Luis de Camoes Collected Poetical Works

by Luis de Camoes

And, first their headlong outrage tears the shores:

  A deeper night involves the darken’d air,

  And livid flashes through the mountains glare:

  Uprooted oaks, with all their leafy pride,

  Roll thund’ring down the groaning mountain’s side;

  And men and herds in clam’rous uproar run,

  The rocking towers and crashing woods to shun.

  While, thus, the council of the wat’ry state

  Enrag’d, decreed the Lusian heroes’ fate,

  The weary fleet before the gentle gale

  With joyful hope display’d the steady sail;

  Thro’ the smooth deep they plough’d the length’ning way;

  Beneath the wave the purple car of day

  To sable night the eastern sky resign’d,

  And, o’er the decks cold breath’d the midnight wind.

  All but the watch in warm pavilions slept,

  The second watch the wonted vigils kept:

  Supine their limbs, the mast supports the head,

  And the broad yard-sail o’er their shoulders spread

  A grateful cover from the chilly gale,

  And sleep’s soft dews their heavy eyes assail.

  Languid against the languid power they strive,

  And, sweet discourse preserves their thoughts alive.

  When Leonardo, whose enamour’d thought

  In every dream the plighted fair one sought —

  “The dews of sleep what better to remove

  Than the soft, woful, pleasing tales of love?”

  “Ill-timed, alas!” the brave Veloso cries,

  “The tales of love, that melt the heart and eyes.

  The dear enchantments of the fair I know,

  The fearful transport, and the rapturous woe:

  But, with our state ill suits the grief or joy;

  Let war, let gallant war our thoughts employ:

  With dangers threaten’d, let the tale inspire

  The scorn of danger, and the hero’s fire.”

  His mates with joy the brave Veloso hear,

  And, on the youth the speaker’s toil confer.

  The brave Veloso takes the word with joy,

  “And truth,” he cries, “shall these slow hours decoy.

  The warlike tale adorns our nation’s fame,

  The twelve of England give the noble theme.

  “When Pedro’s gallant heir, the valiant John,

  Gave war’s full splendour to the Lusian throne,

  In haughty England, where the winter spreads

  His snowy mantle o’er the shining meads,422*

  The seeds of strife the fierce Erynnis sows;423*

  The baleful strife from court dissension rose.

  With ev’ry charm adorn’d, and ev’ry grace,

  That spreads its magic o’er the female face,

  Twelve ladies shin’d the courtly train among,

  The first, the fairest of the courtly throng;

  But, Envy’s breath revil’d their injur’d name,

  And stain’d the honour of their virgin fame.

  Twelve youthful barons own’d the foul report,

  The charge at first, perhaps, a tale of sport.

  Ah, base the sport that lightly dares defame

  The sacred honour of a lady’s name!

  What knighthood asks the proud accusers yield,

  And, dare the damsels’ champions to the field.424*

  ‘There let the cause, as honour wills, be tried,

  And, let the lance and ruthless sword decide.’

  The lovely dames implore the courtly train,

  With tears implore them, but implore in vain.

  So fam’d, so dreaded tower’d each boastful knight,

  The damsels’ lovers shunn’d the proffer’d fight.

  Of arm unable to repel the strong,

  The heart’s each feeling conscious of the wrong,

  When, robb’d of all the female breast holds dear,

  Ah Heaven, how bitter flows the female tear!

  To Lancaster’s bold duke the damsels sue;

  Adown their cheeks, now paler than the hue

  Of snowdrops trembling to the chilly gale,

  The slow-pac’d crystal tears their wrongs bewail.

  When down the beauteous face the dew-drop flows,

  What manly bosom can its force oppose!

  His hoary curls th’ indignant hero shakes,

  And, all his youthful rage restor’d, awakes:

  ‘Though loth,’ he cries, ‘to plunge my bold compeers

  In civil discord, yet, appease your tears:

  From Lusitania’ — for, on Lusian ground

  Brave Lancaster had strode with laurel crown’d;

  Had mark’d how bold the Lusian heroes shone,

  What time he claim’d the proud Castilian throne,425*

  How matchless pour’d the tempest of their might,

  When, thund’ring at his side, they rul’d the fight:

  Nor less their ardent passion for the fair,

  Gen’rous and brave, he view’d with wond’ring care,

  When, crown’d with roses, to the nuptial bed

  The warlike John his lovely daughter led —

  ‘From Lusitania’s clime,’ the hero cries,

  ‘The gallant champions of your fame shall rise.

  Their hearts will burn (for well their hearts I know)

  To pour your vengeance on the guilty foe.

  Let courtly phrase the heroes’ worth admire,

  And, for your injur’d names, that worth require:

  Let all the soft endearments of the fair,

  And words that weep your wrongs, your wrongs declare.

  Myself the heralds to the chiefs will send,

  And to the king, my valiant son, commend.’

  He spoke; and twelve of Lusian race he names

  All noble youths, the champions of the dames.

  The dames, by lot, their gallant champions choose,426*

  And each her hero’s name, exulting, views.

  Each in a various letter hails her chief,

  And, earnest for his aid, relates her grief:

  Each to the king her courtly homage sends,

  And valiant Lancaster their cause commends.

  Soon as to Tagus’ shores the heralds came,

  Swift through the palace pours the sprightly flame

  Of high-soul’d chivalry; the monarch glows

  First on the listed field to dare the foes;

  But regal state withheld. Alike their fires,

  Each courtly noble to the toil aspires:

  High on his helm, the envy of his peers,

  Each chosen knight the plume of combat wears.

  In that proud port, half circled by the wave,

  Which Portugallia to the nation gave,

  A deathless name,427* a speedy sloop receives

  The sculptur’d bucklers, and the clasping greaves,

  The swords of Ebro, spears of lofty size,

  And breast-plates, flaming with a thousand dyes,

  Helmets high plum’d, and, pawing for the fight,

  Bold steeds, whose harness shone with silv’ry light

  Dazzling the day. And now, the rising gale

  Invites the heroes, and demands the sail,

  When brave Magricio thus his peers address’d,

  ‘Oh, friends in arms, of equal powers confess’d,

  Long have I hop’d through foreign climes to stray,

  Where other streams than Douro wind their way;

  To note what various shares of bliss and woe

  From various laws and various customs flow;

  Nor deem that, artful, I the fight decline;

  England shall know the combat shall be mine.

  By land I speed, and, should dark fate prevent,

  (For death alone shall blight my firm intent),

  Small may the sorrow for my absence be,

  For yours were co
nquest, though unshar’d by me.

  Yet, something more than human warms my breast,

  And sudden whispers,428* In our fortunes blest,

  Nor envious chance, nor rocks, nor whelmy tide,

  Shall our glad meeting at the list divide.’

  “He said; and now, the rites of parting friends

  Sufficed, through Leon and Castile he bends.

  On many a field, enrapt, the hero stood,

  And the proud scenes of Lusian conquest view’d.

  Navarre he pass’d, and pass’d the dreary wild,

  Where rocks on rocks o’er yawning glens are pil’d;

  The wolf’s dread range, where, to the ev’ning skies

  In clouds involv’d, the cold Pyrenians rise.

  Through Gallia’s flow’ry vales, and wheaten plains

  He strays, and Belgia now his steps detains.

  There, as forgetful of his vow’d intent,

  In various cares the fleeting days he spent:

  His peers, the while, direct to England’s strand,

  Plough the chill northern wave; and now, at land,

  Adorn’d in armour, and embroid’ry gay,

  To lordly London hold the crowded way:

  Bold Lancaster receives the knights with joy;

  The feast, and warlike song each hour employ.

  The beauteous dames, attending, wake their fire,

  With tears enrage them, and with smiles inspire.

  And now, with doubtful blushes rose the day,

  Decreed the rites of wounded fame to pay.

  The English monarch gives the listed bounds,

  And, fix’d in rank, with shining spears surrounds.

  Before their dames the gallant knights advance,

  (Each like a Mars), and shake the beamy lance:

  The dames, adorn’d in silk and gold, display

  A thousand colours glitt’ring to the day:

  Alone in tears, and doleful mourning, came,

  Unhonour’d by her knight, Magricio’s dame.

  ‘Fear not our prowess,’ cry the bold eleven,

  ‘In numbers, not in might, we stand uneven.

  More could we spare, secure of dauntless might,

  When for the injur’d female name we fight.’

  “Beneath a canopy of regal state,

  High on a throne, the English monarch sat,

  All round, the ladies and the barons bold,

  Shining in proud array, their stations hold.

  Now, o’er the theatre the champions pour,

  And facing three to three, and four to four,

  Flourish their arms in prelude. From the bay

  Where flows the Tagus to the Indian sea,

  The sun beholds not, in his annual race,

  A twelve more sightly, more of manly grace

  Than tower’d the English knights. With frothing jaws,

  Furious, each steed the bit restrictive gnaws,

  And, rearing to approach the rearing foe,

  Their wavy manes are dash’d with foamy snow:

  Cross-darting to the sun a thousand rays,

  The champions’ helmets as the crystal blaze.

  Ah now, the trembling ladies’ cheeks how wan!

  Cold crept their blood; when, through the tumult ran

  A shout, loud gath’ring; turn’d was ev’ry eye

  Where rose the shout, the sudden cause to spy.

  And lo, in shining arms a warrior rode,

  With conscious pride his snorting courser trod;

  Low to the monarch, and the dames he bends,

  And now, the great Magricio joins his friends.

  With looks that glow’d, exulting rose the fair,

  Whose wounded honour claim’d the hero’s care.

  Aside the doleful weeds of mourning thrown,

  In dazzling purple, and in gold she shone.

  Now, loud the signal of the fight rebounds,

  Quiv’ring the air, the meeting shock resounds

  Hoarse, crashing uproar; griding splinters spring

  Far round, and bucklers dash’d on bucklers ring.

  Their swords flash lightning; darkly reeking o’er

  The shining mail-plates flows the purple gore.

  Torn by the spur, the loosen’d reins at large,

  Furious, the steeds in thund’ring plunges charge;

  Trembles beneath their hoofs the solid ground,

  And, thick the fiery sparkles flash around,

  A dreadful blaze! With pleasing horror thrill’d,

  The crowd behold the terrors of the field.

  Here, stunn’d and stagg’ring with the forceful blow,

  A bending champion grasps the saddle-bow;

  Here, backward bent, a falling knight reclines,

  His plumes, dishonour’d, lash the courser’s loins.

  So, tir’d and stagger’d toil’d the doubtful fight,

  When great Magricio, kindling all his might,

  Gave all his rage to burn: with headlong force,

  Conscious of victory, his bounding horse

  Wheels round and round the foe; the hero’s spear

  Now on the front, now flaming on the rear,

  Mows down their firmest battle; groans the ground

  Beneath his courser’s smiting hoofs: far round

  The cloven helms and splinter’d shields resound.

  }

  Here, torn and trail’d in dust the harness gay,

  From the fall’n master springs the steed away;

  Obscene with dust and gore, slow from the ground

  Rising, the master rolls his eyes around,

  Pale as a spectre on the Stygian coast,

  In all the rage of shame confus’d, and lost:

  Here, low on earth, and o’er the riders thrown,

  The wallowing coursers and the riders groan:

  Before their glimm’ring vision dies the light,

  And, deep descends the gloom of death’s eternal night.

  They now who boasted, ‘Let the sword decide,’

  Alone in flight’s ignoble aid confide:

  Loud to the skies the shout of joy proclaims

  The spotless honour of the ladies’ names.

  “In painted halls of state, and rosy bowers,

  The twelve brave Lusians crown the festive hours.

  Bold Lancaster the princely feast bestows,

  The goblet circles, and the music flows;

  And ev’ry care, the transport of their joy,

  To tend the knights the lovely dames employ;

  The green-bough’d forests by the lawns of Thames

  Behold the victor-champions, and the dames

  Rouse the tall roe-buck o’er the dews of morn,

  While, through the dales of Kent resounds the bugle-horn.

  The sultry noon the princely banquet owns,

  The minstrel’s song of war the banquet crowns:

  And, when the shades of gentle ev’ning fall,

  Loud with the dance resounds the lordly hall:

  The golden roofs, while Vesper shines, prolong

  The trembling echoes of the harp and song.

  Thus pass’d the days on England’s happy strand,

  Till the dear mem’ry of their natal land

  Sigh’d for the banks of Tagus. Yet, the breast

  Of brave Magricio spurns the thoughts of rest.

  In Gaul’s proud court he sought the listed plain,

  In arms, an injur’d lady’s knight again.

  As Rome’s Corvinus429* o’er the field he strode,

  And, on the foe’s huge cuirass proudly trod.

  No more by tyranny’s proud tongue revil’d,

  The Flandrian countess on her hero smil’d.430*

  The Rhine another pass’d, and prov’d his might,431*

  A fraudful German dar’d him to the fight.

  Strain’d in his grasp, the fraudful boaster fell — —”

  Here sudden stopp’d the youth; the dist
ant yell

  Of gath’ring tempest sounded in his ears,

  Unheard, unheeded by his list’ning peers.

  Earnest, at full, they urge him to relate

  Magricio’s combat, and the German’s fate.

  When, shrilly whistling through the decks, resounds

  The master’s call, and loud his voice rebounds:

  Instant from converse, and from slumber, start

  Both bands, and instant to their toils they dart.

  “Aloft, oh speed, down, down the topsails!” cries

  The master: “sudden from my earnest eyes

  Vanish’d the stars; slow rolls the hollow sigh,

  The storm’s dread herald.” To the topsails fly

  The bounding youths, and o’er the yardarms whirl

  The whizzing ropes, and swift the canvas furl;

  When, from their grasp the bursting tempests bore

  The sheets half-gather’d, and in fragments tore.

  “Strike, strike the mainsail!” loud again he rears

  His echoing voice; when, roaring in their ears,

  As if the starry vault, by thunders riv’n,

  Rush’d downward to the deep the walls of heav’n,

  With headlong weight a fiercer blast descends,

  And, with sharp whirring crash, the mainsail rends;

  Loud shrieks of horror through the fleet resound;

  Bursts the torn cordage; rattle far around

  The splinter’d yardarms; from each bending mast,

  In many a shred, far streaming on the blast

  The canvas floats; low sinks the leeward side,

  O’er the broad vessels rolls the swelling tide:

  “Oh strain each nerve!” the frantic pilot cries —

  “Oh now!” — and instant every nerve applies,

  Tugging what cumbrous lay, with strainful force;

  Dash’d by the pond’rous loads, the surges hoarse

  Roar in new whirls: the dauntless soldiers ran

  To pump, yet, ere the groaning pump began

  The wave to vomit, o’er the decks o’erthrown

  In grovelling heaps, the stagger’d soldiers groan:

  So rolls the vessel, not the boldest three,

  Of arm robustest, and of firmest knee,

  Can guide the starting rudder; from their hands

  The helm bursts; scarce a cable’s strength commands

  The stagg’ring fury of its starting bounds,

  While to the forceful, beating surge resounds

  The hollow crazing hulk: with kindling rage

  The adverse winds the adverse winds engage,

  As, from its base of rock their banded power

  Strove in the dust to strew some lordly tower,

  Whose dented battlements in middle sky

  Frown on the tempest and its rage defy;

  So, roar’d the winds: high o’er the rest upborne