The promis'd grace infus'd a bolder fire,
And shook my mighty limbs with fierce desire.
But ah, what error spreads its dreadful night,
What phantoms hover o'er the lover's sight!
The war resign'd, my steps by Doris led,
While gentle eve her shadowy mantle spread,
Before my steps the snowy Thetis shone
In all her charms, all naked, and alone.
Swift as the wind with open arms I sprung,
And, round her waist with joy delirious clung:
In all the transports of the warm embrace,
A hundred kisses on her angel face,

On all its various charms my rage bestows,
And, on her cheek, my cheek enraptur'd glows.
When, oh, what anguish while my shame I tell!
What fix'd despair, what rage my bosom swell!
Here was no goddess, here no heav'nly charms,
A rugged mountain fill'd my eager arms,
Whose rocky top, o'erhung with matted brier,
Receiv'd the kisses of my am'rous fire.

Wak'd from my dream, cold horror freez'd my blood;
Fix'd as a rock, before the rock I stood;
"O fairest goddess of the ocean train,
Behold the triumph of thy proud disdain;
Yet why," I cried, "with all I wish'd decoy,
And, when exulting in the dream of joy,
A horrid mountain to mine arms convey!"
Madd'ning I spoke, and furious, sprung away.
Far to the south I sought the world unknown,
Where I, unheard, unscorn'd, might wail alone,
My foul dishonour, and my tears to hide,
And shun the triumph of the goddess' pride.
My brothers, now, by Jove's red arm o'erthrown,
Beneath huge mountains, pil'd on mountains groan;
And I, who taught each echo to deplore,
And tell my sorrows to the desert shore,
I felt the hand of Jove my crimes pursue,
My stiff'ning flesh to earthy ridges grew,
And my huge bones, no more by marrow warm'd,
To horrid piles, and ribs of rock transform'd,
Yon dark-brow'd cape of monstrous size became,
Where, round me still, in triumph o'er my shame,

The silv'ry Thetis bids her surges roar,
And waft my groans along the dreary shore.'".

Melinda's monarch thus the tale pursu'd,
Of ancient faith, and GAMA thus renew'd :—

Now, from the wave the chariot of the day,
Whirl'd by the fiery coursers, springs away,
When, full in view, the giant Cape appears,
Wide spreads its limbs, and high its shoulders rears;
Behind us, now, it curves the bending side,
And our bold vessels plough the eastern tide.
Nor long excursive off at sea we stand,
A cultur'd shore invites us to the land.
Here their sweet scenes the rural joys bestow,
And give our wearied minds a lively glow.1
The tenants of the coast, a festive band,
With dances meet us on the yellow sand;
Their brides on slow-pac'd oxen rode behind;
The spreading horns with flow'ry garlands twin'd,
Bespoke the dew-lapp'd beeves their proudest boast,
Of all their bestial store they valued most.
By turns the husbands, and the brides, prolong
The various measures of the rural song.

Now, to the dance the rustic reeds resound;

The dancers' heels, light-quiv'ring, beat the ground;
And now, the lambs around them bleating stray,
Feed from their hands, or, round them frisking play.

1 And give our wearied minds a lively glow.-Variety is no less delightful to the reader than to the traveller, and the imagination of Camoëns gave an abundant supply. The insertion of this pastoral landscape, between the terrific scenes which precede and follow, has a fine effect. "Variety," says Pope, in one of his notes on the Odyssey, "gives life and delight; and it is much more necessary in epic, than in comic or tragic, poetry, sometimes to shift the scenes, to diversify and embellish the story."

The Portuguese, sailing upon the Atlantic Ocean, discovered the most southern point of Africa: here they found an immense sea, which carried them to the East Indies. The dangers they encountered in the voyage, the discovery of Mozambique, of Melinda, and of Calecut, have been sung by Camoëns, whose poem recalls to our minds the charms of the Odyssey, and the magnificence of the Æneid.-MONTESQUIEU, Spirit of Laws, bk. xxi. c. 21.

1

Methought I saw the sylvan reign of Pan,
And heard the music of the Mantuan swan:
With smiles we hail them, and with joy behold
The blissful manners of the age of gold.
With that mild kindness, by their looks display'd,
Fresh stores they bring, with cloth of red repaid;
Yet, from their lips no word we knew could flow,
Nor sign of India's strand their hands bestow.
Fair blow the winds; again with sails unfurl'd
We dare the main, and seek the eastern world.
Now, round black Afric's coast our navy veer'd,
And, to the world's mid circle, northward steer'd:
The southern pole low to the wave declin'd,
We leave the isle of Holy Cross 2 behind:
That isle where erst a Lusian, when he pass'd
The tempest-beaten cape, his anchors cast,
And own'd his proud ambition to explore
The kingdoms of the morn could dare no more.
From thence, still on, our daring course we hold
Thro' trackless gulfs, whose billows never roll'd
Around the vessel's pitchy sides before;

Thro' trackless gulfs, where mountain surges roar,
For many a night, when not a star appear'd,
Nor infant moon's dim horns the darkness cheer'd;
For many a dreary night, and cheerless day,
In calms now fetter'd, now the whirlwind's play,
By ardent hope still fir'd, we forc'd our dreadful way.
Now, smooth as glass the shining waters lie,
No cloud, slow moving, sails the azure sky;
Slack from their height the sails unmov'd decline,
The airy streamers form the downward line;
No gentle quiver owns the gentle gale,
Nor gentlest swell distends the ready sail;
Fix'd as in ice, the slumb'ring prows remain,
And silence wide extends her solemn reign.
Now to the waves the bursting clouds descend,
And heaven and sea in meeting tempests blend;

1 Virgil.

}

? A small island, named Santa Cruz by Bartholomew Diaz, who discovered it. According to Faria y Sousa, he went twenty-five leagues further, to the river Del Infante, which, till passed by ĞAMA, was the utmost extent of the Portuguese discoveries.

The black-wing'd whirlwinds o'er the ocean sweep,
And from his bottom roars the stagg'ring deep.
Driv'n by the yelling blast's impetuous sway
Stagg'ring we bound, yet onward bound away:
And now, escaped the fury of the storm,
New danger threatens in a various form;
Though fresh the breeze the swelling canvas swell'd,
A current's headlong sweep our prows withheld:
The rapid force impress'd on every keel,

Backward, o'erpower'd, our rolling vessels reel :
When from their southern caves the winds, enraged,
In horrid conflict with the waves engaged;
Beneath the tempest groans each loaded mast,
And, o'er the rushing tide our bounding navy pass'd.1

2

Now shin'd the sacred morn, when from the east
Three kings the holy cradled Babe address'd,
And hail'd him Lord of heaven: that festive day'
We drop our anchors in an opening bay
The river from the sacred day we name,

8

And stores, the wand'ring seaman's right, we claim :
Stores we receiv'd; our dearest hope in vain,
No word they utter'd could our ears retain ;
Nought to reward our search for India's sound,
By word or sign our ardent wishes crown'd."

It was the force of this rushing current which retarded the further discoveries of Diaz. GAMA got over it by the assistance of a tempest. The seasons when these seas are safely navigable, are now perfectly known.

"The wise men of the East, or magi, whom the Roman Catholic writers will have to have been kings.-Ed.

The Epiphany.-Ed.

Dos Reis, i.e., of the kings.-Ed.

The frequent disappointments of the Portuguese, when they expect to hear some account of India, is a judicious imitation of several parts of Virgil; who, in the same manner, magnifies the distresses of the Trojans in their search for the fated seat of Empire:—

-O gens

Infelix! cui te exitio fortuna reservat?

Septima post Troja excidium jam vertitur æstas;
Cum freta, cum terras omnes, tot inhospita saxa

Sideraque emensæ ferimur: dum per mare magnum

Italiam sequimur fugientem, et volvimur undis. N. v. 625.

Behold, O king, how many a shore we tried!
How many a fierce barbarian's rage defied !
Yet still, in vain, for India's shore we try,
The long-sought shores our anxious search defy.
Beneath new heavens, where not a star we knew,
Through changing climes, where poison'd air we drew;
Wandering new seas, in gulfs unknown, forlorn,
By labour weaken'd, and by famine worn;
Our food corrupted, pregnant with disease,
And pestilence on each expected breeze;
Not even a gleam of hope's delusive ray
To lead us onward through the devious way-
That kind delusion1 which full oft has cheer'd
The bravest minds, till glad success appear'd;
Worn as we were, each night with dreary care,
Each day, with danger that increas'd despair;
Oh! monarch, judge, what less than Lusian fire
Could still the hopeless scorn of fate inspire!
What less, O king, than Lusian faith withstand, ·
When dire despair and famine gave command
Their chief to murder, and with lawless power
Sweep Afric's seas, and every coast devour!
What more than men in wild despair still bold!
These, more than men, in these my band behold!
Sacred to death, by death alone subdued,

These, all the rage of fierce despair withstood;"

1 Hop

2 It had been extremely impolitic in GAMA to mention the mutiny of his followers to the King of Melinda. The boast of their loyalty, besides, has a good effect in the poem, as it elevates the heroes, and gives uniformity to the character of bravery, which the dignity of the epopea required to be ascribed to them. History relates the matter differently. In standing for the Cape of Good Hope, GAMA gave the highest proofs of his resolution. The fleet seemed now tossed to the clouds, ut modo nubes contingere, and now sunk to the lowest whirlpools of the abyss. The winds were insufferably cold, and, to the rage of the tempest was added the horror of an almost continual darkness. The crew expected every moment to be swallowed up in the deep. At every interval of the storm, they came round GAMA, asserting the impossibility to proceed further, and imploring him to return. This he resolutely refused. A conspiracy against his life was formed, but was discovered by his brother. He guarded against it with the greatest courage and prudence; put all the pilots in chains, and he himself, with some others, took the management of the helms. At last, after