The Lusiad Part 18

Instant, amid their golden ringlets strove Each flow'ret, planted by the hand of Love; At strife, who first th' enamour'd powers to gain, Who rule the tempests and the waves restrain: Bright as a starry band the Nereids shone, Instant old Eolus' sons their presence[437] own; The winds die faintly, and, in softest sighs, Each at his fair one's feet desponding lies: The bright Orithia, threatening, sternly chides The furious Boreas, and his faith derides; The furious Boreas owns her powerful bands: Fair Galatea, with a smile commands The raging Notus, for his love, how true, His fervent pa.s.sion and his faith she knew.

Thus, every nymph her various lover chides; The silent winds are fetter'd by their brides; And, to the G.o.ddess of celestial loves, Mild as her look, and gentle as her doves, In flow'ry bands are brought. Their am'rous flame The queen approves, and "ever burn the same,"

She cries, and joyful on the nymphs' fair hands, Th' Eolian race receive the queen's commands, And vow, that henceforth her Armada's sails Should gently swell with fair propitious gales.[438]

Now, morn, serene, in dappled grey arose O'er the fair lawns where murm'ring Ganges flows; Pale shone the wave beneath the golden beam, Blue, o'er the silver flood, Malabria's mountains gleam; The sailors on the main-top's airy round, "Land, land!" aloud with waving hands resound; Aloud the pilot of Melinda cries, "Behold, O chief, the sh.o.r.es of India rise!"

Elate, the joyful crew on tip-toe trod, And every breast with swelling raptures glow'd; GAMA's great soul confess'd the rushing swell, p.r.o.ne on his manly knees the hero fell; "O bounteous heav'n!" he cries, and spreads his hands To bounteous heav'n, while boundless joy commands No further word to flow. In wonder lost, As one in horrid dreams through whirlpools toss'd, Now, s.n.a.t.c.h'd by demons, rides the flaming air, And howls, and hears the howlings of despair; Awak'd, amaz'd, confus'd with transport glows, And, trembling still, with troubled joy o'erflows; So, yet affected with the sickly weight Left by the horrors of the dreadful night, The hero wakes, in raptures to behold The Indian sh.o.r.es before his prows unfold: Bounding, he rises, and, with eyes on fire, Surveys the limits of his proud desire.

O glorious chief, while storms and oceans rav'd, What hopeless toils thy dauntless valour brav'd!

By toils like thine the brave ascend to heav'n, By toils like thine immortal fame is giv'n.

Not he, who daily moves in ermine gown, Who nightly slumbers on the couch of down; Who proudly boasts through heroes old to trace The lordly lineage of his t.i.tled race; Proud of the smiles of every courtier lord, A welcome guest at every courtier's board; Not he, the feeble son of ease, may claim Thy wreath, O GAMA, or may hope thy fame.

'Tis he, who nurtur'd on the tented field, From whose brown cheek each tint of fear expell'd, With manly face unmov'd, secure, serene, Amidst the thunders of the deathful scene, From horror's mouth dares s.n.a.t.c.h the warrior's crown, His own his honours, all his fame his own: Who, proudly just to honour's stern commands, The dogstar's rage on Afric's burning sands, Or the keen air of midnight polar skies, Long watchful by the helm, alike defies: Who, on his front, the trophies of the wars, Bears his proud knighthood's badge, his honest scars; Who, cloth'd in steel, by thirst, by famine worn, Through raging seas by bold ambition borne, Scornful of gold, by n.o.blest ardour fir'd, Each wish by mental dignity inspir'd, Prepar'd each ill to suffer, or to dare, To bless mankind, his great, his only care; Him whom her son mature Experience owns, Him, him alone Heroic Glory crowns.

Once more the translator is tempted to confess his opinion, that the contrary practice of Homer and Virgil affords, in reality, no reasonable objection against the exclamatory exuberances of Camoens. Homer, though the father of the epic poem, has his exuberances, which violently trespa.s.s against the first rule of the epopea, the unity of the action.

A rule which, strictly speaking, is not outraged by the digressive exclamations of Camoens. The one now before us, as the severest critic must allow, is happily adapted to the subject of the book. The great dangers which the hero had hitherto encountered are particularly described. He is afterwards brought in safety to the Indian sh.o.r.e, the object of his ambition, and of all his toils. The exclamation, therefore, on the grand hinge of the poem has its propriety, and discovers the warmth of its author's genius. It must also please, as it is strongly characteristic of the temper of our military poet. The manly contempt with which he speaks of the luxurious, inactive courtier, and the delight and honour with which he talks of the toils of the soldier, present his own active life to the reader of sensibility. His campaigns in Africa, where in a gallant attack he lost an eye, his dangerous life at sea, and the military fatigues, and the battles in which he bore an honourable share in India, rise to our idea, and possess us with an esteem and admiration of our martial poet, who thus could look back with a gallant enthusiasm (though his modesty does not mention himself) on all the hardships he had endured; who thus could bravely esteem the dangers to which he had been exposed, and by which he had severely suffered, as the most desirable occurrences of his life, and the ornament of his name.

END OF THE SIXTH BOOK.

BOOK VII.

THE ARGUMENT.

The poet, having expatiated on the glorious achievements of the Portuguese, describes the Germans, English, French, and Italians, reproaching them for their profane wars and luxury, while they ought to have been employed in opposing the enemies of the Christian faith. He then describes the western peninsula of India--the sh.o.r.es of Malabar--and Calicut, the capital of the Zamorim, where Gama had landed.

Monsaide, a Moor of Barbary, is met with, who addresses Gama in Spanish, and offers to serve him as interpreter, Monsaide gives him a particular account of everything in India. The Zamorim invites Gama to an audience.

The catual, or prime minister, with his officers, visits the ships, and embraces the opportunity of asking Gama to relate to him the history of Portugal.

Hail glorious chief![439] where never chief before Forc'd his bold way, all hail on India's sh.o.r.e!

And hail, Ye Lusian heroes, fair and wide What groves of palm, to haughty Rome denied, For you by Ganges' length'ning banks unfold!

What laurel-forests on the sh.o.r.es of gold For you their honours ever verdant rear, Proud, with their leaves, to twine the Lusian spear!

Ah Heav'n! what fury Europe's sons controls!

What self-consuming discord fires their souls!

'Gainst her own breast her sword Germania turns, Through all her states fraternal rancour burns;[440]

Some, blindly wand'ring, holy faith disclaim,[441]

And, fierce through all, wild rages civil flame.

High sound the t.i.tles of the English crown, "King of Jerusalem,"[442] his old renown!

Alas, delighted with an airy name, The thin, dim shadow of departed fame, England's stern monarch, sunk in soft repose, Luxurious riots mid his northern snows: Or, if the starting burst of rage succeed, His brethren are his foes, and Christians bleed; While Hagar's brutal race his t.i.tles stain, } In weeping Salem unmolested reign, } And with their rites impure her holy shrines profane. } And thou, O Gaul,[443] with gaudy trophies plum'd.

"Most Christian" nam'd; alas, in vain a.s.sum'd!

What impious l.u.s.t of empire steels thy breast[444]

From their just lords the Christian lands to wrest!

While holy faith's hereditary foes[445]

Possess the treasures where Cynifio flows;[446]

And all secure, behold their harvests smile In waving gold along the banks of Nile.

And thou, O lost to glory, lost to fame, Thou dark oblivion of thy ancient name, By every vicious luxury debas'd, Each n.o.ble pa.s.sion from thy breast eras'd, Nerveless in sloth, enfeebling arts thy boast, O Italy, how fall'n, how low, how lost![447]

In vain, to thee, the call of glory sounds, Thy sword alone thy own soft bosom wounds.

Ah, Europe's sons, ye brother-powers, in you The fables old of Cadmus[448] now are true; Fierce rose the brothers from the dragon teeth, And each fell, crimson'd with a brother's death.

So, fall the bravest of the Christian name,[449]

While dogs unclean[450] Messiah's lore blaspheme, And howl their curses o'er the holy tomb, While to the sword the Christian race they doom.

From age to age, from sh.o.r.e to distant sh.o.r.e, By various princes led, their legions pour; United all in one determin'd aim, From ev'ry land to blot the Christian name.

Then wake, ye brother-powers, combin'd awake, And, from the foe the great example take.

If empire tempt ye, lo, the East expands, Fair and immense, her summer-garden lands: There, boastful Wealth displays her radiant store; Pactol and Hermus' streams, o'er golden ore, Roll their long way; but, not for you they flow, Their treasures blaze on the stern sultan's brow: For him a.s.syria plies the loom of gold, And Afric's sons their deepest mines unfold To build his haughty throne. Ye western powers, To throw the mimic bolt of Jove is yours, Yours all the art to wield the arms of fire, Then, bid the thunders of the dreadful tire Against the walls of dread Byzantium[451] roar, Till, headlong driven from Europe's ravish'd sh.o.r.e To their cold Scythian wilds, and dreary dens, By Caspian mountains, and uncultur'd fens, (Their fathers' seats beyond the Wolgian Lake,[452]) The barb'rous race of Saracen betake.

And hark, to you the woful Greek exclaims; The Georgian fathers and th' Armenian dames, Their fairest offspring from their bosoms torn, (A dreadful tribute!)[453] loud imploring mourn.

Alas, in vain! their offspring captive led, In Hagar's[454] sons' unhallow'd temples bred, To rapine train'd, arise a brutal host, The Christian terror, and the Turkish boast.

Yet sleep, ye powers of Europe, careless sleep, To you in vain your eastern brethren weep; Yet, not in vain their woe-wrung tears shall sue, Though small the Lusian realms, her legions few, The guardian oft by Heav'n ordain'd before, The Lusian race shall guard Messiah's lore.

When Heav'n decreed to crush the Moorish foe Heav'n gave the Lusian spear to strike the blow.

When Heav'n's own laws o'er Afric's sh.o.r.es were heard, The sacred shrines the Lusian heroes rear'd;[455]

Nor shall their zeal in Asia's bounds expire, Asia, subdu'd, shall fume with hallow'd fire.

When the red sun the Lusian sh.o.r.e forsakes, And on the lap of deepest west[456] awakes, O'er the wild plains, beneath unincens'd skies The sun shall view the Lusian altars rise.

And, could new worlds by human step be trod, Those worlds should tremble at the Lusian nod.[457]

And now, their ensigns blazing o'er the tide, On India's sh.o.r.e the Lusian heroes ride.

High to the fleecy clouds resplendent far Appear the regal towers of Malabar, Imperial Calicut,[458] the lordly seat Of the first monarch of the Indian state.

Right to the port the valiant GAMA bonds, With joyful shouts, a fleet of boats attends: Joyful, their nets they leave and finny prey, And, crowding round the Lusians, point the way.

A herald now, by VASCO'S high command Sent to the monarch, treads the Indian strand; The sacred staff he bears, in gold he shines, And tells his office by majestic signs.

As, to and fro, rec.u.mbent to the gale, The harvest waves along the yellow dale, So, round the herald press the wond'ring throng, Rec.u.mbent waving as they pour along, And much his manly port and strange attire, And much his fair and ruddy hue admire: When, speeding through the crowd, with eager haste, And honest smiles, a son of Afric press'd; Enrapt with joy the wond'ring herald hears Castilia's manly tongue salute his ears.[459]

"What friendly angel from thy Tago's sh.o.r.e Has led thee hither?" cries the joyful Moor.

Then, hand in hand (the pledge of faith) conjoin'd-- "Oh joy beyond the dream of hope to find, To hear a kindred voice," the Lusian cried, "Beyond unmeasur'd gulfs and seas untried; Untried, before our daring keels explor'd Our fearless way! O Heav'n, what tempests roar'd, While, round the vast of Afric's southmost land, Our eastward bowsprits sought the Indian strand!"

Amaz'd, o'erpower'd, the friendly stranger stood-- "A path now open'd through the boundless flood!

The hope of ages, and the dread despair, Accomplish'd now, and conquer'd!"--Stiff his hair Rose thrilling, while his lab'ring thoughts pursued The dreadful course by GAMA'S fate subdued.

Homeward, with gen'rous warmth o'erflow'd, he leads The Lusian guest, and swift the feast succeeds; The purple grape, and golden fruitage smile; And each choice viand of the Indian soil Heap'd o'er the board, the master's zeal declare; The social feast the guest and master share: The sacred pledge of eastern faith[460] approv'd, By wrath unalter'd, and by wrong unmov'd.

Now, to the fleet the joyful herald bends, With earnest pace the Heav'n-sent friend attends: Now, down the river's sweepy stream they glide, And now, their pinnace cuts the briny tide: The Moor, with transport sparkling in his eyes, The well-known make of GAMA'S navy spies, The bending bowsprit, and the mast so tall, The sides black, frowning as a castle wall, The high-tower'd stern, the lordly nodding prore, And the broad standard slowly waving o'er The anchor's moony[461] fangs. The skiff he leaves, Brave GAMA'S deck his bounding step receives; And, "Hail!" he cries: in transport GAMA sprung, And round his neck with friendly welcome hung; Enrapt, so distant o'er the dreadful main, To hear the music of the tongue of Spain.

And now, beneath a painted shade of state, Beside the admiral, the stranger sat.

Of India's clime, the natives, and the laws, What monarch sways them, what religion awes?

Why from the tombs devoted to his sires The son so far? the valiant chief inquires.

In act to speak the stranger waves his hand, The joyful crew in silent wonder stand, Each gently pressing on, with greedy ear, As erst the bending forests stoop'd to hear In Rhodope,[462] when Orpheus' heavenly strain, Deplor'd his lost Eurydice in vain; While, with a mien that gen'rous friendship won From ev'ry heart, the stranger thus began:--

"Your glorious deeds, ye Lusians, well I know, To neighb'ring earth the vital air I owe; Yet--though my faith the Koran's lore revere; So taught my sires; my birth at proud Tangier, A hostile clime to Lisbon's awful name-- I glow, enraptur'd, o'er the Lusian fame; Proud though your nation's warlike glories shine, These proudest honours yield, O chief, to thine; Beneath thy dread achievements low they fall, And India's sh.o.r.e, discover'd, crowns them all.

Won by your fame, by fond affection sway'd, A friend I come, and offer friendship's aid.

As, on my lips Castilia's language glows, So, from my tongue the speech of India flows: Mozaide my name, in India's court belov'd, For honest deeds (but time shall speak) approv'd.

When India's monarch greets his court again, (For now the banquet on the tented plain: And sylvan chase his careless hours employ),[463]

When India's mighty lord, with wond'ring joy, Shall hail you welcome on his s.p.a.cious sh.o.r.e Through oceans never plough'd by keel before, Myself shall glad interpreter attend, Mine ev'ry office of the faithful friend.

Ah! but a stream, the labour of the oar, Divides my birthplace from your native sh.o.r.e; On sh.o.r.es unknown, in distant worlds, how sweet The kindred tongue, the kindred face, to greet!

Such now my joy; and such, O Heav'n, be yours!

Yes, bounteous Heav'n your glad success secures.

Till now impervious, Heav'n alone subdued The various horrors of the trackless flood: Heav'n sent you here for some great work divine, And Heav'n inspires my breast your sacred toils to join.

"Vast are the sh.o.r.es of India's wealthful soil; Southward sea-girt she forms a demi-isle: His cavern'd cliffs with dark-brow'd forests crown'd, Hemodian Taurus[464] frowns her northern bound: From Caspia's lake th' enormous mountain[464] spreads, And, bending eastward, rears a thousand heads: Far to extremest sea the ridges thrown, By various names, through various tribes are known: Here down the waste of Taurus' rocky side Two infant rivers pour the crystal tide, Indus the one, and one the Ganges nam'd, Darkly of old through distant nations fam'd: One eastward curving holds his crooked way, One to the west gives his swoll'n tide to stray: Declining southward many a land they lave, And, widely swelling, roll the sea-like wave, Till the twin offspring of the mountain sire Both in the Indian deep engulf'd expire: Between these streams, fair smiling to the day, The Indian lands their wide domains display, And many a league, far to the south they bend, From the broad region where the rivers end, Till, where the sh.o.r.es to Ceylon's isle oppose, In conic form the Indian regions close.

To various laws the various tribes incline, And various are the rites esteem'd divine: Some, as from Heav'n, receive the Koran's lore, Some the dread monsters of the wild adore; Some bend to wood and stone the prostrate head, And rear unhallow'd altars to the dead.

By Ganges' banks, as wild traditions tell,[465]

Of old the tribes liv'd healthful by the smell; No food they knew, such fragrant vapours rose Rich from the flow'ry lawns where Ganges flows: Here now the Delhian, and the fierce Pathan, Feed their fair flocks; and here, a heathen clan, Stern Dekhan's sons the fertile valleys till, A clan, whose hope to shun eternal ill, Whose trust from ev'ry stain of guilt to save, Is fondly plac'd in Ganges' holy wave;[466]

If to the stream the breathless corpse be giv'n They deem the spirit wings her way to heav'n.

Here by the mouths, where hallow'd Ganges ends, Bengala's beauteous Eden wide extends, Unrivall'd smile her fair luxurious vales: And here Cambaya[467] spreads her palmy dales; A warlike realm, where still the martial race From Porus,[468] fam'd of yore, their lineage trace.

Narsinga[469] here displays her s.p.a.cious line, In native gold her sons and ruby shine: Alas, how vain! these gaudy sons of fear, Trembling, bow down before each hostile spear.

And now, behold!"--and while he spoke he rose, Now, with extended arm, the prospect shows,-- "Behold these mountain tops of various size Blend their dim ridges with the fleecy skies: Nature's rude wall, against the fierce Canar[470]