| |
(From The Lusiad)
Translated by William Julius Mickle
ALAS, on Tago’s hapless shores alone | |
| The Muse is slighted, and her charms unknown; | |
| For this no Virgil here attunes the lyre, | |
| No Homer here awakes the hero’s fire. | |
| On Tago’s shores are Scipios, Cæsars born, | 5 |
| And Alexanders Lisboa’s clime adorn, | |
| But heaven has stamped them in a rougher mould, | |
| Nor gave the polish to their genuine gold. | |
| Careless and rude or to be known or know, | |
| In vain to them the sweetest numbers flow; | 10 |
| Unheard, in vain their native poet sings, | |
| And cold neglect weighs down the Muse’s wings. | |
| Even he whose veins the blood of Gama warms, | |
| Walks by, unconscious of the Muse’s charms: | |
| For him no Muse shall leave her golden loom, | 15 |
| No palm shall blossom, and no wreath shall bloom; | |
| Yet shall my labors and my cares be paid | |
| By fame immortal, and by Gama’s shade: | |
| Him shall the song of every shore proclaim, | |
| The first of heroes, first of naval fame. | 20 |
| Rude and ungrateful though my country be, | |
| This proud example shall be taught by me, | |
| “Where’er the hero’s worth demands the skies, | |
| To crown that worth some generous bard shall rise.” * * * * * | |
| Ye gentle Nymphs of Tago’s rosy bowers, | 25 |
| Ah, see what lettered patron-lords are yours! | |
| Dull as the herds that graze their flowery dales, | |
| To them in vain the injured Muse bewails: | |
| No fostering care their barbarous hands bestow, | |
| Though to the Muse their fairest fame they owe. | 30 |
| Ah, cold may prove the future priest of Fame | |
| Taught by my fate: yet will I not disclaim | |
| Your smiles, ye Muses of Mondego’s shade, | |
| Be still my dearest joy your happy aid! | |
| And hear my vow; nor king nor loftiest peer | 35 |
| Shall e’er from me the song of flattery hear; | |
| Nor crafty tyrant, who in office reigns, | |
| Smiles on his king, and binds the land in chains; | |
| His king’s worst foe: nor he whose raging ire, | |
| And raging wants, to shape his course, conspire; | 40 |
| True to the clamors of the blinded crowd, | |
| Their changeful Proteus, insolent and loud; | |
| Nor he whose honest mien secures applause, | |
| Grave though he seem, and father of the laws, | |
| Who, but half-patriot, niggardly denies | 45 |
| Each other’s merit, and withholds the prize: | |
| Who spurns the Muse, nor feels the raptured strain | |
| Useless by him esteemed, and idly vain: | |
| For him, for these, no wreath my hand shall twine; | |
| On other brows the immortal rays shall shine: | 50 |
| He who the path of honor ever trod, | |
| True to his king, his country, and his God, | |
| On his blessed head my hands shall fix the crown | |
| Wove of the deathless laurels of renown. | |
| |
