No More Learning

The scenes of drunken-
ness and dissoluteness which he witnessed in Goa inspired him with
a number of satirical poems, by which he drew upon himself much
enmity and persecution. In 1556 his three-years' term of service
expired; but though ardently longing for his beloved native land, he
remained in Goa, influenced either by his bent for the soldier's life
or by the sad news of the death of Donna Catharina de Athaide in


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3133
that year.
He was ordered to Macao in China, to the lucrative post
of commissary for the effects of deceased or absent Portuguese sub-
jects. There, in the quietude of a grotto near Macao, still called the
Grotto of Camoens, the exiled poet finished the first six cantos of his
great epic The Lusiads. ' Recalled from this post in 1558, before
the expiration of his term, on the charge of malversation of office,
Camoens on his return voyage to Goa was shipwrecked near the
mouth of the Me-Kong, saving nothing but his faithful Javanese slave
and the manuscript of his 'Lusiads' — which, swimming with one
hand, he held above the water with the other. In Cambodia, where
he remained several months, he wrote his marvelous paraphrase of
the 137th psalm, contrasting under the allegory of Babel (Babylon)
and Siam (Zion), Goa and Lisbon. Upon his return to Goa he was
cast into prison, but soon set free on proving his innocence by a
public trial. Though receiving, in 1557, another lucrative employ-
ment, Camoens finally resolved to go home, burning with the desire
to lay his patriotic song, now almost completed, before his nation,
and to cover with honor his injured name.
He accepted a passage to Sofala offered him by Pedro Barreto,
who had become viceroy of Mozambique in that year. Unable to
refund the amount of the passage, he was once more held for debt
and spent two years of misery and distress in Mozambique, complet-
ing and polishing during this time his great epic song and preparing
the collection of his lyrics, his 'Parnasso. ' In 1559 he was released
by the historian Diogo do Couto and other friends of his, visiting
Sofala with the expedition of Noronha, and embarked on the Santa
Clara for Lisbon.
On the 7th of April, 1570, Camoens once more set foot on his native
soil, only to find the city for which he had yearned, sadly changed.
The government was in the hands of a brave but harebrained and
fanatic young monarch, ruled by the Jesuits; the capital had been
ravaged by a terrible plague which had carried off fifty thousand
souls; and its society had no room for a man who brought with him
from the Indies, whence so many returned with great riches, nothing
but a manuscript, though in it was sung in classic verse the glory of
his people. Still, through the kind offices of his warm friend Dom
Manoel de Portugal, Camoens obtained, on the 25th of September, 1571,
the royal permission to print his epic. It was published in the spring
of the following year (March, 1572). Great as was the success of the
work, which marked a new epoch in Portuguese history, the reward
which the poet received for it was meagre. King Sebastian granted
him an annual pension of fifteen thousand reis (fifteen dollars, which
then had the purchasing value of about sixty dollars in our money),
which, after the poet's death, was ordered by Philip II. to be paid to


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his aged mother.
Destitute and broken in spirit, Camoens lived for
the last eight years of his life with his mother in a humble house
near the convent of Santa Ana, "in the knowledge of many and in
the society of few. " Dom Sebastian's departure early in 1578 for the
conquest in Africa once more kindled patriotic hopes in his breast;
but the terrible defeat at Alcazarquivir (August 4th of the same year),
in which Portugal lost her king and her army, broke his heart. He
died on the 10th of June, 1580, at which time the army of Philip II. ,
under the command of the Duke of Alva, was marching upon Lisbon.
He was thus spared the cruel blow of seeing, though not of fore-
seeing, the national death of his country. The story that his Javanese
slave Antonio used to go out at night to beg of passers-by alms for
his master, is one of a number of touching legends which, as early
as 1572, popular fancy had begun to weave around the poet's life.
It is true, however, that Camoens breathed his last in dire distress
and isolation, and was buried "poorly and plebeianly" in the neigh-
boring convent of Santa Ana. It was not until sixteen years later
that a friend of his, Dom Gonçalo Coutinho, caused his grave to be
marked with a marble slab bearing the inscription:-"Here lies Luis
de Camoens, Prince of the Poets of his time. He died in the year
1579. This tomb was placed for him by order of D. Gonçalo Coutinho.
and none shall be buried in it. " The words "He lived poor and
neglected, and so died," which in the popular tradition form part of
this inscription, are apocryphal, though entirely in conformity with
the facts. The correctness of 1580 instead of 1579 as the year of the
poet's death is proven by an official document in the archives of
Philip II. Both the memorial slab and the convent-church of Santa
Ana were destroyed by the earthquake of 1755 and during the
rebuilding of the convent, and the identification of the remains of
the great man thus rendered well-nigh impossible. In 1854, however,
all the bones found under the floor of the convent-church were placed
in a coffin of Brazil-wood and solemnly deposited in the convent at
Belem, the Pantheon of King Emanuel. In 1867 a statue was erected
to Camoens by the city of Lisbon.
"The Lusiads (Portuguese, Os Lusíadas), a patronymic adopted by
Camoens in place of the usual term Lusitanos, the descendants of
Lusus (the mythical ancestor of the Portuguese), is an epic poem
which, as its name implies, has for its subject the heroic deeds not
of one hero, but of the whole Portuguese nation. Vasco da Gama's
discovery of the way to the East Indies forms, to be sure, the cen-
tral part of its action; but around it are grouped, with consummate
art, the heroic deeds and destinies of the other Lusitanians. In this,
Camoens' work stands alone among all poems of its kind. Originat-
ing under conditions similar to those which are indispensable to the


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3135
production of a true epic, in the heroic period of the Portuguese
people, when national sentiment had risen to its highest point, it is
the only one among the modern epopees which comes near to the
primitive character of epic poetry. A trait which distinguishes this
epic from all its predecessors is the historic truthfulness with which
Camoens confessedly-"A verdade que eu conto nua e pura Vence toda
a grandiloqua escriptura "— represents his heroic personages and their
exploits, tempering his praise with blame where blame is due, and
the unquestioned fidelity and exactness with which he depicts nat-
ural scenes. Lest, however, this adherence to historic truth should
impair the vivifying element of imagination indispensable to true
poetry, our bard, combining in the true spirit of the Renaissance
myth and miracle, threw around his narrative the allegorical dra-
pery of pagan mythology, introducing the gods and goddesses of
Olympus as siding with or against the Portuguese heroes, and thus
calling the imagination of the reader into more active play. Among
the many beautiful inventions of his own creative fancy with which
Camoens has adorned his poem, we shall only mention the powerful
impersonation of the Cape of Storms in the Giant Adamastor (c. v. ),
an episode used by Meyerbeer in his opera 'L'Africaine,' and the en-
chanting scene of the Isle of Love (c. ix. ), as characteristic of the
poet's delicacy of touch as it is of his Portuguese temperament, in
which Venus provides for the merited reward and the continuance of
the brave sons of Lusus. For the metric form of his verse, Camoens
adopted the octave rhyme of Ariosto, while for his epic style he fol-
lowed Virgil, from whom many a simile and phrase is directly bor-
rowed. His poem, justly admired for the elegant simplicity, the
purity and harmony of its diction, bears throughout the deep imprint
of his own powerful and noble personality, that independence and
magnanimity of spirit, that fortitude of soul, that genuine and glow-
ing patriotism which alone, amid all the disappointments and dan-
gers, the dire distress and the foibles and faults of his life, could
enable him to give his mind and heart steadfastly to the fulfillment
of the lofty patriotic task he had set his genius, - the creation of a
lasting monument to the heroic deeds of his race. It is thus that
through The Lusiads' Camoens became the moral bond of the
national individuality of his people, and inspired it with the energy
to rise free once more out of Spanish subjection.
Lyrics. Here, Camoens is hardly less great than as an epic poet,
whether we consider the nobility, depth, and fervor of the senti-
ments filling his songs, or the artistic perfection, the rich variety of
form, and the melody of his verse. His lyric works fall into two
main classes, those written in Italian metres and those in the tra-
ditional trochaic lines and strophic forms of the Spanish peninsula.
The first class is contained in the 'Parnasso,' which comprises 356


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LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
sonnets, 22 canzones, 27 elegies, 12 odes, 8 octaves, and 15 idyls, all
of which testify to the great influence of the Italian school, and
especially of Petrarch, on our poet. The second class is embodied
in the Cancioneiro,' or song-book, and embraces more than one
hundred and fifty compositions in the national peninsular manner.
Together, these two collections form a body of lyric verse of such
richness and variety as neither Petrarch and Tasso nor Garcilaso de
la Vega can offer. Unfortunately, Camoens never prepared an edition
of his Rimas; and the manuscript, which, as Diogo do Couto tells us,
he arranged during his sojourn in Mozambique from 1567 to 1569, is
said to have been stolen. It was not until 1595, fully fifteen years
after the poet's death, that one of his disciples and admirers, Fernão
Rodrigues Lobo Soropita, collected from Portugal, and even from
India, and published in Lisbon, a volume of one hundred and seventy-
two songs, four of which, however, are not by Camoens. The great
mass of verse we now possess has been gathered during the last
three centuries. More may still be discovered, while, on the other
hand, much of what is now attributed to Camoens does not belong
to him, and the question how much of the extant material is gen-
uine is yet to be definitely answered.
In his lyrics, Camoens has depicted, with all the passion and
power of his impressionable temperament, the varied experiences
and emotions of his eventful life. This variety and change of senti-
ments and situations, while greatly enhancing the value of his songs
by the impression of fuller truth and individuality which they pro-
duce, is in so far disadvantageous to a just appreciation of them, as
it naturally brings with it much verse of inferior poetic merit, and
lacks that harmony and unity of emotion which Petrarch was able
to effect in his Rime by confining himself to the portraiture of a
lover's soul.
Drama. In his youth, most likely during his life at court between
1542 and 1546, Camoens wrote three comedies of much freshness and
verve, in which he surpassed all the Portuguese plays in the national
taste produced up to his time. One, 'Filodemo,' derives its plot
from a medieval novel; the other two, 'Rei Seleuco' (King Seleucus)
and Amphitryões,' from antiquity. The last named, a free imitation
of Plautus's 'Amphitryo,' is by far the best play of the three.
these comedies we can recognize an attempt on the part of the author
to fuse the imperfect play in the national taste, such as it had been
cultivated by Gil Vicente, with the more regular but lifeless pieces
of the classicists, and thus to create a superior form of national
comedy. In this endeavor, however, Camoens found no followers.
In
Bibliography. The most complete edition of the works of Camoens
is that by the Viscount de Juromenha, Obras de Luiz de Camões,'
(6 vols. , Lisbon, 1860-70); a more convenient edition is the one by


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3137
Th. Braga (in 'Bibliotheca da Actualidade,' 3 vols. , Porto, 1874).
The best separate edition of the text of The Lusiads' is by F. A.
Coelho (Lisbon, 1880). Camoens' lyric and dramatic works are pub-
lished in his collected works, no separate editions of them existing
thus far. In regard to the life and works of Camoens in general cf.
Adamson, 'Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Camoens (2 vols. ,
London, 1820); Th. Braga, 'Historia de Camoens (3 vols. , Porto,
1873-75); Latino Coelho, 'Luiz de Camoens' (in the 'Galeria de varões
illustres, i. , Lisbon, 1880); J. de Vasconcellos, 'Bibliographia Camo-
niana (Porto, 1880); Brito Aranha, Estudos Bibliographicos' (Lisbon,
1887-8); W. Storck, 'Luis' de Camoens Leben' (Paderborn, 1890);
and especially the judicious and impartial article by Mrs. Carolina
Michaelis de Vasconcellos in Vol. ii. of Gröber's Grundriss der
romanischen Philologie' (Strassburg, 1894). The best translations of
Camoens' works are the one by W. Storck, Camoens' Sämmtliche
Gedichte, 6 vols. , Paderborn, 1880-85), into German, and the one by
R. F. Burton, who has also written on the life of the poet, The
Lusiads' (2 vols. , London, 1880), and 'The Lyricks' (3 vols. , London,
1884, containing only those in Italian metres), into English. The ex-
tracts given below are from Burton.
Henry R. Lang
THE LUSIADS
CANTO I
THE
HE feats of Arms, and famed heroick Host,
from occidental Lusitanian strand,
who o'er the waters ne'er by seaman crost,
farèd beyond the Taprobane-land,
forceful in. perils and in battle-post,
with more than promised force of mortal hand;
and in the regions of a distant race
rear'd a new throne so haught in Pride of Place:
And, eke, the Kings of mem'ory grand and glorious,
who hied them Holy Faith and Reign to spread,
converting, conquering, and in lands notorious,
Africk and Asia, devastation made;
nor less the Lieges who by deeds memorious
brake from the doom that binds the vulgar dead;
my song would sound o'er Earth's extremest part
were mine the genius, mine the Poet's art.
VI-197


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Cease the sage Grecian, and the man of Troy
to vaunt long voyage made in by-gone day:
Cease Alexander, Trojan cease to 'joy
the fame of vict'ories that have pass'd away:
The noble Lusian's stouter breast sing I,
whom Mars and Neptune dared not disobey:
Cease all that antique Muse hath sung, for now
a better Brav'ry rears its bolder brow.
And you, my Tagian Nymphs, who have create
in me new purpose with new genius firing;
if 'twas my joy whilere to celebrate
your founts and stream my humble song inspiring;
Oh! lend me here a noble strain elate,
a style grandiloquent that flows untiring;
so shall Apollo for your waves ordain ye
in name and fame ne'er envy Hippokréné.
Grant me sonorous accents, fire-abounding,
now serves ne peasant's pipe, ne rustick reed;
but blasts of trumpet, long and loud resounding,
that 'flameth heart and hue to fiery deed:
Grant me high strains to suit their Gestes astounding,
your Sons, who aided Mars in martial need;
that o'er the world he sung the glorious song,
if theme so lofty may to verse belong.
And Thou! O goodly omen'd trust, all-dear¹
to Lusitania's olden liberty,
whereon assurèd esperance we rear
enforced to see our frail Christianity:
Thou, O new terror to the Moorish spear,
the fated marvel of our century,
to govern worlds of men by God so given,
that the world's best be given to God and Heaven:
Thou young, thou tender, ever-flourishing bough,
true scion of tree by Christ belovèd more
than aught that Occident did ever know,
"Cæsarian" or "Most Christian" styled before:
Look on thy 'scutcheon, and behold it show
the present Vict'ory long past ages bore;
Arms which He gave and made thine own to be
by Him assurèd on the fatal tree:"
1 Invocation to Dom Sebastian.
2 The Arms of Portugal (Canto iii. , 53, 54).


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3139
Thou, mighty Sovran! o'er whose lofty reign
the rising Sun rains earliest smile of light;
sees it from middle firmamental plain;
And sights it sinking on the breast of Night:
Thou, whom we hope to hail the blight, the bane
of the dishonour'd Ishmaëlitish knight;
and Orient Turk, and Gentoo- misbeliever
that drinks the liquor of the Sacred River:¹
Incline awhile, I pray, that majesty
which in thy tender years I see thus ample,
E'en now prefiguring full maturity
that shall be shrined in Fame's eternal temple:
Those royal eyne that beam benignity
bend on low earth: Behold a new ensample
of hero hearts with patriot pride inflamèd,
in number'd verses manifold proclaimèd.
Thou shalt see Love of Land that ne'er shall own
lust of vile lucre; soaring towards th' Eternal:
For 'tis no light ambition to be known
th' acclaimèd herald of my nest paternal.
Hear; thou shalt see the great names greater grown
of Vavasors who hail the Lord Supernal:
So shalt thou judge which were the higher station,
King of the world or Lord of such a nation.
Hark, for with vauntings vain thou shalt not view
phantastical, fictitious, lying deed
of lieges lauded, as strange Muses do,
seeking their fond and foolish pride to feed
Thine acts so forceful are, told simply true,
all fabled, dreamy feats they far exceed;
exceeding Rodomont, and Ruggiero vain,
and Roland haply born of Poet's brain.
For these I give thee a Nuno, fierce in fight,
who for his King and Country freely bled;
an Egas and a Fuas; fain I might
for them my lay with harp Homeric wed!
For the twelve peerless Peers again I cite
the Twelve of England by Magriço led:
Nay, more, I give thee Gama's noble name,
who for himself claims all Eneas' fame.
The Ganges (not the Jordan).


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And if in change for royal Charles of France,
or rivalling Cæsar's mem'ories thou wouldst trow,
the first Afonso see, whose conquering lance
lays highest boast of stranger glories low:
See him who left his realm th' inheritance
fair Safety, born of wars that crusht the foe:
That other John, a knight no fear deter'd,
the fourth and fifth Afonso, and the third.
Nor shall they silent in my song remain,
they who in regions there where Dawns arise,
by Acts of Arms such glories toil'd to gain,
where thine unvanquisht flag for ever flies,
Pacheco, brave of braves; th' Almeidas twain,
whom Tagus mourns with ever-weeping eyes;
dread Albuquerque, Castro stark and brave,
with more, the victors of the very grave.
But, singing these, of thee I may not sing,
O King sublime! such theme I fain must fear.
Take of thy reign the reins, so shall my King
create a poesy new to mortal ear:
E'en now the mighty burthen here I ring
(and speed its terrors over all the sphere! )
of sing'ular prowess, War's own prodigies,
in Africk regions and on Orient seas.
Casteth on thee the Moor eyne cold with fright,
in whom his coming doom he views designed:
The barb'rous Gentoo, sole to see thy sight
yields to thy yoke the neck e'en now inclined;
Tethys, of azure seas the sovran right,
her realm, in dowry hath to thee resignèd;
and by thy noble tender beauty won,
would bribe and buy thee to become her son.
In thee from high Olympick halls behold
themselves, thy grandsires' sprites; far-famèd pair;1
this clad in Peacetide's angel-robe of gold,
that crimson-hued with paint of battle-glare:
By thee they hope to see their tale twice told,
their lofty mem'ries live again; and there,
when Time thy years shall end, for thee they 'sign
a seat where soareth Fame's eternal shrine.
¹ D. Joam III. and the Emperor Charles Quint.


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3141
But, sithence ancient Time slow minutes by
ere ruled the Peoples who desire such boon;
bend on my novel rashness favouring eye,
that these my verses may become thine own:
So shalt thou see thine Argonauts o'erfly
yon salty argent, when they see it shown
thou seest their labours on the raging sea:
Learn even now invok'd of man to be. ¹
CANTO III
Now, my Calliope! to teach incline
what speech great Gama for the king did frame:
Inspire immortal song, grant voice divine
unto this mortal who so loves thy name.
Thus may the God whose gift was Medicine,
to whom thou barest Orpheus, lovely Dame!
never for Daphne, Clytia, Leucothoë
due love deny thee or inconstant grow he.
Satisfy, Nymph! desires that in me teem,
to sing the merits of thy Lusians brave;
so worlds shall see and say that Tagus-stream
rolls Aganippe's liquor. Leave, I crave,
leave flow'ry Pindus-head; e'en now I deem
Apollo bathes me in that sovran wave;
else must I hold it, that thy gentle sprite,
fears thy dear Orpheus fade through me from sight.
All stood with open ears in long array
to hear what mighty Gama mote unfold;
when, past in thoughtful mood a brief delay,
began he thus with brow high-raised and bold:
"Thou biddest me, O King! to say my say
anent our grand genealogy of old:
Thou bidd'st me not relate an alien story;
Thou bidd'st me laud my brother Lusian's glory.
"That one praise others' exploits and renown
is honour'd custom which we all desire;
yet fear I 'tis unfit to praise mine own;
lest praise, like this suspect, no trust inspire;
nor may I hope to make all matters known
for Time however long were short; yet, sire!
'End of exordium: narrative begins.


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as thou commandest all is owed to thee;
maugre my will I speak and brief will be.
"Nay, more, what most obligeth me, in fine,
is that no leasing in my tale may dwell;
for of such Feats whatever boast be mine,
when most is told, remaineth much to tell:
But that due order wait on the design,
e'en as desirest thou to learn full well,
the wide-spread Continent first I'll briefly trace,
then the fierce bloody wars that waged my race.
"Lo! here her presence showeth noble Spain,
of Europe's body corporal the head;
o'er whose home-rule, and glorious foreign reign,
the fatal Wheel so many a whirl hath made;
Yet ne'er her Past or force or fraud shall stain,
nor restless Fortune shall her name degrade;
no bonds her bellic offspring bind so tight
but it shall burst them with its force of sprite.
"There, facing Tingitania's shore, she seemeth
to block and bar the Med'iterranean wave,
where the known Strait its name ennobled deemeth
by the last labour of the Theban Brave.
with the burthen of her tribes she teemeth,
circled by whelming waves that rage and rave;
all noble races of such valiant breast,
that each may justly boast itself the best.
"Hers the Tarragonese who, famed in war,
made aye-perturbed Parthenopé obey;
the twain Asturias, and the haught Navarre
twin Christian bulwarks on the Moslem way:
Hers the Gallego canny, and the rare
Castilian, whom his star raised high to sway
Spain as her saviour, and his seign'iory feel
Bætis, Leon, Granada, and Castile.
"See, the head-crowning coronet is she
of general Europe, Lusitania's reign,
where endeth land and where beginneth sea,
and Phoebus sinks to rest upon the main.


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3143
Willed her the Heavens with all-just decree
by wars to mar th' ignoble Mauritan,
to cast him from herself: nor there consent
he rule in peace the Fiery Continent.
"This is my happy land, my home, my pride;
where, if the Heav'ens but grant the pray'er I pray
for glad return and every risk defied,
there may my life-light fail and fade away.
This was the Lusitania, name applied
by Lusus or by Lysa, sons, they say,
of antient Bacchus, or his boon compeers,
eke the first dwellers of her eldest years.
"Here sprang the Shepherd,¹ in whose name we see
forecast of virile might, of virtuous meed;
whose fame no force shall ever hold in fee,
since fame of mighty Rome ne'er did the deed.
This, by light Heaven's volatile decree,
that antient Scyther, who devours his seed,
made puissant pow'er in many a part to claim,
assuming regal rank; and thus it came:-
«A King there was in Spain, Afonso hight,
who waged such warfare with the Saracen,
that by his 'sanguined arms, and arts, and might,
he spoiled the lands and lives of many men.
When from Herculean Calpè winged her flight
his fame to Caucasus Mount and Caspian glen,
many a knight, who noblesse coveteth,
comes off'ering service to such King and Death.
"And with intrinsic love inflamèd more
for the True Faith, than honours popular,
they troopèd, gath'ering from each distant shore,
leaving their dear-loved homes and lands afar.
When with high feats of force against the Moor
they proved of sing'ular worth in Holy War,
willed Afonso that their mighty deeds
commensurate gifts command and equal meeds.
"'Mid them Henrique, second son, men say,
of a Hungarian King, well-known and tried,
by sort won Portugal which, in his day,
ne prized was ne had fit cause for pride:
1
¹ Viriatus.


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His strong affection stronger to display
the Spanish King decreed a princely bride,
his only child, Teresa, to the count;
And with her made him Seigneur Paramount.
"This doughty Vassal from that servile horde,
Hagar, the handmaid's seed, great vict'ories won;
reft the broad lands adjacent with his sword
and did whatever Brav'ery bade be done;
Him, for his exploits excellent to reward,
God gave in shortest space a gallant son,
whose arm to 'noble and enfame was fain
the warlike name of Lusitania's reign.
"Once more at home this conqu'ering Henry stood
who sacred Hierosol'yma had relieved,
his eyes had fed on Jordan's holy flood,
which the Dear Body of Lord God had lavèd;
when Godfrey left no foe to be subdued,
and all Judæa conquered was and saved,
many that in his wars had done devoir
to their own lordships took the way once more.
"But when this stout and gallant Hun attainèd
Life's fatal period, age and travail-spent,
he gave, by Death's necessity constrainèd,
his sprite to him that had that spirit lent:
A son of tender years alone remainèd,
to whom the Sire bequeath'd his 'bodiment;
with bravest braves the youth was formed to cope,
for from such sire such son the world may hope.
"Yet old Report, I know not what its weight
(for on such antique tale no man relies),
saith that the Mother, tane in tow the State,
A second nuptial bed did not despise:
orphan son to disinher'ited fate
He
she doomed, declaring hers the dignities,
not his, with seigniory o'er all the land,
her spousal dowry by her sire's command.
"Now Prince Afonso (who such style had tane
in pious mem'ory of his Grandsire's name),
seeing no part and portion in his reign
all pilled and plundered by the Spouse and Dame.


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3145
by dour and doughty Mars inflamed amain,
privily plots his heritage to claim:
He weighs the causes in his own conceit
till firm Resolve its fit effect shall greet.
"Of Guimara'ens the field already flow'd
with floods of civil warfare's bloody tide,
where she, who little of the Mother show'd,
to her own bowels love and land denied.
Fronting the child in fight the parent stood;
nor saw her depth of sin that soul of pride
against her God, against maternal love:
Her sensual passion rose all pow'r above.
"O magical Medea! O Progne dire!
if your own babes in vengeance dared ye kill
for alien crimes, and injuries of the sire,
look ye, Teresa's deed was darker still.
Foul greed of gain, incontinent desire,
were the main causes of such bitter ill:
Scylla her agèd sire for one did slay,
for both Teresa did her son betray.
"Right soon that noble Prince clear vict'ory won
from his harsh Mother and her Fere indign;
in briefest time the land obeyed the son,
though first to fight him did the folk incline.
But reft of reason and by rage undone
he bound the Mother in the biting chain:
Eftsoons avenged her griefs the hand of God:
Such veneration is to parents ow'd.
"Lo! the superb Castilian 'gins prepare
his pow'r to 'venge Teresa's injuries,
against the Lusian land in men so rare,
whereon ne toil ne trouble heavy lies.
Their breasts the cruel battle grandly dare,
aid the good cause angelic Potencies;
unrecking might unequal still they strive,
nay, more, their dreadful foe to flight they drive!
"Passeth no tedious time, before the great
Prince a dure Siege in Guimaraens dree'd
by passing pow'er, for to 'mend his state,
came the fell en'emy, full of grief and greed:
¹Valdevez, or Campo da Matança, A. D. 1128 (Canto iv. 16).


## p. 3146 (#116) ###########################################

3146
LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
But when committed life to direful Fate,
Egas, the faithful guardian, he was free'd,
who had in any other way been lost,
all unprepared 'gainst such 'whelming host.
"But when the loyal Vassal well hath known
how weak his Monarch's arm to front such fight,
sans order wending to the Spanish fone,
his Sovran's homage he doth pledge and plight.
Straight from the horrid siege th' invader flown
trusteth the word and honour of the Knight,
Egas Moniz: But now the noble breast
of the brave Youth disdaineth strange behest.
"Already came the plighted time and tide,
when the Castilian Don stood dight to see,
before his pow'er the Prince bend low his pride,
yielding the promised obediency.
Egas who views his knightly word belied,
while still Castile believes him true to be,
Sweet life resolveth to the winds to throw,
nor live with foulest taint of faithless vow.
"He with his children and his wife departeth
to keep his promise with a faith immense;
unshod and strippèd, while their plight imparteth
far more of pity than of vengeance:
'If, mighty Monarch! still thy spirit smarteth
to wreak revenge on my rash confidence,'
quoth he, 'Behold! I come with life to save
my pledge, my knightly honour's word I gave. '
"I bring, thou seest here, lives innocent,
of wife, of sinless children dight to die;
if breasts of gen'erous mould and excellent
accept such weaklings' woeful destiny.
Thou seest these han this tongue inconsequent:
hereon alone the fierce exper'iment try
of torments, death, and doom that pass in full
Sinis or e'en Perillus' brazen bull.
'
"As shrifted wight the hangman stands before,
in life still draining bitter draught of death,
lays throat on block, and of all hope forlore,
expects the blighting blow with bated breath:


## p. 3147 (#117) ###########################################

LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
3147
So, in the Prince's presence angry sore,
Egás stood firm to keep his plighted faith:
When the King, marv'elling at such wondrous truth,
feels anger melt and merge in Royal ruth.
"Oh the great Portingall fidelity
of Vassal self-devote to doom so dread!
What did the Persian more for loyalty
whose gallant hand his face and nostrils shred?
When great Darius mourned so grievously
that he a thousand times deep-sighing said,
far he prefer'd his Zóp'yrus sound again,
than lord of twenty Babylons to reign.
"But Prince Afonso now prepared his band
of happy Lusians proud to front the foes,
those haughty Moors that held the glorious land
yon side where clear delicious Tagus flows:
Now on Ourique' field was pitched and plan'd
the Royal 'Campment fierce and bellicose,
facing the hostile host of Sarrasin
though there so many, here so few there bin.
"Confident, yet would he in naught confide,
save in his God that holds of Heav'en the throne;
so few baptized stood their King beside,
there were an hundred Moors for every one:
Judge any sober judgment, and decide
'twas deed of rashness or by brav'ery done
to fall on forces whose exceeding might
a century showèd to a single Knight.
"Order five Moorish Kings the hostile host
of whom Ismár, so called, command doth claim;
all of long Warfare large experience boast.
wherein may mortals win immortal fame:
And gallant dames the Knights they love the most
'company, like that brave and beauteous Dame,
who to beleaguered Troy such aidance gave
with woman-troops that drained Thermòdon's wave.
"The coolth serene, and early morning's pride,
now paled the sparkling stars about the Pole,
when Mary's Son appearing crucified
in vision, strengthened King Afonso's soul.
'Battle of Ourique, A. D. 1139.


## p. 3148 (#118) ###########################################

3148
LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
But he, adoring such appearance, cried,
fired with a phrenzied faith beyond control:
'To th' Infidel, O Lord! to th' Infidel:¹
Not, Lord, to me who know Thy pow'er so well. '
"Such gracious marvel in such manner sent
'flamed the Lusians' spirits fierce and high,
towards their nat'ural King, that excellent
Prince, unto whom love-boon none could deny:
Aligned to front the foeman prepotent,
they shouted res'onant slogan to the sky,
and fierce the 'larum rose, 'Real, real,
for high Afonso, King of Portugal! '
"Accomplished his act of arms victorious,
home to his Lusian realm Afonso sped,
to gain from Peace-tide triumphs great and glorious,
as those he gained in wars and battles dread;
when the sad chance, on History's page memorious,
which can unsepulchre the sheeted dead,
befell that ill-starr'd, miserable Dame
who, foully slain, a throned Queen became.
"Thou, only thou, pure Love, whose cruel might
obligeth human hearts to weal and woe,
thou, only thou, didst wreak such foul despight,
as though she were some foul perfidious foe.
Thy burning thirst, fierce Love, they say aright,
may not be quencht by saddest tears that flow;
Nay, more, thy sprite of harsh tyrannick mood
would see thine altars bathed with human blood.
"He placed thee, fair Ignèz! in soft retreat,
culling the first-fruits of thy sweet young years,
in that delicious Dream, that dear Deceit,
whose long endurance Fortune hates and fears:
Hard by Mondego's yearned-for meads thy seat,
where linger, flowing still, those lovely tears,
until each hill-born tree and shrub confest
the name of Him deep writ within thy breast.
¹I. e. , disclose Thyself; show a sign.
2 Alfonso IV. (1325-1357).
Writing his name upon the tree-trunks and leaves.
3


## p. 3149 (#119) ###########################################

LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
3149
"There, in thy Prince awoke responsive-wise,
dear thoughts of thee which soul-deep ever lay;
which brought thy beauteous form before his eyes,
whene'er those eyne of thine were far away;
Night fled in falsest, sweetest phantasies,
in fleeting, flying reveries sped the Day;
and all, in fine, he saw or cared to see
were memories of his love, his joys, his thee.
"Of many a dainty dame and damosel
The coveted nuptial couches he rejecteth;
for naught can e'er, pure Love! thy care dispel,
when one enchanting shape thy heart subjecteth.
These whims of passion to despair compel
the Sire, whose old man's wisdom aye respecteth,
his subjects murmuring at his son's delay
to bless the nation with a bridal day.
"To wrench Ignèz from life he doth design,
better his captured son from her to wrench;
deeming that only blood of death indign
the living lowe of such true Love can quench.
What Fury willed it that the steel so fine,
which from the mighty weight would never flinch
of the dread Moorman, should be drawn in hate
to work that hapless delicate Ladye's fate?
"The horrible Hangmen hurried her before
the King, now moved to spare her innocence;
but still her cruel murther urged the more
the People, swayed by fierce and false pretence.
She with her pleadings pitiful and sore,
that told her sorrows and her care immense
for her Prince-spouse and babes, whom more to leave
than her own death the mother's heart did grieve:
"And heav'enwards to the clear and crystalline skies,
raising her eyne with piteous tears bestainèd;
her eyne, because her hands with cruel ties
one of the wicked Ministers constrainèd:
And gazing on her babes in wistful guise,
whose pretty forms she loved with love unfeigned,
whose orphan'd lot the Mother filled with dread,
until their cruel grandsire thus she said: —
"If the brute-creatures, which from natal day
on cruel ways by Nature's will were bent;


## p. 3150 (#120) ###########################################

3150
LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
or feral birds whose only thought is prey,
upon aërial rapine all intent;
if men such salvage be'ings have seen display
to little children loving sentiment,
e'en as to Ninus' mother did befall,
and to the twain who rear'd the Roman wall:
"O thou, who bear'st of man the gest and breast,
(an it be manlike thus to draw the sword
on a weak girl because her love imprest
his heart, who took her heart and love in ward);
respect for these her babes preserve, at least!
since it may not her òbscure death retard:
Moved be thy pitying soul for them and me,
although my faultless fault unmoved thou see!
"And if thou know'est to deal in direful fight
the doom of brand and blade to Moorish host,
Know also thou to deal of life the light
to one who ne'er deserved her life be lost;
But an thou wouldst mine inno'cence thus requite,
place me for aye on sad exilèd coast,
in Scythian sleet, on seething Libyan shore,
with life-long tears to linger evermore.
"Place me where beasts with fiercest rage abound,-
Lyons and Tygers,-there, ah! let me find
if in their hearts of flint be pity found,
denied to me by heart of humankind.
There with intrinsic love and will so fond
for him whose love is death, there will I tend
these tender pledges whom thou see'st; and so
shall the sad mother cool her burning woe. '
"Inclin'ed to pardon her the King benign,
moved by this sad lament to melting mood;
but the rude People and Fate's dure design
(that willed it thus) refused the pardon sued:
They draw their swords of steely temper fine,
They who proclaim as just such deed of blood:
Against a ladye, caitiff, felon wights!
how showed ye here, brute beasts or noble Knights? -
"Thus on Polyxena, that beauteous maid,
last solace of her mother's age and care,


## p. 3151 (#121) ###########################################

LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
3151
when doom'd to die by fierce Achilles' shade,
the cruel Pyrrhus hasted brand to bare:
But she (a patient lamb by death waylaid)
with the calm glances which serene the air,
casts on her mother, mad with grief, her eyes
and silent waits that awesome sacrifice.
"Thus dealt with fair Ignèz the murth'erous crew,
in th' alabastrine neck that did sustain
the charms whereby could Love the love subdue
of him, who crown'd her after death his Queen;
bathing their blades; the flow'ers of snowy hue,
which often water'ed by her eyne had been,
are blood-dyed; and they burn with blinding hate,
reckless of tortures stor'd for them by Fate.
"Well mightest shorn of rays, O Sun! appear
to fiends like these on day so dark and dire;
as when Thyestes ate the meats that were
his seed, whom Atreus slew to spite their sire.
And you, O hollow Valleys! doomed to hear
her latest cry from stiffening lips expire-
her Pedro's name,- did catch that mournful sound,
whose echoes bore it far and far around!
"E'en as Daisy sheen, that hath been shorn
in time untimely, floret fresh and fair,
and by untender hand of maiden torn
to deck the chaplet for her wreathèd hair;
gone is its odor and its colours mourn;
So pale and faded lay that Ladye there;
dried are the roses of her cheek, and fled
the white live color, with her dear life dead.
"Mondego's daughter-Nymphs the death obscure
wept many a year, with wails of woe exceeding;
and for long mem'ry changed to fountain pure
the floods of grief their eyes were ever feeding:
The name they gave it, which doth still endure,
revived Ignéz, whose murthered love lies bleeding,
see yon fresh fountain flowing 'mid the flowers,
tears are its waters, and its name 'Amores! '¹
"Time ran not long, ere Pedro saw the day
of vengeance dawn for wounds that ever bled;
The famous Fonte-dos-Amores, near Coimbra.


## p. 3152 (#122) ###########################################

LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
3152
who, when he took in hand the kingly sway,
eke took the murth'erers who his rage had fled:
Them a most cruel Pedro did betray;
for both, if human life the foemen dread,
made concert savage and dure pact, unjust as
Lepidus made with Anthony' and Augustus. "
Co
THE CANZON OF LIFE
OME here! my confidential Secretary
Of the complaints in which my days are rife,
Paper, whereon I gar my griefs o'erflow.
Tell we, we twain, Unreasons which in life
Deal me inexorable, contrary
I
―
Destinies surd to prayer and tearful woe.
Dash we some water-drops on muchel lowe,
Fire we with outcries storm of rage so rare
That shall be strange to mortal memory.
Such misery tell we
To God and Man, and eke, in fine, to air,
Whereto so many times did I confide
My tale and vainly told as I now tell;
But e'en as error was my birthtide-lot,
That this be one of many doubt I not.
And as to hit the butt so far I fail
E'en if I sinnèd her cease they to chide:
Within mine only Refuge will I 'bide
To speak and faultless sin with free intent.
Sad he so scanty mercies must content!
II
Long I've unlearnt me that complaint of dole
Brings cure of dolours; but a wight in pain
To greet is forced an the grief be great.
I will outgreet; but weak my voice and vain
To express the sorrows which oppress my soul;
For nor with greeting shall my dole abate.
Who then shall grant me, to relieve my weight
Of sorrow, flowing tears and infinite sighs
Equal those miseries my Sprite o'erpower?
But who at any hour,


## p. 3153 (#123) ###########################################

LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
3153
Can measure miseries with his tears or cries?
I'll tell, in fine, the love for me design'd
By wrath and woe and all their sovenance;
For other dole hath qualities harder, sterner.
Draw near and hear me each despairing Learner!
And fly the many fed on Esperance
Or wights who fancy Hope will prove her kind;
For Love and Fortune willed, with single mind,
To leave them hopeful, so they comprehend
What measure of unweal in hand they hend.
III
When fro' man's primal grave, the mother's womb,
New eyes on earth I oped, my hapless star
To mar my Fortunes 'gan his will enforce;
And freedom (Free-will given me) to debar:
I learnt a thousand times it was my doom
To know the Better and to work the Worse:
Then with conforming tormentize to curse
My course of coming years, when cast I round
A boyish eye-glance with a gentle zest,
It was my Star's behest
A Boy born blind should deal me life-long wound.
Infantine tear-drops wellèd out the deep
With vague enamoured longings, nameless pine:
My wailing accents fro' my cradle-stound
Already sounded me love-sighing sound.
Thus age and destiny had like design:
For when, peraunter, rocking me to sleep
They sung me Love-songs wherein lovers weep,
Attonce by Nature's will asleep I fell,
So Melancholy witcht me with her spell!
IV
My nurse some Feral was; Fate nilled approve
By any Woman such a name be tane
Who gave me breast; nor seemed it suitable.
Thus was I suckled that my lips indrain
E'en fro' my childhood venom-draught of Love,
Whereof in later years I drained my fill,
Till by long custom failed the draught to kill.
VI-198


## p. 3154 (#124) ###########################################

LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
3154
Then an Ideal semblance struck my glance
Of that fere Human deckt with charms in foyson,
Sweet with the suavest poyson,
Who nourisht me with paps of Esperance;
Till later saw mine eyes the original,
Which of my wildest, maddest appetite
Makes sinful error sovran and superb.
Meseems as human form it came disturb,
But scintillating Spirit's divinest light.
So graceful gait, such port imperial
Were hers, unweal vainglory'd self to weal
When in her sight, whose lively sheen and shade
Exceeded aught and all things Nature made.
V
What new unkindly kind of human pain
Had Love not only doled for me to dree
But eke on me was wholly execute?
Implacable harshness cooling fervency
Of Love-Desire (thought's very might and main)
Drave me far distant fro' my settled suit,
Vext and self-shamed to sight its own pursuit.
Hence sombre shades phantastick born and bred
Of trifles promising rashest Esperance;
While boons of happy chance
Were likewise feignèd and enfigurèd.
But her despisal wrought me such dismay
That made my Fancy phrenesy-ward incline,
Turning to disconcert the guiling lure.
Here mine 'twas to divine, and hold for sure,
That all was truest Truth I could divine;
And straightway all I said in shame to unsay;
To see whatso I saw in còntrayr way;
In fine, just Reasons seek for jealousy
Yet were the Unreasons eather far to see.
VI
I know not how she knew that fared she stealing
With Eyën-rays mine inner man which flew
Her-ward with subtlest passage through the eyne
Little by little all fro' me she drew,
E'en as from rain-wet canopy, exhaling
The subtle humours, sucks the hot sunshine.
The pure transparent geste and mien, in fine,


## p. 3155 (#125) ###########################################

LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
3155
Wherefore inadequate were and lacking sense
"Beauteous" and "Belle" were words withouten weight;
The soft, compassionate
Eye-glance that held the spirit in suspense:
Such were the magick herbs the Heavens all-wise
Drave me a draught to drain, and for long years
To other Being my shape and form transmew'd;
And this transforming with such joy I view'd
That e'en my sorrows snared I with its snares;
And, like the doomèd man, I veiled mine eyes
To hide an evil crescive in such guise;
Like one caressèd and on flattery fed
Of Love, for whom his being was born and bred.
VII
Then who mine absent Life hath power to paint
Wi' discontent of all I bore in view;
That Bide, so far from where she had her Bide,
Speaking, which even what I spake unknew,
Wending, withal unseeing where I went,
And sighing weetless for what cause I sigh'd?
Then, as those torments last endurance tried,
That dreadful dolour which from Tartarus's waves
Shot up on earth and racketh more than all,
Wherefrom shall oft befall
It turn to gentle yearning rage that raves?
Then with repine-ful fury fever-high
Wishing yet wishing not for Love's surceàse;
Shifting to other side for vengeance,
Desires deprived of their esperance,
What now could ever change such ills as these?
Then the fond yearnings for the things gone by,
Pure torment sweet in bitter faculty,
Which from these fiery furies could distill
Sweet tears of Love with pine the soul to thrill?
VIII
For what excuses lone with self I sought,
When my suave Love forfended me to find
Fault in the Thing beloved and so lovèd?
Such were the feigned cures that forged my mind
In fear of torments that for ever taught
Life to support itself by snares approvèd.
Thus through a goodly part of Life I rovèd,


## p. 3156 (#126) ###########################################

3156
LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
Wherein if ever joyed I aught content
Short-lived, immodest, flaw-full, without heed,
'Twas nothing save the seed
That bare me bitter tortures long unspent.
This course continuous dooming to distress,
These wandering steps that strayed o'er every road
So wrought, they quencht for me the flamy thirst
I suffered grow in Sprite, in Soul I nurst
With Thoughts enamoured for my daily food,
Whereby was fed my Nature's tenderness:
And this by habit's long and asperous stress,
Which might of mortals never mote resist,
Was turned to pleasure-taste of being triste.
IX
Thus fared I Life with other interchanging;
I no, but Destiny showing fere unlove;
Yet even thus for other ne'er I'd change.
Me from my dear-loved patrial nide she drove
Over the broad and boisterous Ocean ranging,
Where Life so often saw her èxtreme range.
Now tempting rages rare and missiles strange
Of Mart, she willèd that my eyes should see
And hands should touch, the bitter fruit he dight:
That on this Shield they sight
In painted semblance fire of enemy,
Then ferforth driven, vagrant, peregrine,
Seeing strange nations, customs, tongues, costumes;
Various heavens, qualities different,
Only to follow, passing-diligent
Thee, giglet Fortune! whose fierce will consumes
Man's age upbuilding aye before his eyne
A Hope with semblance of the diamond's shine:
But, when it falleth out of hand we know,
'Twas fragile glass that showed so glorious show.
X
Failed me the ruth of man, and I descried
Friends to unfriendly changèd and contràyr,
In my first peril; and I lacked ground,
Whelmed by the second, where my feet could fare;
Air for my breathing was my lot denied,
[round.
Time failed me, in fine, and failed me Life's dull
What darkling secret, mystery profound


## p. 3157 (#127) ###########################################

LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
3157
This birth to Life, while Life is doomed withhold
Whate'er the world contain for Life to use!
Yet never Life to lose
Though 'twas already lost times manifold!
In brief my Fortune could no horror make,
Ne certain danger ne ancipitous case
(Injustice dealt by men, whom wild-confused
Misrule, that rights of olden days abused,
O'er neighbour-men upraised to power and place! )
I bore not, lashed to the sturdy stake,
Of my long suffering, which my heart would break
With importuning persecuting harms
Dasht to a thousand bits by forceful arms.
XI
Number I not so numerous ills as He
Who, 'scaped the wuthering wind and furious flood,
In happy harbour tells his travel-tale;
Yet now, e'en now, my Fortune's wavering mood
To so much misery obligeth me
That e'en to pace one forward pace I quail:
No more shirk I what evils may assail;
No more to falsing welfare I pretend;
For human cunning naught can gar me gain.
In fine on sovran Strain
Of Providence divine I now depend:
This thought, this prospect 'tis at times I greet
My sole consoler for dead hopes and fears.
But human weakness when its eyne alight
Upon the things that fleet, and can but sight
The sadding Memories of the long-past years;
What bread such times I break, what drink I drain,
Are bitter tear-floods I can ne'er refrain,
Save by upbuilding castles based on air,
Phantastick painture fair and false as fair.
XII
For an it possible were that Time and Tide
Could bend them backward and, like Memory, view
The faded footprints of Life's earlier day;
And, web of olden story weaving new,
In sweetest error could my footsteps guide
'Mid bloom of flowers where wont my youth to stray;
Then would the memories of the long sad way


## p. 3158 (#128) ###########################################

3158
LUIZ VAZ DE CAMOENS
Deal me a larger store of Life-content;
Viewing fair converse and glad company,
Where this and other key
She had for opening hearts to new intent;-
The fields, the frequent stroll, the lovely show,
The view, the snow, the rose, the formosure,
The soft and gracious mien so gravely gay,
The singular friendship casting clean away
All villein longings, earthly and impure,
As one whose Other I can never see;-
Ah, vain, vain memories! whither lead ye me
With this weak heart that still must toil and tire
To tame (as tame it should) your vain Desire?
-
L'ENVOI
No more, Canzon! no more; for I could prate
Sans compt a thousand years; and if befall
Blame to thine over-large and long-drawn strain
We ne'er shall see (assure who blames) contain
An Ocean's water packt in vase so small,
Nor sing I delicate lines in softest tone
For gust of praise; my song to man makes known
Pure Truth wherewith mine own Experience teems;
Would God they were the stuff that builds our dreams!
ADIEU TO COIMBRA
SWEE
WEET lucent waters of Mondego-stream,
Of my Remembrance restful jouïssance,
Where far-fet, lingering, traitorous Esperance
Long whiles misled me in a blinding Dream:
Fro' you I part, yea, still I'll ne'er misdeem
That long-drawn Memories which your charms enhance
Forbid me changing and, in every chance,
E'en as I farther speed I nearer seem.
Well may my Fortunes hale this instrument
Of Soul o'er new strange regions wide and side,
Offered to winds and watery element:
But hence my Spirit, by you 'companied,
Borne on the nimble wings that Reverie lent,
Flies home and bathes her, Waters! in your tide.


## p. 3159 (#129) ###########################################

3159
THOMAS CAMPBELL
(1777-1844)
HE life of Thomas Campbell, though in large measure fortu
nate, was uneventful. It was not marked with such brill-
iant successes as followed the career of Scott; nor was
fame purchased at the price of so much suffering and error as were
paid for their laurels by Byron, Shelley, and Burns; but his star
shone with a clear and steady ray, from the youthful hours that saw
his first triumph until near life's close. The world's gifts- the poet's
fame, and the public honors and rewards that witnessed to it-were
given with a generous hand; and until the
death of a cherished wife and the loss of
his two children-sons, loved with a love
beyond the common love of fathers-broke
the charm, Campbell might almost have
been taken as a type of the happy man of
letters.

Thomas Campbell was born in Glasgow,
July 27th, 1777. His family connection was
large and respectable, and the branch to
which he belonged had been settled for
many years in Argyleshire, where they
were called the Campbells of Kirnan, from
an estate on which the poet's grandfather
resided and where he died. His third son,
Alexander, the father of the poet, was at one time the head of a
firm in Glasgow, doing a profitable business with Falmouth in
Virginia; but in common with almost all merchants engaged in the
American trade, he was ruined by the War of the Revolution. At
the age of sixty-five he found himself a poor man, involved in a
costly suit in chancery, which was finally decided against him, and
with a wife and nine children dependent upon him. All that he had
to live on, at the time his son Thomas was born, was the little that
remained to him of his small property when the debts were paid,
and some small yearly sums from two provident societies of which
he was a member. The poet was fortunate in his parents: both of
them were people of high character, warmly devoted to their child-
ren, whose education was their chief care,-their idea of education
including the training of the heart and the manners as well as the
THOMAS CAMPBELL
mind.


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3160
THOMAS CAMPBELL
When eight years old Thomas was sent to the grammar school at
Glasgow, where he began the study of Latin and Greek.
"I was so
early devoted to poetry," he writes, "that at ten years old, when our
master, David Allison, interpreted to us the first Eclogue of Virgil,
I was literally thrilled with its beauty. In my thirteenth year I
went to the University of Glasgow, and put on the red gown. The
joy of the occasion made me unable to eat my breakfast. Whether
it was presentiment or the mere castle-building of my vanity, I had
even then a day-dream that I should one day be Lord Rector of the
university. "
As a boy, Campbell gained a considerable familiarity with the
Latin and Greek poets usually read in college, and was always more
inclined to pride himself on his knowledge of Greek poetry than on
his own reputation in the art. His college life was passed in times
of great political excitement. Revolution was in the air, and all
youthful spirits were aflame with enthusiasm for the cause of liberty
and with generous sympathy for oppressed people, particularly the
Poles and the Greeks. Campbell was caught by the sacred fire which
later was to touch the lips of Byron and Shelley; and in his earliest
published poem his interest in Poland, which never died out from his
heart, found its first expression. This poem, 'The Pleasures of Hope,'
a work whose title was thenceforth to be inseparably associated with
its author's name, was published in 1799, when Campbell was exactly
twenty-one years and nine months old. It at once placed him high
in public favor, though it met with the usual difficulty experienced
by a first poem by an unknown writer, in finding a publisher. The
copyright was finally bought by Mundell for sixty pounds, to be paid
partly in money and partly in books. Three years after the publi-
cation, a London publisher valued it as worth an annuity of two
hundred pounds for life; and Mundell, disregarding his legal rights,
behaved with so much liberality that from the sale of the first seven
editions Campbell received no less than nine hundred pounds.
Besides this material testimony to its success, scores of anecdotes
show the favor with which it was received by the poets and writers
of the time. The greatest and noblest of them all, Walter Scott,
was most generous in his welcome. He gave a dinner in Campbell's
honor, and introduced him to his friends with a bumper to the author
of The Pleasures of Hope. '
It seemed the natural thing for a young man so successfully
launched in the literary coteries of Edinburgh and Glasgow to pur-
sue his advantage in the larger literary world of London. But
Campbell judged himself with humorous severity. "At present," he
writes in a letter, "I am a raw Scotch lad, and in a company of
wits and geniuses would make but a dull figure with my northern


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THOMAS CAMPBELL
3161
brogue and my 'braw Scotch boos. ' » The eyes of many of the
young men of the time were turned toward Germany, where Goethe
and Schiller, Lessing and Wieland, were creating the golden age of
their country's literature; and Campbell, full of youthful hope and
enthusiasm, and with a little money in his pocket, determined to
visit the Continent before settling down to work in London. In 1800
he set out for Ratisbon, which he reached three days before the
French entered it with their army. His stay there was crowded with
picturesque and tragic incidents, described in his letters to friends at
home-"in prose," as his biographer justly says, "which even his best
poetry hardly surpasses. " From the roof of the Scotch Benedictine
Convent of St. James, where Campbell was often hospitably enter-
tained while in Ratisbon, he saw the battle of Hohenlinden, on
which he wrote the poem once familiar to every schoolboy. Wearied
with the bloody sights of war, he left Ratisbon and the next year
returned to England. While living at Altona he wrote no less than
fourteen of his minor poems, but few of these escaped the severity
of his final judgment when he came to collect his verses for publica-
tion. Among these few the best were The Exile of Erin' and the
noble ode Ye Mariners of England,' the poem by which alone, per-
haps, his name deserves to live; though The Battle of the Baltic '
in its original form The Battle of Copenhagen'-unfortunately not
the one best known-is well worthy of a place beside it.
«<
On his return from the Continent, Campbell found himself
received in the warmest manner, not only in the literary world but
in circles reckoned socially higher. His poetry hit the taste of all
the classes that go to make up the general reading public; his harp
had many strings, and it rang true to all the notes of patriotism,
humanity, love, and feeling. "His happie
"His happiest moments at this period,"
says his biographer, seem to have been passed with Mrs. Siddons,
the Kembles, and his friend Telford, the distinguished engineer, for
whom he afterward named his eldest son. " Lord Minto, on his return
from Vienna, became much interested in Campbell and insisted on
his taking up his quarters for the season in his town-house in
Hanover Square. When the season was over Lord Minto went back
to Scotland, taking the poet with him as traveling companion. At
Castle Minto, Campbell found among other visitors Walter Scott, and
it was while there that 'Lochiel's Warning' was composed and
'Hohenlinden' revised, and both poems prepared for the press.
In 1803 Campbell married his cousin, Matilda Sinclair. The mar-
riage was a happy one; Washington Irving speaks of the lady's per-
sonal beauty, and says that her mental qualities were equally
matched with it. "She was, in fact," he adds, "a more suitable
wife for a poet than poets' wives are apt to be; and for once a son
of song had married a reality and not a poetical fiction. ”


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3162
THOMAS CAMPBELL
For seventeen years he supported himself and his family by what
was for the most part task-work, not always well paid, and made
more onerous by the poor state of his health. In 1801 Campbell's
father died, an old man of ninety-one, and with him ceased the
small benevolent-society pensions that, with what Thomas and the
eldest son living in America could contribute, had hitherto kept
the parents in decent comfort. But soon after Thomas's marriage and
the birth of his first child, the American brother failed, so that the
pious duty of supporting the aged mother now came upon the poet
alone. He accepted the addition to his burden as manfully as was to
be expected of so generous a nature, but there is no doubt that he
was in great poverty for a few years. Although often despondent,
and with good reason, his natural cheerfulness and his good sense
always came to the rescue, and in his lowest estate he retained the
respect and the affection of his many friends.
In 1805 Campbell received a pension of £200, which netted him,
when fees and expenses were deducted, £168 a year. Half of this
sum he reserved for himself and the remainder he divided between
his mother and his two sisters. In 1809 he published 'Gertrude of
Wyoming,' which had been completed the year before. It was hailed
with delight in Edinburgh and with no less favor in London, and
came to a second edition in the spring of 1810. But like most of
Campbell's more pretentious poetry, it has failed to keep its place in
the world's favor. The scene of the poem is laid in an impossible
Pennsylvania where the bison and the beaver, the crocodile, the
condor, and the flamingo, live in happy neighborhood in groves of
magnolia and olive; while the red Indian launches his pirogue upon
the Michigan to hunt the bison, while blissful shepherd swains trip
with maidens to the timbrel, and blue-eyed Germans change their
swords to pruning-hooks, Andalusians dance the saraband, poor Cale-
donians drown their homesick cares in transatlantic whisky, and
Englishmen plant fair Freedom's tree! The story is as unreal as the
landscape, and it is told in a style more labored and artificial by far
than that of Pope, to whom indeed the younger poet was often
injudiciously compared. Yet it is to be noted that Campbell's prose
style was as direct and unaffected as could be wished, while in his
two best lyrical poems, Ye Mariners of England,' and the first cast
of The Battle of the Baltic,' he shows a vividness of conception and
a power of striking out expression at white heat in which no one of
his contemporaries excelled him.
Campbell was deservedly a great favorite in society, and the story
of his life at this time is largely the record of his meeting with dis-
tinguished people. The Princess of Wales freely welcomed him to
her court; he had corresponded with Madame de Staël, and when
she came to England he visited her often and at her request read


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THOMAS CAMPBELL
3163
her his lectures on poetry; he saw much of Mrs. Siddons, and when
in Paris in 1814, visited the Louvre in her company to see the
statues and pictures of which Napoleon had plundered Italy.
In 1826 Campbell was made Lord Rector of Glasgow University,
and in 1828 he was re-elected unanimously. During this second term
his wife died, and in 1829 the unprecedented honor of an election for
a third term was bestowed upon him, although he had to dispute it
with no less a rival than Sir Walter Scott. "When he went to Glas-
gow to be inaugurated as Lord Rector," says his biographer, "on
reaching the college green he found the boys pelting each other with
snowballs. He rushed into the mêlée and flung about his snowballs
right and left with great dexterity, much to the delight of the boys
but to the great scandal of the professors. He was proud of the
piece of plate given him by the Glasgow lads, but of the honor con-
ferred by his college title he was less sensible. He hated the sound
of Doctor Campbell, and said to an acquaintance that no friend of
his would ever call him so. "
The establishment through his direct agency of the University of
London was Campbell's most important public work. Later his life
was almost wholly engrossed for a time by his interest in the cause
of Poland-a cause indeed that from his youth had lain near his
heart. But as he grew older and his health declined he became
more and more restless, and finally in 1843 took up his residence at
Boulogne. His parents, his brothers and sisters, his wife, his two
children, so tenderly loved, were all gone. But he still corresponded
with his friends, and to the last his talk was cheerful and pleasant.
In June, 1844, he died, and in July he was buried in Westminster
Abbey in Poets' Corner. About his grave stood Milman, the Duke of
Argyle, the head of his clan,-Sir Robert Peel, Brougham, Lock-
hart, Macaulay, D'Israeli, Horace Smith, Croly and Thackeray, with
many others, and when the words "Dust to dust" were pronounced,
Colonel Szyrma, a distinguished Pole, scattered over the coffin a
handful of earth from the grave of Kosciuszko at Cracow.


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3164
THOMAS CAMPBELL
HOPE
From the Pleasures of Hope'
T SUMMER eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow
A Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?