No More Learning

Not he, who daily moves in ermine gown,
Who nightly slumbers on the couch of down;
Who proudly boasts through heroes old to trace
The lordly lineage of his titled race;
Proud of the smiles of every courtier lord,
A welcome guest at every courtier's board;
Not he, the feeble son of ease, may claim
Thy wreath, O GAMA, or may hope thy fame.
'Tis he, who nurtur'd on the tented field,
From whose brown cheek each tint of fear expell'd,
With manly face unmov'd, secure, serene,
Amidst the thunders of the deathful scene,
From horror's mouth dares snatch the warrior's crown,
His own his honours, all his fame his own:
Who, proudly just to honour's stern commands,
The dogstar's rage on Afric's burning sands,
Or the keen air of midnight polar skies,
Long watchful by the helm, alike defies:
Who, on his front, the trophies of the wars,
Bears his proud knighthood's badge, his honest scars;
Who, cloth'd in steel, by thirst, by famine worn,
Through raging seas by bold ambition borne,
Scornful of gold, by noblest ardour fir'd,
Each wish by mental dignity inspir'd,
Prepar'd each ill to suffer, or to dare,
To bless mankind, his great, his only care;
Him whom her son mature Experience owns,
Him, him alone Heroic Glory crowns.

Once more the translator is tempted to confess his opinion, that the
contrary practice of Homer and Virgil affords, in reality, no reasonable
objection against the exclamatory exuberances of Camoens. Homer, though
the father of the epic poem, has his exuberances, which violently
trespass against the first rule of the epopea, the unity of the action.
A rule which, strictly speaking, is not outraged by the digressive
exclamations of Camoens. The one now before us, as the severest critic
must allow, is happily adapted to the subject of the book. The great
dangers which the hero had hitherto encountered are particularly
described. He is afterwards brought in safety to the Indian shore, the
object of his ambition, and of all his toils. The exclamation,
therefore, on the grand hinge of the poem has its propriety, and
discovers the warmth of its author's genius. It must also please, as it
is strongly characteristic of the temper of our military poet. The manly
contempt with which he speaks of the luxurious, inactive courtier, and
the delight and honour with which he talks of the toils of the soldier,
present his own active life to the reader of sensibility. His campaigns
in Africa, where in a gallant attack he lost an eye, his dangerous life
at sea, and the military fatigues, and the battles in which he bore an
honourable share in India, rise to our idea, and possess us with an
esteem and admiration of our martial poet, who thus could look back with
a gallant enthusiasm (though his modesty does not mention himself) on
all the hardships he had endured; who thus could bravely esteem the
dangers to which he had been exposed, and by which he had severely
suffered, as the most desirable occurrences of his life, and the
ornament of his name.


END OF THE SIXTH BOOK.




BOOK VII.

THE ARGUMENT.
The poet, having expatiated on the glorious achievements of the
Portuguese, describes the Germans, English, French, and Italians,
reproaching them for their profane wars and luxury, while they ought to
have been employed in opposing the enemies of the Christian faith. He
then describes the western peninsula of India--the shores of
Malabar--and Calicut, the capital of the Zamorim, where Gama had landed.
Monsaide, a Moor of Barbary, is met with, who addresses Gama in Spanish,
and offers to serve him as interpreter, Monsaide gives him a particular
account of everything in India. The Zamorim invites Gama to an audience.
The catual, or prime minister, with his officers, visits the ships, and
embraces the opportunity of asking Gama to relate to him the history of
Portugal.


Hail glorious chief! [439] where never chief before
Forc'd his bold way, all hail on India's shore!
And hail, Ye Lusian heroes, fair and wide
What groves of palm, to haughty Rome denied,
For you by Ganges' length'ning banks unfold!
What laurel-forests on the shores of gold
For you their honours ever verdant rear,
Proud, with their leaves, to twine the Lusian spear!

Ah Heav'n! what fury Europe's sons controls!
What self-consuming discord fires their souls!
'Gainst her own breast her sword Germania turns,
Through all her states fraternal rancour burns;[440]
Some, blindly wand'ring, holy faith disclaim,[441]
And, fierce through all, wild rages civil flame.
High sound the titles of the English crown,
"King of Jerusalem,"[442] his old renown!
Alas, delighted with an airy name,
The thin, dim shadow of departed fame,
England's stern monarch, sunk in soft repose,
Luxurious riots mid his northern snows:
Or, if the starting burst of rage succeed,
His brethren are his foes, and Christians bleed;
While Hagar's brutal race his titles stain, }
In weeping Salem unmolested reign, }
And with their rites impure her holy shrines profane. }
And thou, O Gaul,[443] with gaudy trophies plum'd.