And now, aloft her wond'ring voice she rais'd,And, with a thousand glowing tongues, she prais'dThe bold discoverers of the eastern world—In gentle swells the list'ning surges curl'd,And murmur'd to the sounds of plaintive loveAlong the grottoes where the Nereids rove.The drowsy power on whose smooth easy mienThe smiles of wonder and delight are seen,Whose glossy, simp'ring eye bespeaks her name,Credulity, attends the goddess Fame.Fir'd by the heroes' praise, the wat'ry gods,[572]With ardent speed forsake their deep abodes;Their rage by vengeful Bacchus rais'd of late,Now stung remorse, and love succeeds to hate.Ah, where remorse in female bosom bleeds,The tend'rest love in all its glow succeeds.When fancy glows, how strong, O Love, thy power!Nor slipp'd the eager god the happy hour;Swift fly his arrows o'er the billowy main,Wing'd with his fires, nor flies a shaft in vain:{272}Thus, ere the face the lover's breast inspires,The voice of fame awakes the soft desires.While from the bow-string start the shafts divine,His ivory moon's wide horns incessant join,Swift twinkling to the view: and wide he pours,Omnipotent in love, his arrowy showers.E'en Thetis' self confess'd the tender smart,And pour'd the murmurs of the wounded heart:Soft o'er the billows pants the am'rous sigh;With wishful languor melting on each eyeThe love-sick nymphs explore the tardy sailsThat waft the heroes on the ling'ring gales.Give way, ye lofty billows, low subside,Smooth as the level plain, your swelling pride,Lo, Venus comes! Oh, soft, ye surges, sleep,Smooth be the bosom of the azure deep,Lo, Venus comes! and in her vig'rous trainShe brings the healing balm of love-sick pain.White as her swans,[573]and stately as they rearTheir snowy crests when o'er the lake they steer,Slow moving on, behold, the fleet appears,And o'er the distant billow onward steers.The beauteous Nereids, flush'd in all their charms,Surround the goddess of the soft alarms:Right to the isle she leads the smiling train,And all her arts her balmy lips explain;The fearful languor of the asking eye,The lovely blush of yielding modesty,The grieving look, the sigh, the fav'ring smile,And all th' endearments of the open wile,She taught the nymphs—in willing breasts that heav'dTo hear her lore, her lore the nymphs receiv'd.{273}As now triumphant to their native shoreThrough the wide deep the joyful navy bore,Earnest the pilot's eyes sought cape or bay,For long was yet the various wat'ry way;Sought cape or isle, from whence their boats might bringThe healthful bounty of the crystal spring:When sudden, all in nature's pride array'd,The Isle of Love its glowing breast display'd.O'er the green bosom of the dewy lawnSoft blazing flow'd the silver of the dawn,The gentle waves the glowing lustre share,Arabia's balm was sprinkled o'er the air.Before the fleet, to catch the heroes' view,The floating isle fair Acidalia drew:Soon as the floating verdure caught their sight,[574]She fix'd, unmov'd, the island of delight.So when in child-birth of her Jove-sprung load,The sylvan goddess and the bowyer god,In friendly pity of Latona's woes,[575]Amid the waves the Delian isle arose.And now, led smoothly o'er the furrow'd tide,Right to the isle of joy the vessels glide:The bay they enter, where on ev'ry hand,Around them clasps the flower-enamell'd land;A safe retreat, where not a blast may shakeIts flutt'ring pinions o'er the stilly lake.{274}With purple shells, transfus'd as marble veins,The yellow sands celestial Venus stains.With graceful pride three hills of softest greenRear their fair bosoms o'er the sylvan scene;Their sides embroider'd boast the rich arrayOf flow'ry shrubs in all the pride of May;The purple lotus and the snowy thorn,And yellow pod-flowers ev'ry slope adorn.From the green summits of the leafy hillsDescend, with murm'ring lapse, three limpid rills:Beneath the rose-trees loit'ring, slow they glide,Now, tumbles o'er some rock their crystal pride;Sonorous now, they roll adown the glade,Now, plaintive tinkle in the secret shade,Now, from the darkling grove, beneath the beamOf ruddy morn, like melted silver stream,Edging the painted margins of the bowers,And breathing liquid freshness on the flowers.Here, bright reflected in the pool below,The vermeil apples tremble on the bough;Where o'er the yellow sands the waters sleepThe primros'd banks, inverted, dew-drops weep;Where murm'ring o'er the pebbles purls the streamThe silver trouts in playful curvings gleam.Long thus, and various, ev'ry riv'let strays,Till closing, now, their long meand'ring maze,Where in a smiling vale the mountains end,Form'd in a crystal lake the waters blend:[576]Fring'd was the border with a woodland shade,In ev'ry leaf of various green array'd,Each yellow-ting'd, each mingling tint betweenThe dark ash-verdure and the silv'ry green.{275}The trees, now bending forward, slowly shakeTheir lofty honours o'er the crystal lake;Now, from the flood the graceful boughs retireWith coy reserve, and now again admireTheir various liv'ries, by the summer dress'd,Smooth-gloss'd and soften'd in the mirror's breast.So, by her glass the wishful virgin stays,And, oft retiring, steals the ling'ring gaze.A thousand boughs aloft to heav'n displayTheir fragrant apples, shining to the day;The orange here perfumes the buxom air,And boasts the golden hue of Daphne's hair.[577]Near to the ground each spreading bough descends,Beneath her yellow load the citron bends;{276}The fragrant lemon scents the cooly grove;Fair as (when rip'ning for the days of love)The virgin's breasts the gentle swell avow,So, the twin fruitage swell on every bough.Wild forest-trees the mountain sides array'dWith curling foliage and romantic shade:Here spreads the poplar, to Alcides dear;And dear to Phœbus, ever verdant here,The laurel joins the bowers for ever green,The myrtle bowers belov'd of beauty's queen.To Jove the oak his wide-spread branches rears;And high to heav'n the fragrant cedar bears;Where through the glades appear the cavern'd rocks,The lofty pine-tree waves her sable locks;Sacred to Cybělē the whisp'ring pineLoves the wild grottoes where the white cliffs shine;Here towers the cypress, preacher to the wise,Less'ning from earth her spiral honours rise,Till, as a spear-point rear'd, the topmost sprayPoints to the Eden of eternal day.Here round her fost'ring elm the smiling vine,In fond embraces, gives her arms to twine,The num'rous clusters pendant from the boughs,The green here glistens, here the purple glows;For, here the genial seasons of the yearDanc'd hand in hand, no place for winter here;His grisly visage from the shore expell'd,United sway the smiling seasons held.Around the swelling fruits of deep'ning red,Their snowy hues the fragrant blossoms spread;Between the bursting buds of lucid greenThe apple's ripe vermilion blush is seen;For here each gift Pomona's hand bestowsIn cultur'd garden, free, uncultur'd flows,The flavour sweeter, and the hue more fair,Than e'er was foster'd by the hand of care.The cherry here in shining crimson glows;And, stain'd with lover's blood,[578]in pendent rows,{277}The bending boughs the mulberries o'erload;The bending boughs caress'd by Zephyr nod.The gen'rous peach, that strengthens in exileFar from his native earth, the Persian soil,The velvet peach, of softest glossy blue,Hangs by the pomegranate of orange hue,Whose open heart a brighter red displaysThan that which sparkles in the ruby's blaze.Here, trembling with their weight, the branches bear,Delicious as profuse, the tap'ring pear.For thee, fair fruit, the songsters of the groveWith hungry bills from bower to arbour rove.Ah, if ambitious thou wilt own the careTo grace the feast of heroes and the fair,Soft let the leaves, with grateful umbrage, hideThe green-tinged orange of thy mellow side.A thousand flowers of gold, of white and red,Far o'er the shadowy vale[579]their carpets spread,Of fairer tap'stry, and of richer bloom,Than ever glow'd in Persia's boasted loom:As glitt'ring rainbows o'er the verdure thrown,O'er every woodland walk th' embroid'ry shone.Here o'er the wat'ry mirror's lucid bedNarcissus, self-enamour'd, hangs the head;And here, bedew'd with love's celestial tears,The woe-mark'd flower of slain Adonis rears[580]{278}Its purple head, prophetic of the reignWhen lost Adonis shall revive again.At strife appear the lawns and purpled skies,Which from each other stole the beauteous dyes:[581]The lawn in all Aurora's lustre glows,Aurora steals the blushes of the rose,The rose displays the blushes that adornThe spotless virgin on the nuptial morn.Zephyr and Flora emulous conspireTo breathe their graces o'er the field's attire;The one gives healthful freshness, one the hueFairer than e'er creative pencil drew.Pale as the love-sick hopeless maid they dyeThe modest violet; from the curious eyeThe modest violet turns her gentle head,And, by the thorn, weeps o'er her lowly bed.Bending beneath the tears of pearly dawnThe snow-white lily glitters o'er the lawn;{279}Low from the bough reclines the damask rose,And o'er the lily's milk-white bosom glows.Fresh in the dew, far o'er the painted dales,Each fragrant herb her sweetest scent exhales.The hyacinth bewrays the dolefulAi,[582]And calls the tribute of Apollo's sigh;Still on its bloom the mournful flower retainsThe lovely blue that dy'd the stripling's veins.Pomona, fir'd with rival envy, viewsThe glaring pride of Flora's darling hues;Where Flora bids the purple iris spread,She hangs the wilding's blossom white and red;Where wild-thyme purples, where the daisy snowsThe curving slopes, the melon's pride she throws;Where by the stream the lily of the vale,Primrose, and cowslip meek, perfume the gale,Beneath the lily, and the cowslip's bell,The scarlet strawberries luxurious swell.Nor these alone the teeming Eden yields,Each harmless bestial crops the flow'ry fields;And birds of ev'ry note, and ev'ry wing,Their loves responsive thro' the branches sing:In sweet vibrations thrilling o'er the skies,High pois'd in air, the lark his warbling tries;The swan, slow sailing o'er the crystal lake,Tunes his melodious note; from ev'ry brakeThe glowing strain the nightingale returns,And, in the bowers of love, the turtle mourns.Pleas'd to behold his branching horns appear,O'er the bright fountain bends the fearless deer;The hare starts trembling from the bushy shade,And, swiftly circling, crosses oft the glade.{280}Where from the rocks the bubbling founts distil,The milk-white lambs come bleating down the hill;The dappled heifer seeks the vales below,And from the thicket springs the bounding doe.To his lov'd nest, on fondly flutt'ring wings,In chirping bill the little songster bringsThe food untasted; transport thrills his breast;'Tis nature's touch, 'tis instinct's heav'n-like feast.Thus bower and lawn were deck'd with Eden's flowers,And song and joy imparadis'd the bowers.And soon the fleet their ready anchors threw:Lifted on eager tip-toe at the view,On nimble feet that bounded to the strandThe second Argonauts[583]elance to land.Wide o'er the beauteous isle[584]the lovely fairStray through the distant glades, devoid of care.{281}From lowly valley and from mountain groveThe lovely nymphs renew the strains of love.{282}Here from the bowers that crown the plaintive rillThe solemn harp's melodious warblings thrill;Here from the shadows of the upland grotThe mellow lute renews the swelling note.As fair Diana, and her virgin train,Some gaily ramble o'er the flow'ry plain,In feign'd pursuit of hare or bounding roe,Their graceful mien and beauteous limbs to show;Now seeming careless, fearful now and coy,(So, taught the goddess of unutter'd joy),And, gliding through the distant glades, displayEach limb, each movement, naked as the day.Some, light with glee, in careless freedom takeTheir playful revels in the crystal lake;One trembling stands no deeper than the kneeTo plunge reluctant, while in sportful gleeAnother o'er her sudden laves the tide;In pearly drops the wishful waters glide,Reluctant dropping from her breasts of snow;Beneath the wave another seems to glow;The am'rous waves her bosom fondly kiss'd,And rose and fell, as panting, on her breast.Another swims along with graceful pride,Her silver arms the glist'ning waves divide,Her shining sides the fondling waters lave,Her glowing cheeks are brighten'd by the wave,Her hair, of mildest yellow, flows from sideTo side, as o'er it plays the wanton tide,And, careless as she turns, her thighs of snowTheir tap'ring rounds in deeper lustre show.Some gallant Lusians sought the woodland prey,And, thro' the thickets, forc'd the pathless way;{283}Where some, in shades impervious to the beam,Supinely listen'd to the murm'ring stream:When sudden, through the boughs, the various dyesOf pink, of scarlet, and of azure rise,Swift from the verdant banks the loit'rers spring,Down drops the arrow from the half-drawn string:Soon they behold 'twas not the rose's hue,The jonquil's yellow, nor the pansy's blue:Dazzling the shades the nymphs appear—the zoneAnd flowing scarf in gold and azure shone.Naked as Venus stood in Ida's bower,Some trust the dazzling charms of native power;Through the green boughs and darkling shades they showThe shining lustre of their native snow,And every tap'ring, every rounded swellOf thigh, of bosom, as they glide, reveal.As visions, cloth'd in dazzling white, they rise,Then steal unnoted from the flurried eyes:Again apparent, and again, withdrawn,They shine and wanton o'er the smiling lawn.Amaz'd and lost in rapture of surprise,"All joy, my friends!" the braveVelosocries,"Whate'er of goddesses old fable told,Or poet sung of sacred groves, behold.Sacred to goddesses divinely brightThese beauteous forests own their guardian might.From eyes profane, from ev'ry age conceal'd,To us, behold, all Paradise reveal'd!Swift let us try if phantoms of the air,Or living charms, appear divinely fair!"Swift at the word the gallant Lusians bound,Their rapid footsteps scarcely touch the ground;Through copse, through brake, impatient of their prey,Swift as the wounded deer, they spring away:Fleet through the winding shades, in rapid flight,The nymphs, as wing'd with terror, fly their sight;Fleet though they fled, the mild reverted eyeAnd dimpling smile their seeming fear deny.Fleet through the shades in parted rout they glide:If winding path the chosen pairs divide,{284}Another path by sweet mistake betrays,And throws the lover on the lover's gaze:If dark-brow'd bower conceal the lovely fair,The laugh, the shriek, confess the charmer there.Luxurious here the wanton zephyrs toy,And ev'ry fondling fav'ring art employ.Fleet as the fair ones speed, the busy galeIn wanton frolic lifts the trembling veil;White though the veil, in fairer brighter glow,The lifted robe displays the living snow:Quick flutt'ring on the gale the robe conceals,Then instant to the glance each charm reveals;Reveals, and covers from the eyes on fire,Reveals, and with the shade inflames desire.One, as her breathless lover hastens on,With wily stumble sudden lies o'erthrown;Confus'd, she rises with a blushing smile;The lover falls the captive of her guile:Tripp'd by the fair, he tumbles on the mead,The joyful victim of his eager speed.Afar, where sport the wantons in the lake,Another band of gallant youths betake;The laugh, the shriek, the revel and the toy,Bespeak the innocence of youthful joy.The laugh, the shriek, the gallant Lusians hearAs through the forest glades they chase the deer;For, arm'd, to chase the bounding roe they came,Unhop'd the transport of a nobler game.The naked wantons, as the youths appear,Shrill through the woods resound the shriek of fear.Some feign such terror of the forc'd embrace,Their virgin modesty to this gives place,Naked they spring to land, and speed awayTo deepest shades unpierc'd by glaring day;Thus, yielding freely to the am'rous eyesWhat to the am'rous hands their fear denies.Some well assume Diana's virgin shame,When on her naked sports the hunter[585]came{285}Unwelcome—plunging in the crystal tide,In vain they strive their beauteous limbs to hide;The lucid waves ('twas all they could) bestowA milder lustre and a softer glow.As, lost in earnest care of future need,Some to the banks, to snatch their mantles, speed,Of present view regardless; ev'ry wileWas yet, and ev'ry net of am'rous guile.Whate'er the terror of the feign'd alarm,Display'd, in various force, was ev'ry charm.Nor idle stood the gallant youth; the wingOf rapture lifts them, to the fair they spring;Some to the copse pursue their lovely prey;Some, cloth'd and shod, impatient of delay,Impatient of the stings of fierce desire,Plunge headlong in the tide to quench the fire.So, when the fowler to his cheek uprearsThe hollow steel, and on the mallard bears,His eager dog, ere bursts the flashing roar,Fierce for the prey, springs headlong from the shore,And barking, cuts the wave with furious joy:So, mid the billow springs each eager boy,Springs to the nymph whose eyes from all the restBy singling him her secret wish confess'd.A son of Mars was there, of gen'rous race,His ev'ry elegance of manly grace;Am'rous and brave, the bloom of April youthGlow'd on his cheek, his eye spoke simplest truth;Yet love, capricious to th' accomplish'd boy,Had ever turn'd to gall each promis'd joy,Had ever spurn'd his vows; yet still his heartWould hope, and nourish still the tender smart:The purest delicacy fann'd his fires,And proudest honour nurs'd his fond desires.Not on the first that fair before him glow'd,Not on the first the youth his love bestow'd.In all her charms the fair Ephyre came,And Leonardo's heart was all on flame.Affection's melting transport o'er him stole,And love's all gen'rous glow entranced his soul;{286}Of selfish joy unconscious, ev'ry thoughtOn sweet delirium's ocean stream'd afloat.Pattern of beauty did Ephyre shine,Nor less she wish'd these beauties to resign:More than her sisters long'd her heart to yield,Yet, swifter fled she o'er the smiling field.The youth now panting with the hopeless chase,"Oh turn," he cries, "oh turn thy angel face:False to themselves, can charms like these concealThe hateful rigour of relentless steel?And, did the stream deceive me, when I stoodAmid my peers reflected in the flood?The easiest port and fairest bloom I bore—False was the stream—while I in vain deplore,My peers are happy; lo, in ev'ry shade,In ev'ry bower, their love with love repaid!I, I alone through brakes, through thorns pursueA cruel fair. Ah, still my fate proves true,True to its rigour—who, fair nymph, to theeReveal'd 'twas I that sued! unhappy me!Born to be spurn'd though honesty inspire.Alas, I faint, my languid sinews tire;Oh stay thee—powerless to sustain their weightMy knees sink down, I sink beneath my fate!"He spoke; a rustling urges thro' the trees,Instant new vigour strings his active knees,Wildly he glares around, and raging cries,"And must another snatch my lovely prize!In savage grasp thy beauteous limbs constrain!I feel, I madden while I feel the pain!Oh lost, thou fli'st the safety of my arms,My hand shall guard thee, softly seize thy charms,No brutal rage inflames me, yet I burn!Die shall thy ravisher. O goddess, turn,And smiling view the error of my fear;No brutal force, no ravisher is near;A harmless roebuck gave the rustling sounds,Lo, from the thicket swift as thee he bounds!Ah, vain the hope to tire thee in the chase!I faint, yet hear, yet turn thy lovely face.Vain are thy fears; were ev'n thy will to yieldThe harvest of my hope, that harvest field{287}My fate would guard, and walls of brass would rearBetween my sickle and the golden ear.Yet fly me not; so may thy youthful primeNe'er fly thy cheek on the grey wing of time.Yet hear, the last my panting breath can say,Nor proudest kings, nor mightiest hosts can swayFate's dread decrees; yet thou, O nymph, divine,Yet thou canst more, yet thou canst conquer mine.Unmov'd each other yielding nymph I see;Joy to their lovers, for they touch not thee!But thee!—oh, every transport of desire,That melts to mingle with its kindred fire,For thee respires—alone I feel for theeThe dear wild rage of longing ecstasy:By all the flames of sympathy divineTo thee united, thou by right art mine.From thee, from thee the hallow'd transport flowsThat sever'd rages, and for union glows:Heav'n owns the claim. Hah, did the lightning glare:Yes, I beheld my rival, though the airGrew dim; ev'n now I heard him softly tread.Oh rage, he waits thee on the flow'ry bed!I see, I see thee rushing to his arms,And sinking on his bosom, all thy charmsTo him resigning in an eager kiss,All I implor'd, the whelming tide of bliss!And shall I see him riot on thy charms,Dissolv'd in joy, exulting in thine arms?Oh burst, ye lightnings, round my destin'd head,Oh pour your flashes——" Madd'ning as he said,[586]{288}Amid the windings of the bow'ry woodHis trembling footsteps still the nymph pursued.Woo'd to the flight she wing'd her speed to hearHis am'rous accents melting on her ear.And now, she turns the wild walk's serpent maze;A roseate bower its velvet couch displays;The thickest moss its softest verdure spread,Crocus and mingling pansy fring'd the bed,The woodbine dropp'd its honey from above,And various roses crown'd the sweet alcove.Here, as she hastens, on the hopeless boyShe turns her face, all bath'd in smiles of joy;Then, sinking down, her eyes suffused with loveGlowing on his, one moment lost reprove.Here was no rival, all he wish'd his own;Lock'd in her arms soft sinks the stripling down.Ah, what soft murmurs panting thro' the bowersSigh'd to the raptures of the paramours!The wishful sigh, and melting smile conspire,Devouring kisses fan the fiercer fire;Sweet violence, with dearest grace, assails,Soft o'er the purpos'd frown the smile prevails,The purpos'd frown betrays its own deceit,In well-pleas'd laughter ends the rising threat;The coy delay glides off in yielding love,And transport murmurs thro' the sacred grove.The joy of pleasing adds its sacred zest,And all is love, embracing and embraced.The golden morn beheld the scenes of joy;Nor, sultry noon, mayst thou the bowers annoy;The sultry noon-beam shines the lover's aid,And sends him glowing to the secret shade.O'er evr'y shade, and ev'ry nuptial bowerThe love-sick strain the virgin turtles pour;{289}For nuptial faith and holy rites combin'd,The Lusian heroes and the nymphs conjoin'd.With flow'ry wreaths, and laurel chaplets, boundWith ductile gold, the nymphs the heroes crown'd:By ev'ry spousal holy ritual tied,No chance, they vow, shall e'er their hands divide,In life, in death, attendant as their fame;Such was the oath of ocean's sov'reign dame:The dame (from heav'n and holy Vesta sprung,For ever beauteous and for ever young),Enraptur'd, views the chief whose deathless nameThe wond'ring world and conquer'd seas proclaim.With stately pomp she holds the hero's hand,And gives her empire to his dread command,By spousal ties confirm'd; nor pass'd untoldWhat Fate's unalter'd page had will'd of old:The world's vast globe in radiant sphere she show'd,The shores immense, and seas unknown, unplough'd;The seas, the shores, due to the Lusian keelAnd Lusian sword, she hastens to reveal.The glorious leader by the hand she takes,And, dim below, the flow'ry bower forsakes.High on a mountain's starry top divineHer palace walls of living crystal shine;Of gold and crystal blaze the lofty towers;Here, bath'd in joy, they pass the blissful hours:Engulf'd in tides on tides of joy, the dayOn downy pinions glides unknown away.While thus the sov'reigns in the palace reign,Like transport riots o'er the humbler plain,Where each, in gen'rous triumph o'er his peers,His lovely bride to ev'ry bride prefers."Hence, ye profane!"[587]—the song melodious rose,By mildest zephyrs wafted through the boughs,Unseen the warblers of the holy strain—"Far from these sacred bowers, ye lewd profane!{290}Hence each unhallow'd eye, each vulgar ear;Chaste and divine are all the raptures here.The nymphs of ocean, and the ocean's queen,The isle angelic, ev'ry raptur'd scene,The charms of honour and its meed confess,These are the raptures, these the wedded bliss:The glorious triumph and the laurel crown,The ever blossom'd palms of fair renown,By time unwither'd, and untaught to cloy;These are the transports of the Isle of Joy.Such was Olympus and the bright abodes;Renown was heav'n, and heroes were the gods.Thus, ancient times, to virtue ever just,To arts and valour rear'd the worshipp'd bust.High, steep, and rugged, painful to be trod,With toils on toils immense is virtue's road;But smooth at last the walks umbrageous smile,Smooth as our lawns, and cheerful as our isle.Up the rough road Alcides, Hermes, strove,All men like you, Apollo, Mars, and Jove:Like you to bless mankind Minerva toil'd;Diana bound the tyrants of the wild;O'er the waste desert Bacchus spread the vine;And Ceres taught the harvest-field to shine.Fame rear'd her trumpet; to the blest abodesShe rais'd, and hail'd them gods, and sprung of gods."The love of fame, by heav'n's own hand impress'd,The first, and noblest passion of the breast,May yet mislead.—Oh guard, ye hero train,No harlot robes of honours false and vain,No tinsel yours, be yours all native gold,Well-earn'd each honour, each respect you hold:To your lov'd king return a guardian band,Return the guardians of your native land;To tyrant power be dreadful; from the jawsOf fierce oppression guard the peasant's cause.If youthful fury pant for shining arms,Spread o'er the eastern world the dread alarms;[588]{291}There bends the Saracen the hostile bow,The Saracen thy faith, thy nation's foe;There from his cruel gripe tear empire's reins,And break his tyrant-sceptre o'er his chains.On adamantine pillars thus shall standThe throne, the glory of your native land;And Lusian heroes, an immortal line,Shall ever with us share our isle divine."
ON THE
Fromthe earliest ages, and in the most distant nations, palaces, forests and gardens, have been the favourite themes of poets. And though, as in Homer's island of Rhadamanthus, the description is sometimes only cursory; at other times they have lavished all their powers, and have vied with each other in adorning their edifices and landscapes. The gardens of Alcinous in the Odyssey, and Elysium in the Æneid, have excited the ambition of many imitators. Many instances of these occur in the later writers. These subjects, however, it must be owned, are so natural to the genius of poetry, that it is scarcely fair to attribute to an imitation of the classics, the innumerable descriptions of this kind which abound in the old romances. In these, under different allegorical names, every passion, every virtue and vice, had its palace, its enchanted bower, or its dreary cave. Among the Italians, on the revival of letters, Pulci, Boiardo, and others, borrowed these fictions from the Gothic romancers; Ariosto borrowed from them, and Spenser has copied Ariosto and Tasso. In the sixth and seventh books of the Orlando Furioso, there is a fine description of the island and palace of Alcina, or Vice; and in the tenth book (but inferior to the other in poetical colouring), we have a view of the country of Logistilla, or Virtue. The passage, of this kind, however, where Ariosto has displayed the richest poetical painting, is in the xxxiv. book, in the description of Paradise, whither he sends Astolpho, the English duke, to ask the help of St. John to recover the wits of Orlando. The whole is most admirably fanciful. Astolpho mounts the clouds on the winged horse, sees Paradise, and, accompanied by the Evangelist, visits the moon; the adventures in which orb are almost literally translated in Milton's Limbo. But the passage which may be said to bear the nearest resemblance to the descriptive part of the island of Venus, is the landscape of Paradise, of which the ingenious Mr. Hoole, to whose many acts of friendship I am proud to acknowledge myself indebted, has obliged me with this translation, though only ten books of his Ariosto are yet published.
Fromthe earliest ages, and in the most distant nations, palaces, forests and gardens, have been the favourite themes of poets. And though, as in Homer's island of Rhadamanthus, the description is sometimes only cursory; at other times they have lavished all their powers, and have vied with each other in adorning their edifices and landscapes. The gardens of Alcinous in the Odyssey, and Elysium in the Æneid, have excited the ambition of many imitators. Many instances of these occur in the later writers. These subjects, however, it must be owned, are so natural to the genius of poetry, that it is scarcely fair to attribute to an imitation of the classics, the innumerable descriptions of this kind which abound in the old romances. In these, under different allegorical names, every passion, every virtue and vice, had its palace, its enchanted bower, or its dreary cave. Among the Italians, on the revival of letters, Pulci, Boiardo, and others, borrowed these fictions from the Gothic romancers; Ariosto borrowed from them, and Spenser has copied Ariosto and Tasso. In the sixth and seventh books of the Orlando Furioso, there is a fine description of the island and palace of Alcina, or Vice; and in the tenth book (but inferior to the other in poetical colouring), we have a view of the country of Logistilla, or Virtue. The passage, of this kind, however, where Ariosto has displayed the richest poetical painting, is in the xxxiv. book, in the description of Paradise, whither he sends Astolpho, the English duke, to ask the help of St. John to recover the wits of Orlando. The whole is most admirably fanciful. Astolpho mounts the clouds on the winged horse, sees Paradise, and, accompanied by the Evangelist, visits the moon; the adventures in which orb are almost literally translated in Milton's Limbo. But the passage which may be said to bear the nearest resemblance to the descriptive part of the island of Venus, is the landscape of Paradise, of which the ingenious Mr. Hoole, to whose many acts of friendship I am proud to acknowledge myself indebted, has obliged me with this translation, though only ten books of his Ariosto are yet published.
"O'er the glad earth the blissful season poursThe vernal beauties of a thousand flowersIn varied tints: there show'd the ruby's hue,The yellow topaz, and the sapphire blue.{293}The mead appears one intermingled blazeWhere pearls and diamonds dart their trembling rays.Not emerald here so bright a verdure yieldsAs the fair turf of those celestial fields.On ev'ry tree the leaves unfading grow,The fruitage ripens and the flow'rets blow!The frolic birds, gay-plum'd, of various wingAmid the boughs their notes melodious sing:Still lakes, and murm'ring streams, with waters clear,Charm the fix'd eye, and lull the list'ning ear.A soft'ning genial air, that ever seemsIn even tenor, cools the solar beamsWith fanning breeze; while from the enamell'd field,Whate'er the fruits, the plants, the blossoms yieldOf grateful scent, the stealing gales dispenseThe blended sweets to feed th' immortal sense."Amid the plain a palace dazzling bright,Like living flame, emits a streamy light,And, wrapp'd in splendour of refulgent day,Outshines the strength of ev'ry mortal ray."Astolpho gently now directs his speedTo where the spacious pile enfolds the meadIn circuit wide, and views with eager eyesEach nameless charm that happy soil supplies.With this compar'd, he deems the world belowA dreary desert and a seat of woe!By Heaven and Nature, in their wrath bestow'd,In evil hour, for man's unblest abode."Near and more near the stately walls he drew,In steadfast gaze transported at the view:They seem'd one gem entire, of purer redThan deep'ning gleams transparent rubies shed.Stupendous work! by art Dædalian rais'd,Transcending all by feeble mortals prais'd!No more henceforth let boasting tongues proclaimThose wonders of the world, so chronicled by fame!"
Camoëns read and admired Ariosto; but it by no means follows that he borrowed the hint of his island of Venus from that poet. The luxury of flowery description is as common in poetry as are the tales of love. The heroes of Ariosto meet beautiful women in the palace of Alcina:—
Camoëns read and admired Ariosto; but it by no means follows that he borrowed the hint of his island of Venus from that poet. The luxury of flowery description is as common in poetry as are the tales of love. The heroes of Ariosto meet beautiful women in the palace of Alcina:—
"Before the threshold wanton damsels wait,Or, sport between the pillars of the gate:But, beauty more had brighten'd in their faceHad modesty attemper'd ev'ry grace;{294}In vestures green each damsel swept the ground,Their temples fair, with leafy garlands crown'd.These, with a courteous welcome, led the knightTo this sweet Paradise of soft delight....Enamour'd youths and tender damsels seemTo chant their loves beside a purling stream.Some by a branching tree, or mountain's shade,In sports and dances press the downy glade,While one discloses to his friend, apart,The secret transport of his am'rous heart."—Bookvi.
But these descriptions also, which bring the homes of knight-errantry into the way of beautiful wantons, are as common in the old romance as the use of the alphabet: and indeed the greatest part of these love-adventures are evidently borrowed from the fable of Circe. Astolpho, who was transformed into a myrtle by Alcina, thus informs Rogero:—
But these descriptions also, which bring the homes of knight-errantry into the way of beautiful wantons, are as common in the old romance as the use of the alphabet: and indeed the greatest part of these love-adventures are evidently borrowed from the fable of Circe. Astolpho, who was transformed into a myrtle by Alcina, thus informs Rogero:—
"Her former lovers she esteem'd no more,For many lovers she possess'd before;I was her joy——Too late, alas, I found her wav'ring mindIn love inconstant as the changing wind!Scarce had I held two months the fairy's grace,When a new youth was taken to my place:Rejected, then, I join'd the banish'd herdThat lost her love, as others were preferr'd ...Some here, some there, her potent charms retain,In diverse forms imprison'd to remain;In beeches, olives, palms, or cedars clos'd,Or, such as me, you here behold expos'd;In fountains some, and some in beasts confin'd,As suits the wayward fairy's cruel mind."Hoole, Ar. bk. vi.
When incidents, character, and conduct confess the resemblance, we may, with certainty, pronounce from whence the copy is taken. Where only a similar stroke of passion or description occurs, it belongs alone to the arrogance of dulness, to tell us on what passage the poet had his eye. Every great poet has been persecuted in this manner: Milton in particular. His commentators have not left him a flower of his own growth. Yet, like the creed of the atheist, their system is involved in the deepest absurdity. It is easy to suppose that men of poetical feelings, in describing the same thing, should give us the same picture. But, that the Paradise Lost, which forms one animated whole of the noblest poetry, is a mere cento, compiled from innumerable authors, ancient and modern, is a supposition which gives Milton a cast of talents infinitely more extraordinary and inexplicable than the greatest poetical genius. When Gaspar Poussin painted clouds and trees in his landscapes, he did not borrow the green and the blue of{295}the leaf and the sky from Claude Lorraine. Neither did Camoëns, when he painted his island of Venus, spend the half of his life in collecting his colours from all his predecessors who had described the beauties of the vernal year, or the stages of passion. Camoëns knew how others had painted the flowery bowers of love; these formed his taste, and corrected his judgment. He viewed the beauties of nature with poetical eyes, from thence he drew his landscapes; he had felt all the allurements of love, and from thence he describes the agitations of that passion.Nor is the description of fairy bowers and palaces, though most favourite topics, peculiar to the romances of chivalry. The poetry of the orientals also abounds with them, yet, with some characteristic differences. Like the constitutions and dress of the Asiatics, the landscapes of the eastern muse are warm and feeble, brilliant and slight, and, like the manners of the people, wear an eternal sameness. The western muse, on the contrary, is nervous as her heroes, sometimes flowery as her Italian or English fields, sometimes majestically great as her Runic forests of oak and pine; and always various, as the character of her inhabitants. Yet, with all those differences of feature, several oriental fictions greatly resemble the island of Circe, and the flowery dominions of Alcina. In particular, the adventures of Prince Agib, or the third Calender, in the Arabian Tales, afford a striking likeness of painting and catastrophe.If Ariosto's, however, seem to resemble any eastern fiction, the island of Venus in Camoëns bears a more striking resemblance to a passage in Chaucer. The following beautiful piece of poetical painting occurs in the Assembly of the Fowles:—
When incidents, character, and conduct confess the resemblance, we may, with certainty, pronounce from whence the copy is taken. Where only a similar stroke of passion or description occurs, it belongs alone to the arrogance of dulness, to tell us on what passage the poet had his eye. Every great poet has been persecuted in this manner: Milton in particular. His commentators have not left him a flower of his own growth. Yet, like the creed of the atheist, their system is involved in the deepest absurdity. It is easy to suppose that men of poetical feelings, in describing the same thing, should give us the same picture. But, that the Paradise Lost, which forms one animated whole of the noblest poetry, is a mere cento, compiled from innumerable authors, ancient and modern, is a supposition which gives Milton a cast of talents infinitely more extraordinary and inexplicable than the greatest poetical genius. When Gaspar Poussin painted clouds and trees in his landscapes, he did not borrow the green and the blue of{295}the leaf and the sky from Claude Lorraine. Neither did Camoëns, when he painted his island of Venus, spend the half of his life in collecting his colours from all his predecessors who had described the beauties of the vernal year, or the stages of passion. Camoëns knew how others had painted the flowery bowers of love; these formed his taste, and corrected his judgment. He viewed the beauties of nature with poetical eyes, from thence he drew his landscapes; he had felt all the allurements of love, and from thence he describes the agitations of that passion.
Nor is the description of fairy bowers and palaces, though most favourite topics, peculiar to the romances of chivalry. The poetry of the orientals also abounds with them, yet, with some characteristic differences. Like the constitutions and dress of the Asiatics, the landscapes of the eastern muse are warm and feeble, brilliant and slight, and, like the manners of the people, wear an eternal sameness. The western muse, on the contrary, is nervous as her heroes, sometimes flowery as her Italian or English fields, sometimes majestically great as her Runic forests of oak and pine; and always various, as the character of her inhabitants. Yet, with all those differences of feature, several oriental fictions greatly resemble the island of Circe, and the flowery dominions of Alcina. In particular, the adventures of Prince Agib, or the third Calender, in the Arabian Tales, afford a striking likeness of painting and catastrophe.
If Ariosto's, however, seem to resemble any eastern fiction, the island of Venus in Camoëns bears a more striking resemblance to a passage in Chaucer. The following beautiful piece of poetical painting occurs in the Assembly of the Fowles:—
"The bildir oak, and eke the hardie ashe,The pillir elme, the coffir unto caraine,The boxe pipetre, the holme to whippis lasshe,The sailing firre, the cypres deth to plaine,The shortir ewe, the aspe for shaftis plaine,The olive of pece, and eke the dronkin vine,The victor palme, the laurir to divine.A gardein sawe I full of blossomed bowis,Upon a river, in a grené medeThere as sweetness evirmore inough is,With flouris white, and blewe, yelowe, and rede,And colde and clere wellestremis, nothing dede,That swommin full of smale fishis light,With finnis rede, and scalis silver bright.On every bough the birdis herd I syngWith voice of angell, in ther harmonieThat busied 'hem, ther birdis forthe to bryng,And little pretie conies to ther plaie gan hie;And furthir all about I gan espieThe dredful roe, the buck, the hart and hind,Squirils, and bestis smal of gentle kind.{296}Of instrumentes of stringis, in accordeHerd I so plaie a ravishyng swetnesse,That God, that makir is of all and Lorde,Ne herd nevir a better, as I gesse,There with a winde, unneth it might be lesse,Made in the levis grene a noisé softAccordant to the foulis song en loft.The aire of the place so attempre was,That ner was there grevaunce of hot ne cold—* * * * *Under a tre beside a well I seyeCupid our lorde his arrowes forge and file,And at his fete his bowe all redie laye,And well his doughtir temprid all the whileThe heddis in the well, and with her wileShe couchid 'hem aftir as thei should serve,Some for to flea, and some to wound and carve.* * * * *And upon pillirs grete of Jaspir longI saw a temple of Brasse ifoundid strong.And about the temple dauncid alwaieWomen inow, of which some there ywereFaire of 'hemself, and some of 'hem were gaie,In kirtils all disheveled went thei there,That was ther office or from yere to yere,And on the temple sawe I white and faireOf dovis sittyng many a thousande paire."
Here we have Cupid forging his arrows, the woodland, the streams, the music of instruments and birds, the frolics of deer and other animals; andwomen enow. In a word, the island of Venus is here sketched out, yet Chaucer was never translated into Latin or any language of the continent, nor did Camoëns understand a line of English. The subject was common, and the same poetical feelings in Chaucer and Camoëns pointed out to each what were the beauties of landscapes and of bowers devoted to pleasure.Yet, though the fiction of bowers, of islands, and palaces, was no novelty in poetry, much, however, remains to be attributed to the poetical powers and invention of Camoëns. The island of Venus contains, of all others, by much the completest gradation, and fullest assemblage of that species of luxuriant painting. Nothing in the older writers is equal to it in fulness. Nor can the island of Armida, in Tasso, be compared to it, in poetical embroidery or passionate expression; though Tasso as undoubtedly built upon the model of Camoëns, as Spenser appropriated the imagery of Tasso when he described the bower of Acrasia, part of which he has literally translated{297}from the Italian poet. The beautiful fictions of Armida and Acrasia, however, are much too long to be here inserted, and they are well known to every reader of taste.But the chief praise of our poet is yet unmentioned. The introduction of so beautiful a fiction as an essential part of the conduct and machinery of an epic poem, does the greatest honour to the invention of Camoëns. The machinery of the former part of the poem not only acquires dignity, but is completed by it. And the conduct of Homer and Virgil has, in this, not only received a fine imitation, but a masterly contrast. In the finest allegory the heroes of the Lusiad receive their reward: and, by means of this allegory, our poet gives a noble imitation of the noblest part of the Æneid. In the tenth Lusiad,Gamaand his heroes hear the nymphs in the divine palace of Thetis sing the triumphs of their countrymen in the conquest of India: after this the goddess showsGamaa view of the eastern world, from the Cape of Good Hope to the furthest islands of Japan. She poetically describes every region, and the principal islands, and concludes, "All these are given to the western world by you." It is impossible any poem can be summed up with greater sublimity. The Fall of Troy is nothing to this. Nor is this all: the most masterly fiction, finest compliment, and ultimate purpose of the Æneid is not only nobly imitated, but the conduct of Homer, in concluding the Iliad, as already observed, is paralleled, without one circumstance being borrowed. Poetical conduct cannot possibly bear a stronger resemblance, than the reward of the heroes of the Lusiad, the prophetic song, and the vision shown toGamabear to the games at the funeral of Patroclus and the redemption of the body of Hector, considered as the completion of the anger of Achilles, the subject of the Iliad. Nor is it a greater honour to resemble a Homer and a Virgil, than it is to be resembled by a Milton. Milton certainly heard of Fanshaw's translation of the Lusiad, though he might never have seen the original, for it was published fourteen years before he gave his Paradise Lost to the world. But, whatever he knew of it, had the last book of the Lusiad been two thousand years known to the learned, every one would have owned that the two last boots of the Paradise Lost were evidently formed upon it. But whether Milton borrowed any hint from Camoëns is of little consequence. That the genius of the great Milton suggested the conclusion of his immortal poem in the manner and with the machinery of the Lusiad, is enough. It is enough that the part of Michael and Adam in the two last books of the Paradise Lost are, in point of conduct, exactly the same with the part of Thetis andGamain the conclusion of the Lusiad. Yet, this difference must be observed; in the narrative of his last book, Milton has flagged, as Addison calls it, and fallen infinitely short of the untired spirit of the Portuguese poet.
Here we have Cupid forging his arrows, the woodland, the streams, the music of instruments and birds, the frolics of deer and other animals; andwomen enow. In a word, the island of Venus is here sketched out, yet Chaucer was never translated into Latin or any language of the continent, nor did Camoëns understand a line of English. The subject was common, and the same poetical feelings in Chaucer and Camoëns pointed out to each what were the beauties of landscapes and of bowers devoted to pleasure.
Yet, though the fiction of bowers, of islands, and palaces, was no novelty in poetry, much, however, remains to be attributed to the poetical powers and invention of Camoëns. The island of Venus contains, of all others, by much the completest gradation, and fullest assemblage of that species of luxuriant painting. Nothing in the older writers is equal to it in fulness. Nor can the island of Armida, in Tasso, be compared to it, in poetical embroidery or passionate expression; though Tasso as undoubtedly built upon the model of Camoëns, as Spenser appropriated the imagery of Tasso when he described the bower of Acrasia, part of which he has literally translated{297}from the Italian poet. The beautiful fictions of Armida and Acrasia, however, are much too long to be here inserted, and they are well known to every reader of taste.
But the chief praise of our poet is yet unmentioned. The introduction of so beautiful a fiction as an essential part of the conduct and machinery of an epic poem, does the greatest honour to the invention of Camoëns. The machinery of the former part of the poem not only acquires dignity, but is completed by it. And the conduct of Homer and Virgil has, in this, not only received a fine imitation, but a masterly contrast. In the finest allegory the heroes of the Lusiad receive their reward: and, by means of this allegory, our poet gives a noble imitation of the noblest part of the Æneid. In the tenth Lusiad,Gamaand his heroes hear the nymphs in the divine palace of Thetis sing the triumphs of their countrymen in the conquest of India: after this the goddess showsGamaa view of the eastern world, from the Cape of Good Hope to the furthest islands of Japan. She poetically describes every region, and the principal islands, and concludes, "All these are given to the western world by you." It is impossible any poem can be summed up with greater sublimity. The Fall of Troy is nothing to this. Nor is this all: the most masterly fiction, finest compliment, and ultimate purpose of the Æneid is not only nobly imitated, but the conduct of Homer, in concluding the Iliad, as already observed, is paralleled, without one circumstance being borrowed. Poetical conduct cannot possibly bear a stronger resemblance, than the reward of the heroes of the Lusiad, the prophetic song, and the vision shown toGamabear to the games at the funeral of Patroclus and the redemption of the body of Hector, considered as the completion of the anger of Achilles, the subject of the Iliad. Nor is it a greater honour to resemble a Homer and a Virgil, than it is to be resembled by a Milton. Milton certainly heard of Fanshaw's translation of the Lusiad, though he might never have seen the original, for it was published fourteen years before he gave his Paradise Lost to the world. But, whatever he knew of it, had the last book of the Lusiad been two thousand years known to the learned, every one would have owned that the two last boots of the Paradise Lost were evidently formed upon it. But whether Milton borrowed any hint from Camoëns is of little consequence. That the genius of the great Milton suggested the conclusion of his immortal poem in the manner and with the machinery of the Lusiad, is enough. It is enough that the part of Michael and Adam in the two last books of the Paradise Lost are, in point of conduct, exactly the same with the part of Thetis andGamain the conclusion of the Lusiad. Yet, this difference must be observed; in the narrative of his last book, Milton has flagged, as Addison calls it, and fallen infinitely short of the untired spirit of the Portuguese poet.
END OF THE NINTH BOOK.{298}
In the opening of this, the last canto, the poet resumes the allegory of the Isle of Joy, or of Venus: the fair nymphs conduct their lovers to their radiant palaces, where delicious wines sparkle in every cup. Before the poet describes the song of a prophetic siren, who celebrates the praise of the heroes who are destined in ennoble the name of their country, he addresses himself to his muse in a tone of sorrow, which touches us the more deeply when we reflect upon the unhappy situation to which this great poet was at last reduced. In the song of the siren, which follows, is afforded a prophetic view from the period of Gama's expedition down to Camoëns' own times, in which Pacheco, and other heroes of Portugal, pass in review before the eye of the reader. When the siren has concluded her prophetic song, Thetis conducts Gama to the top of a mountain and addresses him in a set speech. The poem concludes with the poet's apostrophe to King Sebastian.
In the opening of this, the last canto, the poet resumes the allegory of the Isle of Joy, or of Venus: the fair nymphs conduct their lovers to their radiant palaces, where delicious wines sparkle in every cup. Before the poet describes the song of a prophetic siren, who celebrates the praise of the heroes who are destined in ennoble the name of their country, he addresses himself to his muse in a tone of sorrow, which touches us the more deeply when we reflect upon the unhappy situation to which this great poet was at last reduced. In the song of the siren, which follows, is afforded a prophetic view from the period of Gama's expedition down to Camoëns' own times, in which Pacheco, and other heroes of Portugal, pass in review before the eye of the reader. When the siren has concluded her prophetic song, Thetis conducts Gama to the top of a mountain and addresses him in a set speech. The poem concludes with the poet's apostrophe to King Sebastian.
FAR o'er the western ocean's distant bedApollo now his fiery coursers sped;Far o'er the silver lake of Mexic[589]roll'dHis rapid chariot wheels of burning gold:{299}The eastern sky was left to dusky grey,And o'er the last hot breath of parting day,Cool o'er the sultry noon's remaining flame,On gentle gales the grateful twilight came.Dimpling the lucid pools, the fragrant breezeSighs o'er the lawns, and whispers thro' the trees;Refresh'd, the lily rears the silver head,And opening jasmines o'er the arbours spread.Fair o'er the wave that gleam'd like distant snow,Graceful arose the moon, serenely slow;Not yet full orb'd, in clouded splendour dress'd,Her married arms embrace her pregnant breast.Sweet to his mate, recumbent o'er his young,The nightingale his spousal anthem sung;From ev'ry bower the holy chorus rose,From ev'ry bower the rival anthem flows.Translucent, twinkling through the upland grove,In all her lustre shines the star of love;Led by the sacred ray from ev'ry bower,A joyful train, the wedded lovers pour:Each with the youth above the rest approv'd,Each with the nymph above the rest belov'd,They seek the palace of the sov'reign dame;High on a mountain glow'd the wondrous frame:Of gold the towers, of gold the pillars shone,The walls were crystal, starr'd with precious stone.Amid the hall arose the festive board,With nature's choicest gifts promiscuous stor'd:So will'd the goddess to renew the smileOf vital strength, long worn by days of toil.On crystal chairs, that shin'd as lambent flame,Each gallant youth attends his lovely dame;Beneath a purple canopy of stateThe beauteous goddess and the leader sat:The banquet glows— Not such the feast, when allThe pride of luxury in Egypt's hall{300}Before the love-sick Roman[590]spread the boastOf ev'ry teeming sea and fertile coast.Sacred to noblest worth and Virtue's ear,Divine, as genial, was the banquet here;The wine, the song, by sweet returns inspire,Now wake the lover's, now the hero's fire.On gold and silver from th' Atlantic main,The sumptuous tribute of the sea's wide reign,Of various savour, was the banquet pil'd;Amid the fruitage mingling roses smil'd.In cups of gold that shed a yellow light,In silver, shining as the moon of night,Amid the banquet flow'd the sparkling wine,Nor gave Falernia's fields the parent vine:Falernia's vintage, nor the fabled powerOf Jove's ambrosia in th' Olympian bowerTo this compare not; wild, nor frantic fires,Divinest transport this alone inspires.The bev'rage, foaming o'er the goblet's breast,The crystal fountain's cooling aid confess'd;[591]The while, as circling flow'd the cheerful bowl,Sapient discourse, the banquet of the soul,Of richest argument and brightest glow,Array'd in dimpling smiles, in easiest flowPour'd all its graces: nor in silence stoodThe powers of music, such as erst subduedThe horrid frown of hell's profound domains,[592]And sooth'd the tortur'd ghosts to slumber on their chains.{301}To music's sweetest chords, in loftiest vein,An angel siren joins the vocal strain;The silver roofs resound the living song,The harp and organ's lofty mood prolongThe hallow'd warblings; list'ning Silence ridesThe sky, and o'er the bridled winds presides;In softest murmurs flows the glassy deep,And each, lull'd in his shade, the bestials sleep.The lofty song ascends the thrilling skies,The song of godlike heroes yet to rise;Jove gave the dream, whose glow the siren fir'd,And present Jove the prophecy inspir'd.Not he, the bard of love-sick Dido's board,Nor he, the minstrel of Phæacia's lord,Though fam'd in song, could touch the warbling string,Or, with a voice so sweet, melodious sing.And thou, my muse, O fairest of the train,Calliope, inspire my closing strain.No more the summer of my life remains,[593]My autumn's length'ning ev'nings chill my veins;Down the black stream of years by woes on woesWing'd on, I hasten to the tomb's repose,{302}The port whose deep, dark bottom shall detainMy anchor, never to be weigh'd again,Never on other sea of life to steerThe human course.—Yet thou, O goddess, hear,Yet let me live, though round my silver'd headMisfortune's bitt'rest rage unpitying shedHer coldest storms; yet, let me live to crownThe song that boasts my nation's proud renown.Of godlike heroes sung the nymph divine,Heroes whose deeds onGama'screst shall shine;Who through the seas, byGamafirst explor'd,Shall bear the Lusian standard and the sword,Till ev'ry coast where roars the orient main,Blest in its sway, shall own the Lusian reign;Till ev'ry pagan king his neck shall yield,Or vanquish'd, gnaw the dust on battle-field."High Priest of Malabar," the goddess sung,"Thy faith repent not, nor lament thy wrong;[594]Though, for thy faith to Lusus' gen'rous race,The raging zamoreem thy fields deface:From Tagus, lo, the great Pacheco sailsTo India, wafted on auspicious gales.Soon as his crooked prow the tide shall press,A new Achilles shall the tide confess;His ship's strong sides shall groan beneath his weight,And deeper waves receive the sacred freight.[595]{303}Soon as on India's strand he shakes his spear,The burning east shall tremble, chill'd with fear;Reeking with noble blood, Cambalao's streamShall blaze impurpled on the ev'ning beam;Urg'd on by raging shame, the monarch brings,Banded with all their powers, his vassal kings:Narsinga's rocks their cruel thousands pour,Bipur's stern king attends, and thine, Tanore:To guard proud Calicut's imperial prideAll the wide North sweeps down its peopled tide:Join'd are the sects that never touch'd before,By land the pagan, and by sea the Moor.O'er land, o'er sea the great Pacheco strewsThe prostrate spearmen, and the founder'd proas.[596]Submiss and silent, palsied with amaze,Proud Malabar th' unnumber'd slain surveys:Yet burns the monarch; to his shrine he speeds;Dire howl the priests, the groaning victim bleeds;The ground they stamp, and, from the dark abodes,With tears and vows, they call th' infernal gods.Enrag'd with dog-like madness, to beholdHis temples and his towns in flames enroll'd,{304}Secure of promis'd victory, againHe fires the war, the lawns are heap'd with slain.With stern reproach he brands his routed Nayres,And for the dreadful field himself prepares;His harness'd thousands to the fight he leads;And rides exulting where the combat bleeds:Amid his pomp his robes are sprinkled o'er,And his proud face dash'd, with his menials' gore:[597]From his high couch he leaps, and speeds to flightOn foot inglorious, in his army's sight.Hell then he calls, and all the powers of hell,The secret poison, and the chanted spell;Vain as the spell the poison'd rage is shed,For Heav'n defends the hero's sacred head.Still fiercer from each wound the tyrant burns,Still to the field with heavier force returns;The seventh dread war he kindles; high in airThe hills dishonour'd lift their shoulders bare;Their woods, roll'd down, now strew the river's side,Now rise in mountain turrets o'er the tide;Mountains of fire, and spires of bick'ring flame,While either bank resounds the proud acclaim,Come floating down, round Lusus' fleet to pourTheir sulph'rous entrails[598]in a burning shower.Oh, vain the hope.—Let Rome her boast resign;Her palms, Pacheco, never bloom'd like thine;
Swift as, repuls'd, the famish'd wolf returnsFierce to the fold, and, wounded, fiercer burns;So swift, so fierce, seven times, all India's mightReturns unnumber'd to the dreadful fight;One hundred spears, seven times in dreadful stower,Strews in the dust all India's raging power."The lofty song (for paleness o'er her spread)The nymph suspends, and bows the languid head;Her falt'ring words are breathed on plaintive sighs:"Ah, Belisarius, injur'd chief," she cries,"Ah, wipe thy tears; in war thy rival see,Injur'd Pacheco falls despoil'd like thee;In him, in thee dishonour'd Virtue bleeds,And Valour weeps to view her fairest deeds,—Weeps o'er Pacheco, where, forlorn he liesLow on an alms-house bed, and friendless dies.Yet shall the muses plume his humble bier,And ever o'er him pour th' immortal tear;Though by the king, alone to thee unjust,Thy head, great chief, was humbled in the dust,Loud shall the muse indignant sound thy praise—'Thou gav'st thy monarch's throne its proudest blaze.'While round the world the sun's bright car shall ride,So bright shall shine thy name's illustrious pride;Thy monarch's glory, as the moon's pale beam,Eclips'd by thine, shall shed a sickly gleam.Such meed attends when soothing flatt'ry sways,And blinded State its sacred trust betrays!"Again the nymph exalts her brow, againHer swelling voice resounds the lofty strain:"Almeyda comes, the kingly name he bears,Deputed royalty his standard rears:In all the gen'rous rage of youthful fireThe warlike son attends the warlike sire.Quiloa's blood-stain'd tyrant now shall feelThe righteous vengeance of the Lusian steel.Another prince, by Lisbon's throne belov'd,Shall bless the land, for faithful deeds approv'd.{306}Mombaz shall now her treason's meed behold,When curling flames her proudest domes enfold:Involv'd in smoke, loud crashing, low shall fallThe mounded temple and the castled wall.O'er India's seas the young Almeyda pours,Scorching the wither'd air, his iron show'rs;Torn masts and rudders, hulks and canvas riv'n,Month after month before his prows are driv'n;But Heav'n's dread will, where clouds of darkness rest,That awful will, which knows alone the best,Now blunts his spear: Cambaya's squadrons join'dWith Egypt's fleets, in pagan rage combin'd,Engrasp him round; red boils the stagg'ring flood,Purpled with volleying flames and hot with blood:Whirl'd by the cannon's rage, in shivers torn,His thigh, far scattered, o'er the wave is borne.Bound to the mast the godlike hero stands,[600]Waves his proud sword, and cheers his woful bands.Though winds and seas their wonted aid deny,To yield he knows not, but he knows to die:Another thunder tears his manly breast:Oh fly, blest spirit, to thy heav'nly rest!Hark! rolling on the groaning storm I hear,Resistless vengeance thund'ring on the rear.I see the transports of the furious sire,As o'er the mangled corse his eyes flash fire.Swift to the fight, with stern though weeping eyes,Fix'd rage fierce burning in his breast, he flies;Fierce as the bull that sees his rival roveFree with the heifers through the mounded grove,On oak or beech his madd'ning fury pours;So pours Almeyda's rage on Dabul's towers.{307}His vanes wide waving o'er the Indian sky,Before his prows the fleets of India fly;[601]On Egypt's chief his mortars' dreadful tireShall vomit all the rage of prison'd fire:Heads, limbs, and trunks shall choke the struggling tide,Till, ev'ry surge with reeking crimson dy'd,Around the young Almeyda's hapless urnHis conqueror's naked ghosts shall howl and mourn.As meteors flashing through the darken'd airI see the victors' whirling falchions glare;Dark rolls the sulph'rous smoke o'er Dio's skies,And shrieks of death, and shouts of conquest rise,In one wide tumult blended. The rough roarShakes the brown tents on Ganges' trembling shore;The waves of Indus from the banks recoil;And matrons, howling on the strand of Nile,By the pale moon, their absent sons deplore:Long shall they wail; their sons return no more."Ah, strike the notes of woe!" the siren cries;"A dreary vision swims before my eyes.To Tagus' shore triumphant as he bends,Low in the dust the hero's glory ends:Though bended bow, nor thund'ring engine's hail,Nor Egypt's sword, nor India's spear prevail,{308}Fall shall the chief before a naked foe,Rough clubs and rude-hurl'ed stones shall strike the blow;The Cape of Tempests shall his tomb supply,And in the desert sands his bones shall lie,No boastful trophy o'er his ashes rear'd:Such Heav'n's dread will, and be that will rever'd!"But lo, resplendent shines another star,"Loud she resounds, "in all the blaze of war!Great Cunia[602]guards Melinda's friendly shore,And dyes her seas with Oja's hostile gore;Lamo and Brava's tow'rs his vengeance tell:Green Madagascar's flow'ry dales shall swellHis echo'd fame, till ocean's southmost boundOn isles and shores unknown his name resound."Another blaze, behold, of fire and arms!Great Albuquerque awakes the dread alarms:O'er Ormuz' walls his thund'ring flames he pours,While Heav'n, the hero's guide, indignant show'rsTheir arrows backwards[603]on the Persian foe,Tearing the breasts and arms that twang'd the bow.Mountains of salt and fragrant gums in vainWere spent untainted to embalm the slain.Such heaps shall strew the seas and faithless strandOf Gerum, Mazcate,[604]and Calayat's land,Till faithless Ormuz own the Lusian sway,And Barem's[605]pearls her yearly safety pay."What glorious palms on Goa's isle I see,[606]Their blossoms spread, great Albuquerque, for thee!{309}Through castled walls the hero breaks his way,And opens with his sword the dread arrayOf Moors and pagans; through their depth he rides,Through spears and show'ring fire the battle guides.As bulls enrag'd, or lions smear'd with gore,His bands sweep wide o'er Goa's purpled shore.Nor eastward far though fair Malacca[607]lie,Her groves embosom'd in the morning sky;Though with her am'rous sons the valiant lineOf Java's isle in battle rank combine,Though poison'd shafts their pond'rous quivers store;Malacca's spicy groves and golden ore,Great Albuquerque, thy dauntless toils shall crown!Yet art thou stain'd."[608]Here, with a sighful frown,{310}The goddess paus'd, for much remain'd unsung,But blotted with a humble soldier's wrong.{311}"Alas," she cries, "when war's dread horrors reign,And thund'ring batteries rock the fiery plain,When ghastly famine on a hostile soil,When pale disease attends on weary toil,When patient under all the soldier stands,Detested be the rage which then demandsThe humble soldier's blood, his only crimeThe am'rous frailty of the youthful prime!Incest's cold horror here no glow restrain'd,Nor sacred nuptial bed was here profan'd,Nor here unwelcome force the virgin seiz'd;A slave, lascivious, in his fondling pleas'd,Resigns her breast. Ah, stain to Lusian fame!('Twas lust of blood, perhaps 'twas jealous flame;)The leader's rage, unworthy of the brave,Consigns the youthful soldier to the grave.Not Ammon[609]thus Apelles' love repaid,Great Ammon's bed resign'd the lovely maid;Nor Cyrus thus reprov'd Araspas' fire;Nor haughtier Carlo thus assum'd the sire,Though iron Baldwin to his daughter's bower,An ill-match'd lover, stole in secret hour:With nobler rage the lofty monarch glow'd,And Flandria's earldom on the knight bestow'd."[610]{312}Again the nymph the song of fame resounds:"Lo, sweeping wide o'er Ethiopia's bounds,Wide o'er Arabia's purple shore, on highThe Lusian ensigns blaze along the sky:Mecca, aghast, beholds the standards shine,And midnight horror shakes Medina's shrine;[611]Th' unhallow'd altar bodes th' approaching foe,Foredoom'd in dust its prophet's tomb to strew.Nor Ceylon's isle, brave Soarez, shall withholdIts incense, precious as the burnish'd gold,What time o'er proud Columbo's loftiest spireThy flag shall blaze: Nor shall th' immortal lyreForget thy praise, Sequeyra! To the shoreWhere Sheba's sapient queen the sceptre bore,[612]{313}Braving the Red Sea's dangers shalt thou forceTo Abyssinia's realm thy novel course;And isles, by jealous Nature long conceal'd,Shall to the wond'ring world be now reveal'd.Great Menez next the Lusian sword shall bear;Menez, the dread of Afric, high shall rearHis victor lance, till deep shall Ormuz groan,And tribute doubled her revolt atone."Now shines thy glory in meridian height"—And loud her voice she rais'd—"O matchless knight!Thou, thou, illustriousGama, thou shalt bringThe olive bough of peace, deputed king!The lands by thee discover'd shall obeyThy sceptred power, and bless thy regal sway.But India's crimes, outrageous to the skies,A length of these Saturnian days denies:Snatch'd from thy golden throne,[613]the heav'ns shall claimThy deathless soul, the world thy deathless name."Now o'er the coast of faithless MalabarVictorious Henry[614]pours the rage of war;Nor less the youth a nobler strife shall wage,Great victor of himself though green in age;No restless slave of wanton am'rous fire,No lust of gold shall taint his gen'rous ire.While youth's bold pulse beats high, how brave the boyWhom harlot-smiles nor pride of power decoy!{314}Immortal be his name! Nor less thy praise,Great Mascarene,[615]shall future ages raise:Though power, unjust, withhold the splendid rayThat dignifies the crest of sov'reign sway,Thy deeds, great chief, on Bintam's humbled shore(Deeds such as Asia never view'd before)Shall give thy honest fame a brighter blazeThan tyrant pomp in golden robes displays.Though bold in war the fierce usurper shine,Though Cutial's potent navy o'er the brineDrive vanquish'd: though the Lusian Hector's swordFor him reap conquest, and confirm him lord;Thy deeds, great peer, the wonder of thy foes,Thy glorious chains unjust, and gen'rous woes,Shall dim the fierce Sampayo's fairest fame,And o'er his honours thine aloud proclaim.Thy gen'rous woes! Ah gallant injur'd chief,Not thy own sorrows give the sharpest grief.Thou seest the Lusian name her honours stain,And lust of gold her heroes' breasts profane;Thou seest ambition lift the impious head,Nor God's red arm, nor ling'ring justice dread;O'er India's bounds thou seest these vultures prowl,Full gorged with blood, and dreadless of control;Thou seest and weepst thy country's blotted name,The gen'rous sorrow thine, but not the shame.Nor long the Lusian ensigns stain'd remain:Great Nunio[616]comes, and razes every stain.Though lofty Calè's warlike towers he rear;Though haughty Melic groan beneath his spear;All these, and Diu yielded to his name,Are but th' embroid'ry of his nobler fame.Far haughtier foes of Lusian race he braves;The awful sword of justice high he waves:Before his bar the injur'd Indian stands,And justice boldly on his foe demands,{315}The Lusian foe; in wonder lost, the MoorBeholds proud rapine's vulture grip restore;Beholds the Lusian hands in fetters boundBy Lusian hands, and wound repaid for wound.Oh, more shall thus by Nunio's worth be won,Than conquest reaps from high-plum'd hosts o'erthrown.Long shall the gen'rous Nunio's blissful swayCommand supreme. In Dio's hopeless day
A son of thine, OGama,[618]now shall holdThe helm of empire, prudent, wise, and bold:Malacca sav'd and strengthen'd by his arms,The banks of Tor shall echo his alarms;His worth shall bless the kingdoms of the morn,For all thy virtues shall his soul adorn.When fate resigns thy hero to the skies,A vet'ran, fam'd on Brazil's shore[619]shall rise:The wide Atlantic and the Indian main,By turns, shall own the terrors of his reign.His aid the proud Cambayan king implores,His potent aid Cambaya's king restores.The dread Mogul with all his thousands flies,And Dio's towers are Souza's well-earn'd prize.Nor less the zamorim o'er blood-stain'd ground[620]Shall speed his legions, torn with many a wound,{316}In headlong rout. Nor shall the boastful prideOf India's navy, though the shaded tideAround the squadron'd masts appear the downOf some wide forest, other fate renown.Loud rattling through the hills of Cape Camore[621]I hear the tempest of the battle roar!Clung to the splinter'd masts I see the deadBadala's shore with horrid wreck bespread;Baticala inflam'd by treach'rous hate,Provokes the horrors of Badala's fate:Her seas in blood, her skies enwrapt in fire,Confess the sweeping storm of Souza's ire.No hostile spear now rear'd on sea or strand,The awful sceptre graces Souza's hand;Peaceful he reigns, in counsel just and wise;And glorious Castro now his throne supplies:Castro, the boast of gen'rous fame, afarFrom Dio's strand shall sway the glorious war.Madd'ning with rage to view the Lusian band,A troop so few, proud Dio's towers command,The cruel Ethiop Moor to heav'n complains,And the proud Persian's languid zeal arraigns.The Rumien fierce, who boasts the name of Rome,[622]With these conspires, and vows the Lusians' doom.{317}A thousand barb'rous nations join their powersTo bathe with Lusian blood the Dion towers.Dark rolling sheets, forth belch'd from brazen wombs,And bor'd, like show'ring clouds, with hailing bombs,O'er Dio's sky spread the black shades of death;The mine's dread earthquakes shake the ground beneath.No hope, bold Mascarene,[623]mayst thou respire,A glorious fall alone, thy just desire.When lo, his gallant son brave Castro sends—Ah heav'n, what fate the hapless youth attends!In vain the terrors of his falchion glare:The cavern'd mine bursts, high in pitchy airRampire and squadron whirl'd convulsive, borneTo heav'n, the hero dies in fragments torn.His loftiest bough though fall'n, the gen'rous sireHis living hope devotes with Roman ire.On wings of fury flies the brave AlvarThrough oceans howling with the wintry war,Through skies of snow his brother's vengeance bears;And, soon in arms, the valiant sire appears:Before him vict'ry spreads her eagle wingWide sweeping o'er Cambaya's haughty king.In vain his thund'ring coursers shake the ground,Cambaya bleeding of his might's last woundSinks pale in dust: fierce Hydal-Kan[624]in vainWakes war on war; he bites his iron chain.{318}O'er Indus' banks, o'er Ganges' smiling vales,No more the hind his plunder'd field bewails:O'er ev'ry field, O Peace, thy blossoms glow,The golden blossoms of thy olive bough;Firm bas'd on wisest laws great Castro crowns,And the wide East the Lusian empire owns."These warlike chiefs, the sons of thy renown,And thousands more, OVasco, doom'd to crownThy glorious toils, shall through these seas unfoldTheir victor-standards blaz'd with Indian gold;And in the bosom of our flow'ry isle,Embath'd in joy shall o'er their labours smile.Their nymphs like yours, their feast divine the same,The raptur'd foretaste of immortal fame."So sang the goddess, while the sister trainWith joyful anthem close the sacred strain:"Though Fortune from her whirling sphere bestowHer gifts capricious in unconstant flow,Yet laurell'd honour and immortal fameShall ever constant grace the Lusian name."So sung the joyful chorus, while aroundThe silver roofs the lofty notes resound.The song prophetic, and the sacred feast,Now shed the glow of strength through ev'ry breast.When with the grace and majesty divine,Which round immortals when enamour'd shine,To crown the banquet of their deathless fame,To happyGamathus the sov'reign dame:"O lov'd of Heav'n, what never man before,What wand'ring science never might explore,By Heav'n's high will, with mortal eyes to seeGreat nature's face unveil'd, is given to thee.{319}Thou and thy warriors follow where I lead:Firm be your steps, for arduous to the tread,Through matted brakes of thorn and brier, bestrew'dWith splinter'd flint, winds the steep slipp'ry road."She spake, and smiling caught the hero's hand,And on the mountain's summit soon they stand;A beauteous lawn with pearl enamell'd o'er,Emerald and ruby, as the gods of yoreHad sported here. Here in the fragrant airA wondrous globe appear'd, divinely fair!Through ev'ry part the light transparent flow'd,And in the centre, as the surface, glow'd.The frame ethereal various orbs compose,In whirling circles now they fell, now rose;Yet never rose nor fell,[625]for still the sameWas ev'ry movement of the wondrous frame;Each movement still beginning, still complete,Its author's type, self-pois'd, perfection's seat.GreatVasco, thrill'd with reverential awe,And rapt with keen desire, the wonder saw.The goddess mark'd the language of his eyes,"And here," she cried, "thy largest wish suffice."{320}Great nature's fabric thou dost here behold,Th' ethereal, pure, and elemental mouldIn pattern shown complete, as nature's GodOrdain'd the world's great frame, His dread abode;For ev'ry part the Power Divine pervades,The sun's bright radiance, and the central shades;Yet, let not haughty reason's bounded lineExplore the boundless God, or where define,Where in Himself, in uncreated light(While all His worlds around seem wrapp'd in night),He holds His loftiest state.[626]By primal lawsImpos'd on Nature's birth (Himself the cause),By her own ministry, through ev'ry maze,Nature in all her walks, unseen, He sways.These spheres behold;[627]the first in wide embraceSurrounds the lesser orbs of various face;The Empyrean this, the holiest heav'nTo the pure spirits of the bless'd is giv'n:No mortal eye its splendid rays may bear,No mortal bosom feel the raptures there.The earth, in all her summer pride array'd,To this might seem a drear sepulchral shade.Unmov'd it stands; within its shining frame,In motion swifter than the lightning's flame,Swifter than sight the moving parts may spy,Another sphere whirls round its rapid sky.Hence motion darts its force,[628]impulsive draws,And on the other orbs impresses laws;{321}The sun's bright car attentive to its forceGives night and day, and shapes his yearly course;Its force stupendous asks a pond'rous sphereTo poise its fury, and its weight to bear:Slow moves that pond'rous orb; the stiff, slow paceOne step scarce gains, while wide his annual raceTwo hundred times the sun triumphant rides;The crystal heav'n is this, whose rigour guidesAnd binds the starry sphere:[629]That sphere behold,With diamonds spangled, and emblaz'd with gold!What radiant orbs that azure sky adorn,Fair o'er the night in rapid motion borne!Swift as they trace the heav'n's wide circling line,Whirl'd on their proper axles, bright they shine.Wide o'er this heav'n a golden belt displaysTwelve various forms; behold the glitt'ring blaze!{322}Through these the sun in annual journey towers,And o'er each clime their various tempers pours;In gold and silver of celestial mineHow rich far round the constellations shine!Lo, bright emerging o'er the polar tides,In shining frost the Northern Chariot rides;[630]Mid treasur'd snows here gleams the grisly Bear,And icy flakes incrust his shaggy hair.Here fair Andromeda, of heav'n belov'd;Her vengeful sire, and, by the gods reprov'd,