Luis de Camoes Collected Poetical Works
Page 151
Those eyne whose gentle glances sweetly bent
My spirit soften as they stray and play,
Vouchsafed they dwell with me one single day
Well mote their magick make my Woes relent.
By power of fondest-loving sentiment
Mine importuning Ills would end for aye;
Or would their Accident such growth display
That Life had ended in a twinkling spent.
Ah! did thy coyness not to me’ deny
Thy visioned charms, O Nymph thou loveliest,
The hand-work of thine eyes had done me die!
Oh, would they linger at thy will! How blest
Would be the moment when I mote espy
My life in them restored, restored my rest!
CCXIV.
No bastava que Amor puro, y ardiente,
(Spanish: two deaths to his life, his love and her hate).
Was’t not enough that Love, who purely brent,
With these conditions hath my life efface’d;
But e’en must Death and Doom in hottest haste
Deal me such unhumnest accident?
My Soul ne’er claimed, though much she may resent,
To cut the rigorous course that Love has trace’d,
That mote She never die nor ever taste
Unlove of what she loved with sweet intent.
But your strong Will, that can all Wills defeat
With these your graces, deigned for me ordain
Harshness impossible, unheard, unknown:
That scornful ague and Love’s fever-heat
Of ire, with single blow fro’ me have tane
One life by two-fold different Deaths o’erthrown.
CCXV.
Ayudame, Senora, a ser venganfa
(Spanish: by D. Manoel de Portugal?).
Aid me, my Ladye! some revenge to wreak
On Sprite so savage, mind so rude, so base,
Sithence my scanty worth, my lowly case
To thee dared soar, and hope of thee bespeak:
To this Perfection thine we vainly seek,
To these thy heights sublime of charms and grace,
Where Nature raised her once to pride of place,
But where to rise once more her trust is weak.
Whatso in thee I contemplate so lieve,
With contemplation lacking thy consent,
More contemplating less of hope I ‘joy.
If thou to revel in my pains be bent
Rain on me wrath, deign Love with Unlove grieve
I lo’e thee more the more thou workest annoy.
CCXVI.
O claras aguas deste blando rio,
(Spanish: by Diogo Ramires Pagan?).
Clear-welling waters of this stilly rill,
Whose mirror painteth in their natural dyes
Frondiferous graces spireing to the skies
From blurred forest based on swelling hill.
So ne’er cold Rain-storm, never South-wind chill
Perturb the picture in their turbid guise,
For to preserve them e’en through summer dries
I will their wastage with these tears refill.
And when Marflsa views my form in you,
Then may my figure, lorn of life and light,
To her clear eyesight framed and formed be;
And if she would for me your view unview,
(Showing my sight offends her) may her sight
On pain of seeing me not, herself not see.
CCXVII.
Mil vezes entre sueuos tu figura,
(Spanish: by Francisco de Sa de Miranda?).
Amid a thousand dreams thy portraiture
(O lovely Nymph!) I viewed with clearest eye;
And, more desiring as I more espy,
Fro’ dreams I’d wake to ‘joy its formosure:
While this my Dreamery’s sweetness shall endure,
In vain possession’s barren boast live I:
But when my bold Desire would soar so high,
It wakes, falls plat and cowers in shade obscure.
CCXVIII.
Mi Gusto y tu Beldad se desposaron,
(Spanish: this by Camoens, or by Dr. Ayres Pinel?).
My Gust thy Beauty made a covert-feme,
Mine Eyes, for greater ill, being Go-between:
And such the joyaunce of the twain hath been,
They bore a lovely bairn and Love his name.
Both spoiled him in mode so misbecame
That, when their happiness seemed most serene,
Scant understanding what the loss could mean,
Lost by their love they found them, Sire and Dame.
But Beauty married in such fallacy,
Brought forth a two-winged monster of appal;
And Pride, his father, ‘gat Childe Jealousy.
O Father equal to thy Son in all!
Who gars the immortal Grandsire mortal be
And gives the mortal Sire immortal Hall?
CCXIX.
Si el fuego que me inciende, consumido
(Spanish. Cf. Eclogue V. 36 — 7).
An the fierce flames that fire me could be laid
By some Aquarius of a sprite more spry;
An I were changed by the sighs I sigh
To air dispersed through the airy stead;
If hearing horrible sounds of dread’, my dread
Could ‘fright my spirit from my flesh to fly;
Or sea receive from ever-weeping eye
A body molten by the tears- it shed;
Never could irous Fortune so illude
(With every terror horrible and fere)
My sprite, and all her glory from her rive.
For in your Beauty she is merged, transmew’d,
Nor all the tears that trill to Stygian mere
Could fro’ my memory either boast outdrive.
CCXX.
Que me quereys-, perpetuas saudades?
(Portuguese: the Tristia again. Cf. Sonn. 93).
Of me what seek you, Thoughts that alway yearn?
What are the snaring Hopes you hold in store?
Time who once fleeth shall return no more
And if return he, Youth may not return.
Years! a good reason for your flight we learn
For-that so lightsome, lightly pass ye o’er;
Nor all are equal in one flavour, nor
Shall Will for ever things conform discern.
The friend I loved erst is now so changed
Well nigh to other; for the Days this wise
The gusts of youthtide damaged and deranged.
Hopes of new pleasures, joys of novel guise,
Nor Fortune granteth, nor doth Time estranged,
Who of Content and Happiness are the spies.
CCXXI.
Oh rigurosa ausencia desejada
(Spiritus promptus est, &c. Petrarch, I. 174).
O rigorous Absence I so longed to see
And ever longed for while ’twas all unknown!
Longings so feared in the days long flown,
As now experienced to my misery!
Already you’ve begun right rigorously
To press your hopes of doing my life undone
You do so much, I fear that woe-begone
Hope, with my Life opprest, shall cease to be.
The Days most gladsome bring me saddest wail
The Nights in sorrow watch I and discompt;
Sans you appear they sans accompt or tale.
I wait a-famished, and the years accompt;
Natheless with life of me, in fine, they fail;
Nor for my flesh infirm my Soul is prompt
CCXXII.
Ay! quien dara a mis ojos una fuente
(Spanish: Jeremiah’s Quis dabit, &c. Ch. 9).
Ah! Who shall give a fountain to these eyne,
A fount of tear-flood flowing night and day?
Perchance my Soul had found some rest and
Ah! Who shall lend me place apart to pine,
Tracking my Dolour’s trail in obstinate way,
With tristful Memories and the Phantasy
O’ Weal that fathered such an Ill as mine!
Ah! Who shall give me words to express the spight,
The hard Unlove which Love for me hath wrought,
Where Patience scantly can avail my plight?
Ah! Who shall bare my bosom’s veiled thought?
Where is the Secret writ that shuns the light,
The hidden sorrows all my life have fraught?
CCXXIII.
Con razon os vays, aguas, fatigando
(Spanish: by the Marquess of Astorga?).
With reason, Waters! do ye toil and tire
A glad reception’s boon and bourne to gain
And reach the bosom of that boundless Main
Whereto so many days your hopes aspire.
Harrow! Whose sorrows aye weep Fortune’s ire,
Lost hopes of vanities the vainest vain;
And with the dolours of that tearful rain
Ne’er find, in fine, the goal of fond Desire.
Ye the directest way-line ever spuming,
Fail not the wisht-for scope and end to make,
Howe’er embarrasst by the random round.
But I, through night and day with grief aye yearning!
Albe one pathway I may ne’er forsake,
The wisht-for Haven never never found.
CCXXIV.
O cesse ya, Stnor., tu dura mano l
(Spanish: Cf. Canzon IV. 4).
Lighten at length, Lord Love, that heavy hand!
Nor drive my life to Life’s extreme despight
Suffice so wasted bides it by thy might
Not one sound passage may in it be scann’d.
Ah, strangest Formosure! Ah, fere command
Of Fate inhuman aye forbidding flight!
An of compassion be deprived thy sprite
Snapt thou shall see, soon see, my vital strand.
A bland Unlove, a Love as blandly fair,
For one so utter lost were fit, were meet
For one who ne’er may hope his Ill to guarish.
And if to see how fare I scant thou care,
Behold me here surrendered at thy feet
Flourish thy Fancy; Go, my Hope! go perish.
CCXXV.
Dulces enganos de mis ojos tristes;
(Spanish: to a likeness of his lover?).
Ye douce Delusions of my doleful eyes,
What lively sense of Thought in me ye awake!
That only presence my Content could make
You turn to shadowy Painture’s shadowy dyes.
You have entender’d with a soft surprise
My feelings mastered by a sudden quake;
Yet not one moment for your promise sake
Those vainly proffered boons you made my prize.
I saw the figure was a counterfeit,
Not hers who hideth in herself my Soul,
Tho’ here it rival with the natural:
This wise it hears my sighs, thus answers it;
Thus with my wasted life it doth condole,
As though the copy were the original.
CCXXVI.
Quanto tiempo ha que lloro un dia triste,
(Spanish: written during the first exile?).
How long one tristful day shall I bewail
As though I hoped joy my life to cheer?
How is it, Tagus! whenas course thy clear
Waters, thou dyedst them not my life to swale?
Veiling my path thou dost my breast unveil,
O my sad Fortune of my weal so near!
Adieu ye Mounts of rarest beauty sheer;
Adieu my heart that may not burst for bale.
If, where thou dwellest lief and lot-content,
Thou hadst not drunk a draught of Lethe-drain,
In so much Weal such Woes were not forgot.
‘ Singing my Dolours shall my death lament;
For e’en the senseless Hill with hollow strain
Soundeth hoarse accents to console my lot.
CCXXVII.
Levantay, minhas Tagides, a frente,
(To Dom Theodosio. Cf. Sonn. 20).
High raise your glorious brows, my Tagides!
Leaving where Tagus forest-shaded flows:
Gild ye the rory vale, the dewy rose
And hill-side hairy with the hanging trees.
Awhile in absence leave your river-leas;
Cease with the numbered verse the lyre to arouse
Cease all your labours, Nymphs of formous brows
Cease the full current from your fountain flees.
Speed ye to greet Theodosio great and clear,
To whom in offering of sublimer song
On golden harp fair-faxt Apollo sings.
Minerva lends him (rarest meed) her lere;
Pallas lends Valour which adaws the throng;
And Fame fro’ Pole to Pole his rumour wings.
CCXXVIII.
Vos Ninfas da Gangetica espessura
(To the Captain D. Leoniz Pereira, in 1568).
You Nymphs who grace Gangetick coverture!
In voice sonorous deign sweet praise to outpour
For the high captain, whom the rosy Aurore
Saved from the tarnisht sons of Night obscure.
Mustered the Negro-hordes who, dour and dure,
Lord it on Aurea-Chersonesian shore,
From dearest nide to outdrive for evermore
Men who in might excel Misaventure.
But a strong Lyon, with small company,
The mighty Manye, fon as fere in fight,
Defeated, ‘feebled, punisht and unmann’d.
Nymphs! sing ye joyous songs, for clear you see
More than Leonidas for Graecia dight
Did noble Leoniz in Malaca-land.
CCXXIX.
Alma gentil, que a firme Eternidade
(On Dom A. de Noronha. Cf. Sonn. 12).
Gent Soul! that unto firm Eternity
By valour rising, home for aye didst make,
Here shall endure, and Memory ne’er forsake,
Our pain and pine with name and fame of thee.
I n’ote if in such Youth more wonderous be
To leave man jealous for thy valour’s sake;
Or if an Adamant-breast, or tooth of Drake,
Thou hadst compelled to pay Compassion’s fee.
Jealous of thine a thousand lots I view,
While mine is jealouser than all the rest,
For-that my loss thy loss thus equalleth.
Oh happy dying! Sort so sadly blest!
What thousand ordinary deaths ne’er do
Thou didst with derring-do of one fair Death.
CCXXX.
Debaxo desta pedra, sepultada
(Epitaph on Dona Caterina?).
She lies ensepulchred below this stone
Whose noblest beauty was a World-delight;
Whom Death of merest envy and despight,
From Life-tide robbed ere her day was done;
Nowise respecting her, that paragon
Of gentlest radiance, who the gloomiest night
Turned into clearest noon; whose whitest light
Eclipst the clearest splendours of the Sun.
Truly Sol bribed thee, thou cruel Death!
To set him free fro’ radiance gart him gloom;
Bribed thee the Moon who paled before her ray.
How haddest thou such power to rob her breath?
And, if thou haddest, how so soon couldst doom
A World-light fade and vade to death-cold clay?
CCXXXI.
Imagens vaas me imprime a Fantasia;
(By the Infant Dom Luiz?).
In me vain fancies Fancy would inlay;
Novel discourses all my Thoughts invent;
And more my woe-wrung Spirit to torment
Cares of a century pack in single day.
Had Thought high object, sooth it were to say
Hope might discover on what base she lent:
But Fate ne’er courses with so true intent
The rights of Reason she will deign to weigh.
Chance led by Fortune oftentimes succeedeth;
But an, peraunter, deal they boons victorious
Favour of Fame for falsehood is notorious.
Determination Wisdom’s worth exceedeth:
Only by constancy man groweth glorious:
Only free Souls are digne to be memorious.
CCXXXII.
Quanta incerta esperanga, quanto engano!
(“Catholic verities”).
How much of doubtful Hope, how sly a snare!
How much of Life in lying reverie spent!
For all fare building with the same intent
Only on bases where to loss they fare:
They strive thro’ doubtful human life to steer;
They trust in words that be mere windy vent;
Then through long hours and moments they lament
The gladdest laughter of a live-long year.
Ne’er let Appearance worth of aught enhance;
Intend that Life is but a borrowed store;
For the world liveth in a change of chance.
Then change thy sentiments, be thy care forlore,
And aye love only that one Esperance
Which with the Loved One lasts evermore.
CCXXXIII.
Mai, que de tempo em tempo vas crecendo;
(By the Infante Dom Luis?).
Ills! that fro’ time to time so crescive grow;
Would by one Good I saw you ‘companied!
Then should my life-term in repose abide,
Nor feel one fear to sight Death’s horrid show.
If man his petty cares to sighs of woe
Convert, and if the sighs new cares provide,
Ah me how prudent! O how fortified
Weaving his bay-wreath he thro’ life shall go!
’Tis time we unremember past Content,
Past with the hopes of joyaunce ever past,
And overtriumph’d by a new Intent:
May living Faith, that holds my Spirit fast,
To caduque derring-do a term present
Whereto past Welfare doomed itself at last
CCXXXIV.
O quanto melhor he o supremo dia,
(Cupio dissolvi, &c.).
O how far better man’s supremest Day,
Douce day of death, than birth-tide’s bitter boon!
O how far better is the moment’s swoon
That ends so many a year of agony!
Cease to seek other Weals in stubborn way;
Cease all applied end of Thoughts high-flown,
Of all that gives contentment one alone
Man’s flesh contents, his couch of death-cold clay.
Who doth the Godhead as his steward hold,