Shifts full of tristesse, Severance full of stowre,
Faring that saw me forfeit, soon as said,
What my long service merited be paid;
O! how by changing Change can all deflower!
No more I hope to sight the things gone by,
I see that Parting, now prolonged so long,
Hopes of returning to my heart deny:
My little tale is tattled by the throng,
Right well I weet ’twas mine to verify
Such long-drawn Partings to short life belong.
CCCXXI.
Se para mim tivera, que algum dia
(Written in India? Cf. Canz. XI.).
Could I for self expect that some one day,
Moved by the Passion which my torments vent
You mote a something sense of sentiment
For one who seeth rest none other way;
Mine Ills for Glories I to heart would lay,
And hold as pleasures whatso pains have shent;
And, in the midst of Discontent, content
Sweet Memory’s orders I would fain obey.
Woe worth the day! What thoughts my sprite be firing
O’ things that hasten faster to entomb me,
For pay of summer-madness so notorious!
What serves my purpose this so fond desiring,
When your deserving and my Destiny doom me
To doubt such glory that can dub me glorious?
CCCXXII.
Oh fortuna cruel l oh dura sorte!
(Imitation of Camoens?).
Ay, cruel Fortune! Ay, dure lot of woe!
Labour that placed me in so parlous state,
No disillusion now will I await,
For Death’s the only cure my care shall know:
“Art blind?” (quoth Love) “so stark thyself to show
‘Gainst one who fareth ever aggravate
While doing thee service, and disconsolate
With heart sore harmed by thy swashing blow?”
But now as Destiny wills me worst of will
Ay cruel Fortune mine! O Amor, grant
As least of guerdon leave to wail my fill:
For in such travail, woe so puissant,
Ill could I (lacking it) console mine Ill,
Now that none other boon of thee I want
CCCXXIII.
Perder-me assi em vosso esquecimento
(Metaphysico-amorous by Camoens?).
Thus from your Thought to lose me nills consent
My very Being by your charms o’erthrown;
Yet I, so being a being to you beknown,
Or e’en consented, now shall rest content.
But when you careless deign such Coyness vent
On one who merits every kindness shown,
Tho’ ne’er my spirit shall the offence condone,
Far more offendeth me your meritment.
That you bear blame endureth not my Will,
You to myself I ‘trusted, L.adye mine!
Sans aught of unbecoming blot or tache.
Then show your Countenance pity for mine Ill,
As Love there wones with every Grace, in fine,
And all perfection doth to you attach.
CCCXXIV.
Se alguma hora em ms a piedade
(Written when going to India?).
If haply rue you, in some happy hour,
Your deme of torments that so long tormented,
Love shall denay Consent that fare contented
Far from your dearest eyes my pine-full stowre.
Fro’ you I fare me, but the Will whose power
Your form fro’ Nature on my soul depainted,
Bids me believe this absence feigned and fainted,
But how much worse when I its truth discoure!
I must go, Ladye! and fro’ you begone,
My tristful tears shall take revenge in kind
On eyne whose daily bread were you alone.
Life I’ll surrender by its pains undone,
For here my Memory me, in fine, shall find
Ensepulchred in your Oblivion.
CCCXXV.
Ja tempo foi que meus olhos traziam
(Not by Camoens?).
Time was mine Eyes delighted to unfold
Some gladsome tidings to my mind’s Intent;
Time was when every sense and sentiment
Rejoiced to savour what to me they told:
Love and Love-longings thronged then to hold
A general meeting in my breast content,
While on her firm foundations Esperance leant
And glosing quiddities turned out a-cold.
That Nymph of mine then waxing less humane
Smote Love with careless glance, a two-edged Sword, o
saddest Ill! O cruel Feliciane!
Complaints with Jealousy, meseems, accord,
Yet — no for certain! nor is such my bane:
My Faith in justice speaks this bitter word!
CCCXXVI.
Quao bem aventurado me achara,
(Imitation of Camoens?).
With what high blessing me had Fortune blest
Would Love such favour on my lot bestow,
And thus, while least of boons he willed show,
With show of greater would content my breast.
Entire and paxfit Weal had I possest,
Did not my longings long more Weal to know;
But now (when seen you) I deserve to owe,
At least, the object of my longing quest
Yet these Desires with this exceeding Dare
Were born of me when ’twas my Sort to sight you,
And wax they stronger, Dame! with every sight.
Desire fro’ Fancy’s hand I strave to tear,
For ’tis my firm belief ‘twill only flyte you,
But thrives it evermore the more I fight.
CCCXXVII.
Si el triste cora(on que siempre llora,
(Spanish: written during first exile?).
If the triste heart that Weeping e’er must dree,
Yet lacks what maketh Weeping meritorious,
Could ‘joy already joys of fight victorious,
Won in Love’s warfare worse’d by victory;
If, now enshadowed by the greeny tree,
I feed of Phantasies the flock memorious
Well mote I ‘joy Joy’s height I hold most glorious
Could I one moment my Pastora see:
Then, neither Air, with airy sighs besigh’d
For Love, could deal my Dolours increment
Nor fount-full eyelids feed this founty tide.
But, to despoil me of all jolliment,
A passion bids from her I absent ‘bide,
Who ne’er is, absent fro’ my Soul and Sent.
CCCXXVIII.
Do estan los daros ojos que colgada
(Spanish: written in exile?).
Where be those clearest orbs that wont to bear
In suite and following my surprized sprite?
Where be those cheeks with rosy splendour dight
Surpassing roses of the rarest rare?
Where be the red red lips so debonnair
Adorned with teeth no snow was e’er so white?
The tresses starkening golden metal’s light
Where be they? and that dainty hand, ah where?
O lovely all! where hidst thou evermore
That I may never see thee, whom to see
My great Desire destroys me every hour!
But look no longer on this vainest plea,
Still in my spirit I my Ladye store,
And ask where hidest thou fro’ sight of me!
CCCXXIX.
Ventana venturosa, do amanece
(Spanish: for a friend?).
Thou winsome Window! whence the Moms dispread
My Ladye’s splendour with Apollo’s glow,
Mote I behold thee fired with such lowe
As that such splendour
in my spirit bred!
For an thou see what Ills I suffered
And feel the dule aye firing soul so woe,
Why to my longing eyes the Couch ne’er show,
The flower-bed flourishing with tears I shed?
If nothing move thee now my painful plight,
Leastwise commove thee sight of that small gain
Gained when joyaunce thou deniest my sprite.
Now since thou connst it, Casement unhumane!
E’er Day my dule discoure to mortal sight,
Grant I behold my Nymph, my suzerain.
CCCXXX.
De piedra, de metal, de cousa dura,
(Spanish: a conceit).
With stone, with metal, substance cold and dure,
My Nymph enclothes her soul, the dure, the cold,
The locks be woven of the cold dure gold,
The brow is whitest marble’s portraiture:
The eyne are dyed with smaragd’s verd’ obscure,
The cheeks granadoes, and the feigning mould
Of lips is ruby none may have in hold;
The snow-white teeth show pearly lustre pure:
The hand be youngest ivory And the throat
Of alabaster ivy-clipt, whereon
The veins are skeins of lazuli radiant:
But what in all of you most awed I note,
Is seeing, albe all of you be stone,
You bear embosomed heart of diamant
CCCXXXI.
Al pie de una verde e alta enzina
(Spanish: a little Idyll).
At foot of lofty holm, in verdant shade,
Awaked Corydon his viol’s sound,
O’erhung by felting ivy, spireing round
The bole, and flaunting to the branching head.
He sang the love he bore that lovely maid,
May Amaryllis, who his bonds had bound;
The birds go coursing o’er the boughen-ground,
A chrystal fountain playeth through the glade:
To him draws Tltyrus near in reverie lost,
Driving his weary flock wi’ hunger spent:
This was the Shepherd-friend he loved most,
Who sang the sorrows which his heart had rent: —
Nor alien speech for grieving Soul hath gust,
Nor grief of alien grieveth Heart content
CCCXXXII.
Amor, Amor, que fieres al coitado
(Spanish: copy corrupt).
Love! Love! who joyest aye the wretch to smite
Which for thy love did service many a year,
Thy service bearing, maugre snares so fere;
In fine, fine never looked-for hast thou dight.
With lonesome Dolours, with a care-full Sprite
Ensnared, thou payest service bought so dear,
Cases so strange, unheard by human ear,
For thee enduring like no mortal wight.
Who deems thee godhead he’s gone mad I vouch,
Who holds thy justice fails in equity,
For least he gains who serves thee long and much.
Let thy believers deem the worst of me,
I judge from whatso see I and I touch
And hardly trust I what I touch and see.
CCCXXXIII.
Fermoso Tejo meu quam differente
(Attributed to three other writers).
My lovely Tagus! with what different Sent
I saw and see thee, me thou sawst and se’est:
I see thee turbid, me thou seest triste,
I saw thee limpid, me thou sawst content:
Changed thee a Freshet, flooding vehement, ‘
Which thy large valley faileth to resist:
Changed me her Favour dealing, as she list,
Or life contented or life miscontent.
Now that in evils be we partners twain,
So be’t in welfare; ah! mote I but see
We two were likest in our bliss and bane!
When a new Prime shall bloom with brightest blee
What erst thy being was shalt show again:
I n’ote if what I was again shall be.
CCCXXXIV.
Memorias offendidas que hum so dia
(On the death of a lover).
Offended Memories! that no single day
Unto my brooding Thoughts a rest have lent,
My taste of torments may ye ne’er prevent,
Whom you offend he fended you alway.
If well ye will me, look how ye bewray
The dainty blossoms of that sentiment
She left, when I to eternal Exile went
From her fere Death undid to cold dead clay.
She left me pining for my past offence;
She stole my single, sole-remaining cure
Which could warray all woes that worse my sprite.
Where shall my losses look for recompense,
When on my sorrow doth my Luck assure
It ne’er shall lend my life one moment’s light?
CCCXXXV.
Lembrancas tristes, para que gastais tento
(On the death of a lover).
Ye tristeful Souvenirs! why this vain intent
Of over-tiring heart so tired by Fate?
Rest ye contented seeing me in such state,
Nor fro’ me seek ye greater meritment.
I fear you little whatso pangs ye vent,
Wont in my wonted woes to gang my gait;
I feel mine Evils weigh so weighty weight,
No Weal my hapless me can now content.
In vain I labour when to harm I sought —
One who has lost his hopes in long-drawn strife,
One dead to all he once desired see:
From overlosing I to lose have naught,
Sauf this already worn and weary life
Which, for my sorer loss, survives in me.
CCCXXXVI.
Quando descancareis, olhos cansados!
(Probably written in India).
When shall ye rest you, Eyne that look for rest!
Since Her who lent you life no more you view;
Or when shall view you wishing long adieu
To your misfortune’s immemorial quest?
Or when shall hard-heart Fate vouchsafe behest
My ruined Esperance in my soul renew,
Or when (if every Hope be lost to you)
With by-gone blessings can ye make me blest?
This pine shall do me die right well I ween,
Wherein my hoping were like whistle o’ wind;
Then nowise hope I my desire be dight:
And when so truly the sore truth I’ve seen,
Come every possible pain for me design’d
As naught affrights me what each day I sight.
CCCXXXVII.
Memoria de meu bem cortado em flores,
(Probably written in India).
Memories of Joyaunce! nipt in budding flow’r
By the frore fingers of my fere Misfate,
Vouchsafe a gracious rest my cares abate
In my Love’s ever restless, ceaseless stowre.
Suffice me Ills and Fears that present low’r
For ever threating Chance unfortunate,
Without return of long-past happy state
To affront with dolours every happy hour.
CCCXXXVIII.
Do corpo estava já quasi forcada,
(Variant of the immortal No. 19).
Enforced by greater force well-nigh had fled
Its frame that gentle Soul to Heaven due,
Rending her noble webs of Life she flew
For faster ‘turning to her patrial stead.
Still flowering, blooming, ere her root had spread
In Earth she hated with a hate so true,
Self she uprooted and departing drew
Fro’ Death a sweetness for that journey dread.
Pure Soul, who self to mortal world hast shown
Free from its fetters which
the lave enlace,
For few short hours exchanging fair long years
Of thine, thou leftest ‘lone in woe to wone,
Move thee high Pity, while so slowly pace
These hours made slower by our tristful tears.
CCCXXXIX.
O dia, hora em que naci moura e pereca,
(A Threnody: certainly by Camoens).
Die an eternal Death my natal Day,
May Time that hapless date unknow, unlearn;
May’t ne’er return and, if it need return,
Blackest eclipse the bright Sun overlay!
Fail of his splendour Sol’s resplendent ray,
Earth! show relapse to chaos’ reign forlorn,
Air! rain thou blood; all monster-births be born
And may the Mother cast her bairn away!
Then shall the peoples in amazed distress,
With cheeks tear-stainèd, bosoms horror-fraught,
Expect a shattered world eftsoons to sight.
Fon race! on similar fancies lay no stress;
For on this Day to light a life was brought
The most unhappiest life e’er brought to light.
CCCXL.
Transumpto sou, Senhora, neste engano,
(To a Lady-fain of gifties).
I am translated, Ladye! by your snare,
And snaring-practise mote to me be sparèd;
Hardly can mortal man by you be snarèd
Who could from other yous unsnarèd fare.
Now well I weet me, ’twas at cost of care
When you for nothing save sweet gifties carèd,
But, as your judgment hath of me declarèd,
This year’s expectancy goes vain and bare.
Of Love I treated long, but now my sight
Easily seeth Feignery and its aim;
For so doth seem, gent Dame! whate’er you show.
Your very cunning holp you to this sleight,
Claim fro’ me only what I care you claim
Or else ’tis uphill way you please to go.
CCCXLI.
Ondas que por el mundo caminando
(Spanish: written in Africa?).
Waves that encircle all the globe, with flow
Onborne for ever by the legier breeze,
Bear, in your bosoms borne, my reveries
Where bides who, whereso biding, bodes she Woe
Tell her I only heap on woes a throe,
Tell her my life may not one moment please;
Tell her Death nills to slay my tormentries,
Tell her I live yet every Hope forgo.
Tell her how lost when found anew you me,
Tell her how in my gain you lost my Sprite,
Tell her how lifeless cruelly slew you me.
Tell her how came you me the Smit to smite,
Tell her how undone did undo you me,
Tell her how saw me only hers your sight.
CCCXLII.
Sobre un olmo que al cielo parecia
(Spanish).—’
Percht on sky-climbing Elm, that showed nude
Luis de Camoes Collected Poetical Works Page 156