeful. The honor of winning the palm, happy victory, love of furious war, zeal for combat, and a craving for revenge inflamed their warlike hearts They prepared to meet their enemy, and hastened to set their faces for fierce battle. A part of them fell to their sweeps, another part struggled to raise their white sails on their yardarms. Others stood to their oars, and Typhis guided the rudder, driving his ship with oar and sail. Tromp himself stood high on the poopdeck of his flagship and arranged his fleet in due order, in the crescent of a new moon not yet grown to a full circle.
Meanwhile Antonio was slower to arrange the Spanish fleet. It was like a snake which a wayfarer chances to leave behind half-dead or suffering from a great wound: it is slow to move its body, and yet forms itself into its familiar windings. Fierce in its countenance, menacing with its glance, its hurt part hinders its flexibility, but with a great struggle it rises up in an arch and sinuously gathers its parts into a coiled circle. This is how the Spanish fleet moved itself with its rowing.
In another quarter Tromp, shining in his divine armor and in great spirits thanks to his love of virtue, fired his companions to daring enterprises, aroused their anger and increased their courage, saying words such as these: “Oh shipmates, you must consider the grounds for this just war. We are compelled to take up arms by our worship of God, Who makes the stars of this universe to turn and governs the celestial spheres that carry the planets. A nation hateful to heaven is laying snares for Christ’s flock. These men you behold are enemies of heaven and our nation. Behold, the wind-guage fights on our side, as does the weather. With this clear sky God is showing obvious signs that our hand is victorious. Heaven’s palace is our reward, and the glory of a spirited death spurs us forward.”
These things he said, inflaming his shipmates with love of war. No less did arrogant Antonio blaze forth with wrath, and, encouraging his men, bawled out: “Oh you martial hearts, you must employ your strength to sink these enemy ships. Let our presence cow these poltroons: already these rebels are wearing our yokes on their captive necks, let these half-men fall victim to the thunderstorm of hideous war. What penalties this savage race will pay! Soon their wrecked fleet will give its name to this blue sea. Neptune himself will use his waters and savage trident to overwhelm these hateful ships on the water. And (oh, the crime!) this is not the first crime they have committed against us. Already this impious nation has scorned our royal government, our mitres, and our king’s crown. It is by no means obscure by what artfulness and evil wiles the power of these fishermen has increased. This race, accustomed to dealing with light fish-hooks and knotted nets has now abandoned its weels and rods and become a noble republic which tramples on scepter-wielding sovereigns. Oh, the scandal of our century! Oh, the disgrace of our age! Let them bear their standards against our eagles, although wet lines and weels woven out of pliable rushes befits them. You, oh you, you youths, you hearts devoted to war, and you, you belligerent captains, behold how Mars’ hard-fought combat summons us, how shameful it would be for us not to prevail with our steel and what an enduring disgrace it would be to be defeated, and let there be no reproach of fear. Increase your reputation, paying no attention to your lives.”
Now their prows cleaved the ocean, the blue waters were a-boil with their flames. Vulcan cast his sparks up to the glowing stars, and the brilliance of their armor shimmered in the roiled water. The clouds gleamed with their brilliant light and all the sea shone with their brass, as when the bright stars shine on the sea and the fiery reflection of the burning sky shimmers on its surface. Yet one man rejoiced in being more distinguished than all the rest: Tromp, ablaze with his shining armor. Beneath a serene brow, his clear eyes shot forth a private brilliance. The ruddy studs on his helmet with its surmounting crest and flying plumes challenged the daylight with their brightness. dazzling the sun. Beneath the crystal surface of the sea sported shoals of scaly fish. The brightness overwhelmed their eyes, as if during the black of night a man chances to kindle a torch upon the tranquil water and densely-packed schools of fish dart forward propelled by their fins, heedless of death, betrayed to the enemy by their eyesight.
Soon their linen sails bellied out and Aeolus hurled his first darts at the opposing enemy. The Hesperian squadrons cried out with their bile, and the Batavians recognized the favorable omen of their triumph.
Meanwhile the world’s Creator looked down from Olympus and caught sight of the fleets, scrutinizing the battle-lines they had drawn up and everything else. He summoned Justice, and she ascertained that no man is free of sin. “Let them all quickly pay the forfeits they owe,” said she. Smiling with her placid countenance, Mercy said, “The Dutchmen do not worship any man-made god, dumb stones or vain idols with profane rites, and this is a nation spendthrift with its life as long as it is Christ’s cause that is being promoted, by Whose blood it likewise believes mankind’s stain and sins are washed clean. And behold, they are readying its arms for use against Christ’s enemies, at the risk of threir own sweet lives. Let the Spaniard discover You are his enemy, You should supply strength and courage to Your supporters.” The Almighty nodded His assent, and with His nod he shook Olympus, striking the deep foundations of the solid earth. The bosom of the Ocean shuddered with crashing waves, and the realms of the Acheron quaked in their black caverns.
But why should I attempt to describe each detail in my slender verse, the movements of raging Mars or your furies, Bellona, the frequent cannon-shots that were let off, the loud rumble of gunfire with its clouds of sulphur, the artillery spewing its forked flames, and the Dutchmen, filling the air with crashes as they joined battle? Or the Spanish ships, as parching fire raged through their pitch-covered yardarms and oars? My lively wit fails me, I lack the strength for such daring ventures, and my Muse has not the power to describe in her verse the heaps of such slaughter. Let Barlaeus’ trumpet sing these martial feats, worthy of being remembered by future centuries, since the Muses have bestowed all Helicon on him alone, together with the fountains and streams of its Sisters. While that man sings of his Dutchmen, Apollo stands mute, and in silence the Pierian Muses lay down their quills. Just grant me this, divine poet, while with your Maeonian mouth you sing of our national triumphs, our stout souls, and the struggles of harsh Mars, let my Thalia be your answering Echo.
And now, brooking no delay, the Dutch admiral sends against the foe four ships chosen out of all the fleet, which force their way, and produce a crash as their prows ram into oak. They remain unmoved by swords or darts, and their great guns spew forth sulphur-driven lead. Missiles fall like rain, and a storm of steel darkens the face of the bright sky, as an iron torrent falls upon the sea. It increases, and flying bullets imitate lightning, as great billows of black smoke fly upwards, enveloping the Tartessian fleet in a murk. Now the sky was hidden, and for the Baetica-born a semblance of night began to grow. Mulciber tossed burning sparks among their yardarms and their trumpets brayed hoarsely, assaulting the light breezes with their blasts. Meanwhile a discordant uproar threw the Spanish squadrons into confusion, a great horror of arms spread among them, and their formation dissolved into sudden disarray. Next groans and glum howls spread over the wandering waves, the sound of their oars was overwhelmed by the shouts of the falling, and fierce Bellona made their ships run red with blood, sharply skirmishing with violent slaughter, and soaking the stage for the savage battle.
What was the face of this harsh warfare, what was the appearance of Mars? What countenance was Bellona wearing when Tromp burst in at full speed? Even if my pen wrote in blood, Ascra does not supply me with its waters, nor does Permessis, and neither Phoebus nor the fearful Muses have the power to describe the sad deaths and all the slaughter. Let Bellona sing her own song and depict the confusion and the brutal sport, the savage assaults of the onrushing squadron, so that gunpowder caught fire from lit tinder, a billow of smoke rose up, and with loud thunder discharged its penetrating shot, as a leaden ball flew out of the cannon’s brazen mouth. It assaulted the lively breezes with its whizzing as it parted the clear air in its spinning flight. It produced great slaughter, far and wide, and glowed with a great crashing, having riven the sky. Now you might imagine that all darkness had quit the Acheron and had enveloped the ships. Now the curved shoreline and the welkin were echoing the shouts. You would swear that a brutal Jove was hurling his darts and his thunderbolts, mingled with flames. A single most sad face of dire death was now visible. The surface of the sea was covered with their weaponry and the ships plowed a blood-red furrow in the foaming waters. Yardarms, gangplanks, prows, grappling-hooks, cannon-balls, sails with their yards, and likewise artillery went a-flying in hideous-sounding storms. The finny schools of the crystal deep fled, and on dry land they spewed forth water clotted with blood and gory matter, and gave up their struggling ghosts out of panicky dread.
Albeit horror and raw amazement enveloped all the ocean and the frightened earth quakes, no power or panic broke the indomitable Morini, or was able to shatter their arrogant pride. Rather, by much use of their oars they firmed up their wedge-shaped formations and their wings, restored their battle-lines, and exposed their martial breasts to death, undaunted. Desire for revenge spurred them on in their fury, and their armed rage drove them forward to their downfall. They shot death-dealing balls and fiery arrows. The atrocious fight came to a boil, as did their courage, spendthrift of life: with its irrepressible daring it scorned manifest dangers, and in their hearts they burned to meet their oncoming death.
The waters had never experienced such great slaughter, and the shores, lashed from afar by these dire storms, resounded with a hideous sound. Cities, homesteads, beams and roofs collapsed. All livestock fell: cows grazing the dewy bracken, calves and bulls. The shepherd extracted missiles from hot wounds, the husbandman collapsed in his ancestral plot as his curved plough was spattered with bloody brains. Lead shot from afar by gunpowder furrowed the fields, and the earth smoked with its fiery wounding.
Meanwhile Mars raged through both battle-lines, and vengeful Bellona used her bloody hand to hold her scales hanging in the balance, as when with their raging swirls the winds clash from every direction The northwest wind lifts its head from the Atlantic Ocean and the straits are set a-boil, stricken by its blasts, while the raging north wind roils the hidden sands, the south wind smites the sea from the opposite direction, and the swift wind of the east takes its strength from the rosy dawn, and, stricken, the waters seem to rise up to the starry spheres. Then again, the sea is driven lower than the streams of the Styx, and the water has no idea which master it should obey. Not otherwise did the Dutch and Spanish fleets clash, and met together while the outcome was doubtful, and fight was offered by both sides. At length the men’o’war fought at closer quarters. Prows came to a halt, ground down by hard prows, and their hulls came together, joined by hooks and grappling-irons. Ships on either side picked up speed and bloody spray cast up by their oars spattered their faces. Now they were encountering each other at closer range, smooth chains and hard bonds joined their ships together as their fleets met and mingled, and their hands flashed with drawn swords. On every side wild Mars provoked a cruel fight.
The sailors gave no ear to the stern commands cried out by their captain, his sound was overwhelmed by the clash of sharp steel. Sword threatened sword, foot menaced foot, and spear-point menaced spear-point, brawn was opposed to brawn and weapon to weapons, pikes to pikes, shields to shields, a boss to bosses, a flame to flames, a torch to torches, and bows to arrows. The throng in the center grew thicker, and Tromp blazed up against thousands, so that by the commander’s sword a heap of corpses grew up to form a thick wall. As when clouds send down rain with sleet, and a rapid torrent roars with its foaming whirlpool, sweeping along stables, forests and cattle, rolling along rough rocks and whirling plantations under its water, not otherwise were deaths dealt out in numbers by drawn steel as the smoking ships became choked with corpses and a blood-red stream flowed into the frothy waves. Blood pooled in the prows and the yardarms grew slippery with ruddy gore. The lethal sword ranged everywhere, and its steel was held back from no man’s breast. The sea received those heaps of the dying, as the exultant admirable piled up such deaths among the thickly-packed ships.
A slippery way opened up for their drawn steel. The frantic man who had plowed the water prepared a thousand curved lifeboats for the pale-faced Morini, and the Parcae were wearied by breaking the same number of threads. Wherever the Dutch admiral rushed, brandishing a cutlass in his right hand and a dirk in his left, dragging behind him a train dyed red with the blood of his victims, Victory flew her banners. The Honor of the laurel palm wreathed his temples. Her gown shone bright, woven out of a thousand triumphs. She trampled royal scepters underfoot, a hollow horn hung at her back, and her head was distinguished by a golden crown, a martial insignia with its long spikes. Triumphant Glory herself went as his companion, trampling underfoot the laws of death, Fate, Acheron, and the empire of the dark Styx. Displaying temples made of snow-white marble, battle lines depicted in friezes, statues and busts, she inspired a mad love of bloody warfare. Both goddesses showered kisses on both commanders and offered eager embraces, breathing the spirit of death. The victor dispatched these throngs down to sad Tartarus, hideous with their blood-soaked appearance, and the shades were astonished at their cruel wounds, the number and dress of those men, such as the Simois had whirled along in its blood-red waters when Priam’s son Hector plundered Greek wealth.
Hail, great son of the gods. Hail, noble Tromp, you honor and lifelike image of thundering Mars. Go your happy way. Your well-earned honors will never perish, and in their enduring song the Muses will celebrate your deeds. No citadel protects the fearful Morini, no stars furnish them light, no swift eagles equip them with wings, no escape is afforded them. The battle continues on the wreckage-covered surface of the sea, they wander about the blue waters on ships chained together like a bridge. Wild combats are waged on the marine battlefield and broad expanses are given over to bloodthirsty Mars. Now no hope of escape emboldens the Spanish. The god himself serves as oarsmen to his devotees, and he wages war with oars and storms of shot. The guns redouble their thunder and the clang of sword against swords rings loudly. The groans and lamentations of the fallen rise up, and fury supplies the weapons when armaments are wanting. Fragments freshly broken off go a-flying. This man employs his sturdy strength to hurl a bench wrested from the poop against his opponents. Another swings around a figurehead, and they tear ships in pieces. That man furiously despoils dead corpses of their weaponry. Another, lacking any weapon, draws steel out of his own wound and then washes the flowing blood from his hands.
Now piercing anguish moved the Morini. Their arms grew weary and they shivered with mad panic, fleeing and taking cover. Every man hid himself in the recesses of his ship. And yet the goads of anger and fury did not relax. Just as Cacus bristles in his hidden glens and wields glowing flames in the darkness, and just as Aetna, belching forth from its fire-spewing ovens, gives a groan and hurls fireballs and glowing embers from afar, broadcasting heat from its deep foundation, not otherwise did they spew flames, sulphurous torches, and a pitchy mass of smoke along their burning decks. As many Morini as there were seemed to the Dutch to be the same number of Cacuses, as many as their ships, so many Aetnas. The Dutch hurled flames, fireballs, missiles smeared with sulphur, and firebrands. The volcanic heat gained irresistible power because of the lively brimstone and the northerly winds fanned the catastrophe. Victorious fire flew everywhere, clutching at arms and men with its all-consuming embrace, and dancing sparks shot up through the rigging. Now their hands grew hot, their faces blackened, and they hurled themselves headlong into the water. They swam on its vast surface, and yet a stray weapon would find a way to inflict a wound amidst the clear waves. Part of them gathered missiles floating on the water and handed them to their shipmates, while others dealt blows with shaking hands. Amidst their harsh dangers, they rejoiced to be able to try their fortune in the uncertain water, and neither did their shattered courage fail nor did weakness cloud their zealous minds. But now the flames got the better of the water and the unhappy sailor abandoned his damaged ship and clung to smoking planks. This one waved his hands above the enemy oars as in a thousand ways they sought to save their sweet life. They swam back and forth in a thousand directions, death being their only source of fear.
Now the Morini’s broken spirits fell, and they fearfully dissolved in weeping and tears. With a suppliant whine they begged for quarter, praying their Saints to favor their prayers. Triumphant hymns rang with their brass, and the Dutchmen’s shouting assaulted the dome of starry Olympus. The victorious throng offered up prayers, sang praises, and gave thanks to God, and the welkin resounded with lamentations. Scylla fell silent, checked by the song, and dark Charybdis was amazed, the Sirens calmed the floods with their various tunes, and in his watery waves Glaucus heard these jubilees. Chained, the captive Belgian ships were led to shore in a long line, and Belgium was afire with fragrant funeral pyres. The Papists howled, Spain was shaken with mourning, and the seven hills of stricken Rome gave a groan.
PRAISE BE TO GOD