Catholics From Portugal

"Black the mountains of Timor Sweeping from the sea Watched Camoëns drift ashore, Rags and misery . . . Hidden in that hollow rod Slept, like heavenly flame Titan-stolen from a god, Lusitania's flame."

"Camoens was a master of sound and language, a man of vigour and a splendid rhetorician."

"The Rubens of verse."

"But for Camoens, though he has some glaring faults, he hath, doubtless, many original beauties; both of which, indeed, speak uncommon abilities. He is not correct like Virgil; but the hand of cold and sober judgment would have blotted out the novelties that surprise and delight us: these are "sublime infirmities," which will not bear the inquisition of the critic. "The epic poetry of Camoens, (says Voltaire,) is a sort of poetry unheard of before." I allow it; but not to his dishonour. The manners of the Lusiad are new and striking. And as to imagery, the apparition, hovering athwart the fleet near the Cape of Good Hope, is so grand a fiction, that it would alone set Camoens above Virgil, in point of genius. And what are the Elysian Fields to the Island of Venus!"

"The fiction of the apparition of the Cape of Tempests, in sublimity and awful grandeur of imagination, stands unsurpassed in human composition."

"The apparition, which in the night hovers athwart the fleet near the Cape of Good Hope, is the grandest fiction in human composition; the invention his own!"

"Luis de Camoens, the greatest literary genius ever produced by Portugal; in martial courage, and spirit of honour, nothing inferior to her greatest heroes."

"CAMOENS (Before) Ever restless, restless, craving rest— The Imperfect toward Perfection pressed Yea, for the God demands thy best. The world with endless beauty teems, And though evokes new worlds of dreams Hunt then the flying herds of themes! And fan, still fan, thy fervid fire, Until thy crucibled gold shall show That fire can purge as well as glow. In ordered ardour, nobly strong, Flame to the height of epic song.(After) CAMOENS IN THE HOSPITAL What now avails the pageant verse, Trophies and arms with music borne? Base is the world; and some rehearse Now noblest meet ignoble scorn, Vain now thy ardour, vain thy fire, Delirium mere, unsound desire; Fate's knife hath ripped thy corded lyre. Exhausted by the exacting lay, Thou dost but fall a surer prey To wile and guile ill understood; While they who work them, fair in face, Still keep their strength in prudent place, And claim they worthier run life's race, Serving high God with useful good."

"For the last time, hear Camoens, boys!"

"Camoens! White Jacket, Camoens! Did you ever read him? The Lusiad, I mean? It's the man-of-war epic of the world, my lad. Give me Gama for a commodore, say I—noble Gama! ... How many great men have been sailors, White Jacket! They say Homer himself was once a tar, even as his hero, Ulysses, was both a sailor and a shipwright. I'll swear Shakspeare was once a captain of the forecastle. Do you mind the first scene in The Tempest, White Jacket? And the world-finder, Christopher Columbus, was a sailor! and so was Camoens, who went to sea with Gama, else we had never had The Lusiad, White Jacket. Yes, I've sailed over the very track that Camoens sailed—round the East Cape into the Indian Ocean. I've been in Don Jose's garden, too, in Macao, and bathed my feet in the blessed dew of the walks where Camoens wandered before me. Yes, White Jacket, and I have seen and sat in the cave at the end of the flowery, winding way, where Camoens, according to tradition, composed certain parts of his Lusiad. Ay, Camoens was a sailor once!"

"Jack [Chase,] above all things, was an ardent admirer of Camoens. Parts of The Lusiad he could recite in the original."

"The greatest poet of the sixteenth century, as of all others in Portuguese poetry, is he who sang of"the renowned men, Who, from the western Lusitanian shore, Sailing through seas man never sailed before, Passed beyond Taprobane,"—Luis de Camoens, author of the national epic, "Os Lusiadas," who lived in poverty and wretchedness, died in the Lisbon hospital, and, after death, was surnamed the Great,—a title never given before, save to popes and emperors. The life of no poet is so full of vicissitude and romantic adventure as that of Camoens. In youth, he was banished from Lisbon on account of a love affair with Catharina de Attayda, a dama do paço, or lady of honour at court; he served against the Moors as a volunteer on board the fleet in the Mediterranean, and lost his right eye by a gun-shot wound in a battle off Ceuta; he returned to Lisbon, proud and poor, but found no favour at court, and no means of a livelihood in the city; he abandoned his native land for India, indignantly exclaiming with Scipio, "Ingrata patria, non possidebis ossa mea!" Three ships of the squadron were lost in a storm, he reached Goa safely in the fourth; he fought under the king of Cochin against the king of Pimenta; he fought against the Arabian corsairs in the Red Sea;he was banished from Goa to the island of Macao, where he became administrator of the effects of deceased persons, and where he wrote the greater part of the "Lusiad"; he was shipwrecked on the coast of Camboya, saving only his life and his poem, the manuscript of which he brought ashore saturated with sea-water; he was accused of malversation in office, and thrown into prison at Goa; after an absence of sixteen years, he returned in abject poverty to Lisbon, then ravaged by the plague; he lived a few years on a wretched pension granted him by King Sebastian when the "Lusiad" was published, and on the alms which a slave he had brought with him from India collected at night in the streets of Lisbon; and finally died in the hospital, exclaiming, "Who could believe that on so small a stage as that of one poor bed Fortune would choose to represent so great a tragedy?" Thus was completed the Iliad of his woes. Fifteen years afterward, a splendid monument was erected to his memory; so that, as has been said or another, "he asked for bread, and they gave him a stone.""

"Que cosa mas lastimosa que ver un tan grande ingenio mal logrado! yo lo bi morir en un hospital en Lisbon, sin tener una sauana con que cubrirse, despues de aver triunfado en la India oriental y de aver navigado 5500 leguas por mar: que auiso tan grande para los que de noche y de dia se cançan estudiando sin provecho como la araña en urdir tellas para cazar moscas."

"Tho' fiercest tribes her galling fetters drag, Proud Spain must strike to Lusitania's flag, Whose ampler folds, in conscious triumph spread, Wave o'er her Naval Poet's laureate head. Ye Nymphs of Tagus, from your golden cell, That caught the echo of his tuneful shell, Rise, and to deck your darling's shrine provide The richest treasures that the deep may hide: From every land let grateful Commerce shower Her tribute to the Bard who sung her power; As those rich gales, from whence his Gama caught A pleasing earnest of the prize he sought, The balmy fragrance of the East dispense, So steals his Song on the delighted sense, Astonishing, with sweets unknown before, Those who ne'er tasted but of classic lore. Immortal Bard, thy name with Gama vies, Thou, like thy Hero, with propitious skies The sail of bold adventure hast unfurl'd, And in the Epic ocean found a world. 'Twas thine to blend the eagle and the dove, At once the Bard of glory and of love, Thy thankless country heard thy varying lyre, To Petrarch's softness melt, and swell to Homer's fire! Boast and lament, ungrateful land, a Name, In life, in death, thy honor and thy shame."

"SPAINE gave me noble Birth: Coimbra, Arts: LISBON, a high-plac't love, and Courtly parts: AFFRICK, a Refuge when the Court did frowne: WARRE, at an Eye's expence, a faire renowne: TRAVAYLE, experience, with noe short sight Of India, and the World; both which I write INDIA a life, which I gave there for Lost On Mecons waves (a wreck and Exile) tost To boot, this POEM, held up in one hand Whilst with the other I swam safe to land: TASSO, a sonet, and (what's greater yit) The honour to give Hints to such a witt. PHLIP a Cordiall, (the ill Fortune see!) To cure my Wants when those had new kill'd mee My Country (Nothing—yes) Immortall Prayse (so did I, Her) Beasts cannot browze on Bayes."

"Camoens, the author of the Lusiads, ought to be censured by all his readers, when he brings in Bacchus and Christ into the same adventure of his fable."

"excelentissimo Camoes"

"[Camões] is the soldier's poet par excellence."

"Camões soothed with it [the Sonnet] an exile's grief."

"Camoëns, en Portugal, ouvrait une carrière toute nouvelle, et s'acquérait une réputation qui dure encore parmi ses compatriotes, qui l'appellent le Virgile portugais."

"Fortuna estrana que al ingenio aplico La vida pobre y el sepulcro rico."

"Ed or quella del colto, e buon Luigi, Tant 'oltre stende il glorioso volo, Ch'i tuoi spalmati legni andar men lunge.'Ond'a quelli, a cui s'alza il nostro polo, Ed a chi ferma incontra i suoi vestigi, Per lui del corso tuo la fama aggiunge."

"Gedoemd poëet, zwerver en banneling."

"Nem eu delicadezas vou cantando Co'o gosto do louvor, mas explicando Puras verdades já por mim passadas. Oxalá foram fábulas sonhadas!"

"Já me desenganei que de queixar-me não se alcança remédio; mas, quem pena, forçado lhe é gritar, se a dor é grande. Gritarei; mas é débil e pequena a voz para poder desabafar-me, porque nem com gritar a dor se abrande."

"Os bons vi sempre passar No mundo graves tormentos; E para mais me espantar, Os maus vi sempre nadar Em mar de contentamentos."

"Nem no campo flores, Nem no céu estrelas Me parecem belas Como os meus amores."

"Perdigão perdeu a pena Não há mal que lhe não venha.Perdigão que o pensamento Subiu a um alto lugar, Perde a pena do voar, Ganha a pena do tormento. Não tem no ar nem no vento Asas com que se sustenha: Não há mal que lhe não venha.Quis voar a üa alta torre, Mas achou-se desasado; E, vendo-se depenado, De puro penado morre. Se a queixumes se socorre, Lança no fogo mais lenha: Não há mal que lhe não venha."

"Erros meus, má fortuna, amor ardente Em minha perdição se conjuraram."

"Mudam-se os tempos, mudam-se as vontades, Muda-se o ser, muda-se a confiança; Todo o mundo é composto de mudança, Tomando sempre novas qualidades."

"«Que levas, cruel Morte?» «Um claro dia». «A que horas o tomaste?» «Amanhecendo». «Entendes o que levas?» «Não o entendo». «Pois quem to faz levar?» «Quem o entendia»."

"Transforma-se o amador na cousa amada, Por virtude do muito imaginar; Não tenho, logo, mais que desejar, Pois em mim tenho a parte desejada."

"Alma minha gentil, que te partiste Tão cedo desta vida descontente, Repousa lá no Céu eternamente, E viva eu cá na terra sempre triste."

"Ah! minha Dinamene! Assim deixaste Quem não deixara nunca de querer-te! Ah! Ninfa minha, já não posso ver-te, Tão asinha esta vida desprezaste!'Como já pera sempre te apartaste De quem tão longe estava de perder-te? Puderam estas ondas defender-te Que não visses quem tanto magoaste?'Nem falar-te somente a dura Morte Me deixou, que tão cedo o negro manto Em teus olhos deitado consentiste!'Oh mar! oh céu! oh minha escura sorte! Que pena sentirei que valha tanto, Que inda tenha por pouco viver triste?"

"Porque é tamanha bem-aventurança o dar-vos quanto tenho e quanto posso, quanto mais vos pago, mais vos devo."

"Quem vê, Senhora, claro e manifesto o lindo ser de vossos olhos belos, se não perder a vista só em vê-los, já não paga o que deve a vosso gesto."

"Ela viu as palavras magoadas, Que puderam tornar o fogo frio, E dar descanso as almas condenadas."

"Aquela triste e leda madrugada, Cheia toda de mágoa e de piedade, Enquanto houver no mundo saudade, Quero que seja sempre celebrada."

"Mais servira, se não fora Para tão longo amor tão curta a vida."

"Sete anos de pastor Jacob servia Labão, pai de Raquel, serrana bela; Mas não servia o pai, servia a ela, E a ela só por prémio pretendia."

"Amor é um fogo qu'arde sem se ver, É ferida que dói, e não se sente, É um contentamento descontente, É dor que desatina sem doer.'É um não querer mais que bem querer, É um andar solitário entre a gente, É nunca contentar-se de contente, É um cuidar que ganha em se perder.'É querer estar preso por vontade, É servir a quem vence o vencedor É ter com quem nos mata lealdade.'Mas como causar pode seu favor Nos corações humanos amizade, Se tão contrário a si é o mesmo Amor?"

"[Ah o amor...] que nasce não sei onde, Vem não sei como, e dói não sei porquê."

"Porém, pera cantar de vosso gesto A composição alta e milagrosa Aqui falta saber, engenho e arte."

"Eu cantarei de amor tão docemente, Por uns termos em si tão concertados, Que dois mil acidentes namorados Faça sentir ao peito que não sente."

"Sonnet in full:"

"Sabei que, segundo o amor tiverdes, Tereis o entendimento de meus versos."

"Through fire and shipwreck, pestilence and loss, Led by the ignis fatuus of duty To a dog's death—yet of his sorrows king— He shouldered high his voluntary Cross, Wrestled his hardships into forms of beauty, And taught his gorgon destinies to sing."

"[Camões] alone, of all the lyric race, ... Can look a common soldier in the face: I find a comrade where I sought a master."

"He was in sooth a genuine bard; His was no faint, fictitious flame. Like his, may love be thy reward, But not thy hapless fate the same."

"During how many hopeless days and sleepless nights Camoens was my companion, my consoler, my friend;—on board raft and canoe; sailer and steamer; on the camel and the mule; under the tent and the jungle-tree; upon the fire-peak and the snow-peak; on the Prairie, the Campo, the Steppe, the Desert!"