She was in his numbers—when those numbers breathing
Of his country's glory—made it glorious more—
To its southern language long harmony bequeathing,
Haunting every wild wave dashing on its shore.
Ay, the poet's music
Is lovely as of yore.
Dream not that the love which haunts the poet's spirit
Is the common passion that sweetens daily earth:
From a world ethereal its nature must inherit
All the high imaginings that crowded round its birth;
From the pure, pale stars, amid their midnight watches,
It asks for inspiration lofty and divine;
From the small wild flowers amid the woods it catches
Charms, round the careless and the usual path to shine.
Such is the poet's passion—
Such, Camoens, was thine.
Flinging far below him each meaner thought that cumbers
Wishes born of wants, he lighted up life's dream
With the kindling light that warms the poet's numbers—
Yet are they sung by the Tajo's sunny stream.
Still was his country the theme of his inspiring,
How her bold vessels first swept the southern seas—
Still was her praise the meed of his desiring,
While telling how her heroes met the fierce and mighty breeze.
The past and its sea triumphs—
His dreams were fill'd with these.
How was he rewarded?—how are such rewarded?
Those who thus lavish their inward wealth in vain?
Only one doom for the poet is recorded—
A present that must buy the future with its pain.
Long, long away, toss'd on the Indian billow,
Dream'd he sweet songs for his lady and his land;
Pale and wan he lies on his last neglected pillow—
None are near to minister with soft and soothing hand.
There let the poet perish—
So hath perish'd all his band.
Heavily, heavily his large black eyes are closing
On the twilight loveliness they are too faint to know;
O'er that pale high forehead a shadow is reposing—
Peace to the weary heart that languid beats below!
From that sweet lip its old songs are departed;
Take, ye wild winds, what it wont to breathe of yore—
There he is dying deserted, broken-hearted,
Like a broken lute which no music wanders o'er.
Farewell to Cameons!
The swan will sing no more.
Yet not for this in the spirit's faith I falter,
Heavy though the doom be—yet glorious is the meed.
Let the life be laid upon the fated altar—
It is but the sacrifice of an eternal creed.
Never yet was song breathed in this high believing,
But, like a star, it hath floated down time's wave;
While what lofty praises and what tender grieving
And what noble hopes, come to sanctify and save!
Even such the glory,
Camoens, by thy grave!
L. E. L.
