Luis de Camoes Collected Poetical Works

by Luis de Camoes

  Fresh store of Roses,

  Loveliest posies

  With Lilies blent and sweets of myriad Daisies

  And Zephyr wooing her with joy amazes.

  IX.

  Here, als’ Narcissus in the liquid glass

  Again is lurred by his lovely lure:

  In it the boughs that fringe the coverture

  Are limned by Nature, Art may ne’er surpass;

  Adonis Cytheraea’s charms enjoying,

  Gladsome toying

  In his bloom,

  Is changed by doom

  To Anemone,

  On Eryx she

  Left as example what shall be his lot —

  For whom all by-gone loves her love forgot.

  X.

  Glad site so fair and fresh, so fit create

  For Lovers’ trysting, a true treasure-trove,

  Lovers whom sharp enpiercing shaft of Love,

  That blind-born god, have cast fro’ high estate;

  And for o’ermusing by the tinkling wave

  Their griefs so grave,

  Their lost amours,

  Seeing the flowers

  With fragrance full

  Shall pluck and pull

  Nosegays, and thousand precious wreaths enweave,

  And with the lovely Nymphs in love-pledge leave.

  XI.

  I wi’ these flowers, as pledge of Love to hold,

  A woven wreath before my goddess placed:

  And, that right well I loved, well was traced

  By “Love-me-well” our swains call Marigold;

  But yet as though ‘twere only “Love-lies-bleeding.”

  Her all-unheeding

  Cruellest will

  (Beauty’s prime Ill)

  Made fully plain;

  With high disdain

  She spumed my flower-gift not because ’twas mine, —

  But for-that fairer blooms in her combine.

  CANZON XVII.

  A vida ja passey assaz contente,

  (A Pastoral dirge on the death of D. Antonio de Noronha.

  Here popular Editions end).

  I.

  Hereto I lived my life enow contented,

  Free roved my will, my thoughts had free intent,

  Withouten qualms of Love or Aventure:

  But ’twas a welfare in one moment spent;

  And, to my pains, I see clear represented

  Life gives no stored goods that long endure.

  In by-gone Days abode I most secure

  From Amor and his bate,

  Seeing so happy state

  Wherein I fancied Amor had no part;

  Now wot I not what art

  To him enthralled me with such a force,

  That while Death stays his course,

  Espoir of future weal forlorn have I,

  Woe’s me! how slow doth sad Life minute by!

  II.

  How often here I heard, when sad and lone,

  Felicio mine and thousand other swains

  Vainly complaining of my cruelty!

  While turned I deafer ear to plaints of pains

  Than the deaf adder or the deafer stone,

  Judging their Love-suits vainest vanity.

  Now for such freedom so high fee I pay,

  My will, my wish, my whim,

  I see all yield to him,

  To one who may not, though I call, respond;

  One now I view in bond

  Of Earth’s cold bosom, one my cries would move,

  And he is he I love

  ’Tis he who conquers, I who conquered lie. Woe’s me! How slow doth sad Life minute by! —

  III.

  What boots thee, cruel Love! my sacrifice

  Of torment add new title to thy name?

  Or what constrained thee to such cruel gree

  That in so hasty way my Soul thou claim,

  To sorrow doomed no suffering may suffice?

  But an thy Nature, Love! be cruelty

  Suffice thy use that I such harshness dree

  As thou with others usest;

  Yet, as thou only choosest

  To see me dying for thine own content,

  When most thou wouldst torment

  Thou wouldest direr pangs still more torment me,

  Yet ne’er that Death be sent me

  Lest such an Evil forth from me should fly.

  Woe’s me! how slow doth sad Life minute by!

  IV.

  Where shall I find me aught affording weal?

  And on whose name shall call when none responds?

  Who shall to present care a cure present?

  No weal there bin but what fro’ me absconds;

  Nor view I any who shall welfare deal,

  When he my bestest welfare fro’ me went

  Ne’er saw I mourning Maid so malcontent,

  Amor did so maltreat,

  But who could hope to weet

  Some cure that Time and Life shall bring for cafe:

  I only live to bear

  An Ill so grievous grave, so desperate,

  Which hath e’en heavier weight,

  For-that it maketh Life uneath to die.

  Woe’s me! how slow doth sad Life minute by!

  V.

  Sweet flowing Waters! Meadows ferly fair!

  Shade-sombre Forests! rugged highland Rock!

  Where I when wholest-hearted came and went

  Fresh Flowers! and likewise thou my gentle Flock!

  The dear companions of the days that were,

  Leave me not, pray ‘e, now my pains torment.

  And if mine Evils touch your sense and sent,

  Aid me to ‘bate their wrong, —

  For dumb is now my tongue,

  And Patience vanisheth ferforth of ken.

  But when (ah hapless!) when

  One day, one hour shall see me fare contented,

  And thee to sight presented,

  My Swain! and bind two souls with single tie?

  Woe’s me! how slow doth sad Life minute by!

  VI.

  But know I not an ‘twere foolhardy stress

  This strain of Soul that would with thine unite,

  Which was so coyly fro’ my heart outcast.

  Amor shall free me from this parlous plight;

  For there, when seeing this my sore distress,

  I hold e’en thou shall hold thee’venged at last.

  And if in thee endure the Love that past

  And that fair Faith so pure,

  I feel securely sure

  A friendly welcome there fro’ friend to find.

  Of me, then, learn mankind

  The whole of heart shall pay Love’s dearest cost;

  And pay her uttermost

  The Soul that sees not Love with grateful eye.

  Woe’s me! how slow this sad Life minutes by!

  * * * * * * *

  CANZON XVIII.

  Mandame Amor que canie docemente

  (Jur.’s ineditas begin: same subject as Nos. 7 and 8).

  I.

  Love sends me order sweetest song to chaunt,

  The song he deigned press upon my sprite,

  With preconceived purpose to redress me,

  And that with evils I contentment vaunt,

  He saith that captured by those eyne of light

  To boast such capture should suffice to bless me:

  Well saith he: but I shrink so high to raise me,

  For view I clearly, when I’d write my tale,

  My lowly Genius fail,

  And the fair vision so high value owe

  That claims it Orpheus’ song;

  For, an his singing hurried groves along

  Would not my singing her some miracle show?

  Yet will I work my best

  And, Dame! aid you this slave who hears you hest

  II.

  ’Twas in the Season when the verdure lush

  A-field returneth; whenas sweet-suspiring
r />   Zephyrus cometh leading Prime the belle;

  From springs and fountains clear pure waters gush

  And, mid the flowers of seed-tide, wail untiring

  Their Antique wrongs Progne and Philomel.

  My Luck (which meant her sight I. loved so well)

  Better to show me weal in bestest part

  Loosed, with pretty art,

  Tresses that meshed me in tangling net

  To the coy wind’s soft breath;

  Those eyne whose lively light all ‘lumineth,

  That airy brow and gesture delicate,

  Which unto Earth gave He

  For peace to mortals and for war to me.

  III.

  From Appetite, alluring, excellent,

  Spirits of holy mould began outspread,

  Who with their pity filled all of air;

  The Birds beholding light so lucident

  Awe-stricken, each one unto other said: —

  “What light be this? what radiance new and rare?

  The Founts, inflamed by charms beyond compare,

  Slowed their waters shining purest sheen;

  Resilient rose the green

  Prest by the fairy feet of airy tread;

  The boughs low bending down

  I felt in every bosquet greener grown;

  And if she only moved from stead to stead

  The Winds in peace were stilled,

  By very musick of her movement thrilled.

  IV.

  When to the senseless saw I senses lent

  By her, I mused what mote hap to me,

  A man, a sensuous thing of flesh and blood;

  I knew my knowledge was of scant extent,

  And this much only knew, for I could see

  Fro’ me my spirits in a flood outpoured;

  While power so puissant in her own was stored

  It changed to human nature’s softest strain

  The Mounts, whose rugged vein

  Fro’ them distrained, past into my breast

  O parting passing strange!

  For mountain-hardness human sense to change,

  The sense that ever lay in me represt:

  Look ye what sugred snare!

  Gain ye a common good from bane I bear!

  V.

  My human Being being already lost,

  I lost the reasoning part that in me lay,

  Yielding the lave of Life to appetite;

  But Sense adawed and by such changes tost,

  For so divinest Cause began me say

  ‘Twere only reason Reason lose the fight,

  For only losing could such loss restore:

  In sweet peace evermore

  Each fared wi’ foeman in one frame subject:

  O goodly concert this!

  Who had not deemed deals celestial bliss

  The Cause that causeth so sublime Effect,

  That so man’s heart can season

  Till its gross Appetite becomes its Reason.

  VI.

  Here sensed! Love’s finest gramarye

  Seeing him sensing things insensible,

  And of mine every sense forlore to esteem me:

  In fine I felt my Nature self deny; —

  Whence sight assured me all were possible

  For her fair Eyne sauf one, — with love to see me:

  Then, as I felt my senses fail and flee me,

  In lieu of senses that had fled my lot

  One wrote (I know him not)

  Upon my soul with writ of Memory

  And, with her gentle gest,

  Most of this process on my soul imprest,

  Which gave a cause to so long history:

  If well did I relate it;

  I write it not, from spirit I translate it

  L’ENVOI.

  Canzon! If doubt they one fair Sight have power

  (Such power!) the soul to stir

  Say, “look on me and then believe in her!”

  CANZON XIX.

  Crecendo vai meu mal d’ora em ora,

  (To a Dame living in the Country).

  I.

  Increase mine Evils, crescive hour by hour,

  And deem! Fortune dooms my life to cease,..

  Against my welfare so she guides her wheel: Then if Life fail me may my pains increase,

  However, cruel Dame! increase they more.,

  Some fine must find, in fine, their fierce Unhele.

  What gainest thou to lose me?

  What losest fair to use me,

  If at the cost of single love-glance lent

  Thou canst my life content?

  And if thou deal me grace of remedy

  The self-same Being shalt thou cease to be?

  II.

  If the coy pains, the tortures thou hast dealt,

  Had dealt thee joyaunce, e’en a little part,

  I’d live contented and enjoy my paining;

  For sith I labour to content thy heart

  Woe would delight me with a joy ne’er felt:

  But clearly note I how Deceit unfeigning

  Those lovely Eyes discoure,

  (If haply seen some hour)

  Making the smallest matter of my teen.

  Ay me! right well I ween

  Thon, Ladye 1 for my destined lot and sort

  So dure condition doomest me support.

  III.

  Tygre or any fere irrational

  With all his harshness owneth Love-liesse

  And for it peaceful haunts his forest-wone:

  The Birds, be they of greater size or less,

  All with an inbred Instinct natural

  Own the love-feeling Nature wills they own:

  But thou so perfect in perfection,

  Of such fair honest strain,

  Of so divine a vein,

  Of so much galliardise and gentle gree,

  Hast naught save cruelty!

  Meseems with reason these thy ways be meet,

  To win thee title “cruel Anaxarete.”

  IV.

  An be’t thy deme I undeserve to serve thee

  For mine unworthy worth to win such prize,

  Deceives thee, Dame! opinion error-fill’d;

  For an thou have so gracious galliardise,

  I have a faithful love that doth deserve thee,

  Nor aught my merits to thy merit yield.

  But little boots me on such base to build

  Whose Fate of foes is worst;

  To love thee I’m enforst;

  All thy great merits but in y love enforce;

  Yet, more Love’s forceful course

  Confirms my faithful will and confidence,

  The more thou bafflest me with coy pretence.

  V.

  What ‘vails thy gentle joyaunce-dealing sight?

  What can avail so lovely Dame be thou

  If all be drowned in thy selfish worth?

  The freshest floscule gemming greeny bough,

  Whose unseen blushes Time shall wilt and blight,

  Gaineth but nothing from the gift of birth; —

  Gold naught availeth hidden deep in earth,

  Tombed in his proper mine

  Till miner shall refine;

  Nor Pearl embedded in her ugly shell

  Doomed on dark sand to dwell,

  For, till by man’s companionship besought,

  Her worth be worthless and her charms be naught.

  VI.

  So doth consummate superhuman grace, —

  A grave and modest favour Angel-bright,

  Forfare all value when thou ‘sdeign the showing;

  The golden tresses framing brow snow-white,

  The flower-like cheeks, the years in pride of place,

  Mateless thou wastest on Life’s desert air.

  O fair Ingratitude, no mercy knowing! —

  What claims of thee the field?

  What joys doth country yield

  That gar thee lavish youthtide’s boon supreme
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  On those the gift misdeem,

  Thou giv’st large-handed gift to me denay’d,

  In fine, thou giv’st them light and giv’st me shade.

  VII.

  See with how speedy wing Time flies at speed,

  See with what course to run thee down he goes,

  And with what silence hastes to fatal fine;

  To ‘joy thy person is his primest heed;

  For, whenas withered hangs the bloomed Rose,

  Sans price and value lingereth still the Spine;

  I own thee of her charms that charmed our eyne

  If Time could so deflower them,

  Time can again empower them:

  And if the ruin of noble Prime she rue,

  Prime shall her green renew;

  But an thy fresh young season be forlore,

  Hope no return, it greeneth nevermore.

  VIII.

  An Nature made thee bloom so brightly fair,

  If she with perfect grace thy form endowerhd,

  War not with her against misaventure:

  See now thy season all its flowers hath flowered;

  Be not so niggardly, to self so spare;

  Fain must we cull our fruits when fruits mature;

  And, if thou wilful wilt thy formosure

  Thou wastest so mispent,

  Whenas thou shalt repent,

  Time, as he runneth with a loosed rein,

  Backs not to start again;

  Nor state of man shall Fortune label “Felix,”

  To grow, and eke regrow, like fabled Phoenix.

  IX.

  How can I ever hope thy ruth to see,

  When thou, with fere intention unhumkne,

  In case so cruel canst thyself oppress;

  Clear shows the disillusion of my bane:

  Whoso for self nill liberality

  Ill to his neighbour shall he deal largésse.

  Withal this wheel of dure and dour distress

  I hope ungeared to sight

  And at some hour run light;

  For-that with Time the beast that haunts the hills

  Something of softness thrills;

  And e’en the haughty steed his rage subdues

  And, tamed by Time, submits for man to use.

  X.

  If to torment my Soul thy Soul content,

  An such thy fitness for such cruel feat,

  Yet Hope shall ever ‘bide in me secure:

  Time makes Grenado grow to sugary sweet,

  Time breaks to bittocks hardest Diamant;

  Soft water drilleth stone however dure:

  Who knows but what shall grant me Aventure

  I see that Time deign deal

  My Soul-desired weal?

  The sky’s bright mirror e’en in brumal tide

  Mists do not always hide;

  And, though Tornado may torment the wave,

  Time quells the squall and gentles gales that rave.

  XI.

  An for whatever travail, small or great,

  Ladye! we look to win commensurate weal,