Luis de Camoes Collected Poetical Works

by Luis de Camoes

  For all is vision shown by Phantasy.

  CCXCIX.

  Pues, lagrimas, tratais mis ojos tristes,

  (Spanish: same subject as Sonn. 260).

  Since, Tears! my tristful eyes ye treat so bold,

  That spend in shedding Tear-flood night and day,

  Look ye if this be Tear she doth convey

  For whom so many a rill whilome ye roll’d:

  Perpend, mine Eyes! what ’tis you here behold

  And if a Tear, O luck to me for aye!

  You have employed, in the bestest way

  For this one single, thousand million-fold.

  But whatsoever holds he dearest dear

  (Albe secured) man will ne’er believe,

  Much more the boon that doth unhoped appear.

  Nathless I say you, though the gift deceive,

  Enough the Tear be given as a Tear,

  That I as very Tear the Tear receive.

  CCC.

  Olhos formosos em quem quiz natura

  (Cf. Sonns. 38 and 152).

  Beautiful Eyes! which potent Nature bade

  Display her powers in highest, surest sign,

  If ye your pith and puissance would divine,

  Look on the Creature you (the Maker) made.

  In me your portraiture is clear pourtray’d,

  In all I suffer you are drawn to line:

  For if unequal pains to pass be mine,

  Far greater potency your charms display’d.

  For self I only crave the Crave of me:

  Yours and yours only I myself esteem,

  That on my head your pledge shall set its seal.

  Self I remember not when you I see

  Nor yet the world; nor err I, for I deem

  That in your Sovenance dwells my worldly Weal.

  CCCI.

  Quem presumir, Senhora, de louvar-vos,

  (Variant of No. 106: last of Common Editions).

  Whoso presumeth, Ladye mine! to praise you,

  With lore of mortal, not with lere divine,

  He shall be proved of such Fault condign

  As you prove perfect to what sight surveys you.

  Let none with praises vain pretend to upraise you,

  However rare his praise and peregrine;

  So doth your Beauty in my fancy shine

  Save with yourself Compare the Lord denays you.

  Blest my-your Spirit, which you did embrave

  To take possession of a prize so splendid

  As that, my Ladye! which to me you gave.

  Better than very life I will defend it;

  For, since so tender mercy crowned my Crave,

  In unforgetful memory I will hend it.

  PART III. (Nos. 302-360).

  CCCII.

  Los que bivis subjectos a la estrela

  (Spanish: apparently proemium to fourth century).

  Ye who live subject to the Venus star,

  And to her lovely Son whom Love we name,

  I speak not those who seeing any dame

  Declare her favours life can make or mar:

  No! ’tis to those Love’s spark o’ life shall gar

  For one and only one wear breast a-flame;

  And ‘mid them only those who burn to claim

  The pangs that causes of more loving are: —

  Speed you to see my song, where pictured

  You shall view sundry feats Fate gendereth,

  Which in the bowels of my Being are bred:

  Shall see Love’s terrible power all perileth:

  Shall see his anguish, grame and anxious dread;

  Sighs, singults, weeping, ugly pains and Death.

  CCCIII.

  Todas as almas tristes se mostravao

  (Repeats Sonns. 41 and 77).

  Showed all men’s spirits, by their woe down-weigh’d,

  A pious pity for their Lord Divine,

  And, in the presence of His mien benign,

  Tribute of praises due to Him they paid:

  My free-born senses then my Will obey’d,

  For hereto Destiny held to her design;

  When eyes, those eyes, whereof I ne’er was digne,

  By robbing Reason all my me waylaid.

  The bright new Vision struck me stony blind,

  Born of uncustom was the strangest sense

  Of that sweet presence, that angelick air.

  To heal my hurt can I no medicine find?

  Ah! why did Fortune breed such difference

  Amid the many woman-borns she bare?

  CCCIV.

  Senhora minha, se de pura inveja

  (Scherzando: to a high-coloured Dame).

  My Dame! if Love of purest jealousy

  Suffer no more that dainty sight be shown,

  That flush of roses on the snow-bed sown,

  Those eyes whose shine Sol covets enviously:

  He may not rob me so I never see

  Souled in my Soul the charms he made your own,

  Where I will ever make your portrait wone

  Nor care how cruel enemy be he:

  In sprite I see you, and I view ne’er born

  On plain or prairie, howso fresh and fair,

  Aught save the flower that scenteth every hill:

  I see on either cheek red lilies’ hue:

  Happy who sees them, but far happier

  Who has and holds them an Earth hold such Weal!

  CCCV.

  Contas, que traz Amor, com meus cuidados,

  (Cf. Canz. VI. 7)

  Accounts that Cupid keeps with my unhele

  Bid me recount my tale of bitter pain:

  These bin Accounts where thought shall ever strain

  Sad pine recounting, Fortune’s dire unweal:

  Cruel the Accounts would be, if counted ill

  Be all my services, whose end is fain

  To prove of some Account in compt of gain

  Themselves accounting Fortune’s favourites still.

  If haply faring forth your sight I see;

  Uncounted beading tears! a torrent turgid,

  Caused by this effect, go, shameless flow!

  There say you be salt drops, for ever surged

  From infinite Ocean, the desire of me,

  That fires the furnace where ye (Tears!) are forged.

  CCCVI.

  Fermosa mao que o coracao me aperta,

  (Probably by Camoens).

  That fair-formed Hand my heart in holding takes,

  If my subjected Will it make submit,

  And show such sweetness albe counterfeit,

  When shall I see the certainty it makes?

  My slumbers dream-full are, my grief awakes;

  Complete the pain, the gloire is incomplete;

  What boots if I asleep the vision greet

  Which my awaking eye-glance aye forsakes?

  Love wills my Welfare but his wiles be bold.

  Some good he showeth trickt with cunning skill,

  Good that witholdeth most but hath no hold:

  For, when fro’ Love-snare I unsnare my will

  (Those Ills awaking which a slumber dole’d)

  He deals with banisht Weal redoubled Ill.

  CCCVII.

  De tantas perfeifoens a natureza

  (Variant of Sonns. 17, 131, and 153).

  With such perfections Nature gave her care

  To form, gent Dame! your figure’s fair design,

  Yours bin a Beauty in this world divine,

  Divine in graceful geste and airiest air:

  Of sort your Beauty shows beyond Compare,

  In you so many graces purely shine,

  No Dame so ‘surfed that she deem her digne

  To feel, you present, she can call her fair:

  Toiled human Nature, till she could no more,

  To frame a model of such charm and grace,

  When deckt with graceful charms your shape she bore:

  And, more to glorify that form and face,


  After she framed you at once she swore

  Ne’er more to forge for Soul so fair a Case.

  CCCVIII.

  D’amoves de huma inclita donzella

  (Variant of Sonn. 137).

  Smitten with love of inclyt Damosel

  The God of Love his very self did see,

  Confined, in fine, the more he’d fain go free

  From charms all conquer, all to yield compel:

  Never saw mortal world such Bonnibel,

  When Nature gathered in this perfect She

  Graces that garrfed Love such wound to dree,

  Laces ne force ne fraud shall countervail:

  O seld-seen loveliness, O lovely lure!

  Loveliness potent e’en to subjugate

  The very Love-god in his sovran reign:

  Look if a Human of so feeble strain

  Can, with his little force, bear force so great

  When Love’s own force so little could endure!

  CCCIX.

  Em hum batel que com doce meneio

  (Petrarch, I. 170).

  In a slight Barque that softly, gently swaying

  Parted gold-rolling Tagus’ wavy flow,

  I saw fair Ladies, liefer say I so

  Fair Stars around one Central Sun a-raying

  The Maids Nereian delicately playing

  Wi’ thousand lays and liltings sweet and low

  In sport the beautiful array would row

  (An err I not) for better honour paying.

  O lovely Nereids! who with songs a-lift

  Haste that serenest vision to enjoy,

  Which on my life-tide wills such Ill to wreak;

  Tell her how passeth (look she!) passing swift

  Fleet-footed Time; how tedious mine annoy,

  For Time be ready-strong and Flesh be weak.

  CCCX.

  Que fiz, Amor, que tu tad mal me tratas,

  (By the Duque de Aveyro?).

  What did I, Love, thou shouldst me so maltreat?

  I not being thine why shouldest will me ill?

  ‘ And why, if holden thine, thus spoil and spill

  My wretched Life-tide made one long defeat?

  If bound to abet that cruel Nymph’s deceit,

  And thou must haste her esperance full to fill,

  To whom shall I bewail what Ills thou will,

  What life shalt give me after taking it?

  And thou (Unpitiful!) to my gloire and fame

  Mortal oblivion dost for boon return,

  Aye disregarding so unguarded flame!

  But since thou come not to thy lover’s claim,

  Uncoming never shalt thou tidings learn

  Of him who ever ealleth on thy name.

  CCCXI.

  Se ao que te quero desses tanta ft,

  (Probably by Camóens, for a friend).

  If in “I love tljee” thou as much confide

  As be thou prodigal of heart-felt pain,

  My sighs of sorrow were not sighed in vain,

  Nor had I vainly for thy favour cried.

  But since thy harshness all belief denied

  To woes conditioned by thy coy disdain,

  With thee Unreason hath more might and main

  Than all the tender love in me descried.

  And since thou ever broughtst me Death so near

  With that Unlove which ne’er be mine behovèd,

  Yes, I will die, but know thy gain be dear!

  Asked o’ thee daily mortal hearts commovèd

  “Ah why hast murthered, Ladye cruel-fere!

  The one who loved thee more than life he lovèd?”

  CCCXII.

  O Tempo está vingado à custa mia

  (Connected with Nos. 5 and 150).

  Time is avenged (costing me so dear)

  On time, when Time I wont so cheap to rate;

  Sad whoso was of Time in like estate

  That Time at every time spent free o’ fear!

  Chastised me Time and Obstinacy sheer

  Because wi’ Time I did miscalculate,

  For Time hath so untimely left my fate

  Now hope I nothing from good timely chear.

  Times, hours and moments swiftly, surely past,

  When I could profit of my Time and tide,

  With hope that Time my tormentrye outlast:

  But when in Time I ventured to confide,

  As Time hath various motion, slow and fast,

  I chid myself that Time I mote not chide.

  CCCXIII.

  Quem busca no amor contentamento,

  (Sufistical).

  Whoso Contentment seeks in Love to find,

  Finds what his Nature deemeth suitable;

  But Substance, balancing twixt Good and Ill,

  Is but a leaflet whirling in the wind.

  Who to such Mobile hath self resigned

  E’en his own glory holds not at his Will:

  In constant quality ne’er ’tis equable,

  Since for his torment ’tis of fleeting kind.

  Thus find we Love displaying, day by day,

  In single Subject two contending Foes,

  Which be, peraunter, thus of Fate ordained:

  Now one way straying then on other way,

  Or to the lover’s lucre or his loss,

  But ne’er one moment to despair constrained.

  CCCXIV.

  Se a ninguem tratais com desamor,

  (Cf. Ode IV. 3 and 4).

  An with Unlove you deign no man to treat,

  Nay, love you general loving to repart,

  Showing to each and every self-same heart

  Plenisht wi’ gentle chear, wi’ love replete:

  Me fro’ this day entreat with hate and heat,

  Display me coy disdain, do cruel smart;

  Then shall I haply hold in whole and part

  Me only holdest for thy favours meet.

  For an thou deal sweet doles to every wight,

  ’Tis clear thy favour won he, he alone

  To whom thou showest anger and despight.

  Ill could I weet my love thy love has won

  If wone another love within thy sprite:

  Love owns no partnership: No! Love is one.

  CCCXV.

  Gostos falsos de amor, gostos fingidos,

  (Written in absence, probably in India).

  False Gusts of Love, feigned Gusts for ever feigning,

  Vain Gusts by narrow limits limited,

  Great Gusts the while in Fancy born and bred,

  Small Gusts when all the gain was lost by gaining;

  Wasted ere won, forlore before the attaining,

  E’en at the first beginning finished;

  Changeful, inconstant, hotly hurried,

  Appearing, disappearing, waxing, waning:

  I lost you losing all my hope to see

  Aught of recovery; now I hope no higher

  Than with your Sovenance see you Cease to be

  For if my Life-tide and my Fancy tire

  O’ Life so far fro’ you, more tireth me

  Remembering days when mine was my Desire.

  CCCXVI.

  Com o tempo o prado seco reveraece,

  (By the mystic, Balthazar Estaco?).

  Wi’ Time the wilted meadow waxeth green,

  Wi’ Time in glooming grove the leaflet lies,

  Wi’ time the mighty stream more gently hies,

  Wi’ Time grow fat and rich fields poor and lean:

  Wi’ Time this day is stormy, that serene,

  Wi’ Time this bay-wreath blooms, that laurel dies

  Wi’ Time hard painful Evil fleets and flies,

  Wi’ Time our vanisht Weals again are seen:

  Wi’ Time shall niggard Fate a change bestow,

  Wi’ Time high station falls annihilate,

  Wi’ Time returns it higher still to soar.

  Wi’ Time shall all things come, shall all things go,

  Only the pass
ed Time who ganged his gait

  Wi’ Time a present Time becomes no more.

  CCCXVII.

  Aquelles claros olhos que chorando

  (Written in India?).

  Those brightly beaming Eyne with tearful stain

  Bedimmed I saw the while fro’ them I hied,

  What do they now? Who shall to me confide

  An for an absent aught to care they deign?

  If they in memory hend or how or when

  I saw from joyaunce self so wide and side?

  Or if they figure the glad time and tide

  (That happiest day) when I their sight regain?

  If count they hours and how each moment flees?

  If in one instant many years they live?

  If they confabulate with bird and breeze?

  O happy Visions! blessed Phantasies

  That in this absence thoughts so sweet can give

  And know to gladden saddest reveries!

  CCCXVIII.

  Ausente dess a vista pura e bella

  (Written in India?).

  While from that pure belle Vision driven afar

  Which erst made life-tide ever glad and gay,

  Now on my absent Life such agonies prey

  As did your presence every bane debar:

  Cruel and direful call I that dure Star

  Which drives my joys fro’ you so far away,

  Banning a thousand times the hour, the day,

  The curst beginning of such angry jar:

  And I so tortured in this absence wone,

  Doomed by destined, ever-cruel Power

  A dule so singular in this world to dree.

  Long had I patience far fro’ me out-thrown

  Nor less my Life, by force of this same stowre,

  Did I not cherish life your sight to see.

  CCCXIX.

  Saudades me atormentao tad cruelmente,

  (Written in India?).

  Repining pains me with so fierce intent,

  Repine for pleasure past and weal bewray’d;

  So much of Evil ne’er my doom was made

  Sans reason, sithence I can self absent:

  For Love I saw me whilom all-content,

  For Love I willed life by pain waylaid;

  ’Tis right I see mine error so well paid

  As now, when present griefs and pains torment.

  For well deserved I, faring far fro’ you,

  To unsee you, Ladye! nor you see me more,

  That with my life-tide I defray my due:

  But, as my Spirit doth its sin deplore,

  Bid me not weep lost lot, and grant I view

  With gladdened eyes one softening glance some hour.

  CCCXX.

  O dia, hora ou o ultimo momento

  (Written in India?).

  The day, the hour, the moment of that hour

  Which ends a life-tide Destiny so mismade,

  I view already Esperance waylaid,

  Nor Thought shall trick me with her snaring power.