The Lusiad; Or, The Discovery of India, an Epic Poem
Long yet, and various lies my arduous way
Through low'ring tempests and a boundless sea.
Oh then, propitious hear your son implore,
And guide my vessel to the happy shore.
Ah! see how long what perilous days, what woes
On many a foreign coast around me rose,
As, dragg'd by Fortune's chariot-wheels along,
I sooth'd my sorrows with the warlike song:[491]
Wide ocean's horrors length'ning now around,
And, now my footsteps trod the hostile ground;
Yet, mid each danger of tumultuous war
Your Lusian heroes ever claim'd my care:
As Canace[492] of old, ere self-destroy'd,
One hand the pen, and one the sword employ'd,
Degraded now, by poverty abhorr'd,
The guest dependent at the lordling's board:
Now blest with all the wealth fond hope could crave,
Soon I beheld that wealth beneath the wave
For ever lost;[493] myself escap'd alone,
On the wild shore all friendless, hopeless, thrown;
My life, like Judah's heaven-doom'd king of yore,[494]
By miracle prolong'd; yet not the more
To end my sorrows: woes succeeding woes
Belied my earnest hopes of sweet repose:
In place of bays around my brows to shed
Their sacred honours, o'er my destin'd head
Foul Calumny proclaim'd the fraudful tale,
And left me mourning in a dreary jail.[495]
Such was the meed, alas! on me bestow'd, }
Bestow'd by those for whom my numbers glow'd, }
By those who to my toils their laurel honours ow'd. }
Ye gentle nymphs of Tago's rosy bowers,
Ah, see what letter'd patron-lords are yours!
Dull as the herds that graze their flow'ry dales,
To them in vain the injur'd muse bewails:
No fost'ring care their barb'rous hands bestow,
Though to the muse their fairest fame they owe.
Ah, cold may prove the future priest of fame
Taught by my fate: yet, will I not disclaim
Your smiles, ye muses of Mondego's shade;
Be still my dearest joy your happy aid!
And hear my vow: Nor king, nor loftiest peer
Shall e'er from me the song of flatt'ry hear;
Nor crafty tyrant, who in office reigns,
Smiles on his king, and binds the land in chains;
His king's worst foe: nor he whose raging ire,
And raging wants, to shape his course, conspire;
True to the clamours of the blinded crowd,
Their changeful Proteus, insolent and loud:
Nor he whose honest mien secures applause,
Grave though he seem, and father of the laws,
Who, but half-patriot, niggardly denies
Each other's merit, and withholds the prize:
Who spurns the muse,[496] nor feels the raptur'd strain,
Useless by him esteem'd, and idly vain:
For him, for these, no wreath my hand shall twine;
On other brows th' immortal rays shall shine:
He who the path of honour ever trod,
True to his king, his country, and his God,
On his blest head my hands shall fix the crown
Wove of the deathless laurels of renown.
END OF THE SEVENTH BOOK.
BOOK VIII.
THE ARGUMENT.
Description of the pictures, given by Paulus. The heroes of Portugal,
from Lusus, one of the companions of Bacchus (who gave his name to
Portugal), and Ulysses, the founder of Lisbon, down to Don Pedro and Don
Henrique (Henry), the conquerors of Ceuta, are all represented in the
portraits of Gama, and are characterized by appropriate verses.
Meanwhile the zamorim has recourse to the oracles of his false gods, who
make him acquainted with the future dominion of the Portuguese over
India, and the consequent ruin of his empire. The Mohammedan Arabs
conspire against the Portuguese. The zamorim questions the truth of
Gama's statement, and charges him with being captain of a band of
pirates. Gama is obliged to give up to the Indians the whole of his
merchandise as ransom, when he obtains permission to re-embark. He
seizes several merchants of Calicut, whom he detains on board his ship
as hostages for his two factors, who were on land to sell his
merchandise. He afterwards liberates the natives, whom he exchanges for
his two companions. In Mickle's translation this portion of the original
is omitted, and the factors are released in consequence of a victory
gained by Gama.
With eye unmov'd the silent CATUAL[497] view'd
The pictur'd sire[498] with seeming life endu'd;
A verdant vine-bough waving in his right,
Smooth flow'd his sweepy beard of glossy white,
When thus, as swift the Moor unfolds the word,
The valiant Paulus to the Indian lord:--
"Bold though these figures frown, yet bolder far
These godlike heroes shin'd in ancient war.
In that hoar sire, of mien serene, august,
Lusus behold, no robber-chief unjust;
His cluster'd bough--the same which Bacchus bore[499]--
He waves, the emblem of his care of yore;
The friend of savage man, to Bacchus dear,
The son of Bacchus, or the bold compeer,
What time his yellow locks with vine-leaves curl'd,
The youthful god subdued the savage world,
Bade vineyards glisten o'er the dreary waste,
And humaniz'd the nations as he pass'd.
Lusus, the lov'd companion of the god,
In Spain's fair bosom fix'd his last abode,
Our kingdom founded, and illustrious reign'd
In those fair lawns, the bless'd Elysium feign'd,[500]
Where, winding oft, the Guadiana roves,
And Douro murmurs through, the flow'ry groves.
Here, with his bones, he left his deathless fame,
And Lusitania's clime shall ever bear his name.
That other chief th' embroider'd silk displays,
Toss'd o'er the deep whole years of weary days,
On Tago's banks, at last, his vows he paid:
To wisdom's godlike power, the Jove-born maid,[501]
Who fir'd his lips with eloquence divine,
On Tago's banks he rear'd the hallow'd shrine.
Ulysses he, though fated to destroy,
On Asian ground, the heav'n-built towers of Troy,[502]
On Europe's strand, more grateful to the skies,
He bade th' eternal walls of Lisbon rise."[503]
"But who that godlike terror of the plain,
Who strews the smoking field with heaps of slain?
What num'rous legions fly in dire dismay,
Whose standards wide the eagle's wings display?"
The pagan asks: the brother chief[504] replies:--
"Unconquer'd deem'd, proud Rome's dread standard flies,
His crook thrown by, fir'd by his nation's woes,
The hero-shepherd Viriatus rose;
His country sav'd proclaim'd his warlike fame,
And Rome's wide empire trembled at his name.
That gen'rous pride which Rome to Pyrrhus bore,[505]
To him they show'd not; for they fear'd him more.
Not on the field o'ercome by manly force,
Peaceful he slept; and now, a murder'd corse,
By treason slain, he lay. How stern, behold,
That other hero, firm, erect, and bold:
The power by which he boasted he divin'd,
Beside him pictur'd stands, the milk-white hind:
Injur'd by Rome, the stern Sertorius fled
To Tago's shore, and Lusus' offspring led;
Their worth he knew; in scatter'd flight he drove
The standards painted with the birds of Jove.
And lo, the flag whose shining colours own
The glorious founder of the Lusian throne!
Some deem the warrior of Hungarian race,[506]
Some from Lorraine the godlike hero trace.
From Tagus' banks the haughty Moor expell'd,
Galicia's sons, and and Leon's warriors quell'd,
To weeping Salem's[507] ever-hallow'd meads,
His warlike bands the holy Henry leads;
By holy war to sanctify his crown,
And, to his latest race, auspicious waft it down."
"And who this awful chief?" aloud exclaims
The wond'ring regent. "O'er the field he flames
In dazzling steel; where'er he bends his course
The battle sinks beneath his headlong force:
Against his troops, though few, the num'rous foes
In vain their spears and tow'ry walls oppose.
With smoking blood his armour sprinkled o'er,
High to the knees his courser paws in gore:
O'er crowns and blood-stain'd ensigns scatter'd round
He rides; his courser's brazen hoofs resound."
"In that great chief," the second GAMA cries,
"The first Alonzo[508] strikes thy wond'ring eyes.
From Lusus' realm the pagan Moors he drove;
Heav'n, whom he lov'd, bestow'd on him such love,
Beneath him, bleeding of its mortal wound,
The Moorish strength lay prostrate on the ground.
Nor Ammon's son, nor greater Julius dar'd
With troops so few, with hosts so num'rous warr'd:
Nor less shall Fame the subject heroes own:
Behold that hoary warrior's rageful frown!
On his young pupil's flight[509] his burning eyes
He darts, and, 'Turn thy flying host,' he cries,
'Back to the field!' The vet'ran and the boy
Back to the field exult with furious joy:
Their ranks mow'd down, the boastful foe recedes,
The vanquish'd triumph, and the victor bleeds.
Again, that mirror of unshaken faith,
Egaz behold, a chief self-doom'd to death.[510]
Beneath Castilia's sword his monarch lay;
Homage he vow'd his helpless king should pay;
His haughty king reliev'd, the treaty spurns,
With conscious pride the noble Egaz burns;
His comely spouse and infant race he leads,
Himself the same, in sentenced felons' weeds,
Around their necks the knotted halters bound,
With naked feet they tread the flinty ground;
And, prostrate now before Castilia's throne,
Their offer'd lives their monarch's pride atone.
Ah Rome! no more thy gen'rous consul boast.[511]
Whose 'lorn submission sav'd his ruin'd host:
No father's woes assail'd his stedfast mind;
The dearest ties the Lusian chief resign'd.
"There, by the stream, a town besieged behold,
The Moorish tents the shatter'd walls enfold.
Fierce as the lion from the covert springs,
When hunger gives his rage the whirlwind's wings;
From ambush, lo, the valiant Fuaz pours,
And whelms in sudden rout th'astonish'd Moors.
The Moorish king[512] in captive chains he sends;
And, low at Lisbon's throne, the royal captive bends.
Fuaz again the artist's skill displays;
Far o'er the ocean shine his ensign's rays:
In crackling flames the Moorish galleys fly,
And the red blaze ascends the blushing sky:
O'er Avila's high steep the flames aspire,
And wrap the forests in a sheet of fire:
There seem the waves beneath the prows to boil;
And distant, far around for many a mile,
The glassy deep reflects the ruddy blaze;
Far on the edge the yellow light decays,
And blends with hov'ring blackness. Great and dread
Thus shone the day when first the combat bled,
The first our heroes battled on the main,
The glorious prelude of our naval reign,
Which, now the waves beyond the burning zone,
And northern Greenland's frost-bound billows own.
Again behold brave Fuaz dares the fight!
O'erpower'd he sinks beneath the Moorish might;
Smiling in death the martyr-hero lies,
And lo, his soul triumphant mounts the skies.
Here now, behold, in warlike pomp portray'd,
A foreign navy brings the pious aid.[513]
Lo, marching from the decks the squadrons spread,
Strange their attire, their aspect firm and dread.
The holy cross their ensigns bold display,
To Salem's aid they plough'd the wat'ry way:
Yet first, the cause the same, on Tago's shore
They dye their maiden swords in pagan gore.
Proud stood the Moor on Lisbon's warlike towers,
From Lisbon's walls they drive the Moorish powers:
Amid the thickest of the glorious fight,
Lo, Henry falls, a gallant German knight,