The sight which keen Affection clears, To me it pictur'd hope, and taught May set in bliss! “On his arrival in India, we find that Camoens contributed, in no small egree, to the success of an expedition against the Pimenta Isles, carried on y the King of Cochin, and his allies the Portuguese. In the following year 555) Manuel de Vasconcelos conducted an armament to the Red Sea. Our oet accompanied him, and, with the intrepid curiosity of genius, explored he wild regions of Africa, by which Mount Felix is surrounded. Here his ind was stored with sketches of scenery, which afterwards formed some of e most finished pictures in his Lusiad, and in other compositions, to the rmer of which, on returning to Goa, he devoted his whole attention. “After an absence of sixteen years, Camoens was compelled to return to Portugal, poor and friendless as when he departed. His immortal Lusiad as now ready for publication, which, however, was delayed, in consequence f the violence with which the plague then raged throughout Lisbon. At ength, in the summer of 1572, it was printed, and received with all the hoour due to such a glorious atchievement of genius. ❝ Whether it recompenced him according to his labour, we are not informed; owever, it is asserted that King Sebastian, to whom it was inscribed, reward. i him with a pension of 375 reis. Admitting the truth of this very doubt. al story, our poet could not have remained in long possession of the royal ounty. Sebastian was speedily hurled from a tottering throne, and liberality was a stranger to the soul of his successor. To his eyes the cowl of monkood seemed a more graceful ornament than the noblest laurels of the muse uch was the spirit that patronised De Sa, and suffered the author of the usiad to starve. "The latter years of Camoens present a mournful picture, not merely of inividual calamity, but of national ingratitude. He, whose best years had been Francisco De Sa was an author much in favour with Cardinal Henry. Iis muse was of a theological turn. He wrote orthodox sonnets to St. Jolin, nd pious little epigrams on Adam and Eve, &c. CCXXXVI. O WEEP NOT THUS. O weep not thus-we both shall know Ere long a happier doom; There is a place of rest below, Where thou and I shall surely go, And sweetly sleep, releas'd from woe, Within the tomb. devoted to the service of his country, he, who had taught her literary fame to rival the proudest efforts of Italy itself, and who seemed born to revive the remembrance of ancient gentility and Lusian heroism, was compelled to wander through the streets, a wretched dependent on casual contribution. One friend alone remained to smooth his downward path, and guide his steps to the grave with gentleness and consolation. It was Antonio, his slave, a native of Java, who had accompanied Camoens to Europe, after having rescued him from the waves, when shipwrecked at the mouth of the Mecan. This faithful attendant was wont to seek ahms throughout Lisbon, and at night shared the produce of the day with his poor and broken-hearted mas. ter. Blessed, for ever blessed, be the memory of this amiable Indian. But his friendship was employed in vain, Camoens sunk beneath the pressure of penury and disease, and died in an alms-house, early in the year 1579. Over his grave is placed the following simple and comprehensive inscription: Here lies Luis de Camoens : He lived poor and miserable, "The character of Camoens may be inferred from his writings. An open and undisguised contempt for every thing base and sordid, whatever were the rank or power of its possesser, formed one of its principal features; this honourable audacity of soul, was the chief means of injuring the worldly interest of our Poet. Those who condemn it, must be ignorant that the exercise of this feeling, to an independent and upright character, though poor, produces a more enviable delight than any which fortüne can bestow ; -The poor are not always poor! My cradle was the couch of Care, My earliest minute. E'en then the griefs I now possess, Scar'd by the phantom of distress, Flew back to heaven! For I was made in Joy's despite, And all my hours of brief delight Which soon shall wheel their sullen flight Across my grave! The Genius of Camoens was almost universal. Like the great father of English poetry, there is scarsely any species of writing, from the epigram to the epic, which he has not attempted, and, like him, has succeeded in all. To offer any remarks on his principal performance, The Lusiad, our limits forbid; of his minor productions, the general characteristic is ease, not the studied carelessness of modern refinement, but the graceful and charming simplicity of a Grecian muse. He was the first who wrote with elegance in his native tongue. The language of Rome, and even of Greece, had been refined by antecedent authors before the appearance of Virgil, or of Homer, but Camoens was at once the polisher, and in some degree the creator of his own. How deplorable must have been its state, when it naturalised two thousand new words on the authority of a single man! CCXXXVII. JESSIE, THE FLOW'R OF DUMBLANE. The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, To muse on sweet Jessie the flow'r o' Dumblane. And sweet is the birk wi' its mantle o' green; She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny; Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flow'r o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, How lost were my days 'till I met wi' my Jessie, Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest Grandeur, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, CCXXXVIII. TELL ME WHERE'S THE VIOLET FLED *. Tell me where's the violet fled, Late so gaily blowing; Swain, the vernal scene is o'er, And the violet blooms no more! From "The German Songster; or, a collection of favourite airs, with their original music, done into English by the translator of "The German Erato."-Berlin, 1798. |