Luis de Camoes Collected Poetical Works

by Luis de Camoes

  From nuptial kindred came the fatal blow.

  When now the hero, humbled in the dust,

  His crime aton’d, confess’d that Heaven was just,

  Again in splendour he the throne ascends:

  Again his bow the Moorish chieftain bends.

  Wide round th’ embattl’d gates of Santareen

  Their shining spears and banner’d moons are seen.

  But holy rites the pious king preferr’d;

  The martyr’s bones on Vincent’s Cape interr’d

  (His sainted name the Cape shall ever bear),229*

  To Lisbon’s walls he brought with votive care.

  And now the monarch, old and feeble grown,

  Resigns the falchion to his valiant son.

  O’er Tagus’ waves the youthful hero pass’d,

  And bleeding hosts before him shrunk aghast.

  Chok’d with the slain, with Moorish carnage dy’d,

  Sevilia’s river roll’d the purple tide.

  Burning for victory, the warlike boy

  Spares not a day to thoughtless rest or joy.

  Nor long his wish unsatisfied remains:

  With the besiegers’ gore he dyes the plains

  That circle Beja’s wall: yet still untam’d,

  With all the fierceness of despair inflam’d,

  The raging Moor collects his distant might;

  Wide from the shores of Atlas’ starry height,

  From Amphelusia’s cape, and Tingia’s230* bay,

  Where stern Antæus held his brutal sway,

  The Mauritanian trumpet sounds to arms;

  And Juba’s realm returns the hoarse alarms;

  The swarthy tribes in burnish’d armour shine,

  Their warlike march Abyla’s shepherds join.

  The great Miramolin231* on Tagus’ shores

  Far o’er the coast his banner’d thousands pours;

  Twelve kings and one beneath his ensigns stand,

  And wield their sabres at his dread command.

  The plund’ring bands far round the region haste,

  The mournful region lies a naked waste.

  And now, enclos’d in Santareen’s high towers,

  The brave Don Sancho shuns th’ unequal powers;

  A thousand arts the furious Moor pursues,

  And ceaseless, still the fierce assault renews.

  Huge clefts of rock, from horrid engines whirl’d,

  In smould’ring volleys on the town are hurl’d;

  The brazen rams the lofty turrets shake,

  And, mined beneath, the deep foundations quake;

  But brave Alonzo’s son, as danger grows,

  His pride inflam’d, with rising courage glows;

  Each coming storm of missile darts he wards,

  Each nodding turret, and each port he guards.

  In that fair city, round whose verdant meads

  The branching river of Mondego232* spreads,

  Long worn with warlike toils, and bent with years,

  The king reposed, when Sancho’s fate he hears.

  His limbs forget the feeble steps of age,

  And the hoar warrior burns with youthful rage.

  His daring vet’rans, long to conquest train’d,

  He leads — the ground with Moorish blood is stain’d;

  Turbans, and robes of various colours wrought,

  And shiver’d spears in streaming carnage float.

  In harness gay lies many a welt’ring steed,

  And, low in dust, the groaning masters bleed.

  As proud Miramolin233* in horror fled,

  Don Sancho’s javelin stretch’d him with the dead.

  In wild dismay, and torn with gushing wounds,

  The rout, wide scatter’d, fly the Lusian bounds.

  Their hands to heaven the joyful victors raise,

  And every voice resounds the song of praise;

  “Nor was it stumbling chance, nor human might;

  “’Twas guardian Heaven,” they sung, “that ruled the fight.”

  This blissful day Alonzo’s glories crown’d;

  But pale disease now gave the secret wound;

  Her icy hand his feeble limbs invades,

  And pining languor through his vitals spreads.

  The glorious monarch to the tomb descends,

  A nation’s grief the funeral torch attends.

  Each winding shore for thee, Alonzo,234* mourns,

  Alonzo’s name each woeful bay returns;

  For thee the rivers sigh their groves among,

  And funeral murmurs wailing, roll along;

  Their swelling tears o’erflow the wide campaign;

  With floating heads, for thee, the yellow grain,

  For thee the willow-bowers and copses weep,

  As their tall boughs lie trembling on the deep;

  Adown the streams the tangled vine-leaves flow,

  And all the landscape wears the look of woe.

  Thus, o’er the wond’ring world thy glories spread,

  And thus thy mournful people bow the head;

  While still, at eve, each dale Alonzo sighs,

  And, oh, Alonzo! every hill replies;

  And still the mountain-echoes trill the lay,

  Till blushing morn brings on the noiseful day.

  The youthful Sancho to the throne succeeds,

  Already far renown’d for val’rous deeds;

  Let Betis’,235* ting’d with blood, his prowess tell,

  And Beja’s lawns, where boastful Afric fell.

  Nor less when king his martial ardour glows,

  Proud Sylves’ royal walls his troops enclose!

  Fair Sylves’ lawns the Moorish peasant plough’d,

  Her vineyards cultur’d, and her valleys sow’d;

  But Lisbon’s monarch reap’d. The winds of heaven236*

  Roar’d high — and headlong by the tempest driven,

  In Tagus’ breast a gallant navy sought

  The shelt’ring port, and glad assistance brought.

  The warlike crew, by Frederic the Red,237*

  To rescue Judah’s prostrate land were led;

  When Guido’s troops, by burning thirst subdu’d,

  To Saladin, the foe, for mercy su’d.

  Their vows were holy, and the cause the same,

  To blot from Europe’s shores the Moorish name.

  In Sancho’s cause the gallant navy joins,

  And royal Sylves to their force resigns.

  Thus, sent by Heaven, a foreign naval band

  Gave Lisbon’s ramparts to the sire’s command.

  Nor Moorish trophies did alone adorn

  The hero’s name; in warlike camps though born,

  Though fenc’d with mountains, Leon’s martial race.

  Smile at the battle-sign, yet foul disgrace

  To Leon’s haughty sons his sword achiev’d:

  Proud Tui’s neck his servile yoke receiv’d;

  And, far around, falls many a wealthy town,

  O valiant Sancho, humbled to thy frown.

  While thus his laurels flourish’d wide and fair

  He dies: Alonzo reigns, his much-lov’d heir.

  Alcazar lately conquer’d from the Moor,

  Reconquer’d, streams with the defenders’ gore.

  Alonzo dead, another Sancho reigns:

  Alas, with many a sigh the land complains!

  Unlike his sire, a vain unthinking boy,

  His servants now a jarring sway enjoy.

  As his the power, his were the crimes of those

  Whom to dispense that sacred power he chose.

  By various counsels waver’d, and confus’d

  By seeming friends, by various arts, abus’d;

  Long undetermin’d, blindly rash at last,

  Enrag’d, unmann’d, untutor’d by the past.

  Yet, not like Nero, cruel and unjust,

  The slave capricious of unnatural lust.

  Nor had he smil’d had fla
mes consum’d his Troy;

  Nor could his people’s groans afford him joy;

  Nor did his woes from female manners spring,

  Unlike the Syrian,238* or Sicilia’s king.

  No hundred cooks his costly meal prepar’d,

  As heap’d the board when Rome’s proud tyrant far’d.239*

  Nor dar’d the artist hope his ear to240* gain,

  By new-form’d arts to point the stings of pain.

  But, proud and high the Lusian spirit soar’d,

  And ask’d a godlike hero for their lord.

  To none accustom’d but a hero’s sway,

  Great must he be whom that bold race obey.

  Complaint, loud murmur’d, every city fills,

  Complaint, loud echo’d, murmurs through the hills.

  Alarm’d, Bolonia’s warlike Earl241* awakes,

  And from his listless brother’s minions takes

  The awful sceptre. — Soon was joy restor’d,

  And soon, by just succession, Lisbon’s lord

  Beloved, Alonzo, nam’d the Bold, he reigns;

  Nor may the limits of his sire’s domains

  Confine his mounting spirit. When he led

  His smiling consort to the bridal bed,

  “Algarbia’s realm,” he said, “shall prove thy dower,”

  And, soon Algarbia, conquer’d, own’d his power.

  The vanquish’d Moor with total rout expell’d,

  All Lusus’ shores his might unrivall’d held.

  And now brave Diniz reigns, whose noble fire

  Bespoke the genuine lineage of his sire.

  Now, heavenly peace wide wav’d her olive bough,

  Each vale display’d the labours of the plough,

  And smil’d with joy: the rocks on every shore

  Resound the dashing of the merchant-oar.

  Wise laws are form’d, and constitutions weigh’d,

  And the deep-rooted base of Empire laid.

  Not Ammon’s son242* with larger heart bestow’d,

  Nor such the grace to him the Muses owed.

  From Helicon the Muses wing their way,

  Mondego’s243* flow’ry banks invite their stay.

  Now Coimbra shines Minerva’s proud abode;

  And fir’d with joy, Parnassus’ bloomy god

  Beholds another dear-lov’d Athens rise,

  And spread her laurels in indulgent skies;

  Her wreath of laurels, ever green, he twines

  With threads of gold, and baccaris244* adjoins.

  Here castle walls in warlike grandeur lower,

  Here cities swell, and lofty temples tower:

  In wealth and grandeur each with other vies:

  When old and lov’d the parent-monarch dies.

  His son, alas, remiss in filial deeds,

  But wise in peace, and bold in fight, succeeds,

  The fourth Alonzo: Ever arm’d for war

  He views the stern Castile with watchful care.

  Yet, when the Libyan nations cross’d the main,

  And spread their thousands o’er the fields of Spain,

  The brave Alonzo drew his awful steel,

  And sprung to battle for the proud Castile.

  When Babel’s haughty queen245* unsheath’d the sword,

  And o’er Hydaspes’ lawns her legions pour’d;

  When dreadful Attila,246* to whom was given

  That fearful name, “the Scourge of angry Heaven,”

  The fields of trembling Italy o’erran

  With many a Gothic tribe, and northern clan;

  Not such unnumber’d banners then were seen,

  As now in fair Tartesia’s dales convene;

  Numidia’s bow, and Mauritania’s spear,

  And all the might of Hagar’s race was here;

  Granada’s mongrels join their num’rous host,

  To those who dar’d the seas from Libya’s coast.

  Aw’d by the fury of such pond’rous force

  The proud Castilian tries each hop’d resource;

  Yet, not by terror for himself inspir’d,

  For Spain he trembl’d, and for Spain was fir’d.

  His much-lov’d bride,247* his messenger, he sends,

  And, to the hostile Lusian lowly bends.

  The much-lov’d daughter of the king implor’d,

  Now sues her father for her wedded lord.

  The beauteous dame approach’d the palace gate,

  Where her great sire was thron’d in regal state:

  On her fair face deep-settled grief appears,

  And her mild eyes are bath’d in glist’ning tears;

  Her careless ringlets, as a mourner’s, flow

  Adown her shoulders, and her breasts of snow:

  A secret transport through the father ran,

  While thus, in sighs, the royal bride began: —

  “And know’st thou not, O warlike king,” she cried,

  “That furious Afric pours her peopled tide —

  Her barb’rous nations, o’er the fields of Spain?

  Morocco’s lord commands the dreadful train.

  Ne’er since the surges bath’d the circling coast,

  Beneath one standard march’d so dread a host:

  Such the dire fierceness of their brutal rage,

  Pale are our bravest youth as palsied age.

  By night our fathers’ shades confess their fear,248*

  Their shrieks of terror from the tombs we hear:

  To stem the rage of these unnumber’d bands,

  Alone, O sire, my gallant husband stands;

  His little host alone their breasts oppose

  To the barb’d darts of Spain’s innum’rous foes:

  Then haste, O monarch, thou whose conqu’ring spear

  Has chill’d Malucca’s249* sultry waves with fear:

  Haste to the rescue of distress’d Castile,

  (Oh! be that smile thy dear affection’s seal!)

  And speed, my father, ere my husband’s fate

  Be fix’d, and I, deprived of regal state,

  Be left in captive solitude forlorn,

  My spouse, my kingdom, and my birth to mourn.”

  In tears, and trembling, spoke the filial queen.

  So, lost in grief, was lovely Venus250* seen,

  When Jove, her sire, the beauteous mourner pray’d

  To grant her wand’ring son the promis’d aid.

  Great Jove was mov’d to hear the fair deplore,

  Gave all she ask’d, and griev’d she ask’d no more.

  So griev’d Alonzo’s noble heart. And now

  The warrior binds in steel his awful brow;

  The glitt’ring squadrons march in proud array,

  On burnish’d shields the trembling sunbeams play:

  The blaze of arms the warlike rage inspires,

  And wakes from slothful peace the hero’s fires.

  With trampling hoofs Evora’s plains rebound,

  And sprightly neighings echo far around;

  Far on each side the clouds of dust arise,

  The drum’s rough rattling rolls along the skies;

  The trumpet’s shrilly clangor sounds alarms,

  And each heart burns, and ardent, pants for arms.

  Where their bright blaze the royal ensigns pour’d,

  High o’er the rest the great Alonzo tower’d;

  High o’er the rest was his bold front admir’d,

  And his keen eyes new warmth, new force inspir’d.

  Proudly he march’d, and now, in Tarif’s plain

  The two Alonzos join their martial train:

  Right to the foe, in battle-rank updrawn,

  They pause — the mountain and the wide-spread lawn

  Afford not foot-room for the crowded foe:

  Aw’d with the horrors of the lifted blow

  Pale look’d our bravest heroes. Swell’d with pride,

  The foes already conquer’d Spain divide,

  And, lord
ly o’er the field the promis’d victors stride.

  }

  So, strode in Elah’s vale the tow’ring height

  Of Gath’s proud champion;251* so, with pale affright,

  The Hebrews trembled, while with impious pride

  The huge-limb’d foe the shepherd boy252* defied:

  The valiant boy advancing, fits the string,

  And round his head he whirls the sounding sling;

  The monster staggers with the forceful wound,

  And his huge bulk lies groaning on the ground.

  Such impious scorn the Moor’s proud bosom swell’d,

  When our thin squadrons took the battle-field;

  Unconscious of the Power who led us on,

  That Power whose nod confounds th’ eternal throne;

  Led by that Power, the brave Castilian bar’d

  The shining blade, and proud Morocco dar’d

  His conqu’ring brand the Lusian hero drew,

  And on Granada’s sons resistless flew;

  The spear-staffs crash, the splinters hiss around,

  And the broad bucklers rattle on the ground:

  With piercing shrieks the Moors their prophet’s name,

  And ours, their guardian saint, aloud acclaim.

  Wounds gush on wounds, and blows resound to blows

  A lake of blood the level plain o’erflows;

  The wounded, gasping in the purple tide,

  Now find the death the sword but half supplied.

  Though wove253* and quilted by their ladies’ hands,

  Vain were the mail-plates of Granada’s bands.

  With such dread force the Lusian rush’d along,

  Steep’d in red carnage lay the boastful throng.

  Yet now, disdainful of so light a prize,

  Fierce o’er the field the thund’ring hero flies;

  And his bold arm the brave Castilian joins

  In dreadful conflict with the Moorish lines.

  The parting sun now pour’d the ruddy blaze,

  And twinkling Vesper shot his silv’ry rays

  Athwart the gloom, and clos’d the glorious day,

  When, low in dust, the strength of Afric lay.

  Such dreadful slaughter of the boastful Moor

  Never on battle-field was heap’d before;

  Not he whose childhood vow’d254* eternal hate

  And desp’rate 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’s255* 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, rolled down to death’s dark strand;