Garcilaso, his young friend, is far ahead of him in poetic genius. He was a soldier-poet, "taking now the sword and now the pen," as he said himself, and he died at the early age of thirty-three. His death occurred as the leader of a storming party in romantic circumstances, under the eye of the Emperor and the army. The first to climb the breach, he fell mortally wounded into the arms of the future translator of Ariosto and of his more intimate friend, the Marques de Lombay, whom the world knows best as St. Francis Borgia. "His illustrious descent, his ostentatious valor, his splendid presence, his seductive charm, his untimely death: all these, joined to his gift of song, combined to make him the hero of legend and the idol of a nation. Like Sir Philip Sidney, Garcilaso personified all accomplishments and all graces." Curiously enough it is not the martial but the pastoral that Garcilaso sings and "the light that never was on land or sea," of peace with poetic melancholy, that may so easily be the subject of criticism, yet has always been the favorite retreat of a great many poets at many recurring times.
At the Western end of the Spanish Peninsula the Portuguese, distinct in language, had a literature of their own which reached its perfection just after Columbus' Century, but the promise of which can be seen during our period. The greatest of their poets is Camöens, whom the German critic Schlegel did not hesitate to place above not only his two great contemporaries of the sixteenth century, Ariosto and Tasso, but above all the modern epic poets and even above Virgil. His poem has been read in translation in all the languages of Europe. While it was not written in what we have called Columbus' Century, the poet had given evidence of the greatness of his genius before 1550, and some of the sonnets of his [{482}] early years have deservedly been looked upon as worthy perhaps of a place among the greatest examples in that form. Mrs. Browning's reason for calling her "Sonnets from the Portuguese" by that name was that probably the most beautiful love sonnets in the world had been written in that language. The Portuguese language was given the form in which it was to survive at this time, and it is always when a language is being formed that somehow geniuses come to round out its powers of expression and at the same time give it the form which it is to maintain partly as a consequence of their genius having expressed itself in it in certain enduring modes.
Some of the shorter poems written by Camöens when he was a young man between twenty and twenty-five, that is, before the close of Columbus' Century, are so characteristic of the vers de société at all times, and yet are such delightful bits of versification with here and there a touch of charming poetic quality, that they have more than passing interest for the modern time. I venture to quote several of them to illustrate their variety, but at the same time because, though all are attributed to Camöens, it is doubtful whether some of them were not written by others and afterwards transferred to him because of his greater fame. They illustrate very well the poetic vein of the Portuguese of the time, though ordinarily it is not assumed that Portugal was touched by the spirit of the Renaissance to any great degree or that her literature is of any significance. Most of them are with regard to love, though not all of them are as serious as the rondeau so often quoted:
"Just like Love is yonder rose,
Heavenly fragrance round it throws.
Yet tears its dewy leaves disclose,
And in the midst of briars it blows,
Just like Love.
Cull'd to bloom upon the breast.
Since rough thorns the stem invest.
They must be gather'd with the rest.
And with it, to the heart be press'd.
Just like Love.
[{483}] And when rude hands the twin-buds sever
They die--and they shall blossom never,
--Yet the thorns be sharp as ever,
Just like Love."
In lighter vein is the canzonet to the lady who swore by her eyes, a custom which was rather common according to the tales of chivalry so popular shortly before this time. The first and last stanza will give a good idea of it:
"When the girl of my heart is on perjury bent,
The sweetest of oaths hides the falsest intent.
And Suspicion, abash'd, from her company flies,
When she smiles like an angel--and swears by her eyes.
Then, dear one, I'd rather, thrice rather believe
Whate'er you assert, even though to deceive.
Than that you 'by your eyes' should so wickedly swear,
And sin against heaven--for heaven is there!"
At times the Portuguese poet could be rather serious. The two stanzas from the beginning of a canzonet, which contrasts the making of money with the doing of good as the proper aim of life, has often been quoted:
"Since in this dreary vale of tears
No certainty but death appears.
Why should we waste our vernal years
In hoarding useless treasure?
No--let the young and ardent mind
Become the friend of humankind,
And in the generous service find
A source of purer pleasure!"
The poet is said to have fallen in love with a maid of honor at the court far above him in rank. For this impudence, he was banished from court, and unable to live so near, yet so far, resolved to go as a soldier to Africa. Somehow or other a [{484}] last meeting with her (she died at the early age of twenty) was managed before his departure, and he discovered in her eyes, as she bade him good-bye, the secret that she was as deeply in love as he. He went where duty called, fought bravely, losing the sight of an eye in one of the battles, and, loaded with martial honor, was permitted to return to court. When he returned, his inamorata was no more. The sonnet written when he learned the sad news is more artificial perhaps than he would have written in his maturity, but it and others gave Portuguese literature the fame for love sonnets which suggested to Mrs. Browning the title "Sonnets from the Portuguese" for her love poems:
"Those charming eyes, within whose starry sphere
Love whilom sat, and smil'd the hours away.
Those braids of light that sham'd the beams of day.
That hand benignant, and that heart sincere;
Those virgin cheeks, which did so late appear
Like snow-banks scatter'd with the blooms of May,
Turn'd to a little cold and worthless clay.
Are gone--forever gone--and perish here,
--But not unbath'd by Memory's warmest tear!
--Death! thou hast torn, in one unpitying hour.
That fragrant plant, to which, while scarce a flow'r.
The mellower fruitage of its prime was given;
Love saw the deed--and as he lingered near,
Sigh'd o'er the ruin, and return'd to Heav'n!"