Luis de Camoes Collected Poetical Works

by Luis de Camoes

  The Sisters nine of Mart

  Lavisht perfection of their perfect art.

  III.

  To you, by whom increaseth

  Our Lusian glory to so high degree,

  That in sad Mantua ceaseth

  Virgilian memory

  And all her feats unrecks haught Hespery:

  You who made harsh and hoarse

  The Thracian lyre’s sonorous melodies;

  Who could assume parforce

  The Delphick exercise

  And to Minerva’s privilege could rise:

  IV.

  To you, whose exploits glorious,

  In olden ages as in modern age,

  Guerdon of bays victorious

  He grants as meetest wage

  Whoso hath feeling for Thalia’s page;

  To you, whose fame I sighted

  Through Garamantick Desert-wolds extending,

  The light that Sun hath lighted

  O’er ‘nobled earth responding

  By you is quencht, a light in darkness ending

  V.

  To you, the first Aurore —

  Which seconds Sol, and lights but little less,

  And shall forget some hour

  That such forgetfulness

  Haply your growth continuous mote oppress:

  By no means I confide

  To show my labours, for of you I trow

  You have for self affied

  A worth the prowest prow,

  And I to show it show I know not how.

  VI.

  Yet ’tis my wish and will

  To obey your orders, for I see full plain

  A name more honoured still

  I by obeying you gain

  Than sin I showing poor and scanty vein.

  * * * *

  ODE XIV.

  Táo crua Ninfa, nem tao fugitiva

  (A Variant of Ode II. in Canzon form).

  I.

  Fair Nymph so cruel and so fain to flee

  Ne’er trod wi’ foot of fay

  The greeny grass, nor plucked flowers snow-white,

  Loosing her shimmering locks of golden hue

  To winds which knit sweet knots our eyne to tie;

  Nor aught so fair, so lovely, so discreet

  As this my fondest Foe.

  II.

  Whatso in living wight we never see

  Nor worlds can e’er display,

  In her the primest show hath Nature pight

  And with two lasting gifts did her indue,

  Chaste Soul, fair Form, and while that dooms me die,

  This, with its sweet and gracious charms replete,

  Softeneth every blow.

  III.

  But this fair Feral thing, whose cruelty

  Stealeth my joys away,

  Would pay offences that her praise indite

  (Praise sung in manner of her worth undue);

  For an the praised theme be thing so high.

  What shall I say that mote for her be meet,

  In verse or prose so low?

  IV.

  That light which robbed Sol of radiancy

  And blinded me to day,

  That glance of Eyne which did me such despight

  And from its bland and blessed treasures drew

  That low sweet laugh which forced my sprite to fly;

  These drive desire to greet all pains and weet

  A thrift in every throe.

  V.

  From the fair Eyne live fires came flaming free,

  Whose soul-consuming ray

  Fed on the fuel your disfavours light,

  Burning my bosom-core with yearnings new;

  Whose end for greater grief must higher stye

  With the false Esperance and the dear Deceit

  I follow will or no.

  VI.

  This my-your Spirit, seeing captivity

  Where God made free the way,

  ‘Plains loud complaint of Eyne that stole my sight

  And the clear peregrine beam with blame I view;

  But soon their gentle lights my rescue buy,

  And your redeeming glances, gracious-sweet,

  Make Soul unsay her woe.

  VII,

  Ne’er in this mortal world a She there be

  Her Maker did array

  With greater marvel ‘mid his marvels dight,

  Creature of such Creator digne as you:

  God nills, my Ladye! see you graceless-coy;

  This hapless soul He wills you fair entreat

  Which risks for you o’erthrow:

  L’ENVOI.

  Biddeth me bear these rigorous Pains unmeet

  The worth to Worlds you show.

  SEXTINES

  SEXTINE I.

  Fogeme pouco a pouco a curta vida,

  Little by little flies my short of Life,

  An it perchance be true that still I live;

  Flits fast fleet-footed Time before these eyes;

  I weep the passéd; and, the while I speak,

  By pace and pace days pass fro’ me and pass;

  Fast fares, in fine, mine age, remains my pain.

  What noyous manner this of asperous pain!

  When showed no single hour so long a Life

  Wherein a single pace my sorrows pass.

  What more amounteth an I die or live?

  Wherefore, in fine, weep I? And wherefore speak

  An I may never ‘joy mine ownest eyes?

  O lovely, gentle, clearest of clear eyes,

  Whose absence worketh me the painfullest pain,

  What “but” and “if” abide in what I speak!

  But an at finish of so long-short Life

  You still inflame me with a lowe so live,

  I will as welfare hold what ill I pass.

  But well I weet that first the latest Pass

  Shall come, and close for aye these tristful eyes

  Ere Amor show me those for which I live.

  Witness this ink and pen that tell my pain,

  Ever inditing of so blight-full Life,

  The least I passed and the most I speak.

  O! wis I nowise what I write or speak!

  For an fro’ one to other thought I pass,

  I see me ‘prisoned in so parlous Life,

  That if empowered me not that power of eyes,

  Ne’er could I fancy whatso pen my pain

  Could e’er transcribe, this pine wherein I live.

  My Sprite continuous burns with lowe alive;

  Which, were ‘t not cooled and quencht by what I speak,

  Had brent to cinders pen that told my pain:

  But whatso direst dule I dree and pass,

  It is entempered by my tearful eyes,

  Whence, though Life fly, yet finisht not is Life.

  I die in Life

  And yet in Death I live;

  I see sans eyes

  And sans a tongue I speak;

  And jointly ever pass

  Thro’ glory blent wi’ pain.

  SEXTINE II.

  A culpa de meu mal so tern meos olhos

  (Of doubtful authorship).

  The blame of all mine ills should bear mine eyes

  For giving Amor entrance to my soul,

  That so I forfeit inborn liberty.

  But who hath force to fly a bane so bland

  Which after placing man in fatalest ills,

  Guerdons with gift to lose for her his Life?

  Forfares he little whoso forfeits Life

  For dure condition and for dove-like eyes;

  Sithence of so fierce quality bin mine ills

  The smallest toucheth me in soul of soul.

  Ne’er let him self ensnare wi’ show so bland

  In whomso lingereth love of liberty.

  Robber is she that robs all liberty

  (And would to Heaven she pardon tristful Life!)

  She who her lying Love calls truthful-bland,

  Ay, rat
her enemies mine than friendly eyes!

  What harm had ever wrought you this your soul

  That so you harm it with such host of ills?

  Now greater grow with every day these ills;

  Now perish all of ántique liberty,

  To Amor be transformed this tristful soul;

  Now every harm endure this harmless Life;

  For all my losses pay me these mine eyes

  When seen (if seen) in others show of bland.

  But how can anything in them be bland

  When they be causers of so causeless ills?

  ’Twas Love’s deception that my falséd eyes

  View, for most gainful loss, lost liberty.

  Now have I nothing giveable save my Life,

  An gave he not his Life who gave his soul.

  What may he dare to hope who made his soul

  Eternal captive of a Being so bland;

  Which, when she dealeth Death, declares ’tis Life

  Parforce I loudly cry in these mine ills

  “Mine Eyes, through you, by you when liberty

  I lost, of you I will complain, mine Eyes!”

  Beweep, mine Eyes;

  For aye the harms of soul;

  Since ye give liberty

  Unto a Being so bland

  Which, to give more of ills,

  Gives more of Life.

  SEXTINE III.

  Oh triste, oh tenebroso, oh cruel dia.

  O triste, O tenebrous, O terrible Day!

  That burst the dawn-womb only for my loss!

  How haddest power to part me from her sight

  Wherefore I lived with mine Ill content?

  Ah, would thou wert the latest of my Life,

  Then had with thee begun my boast and glory!

  But, as I ne’er was born to gain me glory,

  Save glorious pain that groweth day by day,

  To me the Heavens denay an end of Life,

  Lest with my Life-tide end my let and loss:

  And, that I nevermore enjoy content

  The Heavens withdrew from sight o’ me that sight.

  Dearest, delicious, heart-delighting Sight,

  Whence hung all trophies of my boast and glory,

  Wherefore in woefullest woes I fand content;

  When shall it be that I shall see the day

  Wherein I cease to see so grave a loss,

  And when shall leave me this so woeful Life?

  How shall I long for length of human Life,

  Parted from her of more than human sight,

  Which bent to boast and brave my let and loss!

  I see me wholly lost when lost her glory;

  My Night already lacketh all its Day;

  All see I saddest; nothing gives content

  Sans thee I never more can see content,

  I feel sans thee scant covetise of Life;

  Sans thee no more I see a gladsome day

  Nor, thee unseeing, I desire the sight;

  Only in seeing thee was seen my glory,

  To unsee thy glory is to see my loss.

  I saw no grander glory than my loss,

  When could my loss afford thee aught content

  Now what torments me most is grandest glory

  Amor can promise me in mortal Life;

  Since he may never give thee back to sight

  Which fand in only thee the light of day.

  And as fro’ day to day

  But grows my loss,

  I may not sans that sightAbide content,

  And only loss of Life

  Shall gain me glory.

  SEXTINE IV.

  Sempre me queixarei desta crueza

  Aye will I plain me of this cruelty

  Love pleased on me to lavish whenas Time,

  Despite my tristful horny-hearted Fate,

  Cared for mine evil to procure a cure,

  My sight departing from that all-dear Sight

  Which made me happy in my hapless Life.

  O that had followed my life her Life,

  So had I never felt such cruelty,

  As seeing parted fro’ my life her sight!

  And God be pleased that the self of Time

  Ne’er see in me (sans care to ken a cure)

  A sprite despairing, whelmed by tristful Fate.

  Nathless end now my triste and cruel Fate!

  Now end my term, my lave, of tristful Life,

  Which hath in naught save Death a perfect cure.

  To let me live were cruellest cruelty,

  Sithence must I despair that any time

  I mote return to see that sweetest Sight

  Hard Love! if only would repay such sight

  What evils wrought me for thy sake my Fate,

  Why wouldest see her torn fro’ me by Time?

  And, if such will were thine, why leave me Life,

  Left but to see such crave of cruelty,

  When in unseeing see I only cure?

  Thou of my dolours wast mine only cure,

  Thou douce, delicious, sight-delighting Sight:

  Sans thee, what shall I sight save cruelty?

  Sans thee, what guerdon shall bestow me Fate

  Save free consentment that conclude my Life?

  Yet of my death Fate but defers the time.

  I find why flying wings were dealt to Time,

  Who with his flying brings to many a cure;

  He flies for all, yet flies not for my life.

  What thing of Life want I without thy Sight?

  And what can want my miserable Fate

  Forbidding Time to end such cruelty?

  Ne’er can her cruelty,

  Ne tedious Time,

  Ne force o’ Fate,

  Ne fatal fault o’ cure,

  Gar me forget this Sight

  In a’ my Life.

  SEXTINE V.

  Quanto tempo ter posso amor de vida

  How long §hall I be lief to live my Life

  Unseeing that gladsome Light so rare, so fair,

  O’ those all-gracious, all-delightsome orbs?

  An Time long coming be, then come my Death

  And part for ever from this hapless frame

  This mine enamoured miserable soul.

  Whenas her Eyne were made of this my soul

  The light, the guide, the boast! the fame, the life,

  It was ordained Life should fly my frame.

  Unseen the lovéd Sight so rare, so fair;

  Then why delays me now this dallying Death

  When ’tis so long I see not those fair orbs?

  Ye clearest sunshine-rays! ye radiant orbs

  Who keep the tway-fold keys of this my sprite,

  An I may never sight you, take me Death

  For (you unseen) my days be Death-in-Life,

  And (you unseeing) find! Death so fair:

  May not one hour o’ Life possess my frame!

  Ever the fondest Hope sustains my frame

  I yet return to see you, doucest orbs!

  For, did not Hope re-tell a tale so fair,

  My soul had fled her frame, my frame its soul:

  Then, if to this and that you be the Life,

  What can they have withouten you but Death?

  Fares tholing many a mode and form o’ Death

  Meanwhile this perishable tristful frame;

  And, if I tremble wholly to lose Life,

  ’Tis for I fear to lose you, lovely orbs!

  This be the single hindrance why my soul

  ‘Parts not to see another life more fair.

  Thou gracious Light serene, so clear, so fair,

  That dealst me jointly dole of Life and Death,

  And with thy radiance limnedst in this soul

  The rare perfections of a lovely frame,

  Until resee thy sight my tristful orbs

  Ne’er shall in me be found the gust of Life.

  Life lacking you is Death

  And Death is Life;

  Sadne
ss is ever fair

  In these sad orbs;

  And weighs my soul

  Upon my mortal frame.

  The Biography

  University of Coimbra, Portugal — Camões lived a semi-privileged life and was educated by Dominicans and Jesuits. For a period, due to his familial relations he attended the University of Coimbra, although records do not show him registered.

  BRIEF BIOGRAPHY: LUIS VAZ DE CAMOENS by Edgar Prestage

  LUIS VAZ DE CAMOENS [Camões], (1524–1580), the prince of Portuguese poets, sprang from an illustrious and wealthy family of Galician origin, whose seat, called the castle of Camoens, lay near Cape Finisterre. His ancestor, the poet Vasco Pires de Camoens, followed the party of Peter the Cruel of Castile against Henry II., and on the defeat of the former had to take refuge along with other Galician nobles in Portugal, where he founded the Portuguese family of his name. King Fernando received him well, and gave him posts of honour and estates, and though the master of Aviz sequestered some of these and Vasco lost others after the battle of Aljubarrota, where he fought on the Spanish side, considerable possessions still remained to him. Antão Vaz, the grandfather of Luis, married one of the Algarve Gamas, so that Vasco da Gama and Camoens, the discoverer of the sea route to India and the poet who immortalized the voyage in his Lusiads, were kinsmen. Antão’s eldest son Simão Vaz was born in Coimbra at the close of the 15th century, and married Anna de Sá e Macedo, who bore him an only son, Luis Vaz de Camoens; thus the poet, like his father and grandfather, was a cavalleiro fidalgo, that is, an untitled noble.

  Four cities dispute the honour of being his birthplace, though Lisbon has the better title; and there is a like dispute about the year, which, however, was almost certainly 1524. The poet spent his childhood in Coimbra, where his father owned a property, and made his first studies at the college of All Saints, designed for “honourable poor students,” and there contracted friendships with noblemen like D. Gonçalo da Silveira and his brother D. Alvaro, who were inmates of the nobles’ college of St Michael. These colleges were offshoots from and attached to the Augustinian monastery of Santa Cruz, an important religious and scholastic establishment, where the poet’s uncle D. Bento de Camoens, a virtuous and very learned man, was professed. The Renaissance, though late in penetrating into Portugal, had by this time definitely triumphed, and the university of Coimbra, after its reform in 1537 under the auspices of King John III., boasted the best teachers drawn from every country, among them George Buchanan. The possession of classical culture was regarded as the mark of a gentleman; the colleges of Santa Cruz required conversation within the walls to be in Greek or Latin, and the university, when it absorbed the colleges, adopted the same rule. In these surroundings, aided by a retentive memory, Camoens steeped himself in the literature and mythology of the ancients, as his works show, and he was thus able in after years to perfect the Portuguese language and to enrich it with many neologisms of classical origin. It is fortunate, however, for his country and his fame that he never followed the fashion of writing in Latin; on the contrary, except for his Spanish poems, he always employed his native tongue. After completing his grammar and rhetoric the poet entered on his university course for the degree of bachelor of arts, which lasted for three years, from 1539 to 1542, and during this period he met Jorge de Montemayor, the author of Dianá, who was then studying music. He seems to have imbibed much of that encyclopaedic instruction to which the humanists aspired, for his writings show a very extensive reading, and his scientific knowledge and faculty of observation compelled the admiration of the great Humboldt. The thoroughness of his teaching is apparent when we remember that he wrote his epic in the fortresses of Africa and Asia, far from books, and yet gave proof of acquaintance with universal history, geography, astronomy, Greek and Latin literature, and the modern poetry of Italy and Spain. Much of the credit for this learning must be attributed to the encouragement of D. Bento, now prior of Santa Cruz, who became chancellor of the university the very year when Camoens entered it. There is a tradition that this uncle destined him for the church and caused him to study theology. The poet’s knowledge of dogma and the Bible, his friendly intercourse with the Lisbon Dominicans at the end of his life, and the share he is said to have taken in their disputations, make the hypothesis a likely one, but he made his own choice and preferred a lay life. We have very little verse of his Coimbra time, but it seems that he began in the Italian manner, following the new classical school of Sá de Miranda (q.v.), and that, though attached to the popular muse and well acquainted with the national songs and romances, legends and lore, his poetry in the old style (medida velha) is mostly of later date. An exception may perhaps be found in his Auto after the manner of Gil Vicente (q.v.), The Amphitryons, a Portuguese adaptation from Plautus which was very well received. At the age of eighteen Camoens left Coimbra, bidding adieu to the old city in verses breathing the most tender saudade. Lisbon, which impressed Cervantes so much as to draw from him a classic description in the novel Persiles y Sigismunda, made an even greater impression on the youthful Camoens, and the Lusiads are full of eulogistic epithets on the city and the Tagus.