Exoriare aliquis!
āVirgil
Canto I
Contents
Osman undertakes an attempt to destroy Christendom. The spirit of evil, in the guise of Mohammed, incites him to the project. It is Skinder who advises, at a council of war, to turn the sword in the direction of Poland. At Osmanās command, great armies are assembled.
By sword over-victorious, the fame
Of that nation, which was the scourge of God,
Spread far and wide, just like the sea of blood,
Innocent blood, it spilled from age to age.
Still was its zeal unchecked, unslaked its thirst
For cruelty, proud in its might and hot
For more renown, it sought the trembling world
Entire to press beneath its scimitar.
The proud Bisurman had already set
His throne upon the grand ruins of Greece,
Spreading his sway over so many lands,
So many cities grinding into dust,
His coffers swelling with the tribute pressed
From out the conquered. At his very name
Whole nations shivered; once proud states would quake
With whimpering before a blow should fall.
The proud walls of the Holy City breached,
The daughters of Sion groaned whole centuries;
Buildings of splendid structure fell to ruin,
The holy sites ā even that Sacred Tomb
Which once contained both God and Man, beloved
Of pilgrims hastening thither from afar ā
That hill, where our redemption was worked out,
Were trod beneath a shameful paganās heel.
Osman the warlike ruled over them all;
Osman, whose borders spread throughout the East,
Who followed in his forefathersā footsteps,
And never flagged in pursuit of grand aims,
In hopes of emulating them yet more,
Determined to exterminate the faithful.
Impious man! To think that human hand
Might undo what the hand of God hath wrought!
Such were his thoughts, and these the imps of Hell
Enflamed to fever pitch, before his eyes
Tempting him with victorās laurel crowns,
With notes triumphant caressing his ears,
The cries of wretches tuned like dulcet songs,
Roiling his lusty heart with flames undying.
In such a way, happy and graceful men
(Or so they seem, who in reality
Are troops of bandits) whole nations oppress.
Sleep, peaceful and refreshing, is unknown
In royal palaces; huts it prefers,
Spurning the presence of kings and their pomp,
Caressing humble men on beds of straw.
Though Osmanās eyes grow heavy, he cannot sleep;
Though he be bedded on the softest down.
The morning star had just put out its lamp
When Osman drowsed, at last, in fitful twists.
Then he, whose great delights are sin and lies,
That spirit cast far from his Makerās face,
Stood at his bedside, within the drapes of gold
(A tribute from the Indian enslaved),
In feigned appearance, and virtue assumed.
The human voice and figure putting on
Of Mohammed, the prophet of his tribe,
āTwas thus he spoke to the sleeping warlord:
āNo time is this, my son, in bedding plush
To seek a sweet repose or taste delight;
The bright glare of the dawn gladdens the sky!
The stars are hid, the sun shines in their place.
āTis high time to appear before the hosts
Whom you are...