When from the bonds of love I wander'd free—
For always was I not chain'd to the oar:—
Once liberty was mine—but that is o'er.
And I now dwell in bard captivity.[133]
This certainly contrasts strangely with the poem quoted by Adamson, but it is a fair poetic licence, or rather a licence of the heart, which not only would bring to its selected shrine every former emotion and immolate them there, but is jealous that any such existed, and would gladly expunge all trace of them from the page of life. The verses above mentioned form his fourth canzone, and were written on taking leave of Coimbra.[134] The following is a portion of it:—
Soft from its crystal bed of rest,
Mondego's tranquil waters glide,
Nor stop, till, lost on ocean's breast,
They, swelling, mingle with the tide.
Increasing still, as still they flow—
Ah! there commenced my endless woe.
* * * *
Yet whisper'd to the murmuring stream,
That winds these flowery meads among,
I give affection's cheating dream,
And pour in weeping truth my song;
That each recounted woe may prove
A lasting monument of love.
There is another sonnet, in which he takes leave of the Mondego, but its context renders it apparent that it was not written so early in life, as when he first quitted the university. As his parents had a house at Coimbra, it may be assumed that he frequently visited this place, and wrote the following sonnet in a later and sadder day:—
Mondego! thou whose waters, cold and clear,
Gird those green banks, where fancy fain would stay,
Fondly to muse on that departed day,
When hope was kind, and friendship seem'd sincere—
Ere I had purchased knowledge with a tear.—
Mondego! though I bend my pilgrim way
To other shores, where other fountains stray,
And other rivers roll their proud career,
Still, nor shall time, nor grief, nor stars severe,
Nor widening distance e'er prevail in aught,
To make thee less to this sad bosom dear;
And Memory oft, by old affection taught,
Shall lightly speed upon the shrines of thought,
To bathe among thy waters cold and clear.[135]
There is nothing so attractive to a biographer as to complete the fragments of his hero's life; and, almost as children trace the forms of animals and landscapes in the fire, by fixing the eye on salient particles, so a few words suffice to give "local habitation and a name," to such emotions as the poet has made the subject of his verse. To do this, and by an accurate investigation of dates, and a careful sifting of concomitant circumstances to discover the veiled event, is often the art of biography—but we must not be seduced too far. Truth, absolute and unshakeable, ought to be the foundation of our assertions, or we paint a fancy head instead of an individual portrait. Truth is all in all in matters of history, for history is the chart of the world's sea; and if imaginary lands are marked, those who would wisely learn from the experience of others, are led sadly astray. Petrarch has been the mark of similar conjectures to a great extent; but his letters give a true direction to our researches. We have no such guide in the history of Camoens's attachment. He loved and was beloved; was banished, and his lady died. Such is nearly all that we absolutely know.
1545.[136]
Ætat.
21.
To return however from remark to history, Camoens left Coimbra for Lisbon and the court. He had not lost his time at the University—he was a finished scholar. He was a poet also then when poetry was held a high and divine gift. With such acquirements and accomplishments, joined to his gentlemanly qualities, his courtesy and wit, he was favoured by the highest people at court; his handsome person also gained him the favour and estimation of the ladies. His defect was his poverty, but that defect might be remedied by the friendship of some great man, or the favour of his sovereign. Asa young noble of illustrious descent, he had a right to expect advancement. As a poet full of imagination and ardour, at the very first glowing entrance to life, while (to speak metaphorically) the Aurora of hope announced the rising sun of prosperity, he might expect an ample portion of that happiness, which, while we are young, appears to us to be our just and assured inheritance.
Soon after his arrival at court he fell in love. One of his sonnets, (commented upon by an almanack,) fixes the date when he first saw the lady, as the eleventh or twelfth of April, 1545. He mentions that it was holy week, and at the time when the ceremonies that commemorate the death of our Saviour were celebrated. This sonnet is not one of his best; but we quote Lord Strangford's translation, as it is a monument of an interesting epoch—the commencement of that attachment which shed a disastrous influence over the rest of his life—for by it his early hopes were blighted, and they never flowered again:
"Sweetly was heard the anthem's choral strain,
And myriads bow'd before the sainted shrine,
In solemn reverence to the Sire divine,
Who gave the Lamb, for guilty mortals slain;
When in the midst of God's eternal fane,
(Ah, little weening of his fell design!)
Love bore the heart, which since has ne'er been mine,
To one who seem'd of heaven's elected train!
For sanctity of place or time were vain
'Gainst that blind Archer's soul-consuming power,
Which scorns, and soars all circumstance above.
O! Lady, since I've worn thy gentle chain,
How oft have I deplored each wasted hour,
When I was free and had not learn'd to love!