Heaven’s Orient gate; whose westering prow the tide
Clove, where the day star bows him to his bed:
Not sterner toil than thine, or strife more dread,
Or nobler laud to nobler lyre allied,
His, who did baffled Polypheme deride;
Or his, whose scaring shaft the Harpy fled.
Camoens, he the accomplished and the good,
Gave to thy fame a more illustrious flight
Than that brave vessel, though she sailed so far.
Through him her course along the Austral flood