The Lusiad or, the discovery of India. An Epic Poem. Translated from The Original Portuguese of Luis de Camohens [by W. J. Mickle] |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | BOOK IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
 | The Lusiad |  |
BOOK IV.
When dark the night, and loud the tempest howls,
When the lorn mariner in every wave
That breaks and gleams, forbodes his watery grave;
But when the dawn, all silent and serene,
With soft-paced ray dispels the shades obscene,
With grateful transport sparkling in each eye,
The joyful crew the port of safety spy;
Such darkling tempests and portended fate,
While weak Fernando lived, appall'd the state;
Such when he dy'd, the peaceful morning rose,
The dawn of joy, and sooth'd the public woes.
Bright in his east breaks forth the Lord of light,
So valiant John with dazzling blaze appears,
And from the dust his drooping nation rears.
Though sprung from youthful Passion's wanton loves,
Great Pedro's son in noble soul he proves;
And heaven announced him king by right divine,
A cradled infant gave the wondrous sign.
Her tongue had never lisp'd the mother's name,
No word, no mimic sound her lips could frame,
When heaven the miracle of speech inspired;
She raised her little hands, with rapture fired,
Let Portugal, she cried, with joy proclaim
The brave Don John, and own her monarch's name.
Now wildly raved, and mark'd the barbarous age;
And first red slaughter in the court began.
Of spousal vows and widow'd bed defiled,
Loud fame the beauteous Leanore reviled.
The adulterous noble in her presence bled,
And torn with wounds his numerous friends lay dead.
No more those ghastly deathful nights amaze,
When Rome wept tears of blood in Scylla's days;
More horrid deeds Ulysses' towers beheld:
Each cruel breast where rankling envy swell'd,
Accused his foe as minion of the queen;
Accused, and murder closed the dreary scene.
All holy ties the frantic transport braved,
Nor sacred priesthood nor the altar saved.
Thrown from a tower, like Hector's son of yore,
The mitred head was dash'd with brains and gore.
Ghastly with scenes of death, and mangled limbs,
And black with clotted blood each pavement swims.
When rage and grief to tear the breast conspire,
And ever when she slept th' adulterer's ghost,
All pale, and pointing at his bloody shroud,
Seem'd ever for revenge to scream aloud.
In happier days her royal daughter led.
To him the furious queen for vengeance cries,
Implores to vindicate his lawful prize,
The proud Castilian arms and dares the fight.
To join his standard as it waves along,
The warlike troops from various regions throng:
Those who possess the lands by Rodrick given,
What time the Moor from Turia's banks was driven;
That race who joyful smile at war's alarms,
And scorn each danger that attends on arms;
Now cased in steel in glittering arms appear,
Those arms erewhile so dreadful to the Moor:
The Vandals glorying in their might of yore
March on; their helms and moving lances gleam
Along the flowery vales of Betis' stream:
Nor staid the Tyrian islanders behind,
On whose proud ensigns floating on the wind
Alcides' pillars tower'd: Nor wonted fear
Withheld the base Galician's sordid spear;
Though still his crimson seamy scars reveal
The sure-aim'd vengeance of the Lusian steel.
Where tumbling down Cuenca's mountain side
The murmuring Tagus rolls his foamy tide,
Along Toledo's lawns, the pride of Spain,
Toledo's warriors join the martial train:
Nor less the furious lust of war inspires
The Biscayneer, and wakes his barbarous fires,
Which ever burn for vengeance, if the tongue
Of hapless stranger give the fancy'd wrong.
Nor bold Asturia, nor Guispuscoa's shore,
Famed for their steely wealth, and iron ore,
Delay'd their vaunting squadrons; o'er the dales
Cased in their native steel, and belted mails,
And join with many a spear the warlike throng.
And thus, wide sweeping o'er the trembling coast,
The proud Castilian leads his numerous host;
The valiant John for brave defence prepares,
And in himself collected greatly dares:
For such high valour in his bosom glow'd,
As Samson's locks by miracle bestow'd:
Safe in himself resolved the hero stands,
Yet calls the leaders of his anxious bands:
The council summon'd, some with prudent mien,
And words of grave advice their terrors screen.
By sloth debased, no more the ancient fire
Of patriot loyalty can now inspire;
And each pale lip seem'd opening to declare
For tame submission, and to shun the war;
When glorious Nunio, starting from his seat,
Claim'd every eye, and closed the cold debate:
Singling his brothers from the dastard train,
His rowling looks, that flash'd with stern disdain,
On them he fixt, then snatch'd his hilt in ire,
While his bold speech bewray'd the soldier's fire,
Bold and unpolish'd; while his burning eyes
Seem'd as he dared the ocean, earth, and skies.
Oh shame! and yield untry'd the martial field!
That land whose genius, as the God of war,
Was own'd, where'er approach'd her thundering car;
Shall now her sons their faith, their love deny,
And, while their country sinks, ignobly fly!
Ye timorous herd, are you the genuine line
Of those illustrious shades, whose rage divine,
Beneath great Henry's standards awed the foe,
For whom you tremble and would stoop so low!
That foe, who, boastful now, then basely fled,
When your undaunted sires the hero led,
When seven bold Earls in chains the spoil adorn'd,
And proud Casteel through all her kindreds mourn'd,
Casteel, your awful dread—yet, conscious, say,
When Diniz reign'd, when his bold son bore sway,
By whom were trodden down the bravest bands
That ever march'd from proud Castilia's lands?
'Twas your brave sires—and has one languid reign
Fix'd in your tainted souls so deep a stain,
That now degenerate from your noble sires,
The last dim spark of Lusian flame expires?
Though weak Fernando reign'd in war unskill'd,
A godlike king now calls you to the field.
Oh! could like his your mounting valour glow,
Vain were the threatnings of the vaunting foe.
But every land your dauntless rage should own.
Still if your hands benumb'd by female fear,
Shun the bold war, hark! on my sword I swear,
Myself alone the dreadful war shall wage,
Mine be the fight—and trembling with the rage
Of valorous fire, his hand half-drawn display'd
The awful terror of his shining blade—
I and my vassals dare the dreadful shock;
My shoulders never to a foreign yoke
Shall bend; and by my Sovereign's wrath I vow,
And by that loyal faith renounced by you,
My native land unconquer'd shall remain,
And all my Monarch's foes shall heap the plain.
The trembling few who 'scaped the bloody doom
That dy'd with slaughter Cannæ's purple field,
Assembled stood, and bow'd their necks to yield;
When nobly rising with a like disdain
The young Cornelius raged, nor raged in vain:
(The reeking blade yet black with Punic gore)
While life remain'd their arms for Rome to wield,
And but with life their conquer'd arms to yield.
Such martial rage brave Nunio's mien inspired;
Fear was no more: with rapturous ardour fired,
To horse, to horse, the gallant Lusians cry'd;
Rattled the belted mails on every side,
The spear-staff trembled; round their heads they waved
Their shining faulchions, and in transport raved,
The King our guardian—loud their shouts rebound,
And the fierce commons ecchoe back the sound.
The mails that long in rusting peace had hung,
Now on the hammer'd anvils hoarsely rung:
Some soft with wool the plumy helmets line,
And some the breast-plate's scaly belts entwine:
The gaudy mantles some, and scarfs prepare,
Where various lightsome colours gaily flare;
And golden tissue, with the warp enwove,
Displays the emblems of their youthful love.
Now leads his bands from fair Abrantes' gate;
Whose lawns of green the infant Tagus laves,
As from his spring he rolls his cooly waves.
A general worthy of th' unnumber'd host,
Whose gaudy banners trembling Greece defy'd,
When boastful Xerxes lash'd the Sestian tide:
Nunio, to proud Casteel as dread a name,
As erst to Gaul and Italy the fame
Of Attila's impending rage. The right
Brave Roderic led, a Chieftain train'd in fight:
Before the left the bold Almada rode,
And proudly waving o'er the center nod
The royal ensigns, glittering from afar,
Where godlike John inspires and leads the war.
The labouring hinds had borne the yellow grain;
The purple vintage heapt the foamy tun,
And fierce and red the sun of August shone;
When from the gate the squadrons march along:
Crowds prest on crowds, the walls and ramparts throng:
Here the sad mother rends her hoary hair,
While hope's fond whispers struggle with despair:
The weeping spouse to heaven extends her hands:
And cold with dread the modest virgin stands,
Her earnest eyes, suffused with trembling dew,
Far o'er the plain the plighted youth pursue:
And holy vows the throne of heaven assail.
And one joint shout heaven's airy concave tears:
A dreadful pause ensues, while conscious pride
Strives on each face the heart-felt doubt to hide.
Now wild and pale the boldest face is seen;
With mouth half open and disordered mien
Each warrior feels his creeping blood to freeze,
And languid weakness trembles in the knees.
And now the clangor of the trumpet founds,
And the rough rattling of the drum rebounds:
The fife's shrill whistling cuts the gale, on high
The flourish'd ensigns shine with many a dye
Of blazing splendor: o'er the ground they wheel
And chuse their footing, when the proud Casteel
Bids sound the horrid charge; loud bursts the sound,
And loud Artabro's rocky cliffs rebound:
The thundering roar rolls round on every side,
And trembling sinks Guidana's rapid tide;
The slow-paced Durius rushes o'er the plain,
And fearful Tagus hastens to the main:
Such was the tempest of the dread alarms,
The babes that prattled in their nurses' arms
The mothers strain'd their infants to the breast,
And shook with horror—now, far round, begin
The bow strings whizzing, and the brazen din
Of arms on armour rattling; either van
Are mingled now, and man opposed to man:
To guard his native fields the one inspires,
And one the raging lust of conquest fires:
Now with fixt teeth, their writhing lips of blue,
Their eye-balls glaring of the purple hue,
Each arm strains swiftest to impell the blow;
Nor wounds they value now, nor fear they know,
Their only passion to offend the foe.
In might and fury, like the warrior God,
Before his troops the glorious Nunio rode:
That land, the proud invaders claim'd, he sows
With their spilt blood, and with their corses strews;
Their forceful volleys now the cross bows pour,
The clouds are darken'd with the arrowy shower;
The white foam reeking o'er their wavy mane,
The snorting coursers rage and paw the plain;
As distant thunder through the mountains sounds:
The ponderous spears crash, splintering far around;
The horse and horsemen flounder on the ground;
The ground groans with the sudden weight opprest,
And many a buckler rings on many a crest.
Where wide around the raging Nunio's sword
With furious sway the bravest squadrons gored,
The raging foes in closer ranks advance,
And his own brothers shake the hostile lance.
Oh! horrid fight! yet not the ties of blood,
Nor yearning memory his rage withstood;
Who e'er the traytor, who his king has sold.
Nor want there others in the hostile band
Who draw their swords against their native land;
And headlong driven, by impious rage accurst,
In rank were foremost, and in fight the first.
So sons and fathers, by each other slain,
With horrid slaughter dyed Pharsalia's plain.
Ye dreary ghosts, who now for treasons foul,
Amidst the gloom of Stygian darkness howl;
Thou Cataline, and, stern Sertorius, tell
Your brother shades, and soothe the pains of hell;
With triumph tell them, some of Lusian race
Like you have earn'd the Traytor's foul disgrace.
Bears down our foremost ranks and shakes the fight;
Yet firm and undismay'd great Nunio stands,
And braves the tumult of surrounding bands.
So, from high Ceuta's rocky mountains stray'd,
The ranging Lion braves the shepherd's shade;
The shepherds hastening o'er the Tetuan plain,
With shouts surround him, and with spears restrain:
He stops, with grinning teeth his breath he draws,
Nor is it fear, but rage, that makes him pause;
And his stern heart forbids him to retire:
Amidst the thickness of the spears he flings,
So midst his foes the furious Nunio springs:
The Lusian grass with foreign gore distain'd,
Displays the carnage of the hero's hand.
“Which from the vanquish'd Perez' arm he tore;
“Pierced through that shield, cold death invades his eye,
“And dying Perez saw his Victor die.
“Edward and Pedro emulous of fame,
“The same their friendship, and their youth the same,
“Through the fierce Brigians hew'd their bloody way,
“Till in a cold embrace the striplings lay.
“Lopez and Vincent rush'd on glorious death,
“And midst their slaughtered foes resign'd their breath.
“Alonzo glorying in his youthful might
“Spur'd his fierce courser through the staggering fight:
“Shower'd from the dashing hoofs the spatter'd gore
“Flies round; but soon the Rider vaunts no more:
“Five Spanish swords the murmuring ghosts atone,
“Of five Castilians by his arm o'erthrown.
“The knightly lover young Hilario lay:
“Though, like a rose, cut off in opening bloom,
“The Hero weeps not for his early doom;
“Yet trembling in his swimming eye appears
“The pearly drop, while his pale cheek he rears,
“To call his loved Antonia's name he tries,
“The name half utter'd, down he sinks, and dies.”
And now before his rally'd squadrons rode:
Brave Nunio's danger from afar he spies,
And instant to his aid impetuous flies.
So when returning from the plunder'd folds,
The Lioness her emptied den beholds,
Enraged she stands, and listening to the gale,
She hears her whelps low howling in the vale;
The living sparkles flashing from her eyes,
To the Massylian shepherd-tents she flies;
She groans, she roars, and ecchoing far around
The seven twin-mountains tremble at the sound:
He pours resistless o'er the heaps of slain.
Oh bold companions of my toils, he cries,
Our dear-loved freedom on our lances lies;
Behold your friend, your Monarch leads the way,
And dares the thickest of the iron fray.
Say, shall the Lusian race forsake their king,
Where spears environ, and where javelins sing!
His ponderous spear, and midst the foremost hurl'd;
Deep through the ranks the forceful weapon past,
And many a gasping warrior sigh'd his last.
His bands rush on, and foot to foot engage;
Thick bursting sparkles from the blows aspire;
Such flashes blaze, their swords seem dipt in fire;
The belts of steel and plates of brass are riven,
And wound for wound, and death for death is given.
A naked ghost now sought the gloomy strand;
And he, of Calatrave the sovereign knight,
Girt with whole troops his arm had slain in fight,
Descended murmuring to the shades of night.
Blaspheming heaven, and gash'd with many a wound
Brave Nunio's rebel kindred gnaw'd the ground,
And curst their fate, and dy'd. Ten thousands more
Who held no title and no office bore,
And nameless nobles who, promiscuous fell,
Appeas'd that day the foaming dog of hell.
Now low the proud Castilian standard lies
Beneath the Lusian flag, a vanquish'd prize.
The fierce Iberians to the fight again
Rush headlong; groans and yellings of despair
With horrid uproar rend the trembling air.
Hot boils the blood, thirst burns, and every breast
Pants, every limb with fainty weight opprest
Slow now obeys the will's stern ire, and slow
From every sword descends the feeble blow;
Till rage grew languid, and tired slaughter found
No arm to combat, and no breast to wound.
Now from the field Casteel's proud monarch flies,
In wild dismay he rowls his maddening eyes,
And leads the pale-lipt flight, who, wing'd with fear,
As drifted smoke at distance disappear,
Forged horrid arms, and led to wars accurst.
The glorious victor on the field remain'd.
The funeral rites and holy vows he paid:
Yet not the while the restless Nunio staid;
O'er Tago's waves his gallant bands he led,
And humbled Spain in every province bled:
Sevilia's standard on his spear he bore,
And Andalusia's ensigns steept in gore.
Low in the dust distrest Castilia mourn'd,
And bathed in tears each eye to heaven was turn'd;
The orphan's, widow's, and the hoary sire's;
And heaven relenting quench'd the raging fires
Of mutual hate: from England's happy shore
The peaceful seas two lovely sisters bore.
In joyful hour the royal virgins led,
And holy peace assum'd her blissful reign,
Again the peasant joy'd, the landscape smiled again.
With conscious shame the sloth of ease endured.
When not a foe awaked his rage in Spain
The valiant Hero braved the foamy main;
The first, nor meanest, of our kings who bore
The Lusian thunders to the Afric shore.
O'er the wild waves the victor-banners flow'd,
Their silver wings a thousand eagles shew'd;
And proudly swelling to the whistling gales
The seas were whiten'd with a thousand sails.
Beyond the columns by Alcides placed
To bound the world, the zealous warrior past.
The shrines of Hagar's race, the shrines of lust,
And moon-crown'd mosques lay smoaking in the dust.
O'er Abyla's high steep his lance he raised,
On Ceuta's lofty towers his standard blazed:
Ceuta, the refuge of the traitor train,
His vassal now, ensures the peace of Spain.
Illustrious John ascends his native skies.
And added lands increase the Lusian reign.
His happiest days long hours of evil own.
He saw, secluded from the chearful day,
His sainted brother pine his years away.
O glorious youth in captive chains, to thee
What suiting honours can thy land decree!
For Ceuta's towers prepared to yield the boy;
The princely hostage nobly spurns the thought
Of freedom and of life so dearly bought:
The raging vengeance of the Moors defies,
Gives to the clanking chains his limbs, and dies
A dreary prison death. Let noisy fame
No more unequall'd hold her Codrus' name;
Her Regulus, her Curtius boast no more,
Nor those the honour'd Decian name who bore.
The splendor of a court, to them unknown,
Exchang'd for deathful Fate's most awful frown
To distant times through every land shall blaze
The self-devoted Lusian's nobler praise.
His son Alonzo brighter fate attends.
Nor his the meanest in the rolls of fame.
His might resistless prostrate Afric own'd,
Beneath his yoke the Mauritinians groan'd,
And still they groan beneath the Lusian sway.
'Twas his in victor-pomp to bear away
The golden apples from Hesperia's shore,
Which but the son of Jove had snatch'd before.
The palm and laurel round his temples bound,
Display'd his triumphs on the Moorish ground.
When proud Arzilla's strength, Alcazer's towers,
And Tingia, boastful of her numerous powers,
Beheld their adamantine walls o'erturn'd,
Their ramparts levell'd, and their temples burn'd.
Great was the day: the meanest sword that fought
Beneath the Lusian flag such wonders wrought
As from the Muse might challenge endless fame,
Though low their station, and without a name.
To proud Castilia's throne the king aspires.
The Lord of Arragon, from Cadiz' walls,
And hoar Pyrene's sides his legions calls;
And war, with horrid strides, now stalks along.
With emulation fired, the prince beheld
His warlike sire ambitious of the field;
Scornful of ease, to aid his arms he sped,
Nor sped in vain: The raging combat bled;
Alonzo's ranks with carnage gored, Dismay
Spread her cold wings, and shook his firm array,
To flight she hurried; while with brow serene
The martial boy beheld the deathful scene.
With curving movement o'er the field he rode,
Th' opposing troops his wheeling squadrons mow'd:
The purple dawn and evening sun beheld
His tents encampt assert the conquer'd field.
Thus when the ghost of Julius hover'd o'er
Philippi's plain, appeased with Roman gore,
Octavius' legions left the field in flight,
While happier Marcus triumph'd in the fight.
And brave Alonzo's spirit sought the skies,
The second of the name, the valiant John,
Our thirteenth monarch, now ascends the throne.
To seize immortal fame, his mighty mind,
What man had never dared before, design'd;
Through seas unsail'd to find the shores that view
The day-star, rising from his watery bed,
The first grey beams of infant morning shed.
Selected messengers his will obey;
Through Spain and France they hold their vent'rous way.
Through Italy they reach the port that gave
The fair Parthenope an honour'd grave;
That shore which oft has felt the servile chain,
But now smiles happy in the care of Spain.
Now from the port the brave advent'rers bore,
And cut the billows of the Rhodian shore;
Now reach the strand where noble Pompey bled;
And now, repair'd with rest, to Memphis sped;
And now, ascending by the vales of Nile,
Whose waves pour fatness o'er the grateful soil,
Through Ethiopia's peaceful dales they stray'd,
Where their glad eyes Messiah's rites survey'd:
And now they pass the famed Arabian flood,
Whose waves of old in wondrous ridges stood,
While Israel's favour'd race the sable bottom trode:
Behind them glistening to the morning skies,
The mountains named from Izmael's offspring rise;
Her groves of odour, and her balmy meads,
And every breast, inspired with glee, inhales
The grateful fragrance of Sabæa's gales:
Now past the Persian gulph their rout ascends
Where Tygris wave with proud Euphrates blends;
Illustrious streams, where still the native shews
Where Babel's haughty tower unfinish'd rose:
From thence through climes unknown, their daring course
Beyond where Trajan forced his way, they force;
Carmanian hords, and Indian tribes they saw,
And many a barbarous rite, and many a law
Their search explored; but to their native shore,
Enrich'd with knowledge, they return'd no more.
The glad completion of the Fate's decree,
Kind heaven reserved, Emmanuel, for thee.
The crown, and high ambition of thy sires,
To thee descending, waked thy latent fires,
And to command the sea from pole to pole,
With restless wish inflamed thy mighty soul.
O'er heaven's clear azure shone the stars of dawn,
And human griefs were wrapt in sleep profound.
The monarch slumber'd on his golden bed,
Yet anxious cares possest his thoughtful head;
His generous soul, intent on public good,
The glorious duties of his birth review'd.
When sent by heaven a sacred dream inspired
His labouring mind, and with its radiance fired:
High to the clouds his towering head was rear'd,
New worlds, and nations fierce and strange appear'd;
The purple dawning o'er the mountains flow'd,
The forest-boughs with yellow splendor glow'd;
High from the steep two copious glassy streams
Roll'd down, and glitter'd in the morning beams;
Here various monsters of the wild were seen,
And birds of plumage, azure, scarlet, green:
Here various herbs, and flowers of various bloom;
There black as night the forest's horrid gloom,
Whose shaggy brakes, by human step untrod,
Darken'd the glaring lion's dread abode.
Here as the monarch fix'd his wondering eyes,
Two hoary fathers from the streams arise;
Their aspect rustic, yet a reverend grace
Appeared majestic on their wrinkled face:
Their tawny beards uncomb'd, and sweepy long,
Adown their knees in shaggy ringlets hung;
And bathe their limbs as in a trickling rill;
Gay wreaths of flowers, of fruitage, and of boughs,
Nameless in Europe, crown'd their furrow'd brows,
Bent o'er his staff, more silver'd o'er with years,
Worn with a longer way, the One appears;
Who now slow beckoning with his wither'd hand,
As now advanced before the king they stand;
Are doom'd to yield, and dignify thy crown;
To thee our golden shores the Fates decree;
Our necks, unbow'd before, shall bend to thee.
Wide thro' the world resounds our wealthy fame;
Haste, speed thy prows, that fated wealth to claim.
From Paradise my hallowed waters spring;
The sacred Ganges I, my brother king
Th' illustrious author of the Indian name:
Yet toil shall languish, and the fight shall flame;
Our fairest lawns with streaming gore shall smoke,
Ere yet our shoulders bend beneath thy yoke;
But thou shalt conquer: all thine eyes survey,
With all our various tribes shall own thy sway.
Both disappear'd; when waking from his dream,
Weighs in his lofty thoughts the sacred sign.
Spreads o'er the clouds the blushing rose's dye,
The nations wake, and at the sovereign's call
The Lusian nobles crowd the palace hall.
The vision of his sleep the monarch tells;
Each heaving breast with joyful wonder swells:
Fulfil, they cry, the sacred sign obey,
And spread the canvas for the Indian sea.
Instant My looks with troubled ardour burn'd,
When keen on Me his eyes the monarch turn'd:
What he beheld I know not, but I know,
Big swell'd my bosom with a prophet's glow:
And long my mind, with wondrous bodings fired,
Had to the glorious dreadful toil aspired:
Yet to the king, whate'er my looks betrayed,
My looks the omen of success displayed.
When with that sweetness in his mien exprest,
Which unresisted wins the generous breast,
Great are the dangers, great the toils, he cried,
Ere glorious honours crown the victor's pride.
If in the glorious strife the hero fall,
He proves no danger could his soul appall;
Each age's wonder, and immortal praise.
For this dread toil new oceans to explore,
To spread the sail where sail ne'er flow'd before,
For this dread labour, to your valour due,
From all your peers I chuse, O Vasco, you.
Dread as it is, yet light the task shall be
To you my Gama, as perform'd for Me.—
My heart could bear no more—Let skies on fire,
Let frozen seas, let horrid war conspire,
I dare them all, I cried, and but repine
That one poor life is all I can resign.
Did to my lot Alcides' labours fall,
For you my joyful heart would dare them all;
The ghastly realms of death could man invade
For you my steps should trace the ghastly shade.
That panting zeal my Prince with joy beheld:
Honour'd with gifts I stood, but honour'd more
By that esteem my joyful Sovereign bore.
That generous praise which fires the soul of worth,
And gives new virtues unexpected birth,
That praise even now my heaving bosom fires,
Inflames my courage, and each wish inspires.
A gallant youth, who bore the dearest name,
Paulus my brother, boldly sued to share
My toils, my dangers, and my fate in war;
And brave Coëllo urged the Hero's claim
To dare each hardship, and to join our fame:
For glory both with restless ardour burn'd,
And silken ease for horrid danger spurn'd;
Alike renown'd in council or in field,
The snare to baffle, or the sword to wield.
Through Lisbon's youth the kindling ardour ran,
And bold ambition thrill'd from man to man;
And each the meanest of the venturous band
With gifts stood honour'd by the Sovereign's hand.
Heavens! what a fury swell'd each warrior's breast,
When each, in turn, the smiling King addrest!
Fired by his words the direst toils they scorn'd,
And with the horrid lust of danger fiercely burn'd.
When the first keel the Euxine surges plow'd;
When bravely venturous for the golden fleece
Orac'lous Argo sail'd from wondering Greece.
And slowly mingles with the ocean's waves,
In warlike pride my gallant navy rode,
And proudly o'er the beach my soldiers strode.
Sailors and land-men marshall'd o'er the strand,
In garbs of various hue around me stand;
Each earnest first to plight the sacred vow,
Oceans unknown and gulphs untry'd to plow:
Then turning to the ships their sparkling eyes,
With joy they heard the breathing winds arise;
Elate with joy beheld the flapping sail,
And purple standards floating on the gale:
While each presaged that great as Argo's fame,
Our fleet should give some starry band a name.
A sacred fane its hoary arches rears:
Dim o'er the sea the evening shades descend,
And at the holy shrine devout we bend:
There, while the tapers o'er the altar blaze,
Our prayers and earnest vows to heaven we raise.
“Safe through the deep, where every yawning wave
“Still to the Sailor's eye displays his grave;
“Through howling tempests, and through gulphs untry'd,
“O! mighty God! be thou our watchful guide.”
In Holy Faith's most solemn rite we join;
Our peace with heaven the bread of peace confirms,
And meek contrition every bosom warms:
Sudden the lights extinguish'd, all around
Dread silence reigns, and midnight gloom profound:
A sacred horror pants on every breath,
And each firm breast devotes itself to death,
An offer'd sacrifice, sworn to obey
My nod, and follow where I lead the way;
Now prostrate round the hallow'd shrine we lie,
Till rosy morn bespreads the eastern sky;
Then, breathing fixt resolves, my daring mates
March to the ships, while pour'd from Lisbon's gates,
Thousands on thousands crowding, press along,
A woeful, weeping, melancholy throng.
A thousand white-robed priests our steps attend,
And prayers, and holy vows to heaven ascend;
A scene so solemn, and the tender woe
Of parting friends, constrained my tears to flow.
To dare new oceans never dared before—
Perhaps to see my native coast no more—
Forgive, O king, if as a man I feel,
I bear no bosom of obdurate steel.
(The godlike hero here supprest the sigh,
And wiped the tear-drop from his manly eye;
Then thus resuming—) All the peopled shore
An awful, silent look of anguish wore;
Affection, friendship, all the kindred ties
Of spouse and parent languish'd in their eyes:
As men they never should again behold,
Self-offer'd victims to destruction sold,
On us they fixt the eager look of woe,
While tears o'er every cheek began to flow;
When thus aloud, Alas! my son, my son,
An hoary Sire exclaims, oh! whither run,
My heart's sole joy, my trembling age's stay,
To yield thy limbs the dread sea-monster's prey!
To seek thy burial in the raging wave,
And leave me cheerless sinking to the grave!
Was it for this I watch'd thy tender years,
And bore each fever of a father's fears!
Alas! my boy!—His voice is heard no more,
The female shriek resounds along the shore:
A lovely bride springs on, and screams aloud;
Oh! where, my husband, where to seas unknown,
Where would'st thou fly me, and my love disown!
And wilt thou, cruel, to the deep consign
That valued life, the joy, the soul of mine:
And must our loves, and all our kindred train
Of rapt endearments, all expire in vain!
All the dear transports of the warm embrace,
When mutual love inspired each raptured face!
Must all, alas! be scatter'd in the wind,
Nor thou bestow one lingering look behind!
Such o'er the strand the voice of wailing rose;
From breast to breast the soft contagion crept,
Moved by the woeful sound the children wept;
The mountain ecchoes catch the big-swoln sighs,
And through the dales prolong the matron's cries;
The yellow sands with tears are silver'd o'er,
Our fate the mountains and the beach deplore.
Yet firm we march, nor turn one glance aside
On hoary parent, or on lovely bride.
Though glory fired our hearts, too well we knew
What soft affection and what love could do.
The bitter yearnings of the parting tear
Sullen we shun, unable to sustain
The melting passion of such tender pain.
When towering o'er the crowd that veil'd the strand,
A reverend figure fixt each wondering eye,
And beckoning thrice he waved his hand on high,
And thrice his hoary curls he sternly shook,
While grief and anger mingled in his look;
And through the fleet these awful words were heard:
The crowd's blind tribute, a fallacious name;
What stings, what plagues, what secret scourges curst,
Torment those bosoms where thy pride is nurst!
What dangers threaten, and what deaths destroy
The hapless youth, whom thy vain gleams decoy!
By thee, dire Tyrant of the noble mind,
What dreadful woes are pour'd on human kind:
Kingdoms and Empires in confusion hurl'd,
What streams of gore have drench'd the hapless world!
Thou dazzling meteor, vain as fleeting air,
What new-dread horror dost thou now prepare!
High sounds thy voice of India's pearly shore,
Of endless triumphs and of countless store:
Of other worlds so tower'd thy swelling boast,
Thy golden dreams when Paradise was lost,
When thy big promise steep'd the world in gore,
And simple innocence was known no more.
And say, has fame so dear, so dazzling charms?
Must brutal fierceness and the trade of arms,
Conquest, and laurels dipt in blood, be prized,
While life is scorn'd, and all its joys despised.
And say, does zeal for holy faith inspire
To spread its mandates, thy avow'd desire?
Treads on thy borders, and the foe demands:
A thousand cities own his lordly sway,
A thousand various shores his nod obey.
Through all these regions, all these cities, scorn'd
Is thy religion, and thine altars sprun'd.
A foe renown'd in arms the brave require;
That high-plumed foe, renown'd for martial fire,
Before thy gates his shining spear displays,
Whilst thou wouldst fondly dare the watery maze,
Enfeebled leave thy native land behind,
On shores unknown a foe unknown to find.
Oh! madness of ambition! thus to dare
Dangers so fruitless, so remote a war!
That Fame's vain flattery may thy name adorn,
And thy proud titles on her flag be borne:
Thee, Lord of Persia, thee, of India Lord,
O'er Ethiopia's vast, and Araby adored!
Forsook the beach, and braved the treacherous flood!
Oh! never, never may the sacred Nine,
To crown his brows, the hallow'd wreath entwine;
Nor may his name to future times resound,
Oblivion be his meed, and hell profound!
And with ambition first debauch'd the soul!
What woes, Prometheus, walk the frighten'd earth!
To what dread slaughter has thy pride given birth!
On proud Ambition's pleasing gales upborne,
One boasts to guide the chariot of the morn;
And one on treacherous pinions soaring high,
O'er ocean's waves would sail the liquid sky:
Dash'd from their height they mourn'd their blighted aim;
One gives a river, one a sea the name!
Alas! the poor reward of that gay meteor Fame!
Yet such the fury of the mortal race,
Though Fame's fair promise ends in foul disgrace,
Though conquest still the victor's hope betrays,
The prize a shadow, or a rainbow blaze,
Yet still through fire and raging seas they run
To catch the gilded shade, and sink undone!
The departure of the fleet from the Tagus. —In no circumstance does the judgment and art of Homer appear more conspicuous, than in the constant attention he pays to his proposed subjects, the wrath of Achilles, and the sufferings of Ulysses. He bestows the utmost care on every incident that could possibly impress our minds with high ideas of the determined rage of the injured hero, and of the invincible patience of the πολυτλας διος Οδυσσευς. Virgil throughout the Eneid has followed the same course. Every incident that could possibly tend to magnify the dangers and difficulties of the wanderings of Æneas, in his long search for the promised Italy, is set before us in the fullest magnitude. But, however, this method of ennobling the Epic by paying the utmost attention to give a grandeur to every circumstance of the proposed subject, may have been neglected by Voltaire in his Henriade, (where political declamation seems to have been his principal care,) and by some other moderns, who have attempted the Epopea; it has not been omitted by Camoens. The Portuguese Poet has, with great art, conducted the voyage of Gama. Every circumstance attending it is represented with magnificence and dignity. John II. designs what had never been attempted before. Messengers are sent by land to discover the climate and riches of India. Their rout is described in the manner of Homer. The palm of discovery, however, is reserved for a succeeding monarch. Emmanuel is warned by a dream, which affords another striking instance of the spirit of the Grecian Bard. The enthusiasm which the king beholds on the aspect of Gama is a noble stroke of poetry; the solemnity of the night spent in devotion; the sullen resolution of the Adventurers when going aboard the fleet; the affecting grief of their friends and fellow-citizens, who viewed them as self-devoted victims, whom they were never more to behold; and the angry exclamations of the venerable old man, give a dignity and interesting pathos to the departure of the fleet of Gama, greatly superior to that in the Eneid, where the Trojans leave a colony of Invalids in Sicily. In the Odyssey there is nothing which can be called similar.
No circumstance has ever been more ridiculed by the ancient and modern pedants than Alexander's pretensions to divinity. Some of his courtiers expostulating with him one day on the absurdity of such claim, he replied, “I know the truth of what you say, but these,” (pointing to a croud of Persians) “these know no better.” The report that the Grecian army was commanded by a son of Jupiter spread terror through the East, and greatly facilitated the operations of the Conqueror. The miraculous speech of the infant, attested by a few monks, was adapted to the superstition of the age of John I. and as he was a bastard, was of infinite service to his cause. The pretended fact however is differently related. By some thus: When Don John, then regent of Portugal, was going to Coimbra, to assist at an assembly of the states, at a little distance from the city he was met by a great number of children riding upon sticks, who no sooner saw him than they cried out, “Blessed be Don John king of Portugal; the king is coming, Don John shall be king.” Whether this was owing to art or accident, it had a great effect. At the assembly the regent was elected king.
Don Martin, bishop of Lisbon, a man of an exemplary life. He was by birth a Castilian, which was esteemed a sufficient reason to murder him, as of the queen's party. He was thrown from the tower of his own cathedral, whither he had fled to avoid the popular fury.
Possessed of great beauty and great abilities, this bad woman was a disgrace to her sex, and a curse to the age and country which gave her birth. Her sister, Donna Maria, a lady of unblemished virtue, had been secretly married to the infant Don Juan, the king's brother, who was passionately attached to her. Donna Maria had formerly endeavoured to dissuade her sister from the adulterous marriage with the king. In revenge of this, the queen Leonora persuaded Don Juan that her sister was unfaithful to his bed. The enraged husband hasted to his wife, and without enquiry or expostulation, says Mariana, dispatched her with two strokes of his dagger. He was afterwards convinced of her innocence. Having sacrificed her honour and her first husband to a king, says Faria, Leonora soon sacrificed that king to a wicked gallant, a Castilian nobleman, named Don Juan Fernandez de Andeyro. An unjust war with Castile, wherein the the Portuguese were defeated by sea and hand, was the first fruits of the policy of the new favourite. Andeyro one day being in a great sweat by some military exercise, the queen tore her veil, and publicly gave it him to wipe his face. The grand master of Avis, the king's bastard brother, afterwards John I. and some others, expostulated with her on the indecency of this behaviour. She dissembled her resentment, but soon after they were seized and committed to the castle of Evora, where a forged order for their execution was sent; but the governor suspecting some fraud, shewed it to the king. Yet such was her ascendency over Fernando, that though convinced of her guilt, he ordered his brother to kiss the queen's hand, and thank her for his life. Soon after Fernando died, but not till he was fully convinced of the queen's conjugal infidelity, and had given an order for the assassination of the gallant. Not long after the death of the king, the favourite Andeyro was stabbed in the palace by the grand master of Avis, and Don Ruy de Pereyra. The queen expressed all the transport of grief and rage, and declared she would undergo the trial ordeal in vindication of his and her innocence. But this she never performed: in her vows of revenge, however, she was more punctual. Don Juan king of Castile, who had married her only daughter and heiress, at her earnest entreaties invaded Portugal, and was proclaimed king. Don John, grand master of Avis, was proclaimed by the people protector and regent. A desperate war ensued. Queen Leonora, treated with indifference by her daughter and son-in-law, resolved on the murder of the latter, but the plot was discovered, and she was sent prisoner to Castile. The regent was besieged in Lisbon, and the city reduced to the utmost extremities, when an epidemical distemper broke out in the Castilian army, and made such devastation that the king suddenly raised the siege, and abandoned his views in Portugal. The happy inhabitants ascribed their deliverance to the valour and vigilance of the regent. The regent reproved their ardour, exhorted them to repair to their churches, and return thanks to God, to whose interposition he solely ascribed their safety. This behaviour increased the admiration of the people, the nobility of the first rank joined the regent's party, and many garrisons in the interest of the king of Castile opened their gates to him. An assembly of the states met at Coimbra, where it was proposed to invest the regent with the regal dignity. This he pretended to decline. Don John, son of Pedro the Just, and the beautiful Inez de Castro, was by the people esteemed their lawful sovereign, but was, and had been long detained a prisoner by the king of Castile. If the states would declare the infant Don John their king, the regent professed his willingness to swear allegiance to him, that he would continue to expose himself to every danger, and act as regent, till providence restored to Portugal her lawful sovereign. The states however saw the necessity that the nation should have an head. The regent was unanimously elected king, and some articles in favour of liberty were added to those agreed upon at the coronation of Don Alonzo Enriquez, the first king of Portugal.
Don John I. one of the greatest of the Portuguese monarchs, was the natural son of Pedro the Just, by Donna Teresa Lorenza, a Galician lady, and born some years after the death of Inez. At seven years of age he was made grand master of Avis, where he received an excellent education, which joined to his great parts, produced him early on the political theatre. He was a brave commander, and a deep politician, yet never forfeited the character of candour and honour. To be humble to his friends, and haughty to his enemies, was his leading maxim. His prudence gained him the confidence of the wise, his steadiness and gratitude the friendship of the brave; his liberality the bulk of the people. He was in the twenty-seventh year of his age when declared protector, and in the twenty-eighth when proclaimed king.
The following anecdote is much to the honour of this prince when regent. A Castilian officer having six Portuguese gentlemen prisoners, cut off their noses and hands, and sent them to Don John. Highly incensed, the protector commanded six Castilian gentlemen to be treated in the same manner. But before the officer, to whom he gave the orders, had quitted the room, he relented. “I have given enough to resentment, said he, in giving such a command. It were infamous to put it in execution. See that the Castilian prisoners receive no harm.”
This speech in the original has been much admired by the foreign critics, as a model of military eloquence. The critic, it is hoped, will perceive that the Translator has endeavoured to support the character of the Speaker.
This was the famous P. Corn, Scipio Africanus. The fact, somewhat differently related by Livy, is this. After the defeat at Cannæ, a considerable body of Romans fled to Canusium, and appointed Scipio and Ap. Claudius their commanders. While they remained there, it was told Scipio, that some of his chief officers, at the head of whom was Cæcilius Metellus, were taking measures to transport themselves out of Italy. He went immediately to their assembly; and drawing his sword, said, I swear that I will not desert the Commonwealth of Rome, nor suffer any other citizen to do it. The same oath I require of you, Cæcilius, and of all present; whoever refuses, let him know that this sword is drawn against him. The Historian adds, that they were as terrified by this, as if they had beheld the face of their conqueror Hannibal. They all swore, and submitted themselves to Scipio. Vid. Liv. B. 22. C. 53.
Homer and Virgil have, with great art, gradually heightened the fury of every battle, till the last efforts of their genius were lavished in describing the superior prowess of the Hero in the decisive engagement. Camoens, in like manner, has bestowed his utmost attention on this his principal battle. The circumstances preparatory to the engagement are happily imagined, and solemnly conducted, and the fury of the combat is supported with a poetical heat, and a variety of imagery, which, one need not hesitate to affirm, would do honour to an ancient classic.
The just indignation with which Camoens treats the kindred of the brave Nunio Alvaro de Pereyra, is condemned by the French Translator. “Dans le fond, says he, les Pereyras ne meritoient aucune fletrissure, &c.—The Pereyras deserve no stain on their memory for joining the king of Castile, whose title to the crown of Portugal was infinitely more just and solid than that of Don John.” Castera, however, is grossly mistaken. Don Alonzo Enriquez, the first king of Portugal, was elected by the people, who had recovered their liberties at the glorious battle of Ourique. At the election the constitution of the kingdom was settled in eighteen short statutes, wherein it is expressly provided, that none but a Portuguese can be king of Portugal; that if an Infanta marry a foreign Prince, he shall not, in her right, become king of Portugal, and a new election of a king, in case of the failure of the male line, is by these statutes supposed legal. By the treaty of marriage between the king of Castile and Donna Beatrix, the heiress of Fernando of Portugal, it was agreed, that only their children should succeed to the Portuguese crown; and that, in case the throne became vacant ere such children were born, the queen-dowager Leonora should govern with the title of Regent. Thus, neither by the original constitution, nor the treaty of marriage, could the king of Castile succeed to the throne of Portugal. And any pretence he might found on the marriage contract was already forfeited; for he caused himself and his queen to be proclaimed, added Portugal to his titles, coined Portuguese money with his bust, deposed the queen Regent, and afterwards sent her prisoner to Castile. The lawful heir, Don Juan, the son of Inez de Castro, was kept in prison by his rival the king of Castile; and as before observed, a new election was, by the original statutes, supposed legal in cases of emergency. These facts, added to the consideration of the tyranny of the king of Castile, and the great services Don John had rendered his country, upon whom its existence, as a kingdom, depended, fully vindicate the indignation of Camoens against the traiterous Pereyras.
The Castilians, so called from one of their ancient kings, named Brix, or Brigus, whom the Monkish fabulists call the grandson of Noah.
These lines marked in the text with turned commas, are not in the common editions of Camoens. They consist of three stanzas in the Portuguese, and are said to have been left out by the author himself in his second edition. The translator, however, as they breathe the true spirit of Virgil, was willing to preserve them with this acknowledgement; in this he he has followed the example of Castera.
Massylia, a province in Numidia, greatly infested with lions, particularly that part of it called Os sete montes irmaõs, the seven brother mountains.
This, which is almost literal from
Muitos lançaraõ o ultimo suspiro—and the preceding circumstance of Don John's brandishing his lance four times
E sopesando a lança quatro vezes—are poetical, and in the spirit of Homer. They are omitted, however, by Castera, who substitutes the following in their place, “Il dit, et d'un bras, &c.—He said, and with an arm whose blows are inevitable, he threw his javelin against the fierce Maldonat. Death and the weapon went together. Maldonat fell, pierced with a large wound, and his horse tumbled over him.” Besides Maldonat, Castera has, in this battle, introduced several other names which have no place in Camoens. Carrillo, Robledo, John of Lorca, Salazar of Seville were killed, he tells us: And, “Velasques and Sanches, natives of Toledo, Galbes, surnamed the Soldier without Fear, Montanches, Oropesa, and Mondonedo, all six of proved valour, fell by the hand of young Antony, qui porte dans le combat ou plus d'adresse ou plus de bonheur qu'eux, who brought to the fight either more address or better fortune than these.” Not a word of this is in the Portuguese.
The fate of another hero shall conclude the specimens of the manner of Castera. The following is literally translated: “Guevar, a vain man, nourished in indolence, stained his arms and face with the blood of the dead whom he found stretched on the dust. Under the cover of this frivolous imposture, he pretended to pass himself for a formidable warrior. He published, with a high voice, the number of the enemies he had thrown to the ground. Don Pedro interrupted him with a blow of his sabre: Guevar lost his life; his head, full of the fumes of a ridiculous pride, bounded far away from his body, which remained defiled with its own blood; a just and terrible punishment for the lies he had told.” It is almost unnecessary to add, that there is not one word of this in the original.
This is as literal as the idiom of the two languages would allow. Dryden has a thought like that of this couplet, but which is not in his original:
Their bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high,And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly.
Dryd. Virg. En. XII.
Grand Master of the order of St. James, named Don Pedro Nunio. He was not killed, however, in this battle, which was fought on the plains of Aljubarota, but in that of Valverda, which immediately followed. The Reader may perhaps be surprised to find, that every soldier mentioned in these notes is a Don, a Lord. The following piece of history will account for the number of the Portuguese nobles. Don Alonzo Enriquez, Count of Portugal, was saluted king by his army at the battle of Ourique; in return, his Majesty dignified every man in his army with the rank of nobility. Vid. the 9th of the Stat. of Lamego.
The last efforts of rage and despair are thus described in Pope's translation of the fifth battle at the ships. Il. XV.
No force could tame them, and no toil could tire;
As if new vigour from new fights they won,
And the long battle was but then begun.
Greece yet unconquer'd kept alive the war,
Secure of death, confiding in despair.
Troy in proud hopes already view'd the main,
Bright with the blaze, and red with heroes slain;
Like strength is felt from hope and from despair,
And each contends as his were all the war.
This tyrant, whose unjust pretensions to the crown of Portugal laid his own and that kingdom in blood, was on his final defeat overwhelmed with all the frenzy of grief. In the night after the decisive battle of Aljubarata, he fled upwards of thirty miles upon a mule. Don Laurence, archbishop of Braga, in a letter written in old Portuguese to Don John, abbot of Alcobaza, gives this account of his behaviour. “O condestrabre à me far saber ca o rey de Castella fe viera à Santaren como homen tresvaliado, quem maldezia seu viver, è puxava polas barbas; è à bo fè, hom amigo, melhor e que o faga ca non fagermolo nos, ca homen, quem suas barbas arrepela mao lavor faria das alheas. i. e. The constable has informed me that he saw the king of Castile at Santaren, who behaved as a madman, cursing his existence, and tearing the hairs of his beard. And in good faith, my good friend, it is better that he should do so to himself than to us; the man who thus plucks his own beard, would be much better pleased to do so to others.” The writer of this letter, though a prelate, fought at the battle of Aljubarota, where he received on the face a large wound from a sabre. Castera relates this anecdote of him. The flattery of a sculptor had omitted the deep scar: when the archbishop saw the statue, he laid hold of an attendant's sword, with which he disfigured the face. I have now, said he, supplied what it wanted.
As a certain proof of the victory, it was required, by the honour of these ages, that the victor should encamp three days on the field of battle. By this knight-errantry, the advantages which ought to have been pursued were frequently lost. Don John, however, though he complied with the reigning ideas of honour, sent Don Nunio, with a proper army, to reap the fruits of his victory.
Castera's note on this place is literally thus: “They were the daughters of John duke of Lancaster, son of Edward IV. of England, both of great beauty: the eldest, named Catharine, was married to the king of Castile, the youngest, Isabel, to the king of Portugal.” This is all a mistake. John of Portugal, about a year after the battle of Aljubarota, married Philippa, eldest daughter of John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, son of Edward III. who assisted the king, his son-in-law, in an irruption into Castile, and at the end of the campaign promised to return with more numerous forces for the next. But this was prevented by the marriage of his youngest daughter Catalina with Don Henry, eldest son of the king of Castile. The king of Portugal on this entered Galicia, and reduced the cities of Tuy and Salvaterra. A truce followed. While the tyrant of Castile meditated a new war, he was killed by a fall from his horse, and leaving no issue by his queen Beatrix, the king of Portugal's daughter, all pretensions on that crown ceased. The truce was now prolonged for fifteen years, and though not strictly kept, yet at last the influence of the English queen Catalina prevailed, and a long peace, happy for both kingdoms, ensued.
The character of this great prince claims a place in these notes, as it affords a comment on the enthusiasm of Camoens, who has made him the hero of his episode. His birth, excellent education, and masterly conduct when regent, have already been mentioned. The same justice, prudence, and heroism always accompanied him when king. He had the art to join the most winning affability with all the manly dignity of the sovereign. To those who were his friends, when a private man, he was particularly attentive. His nobility dined at his table, he frequently made visits to them, and introduced among them the taste for, and the love of letters. As he felt the advantages of education, he took the utmost care of that of his children. He had many sons, and he himself often instructed them in solid and useful knowledge, and was amply repaid. He lived to see them men, men of parts and of action, whose only emulation was to shew affection to his person, and to support his administration by their great abilities. One of his sons, Don Henry, duke of Viseo, was that great prince whose ardent passion for maritime affairs gave birth to all the modern improvements in navigation. The clergy, who had disturbed almost every other reign, were so convinced of the wisdom of his, that they confessed he ought to be supported out of the treasures of the church, and granted him the church plate to be coined. When the Pope ordered a rigorous enquiry to be made into his having brought ecclesiastics before lay tribunals, the clergy had the singular honesty to desert what was stiled the church immunities, and to own that justice had been impartially administered. He died in the seventy-sixth year of his age, and in the forty-eighth of his reign. His affection to his queen Philippa made him fond of the English, whose friendship he cultivated, and by whom he was frequently assisted.
Camoens, in this instance, has raised the character of one brother at the other's expence, to give his poem an air of the old romance. The siege of Tangier was proposed. The king's brothers differed in their opinions: that of Don Fernand, tho' a knight errant adventure, was approved of by the young nobility. The infants Henry and Fernand, at the head of 7000 men, laid siege to Tangier, and were surrounded by a numerous army of Moors, some writers say six hundred thousand. On condition that the Portuguese army should be allowed to return home, the infants promised to deliver Ceuta. The Moors gladly accepted of the terms, but demanded one of the infants as an hostage. Fernand offered himself, and was left. The king was willing to comply with the terms to relieve his brother, but the court considered the value of Ceuta, and would not consent. The Pope also interposed his authority, that Ceuta should be kept as a check on the infidels, and proposed to raise a Crusade for the delivery of Fernand. In the meanwhile large offers were made for his liberty. These were rejected by the Moors, who would accept of nothing but Ceuta, of whose vast importance they were no strangers. When negotiation failed, king Edward assembled a large army to effect his brother's release, but just as he was setting out, he was seized with the plague, and died, leaving orders with his queen to deliver up Ceuta for the release of his brother. This, however, was never performed. Don Fernand remained with the Moors till his death. The magnanimity of his behaviour gained him their esteem and admiration, nor is there good proof that he received any extraordinary rigorous treatment; the contrary is rather to be inferred from the romantic notions of military honour which then prevailed among the Moors. Some, however, whom Castera follows, make his sufferings little inferior to those, without proof likewise, ascribed to Regulus. Don Fernand is to this day esteemed as a saint and martyr in Portugal, and his memory is commemorated on the fifth of June. King Edward reigned only five years and a month. He was the most eloquent man in his dominions, spoke and wrote Latin elegantly, was author of several books, one on horsemanship, in which art he excelled. He was brave in the field, active in business, and rendered his country infinite service by reducing the laws to a regular code. He was knight of the order of the Garter, which honour was conferred upon him by his cousin Henry V. of England. In one instance he gave great offence to the superstitious populace. He despised the advice of a Jew astrologer, who entreated him to delay his coronation, because the stars that day were unfavourable. To this the misfortune of Tangier was ascribed, and the people were always on the alarm, as if some terrible disaster were impending over them.
When Henry IV. of Castile died, he declared that the infanta Joanna was his heiress, in preference to his sister, Donna Isabella, married to Don Ferdinand, son to the king of Arragon. In hopes to attain the kingdom of Castile, Don Alonzo, king of Portugal, obtained a dispensation from the pope to marry his niece, Donna Joanna. After a bloody war, the ambitious views of Alonzo and his courtiers were defeated.
Parthenope was one of the Syrens. Enraged because she could not allure Ulysses, she threw herself into the sea. Her corps was thrown ashore, and buried where Naples now stands.
The Emperor Trajan extended the bounds of the Roman Empire in the East, far beyond any of his predecessors. His conquests reached to the river Tigris, near which stood the city of Ctesiphon, which he subdued. The Roman Historians boasted that India was entirely conquered by him; but they could only mean Arabia Fœlix. Vid. Dion. Cass. Euseb. Chron. p. 206.
According to fable, the vessel of the Argonauts spoke and prophecied. The ancients, I suppose, by this meant to insinuate, that those who trust their lives to the caprices of the waves have need of a penetrating foresight, that they may not be surprised by sudden tempests. Castera.
This fact is according to history: Aberat Olysippone prope littus quatuor passuum millia templum sanè religiosum et sanctum ab Henrico in honorem sanctissimæ virginis edificatum. . . . . . . In id Gama pridie illius diei, quo erat navem conscensurus, se recepit, ut noctem cum religiosis hominibus qui in ædibus templo conjunctis habitabant, in precibus et votis consumeret. Sequenti die cum multi non illius tantùm gratia, sed aliorum etiam, qui illi comites erant, convenissent, fuit ab omnibus in scaphis deductus. Neque solùm homines religiosi, sed reliqui omnes voce maxima cum lacrymis à Deo precabantur, ut benè & prosperè illa tam periculosa navigatio omnibus eveniret, & universi re benè gesta incolumes in patriam redirent.
By this old man is personified the populace of Portugal. The endeavours to discover the East-Indies by the Southern ocean, for about eighty years had been the favourite topic of complaint; and never was any measure of government more unpopular than the expedition of Gama. Emmanuel's council were almost unanimous against the attempt. Some dreaded the introduction of wealth, and its attendants luxury and effeminacy; while others affirmed, that no adequate advantages could arise from so perilous and remote a navigation. Others, with a foresight peculiar to Politicians, were alarmed, lest the Egyptian Sultan, who was powerful in the East, should signify his displeasure; and others foresaw, that success would combine all the Princes of Christendom in a league for the destruction of Portugal. In short, if glory, interest, or the propagation of the gospel, were desired, Africa and Ethiopia, they said, afforded, both nearer and more advantageous fields. The expressions of the thousands who crouded the shore when Gama gave his sails to the wind, are thus expressed by Osorius, from whom the above facts are selected.— A multis tamen interim is fletus atque lamentatio fiebat, ut funus efferre viderentur. Sic enim dicebant: En quo miseros mortales provexit cupiditas et ambitio? Potuitne gravius supplicium hominibus istis constitui, si in se scelestum aliquod facinus admisissent? Est enim illis immensi maris longitudo peragranda, fluctus immanes difficillima navigatione superandi, vitæ discrimen in locis infinitis obeundum. Non fuit multò tolerabilius, in terra quovis genere mortis absumi, quàm tam procul à patria marinis fluctibus sepeliri. Hæc et alia multa in hanc sententiam dicebant, cùm omnia multò tristiora fingere præ metu cogerentur. —The tender emotion and fixt resolution of Gama, and the earnest passion of the multitudes on the shore, are thus added by the same venerable historian: Gama tamen quamvis lacrymas suorum desiderio funderet, rei tamen benè gerendæ fiducia confirmatus, alacriter in navem faustis ominibus conscendit. . . . . . Qui in littore consistebant, non prius abscedere voluerunt, quàm naves vento secundo plenissimis velis ab omnium conspectu remotæ sunt.
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