| |
| THE MORNING shone on Tagus’ rocky side, | |
| And airs of summer swelled the yellow tide, | |
| When, rising from his melancholy bed, | |
| And faint, and feebly by Antonio led, | |
| Poor Camoens, subdued by want and woe, | 5 |
| Along the winding margin wandered slow. | |
| His harp, that once could each warm feeling move | |
| Of patriot glory or of tenderest love, | |
| His sole and sable friend (while a faint tone | |
| Rose from the wires) placed by a mossy stone. | 10 |
| How beautiful the sun ascending shines | |
| From ridge to ridge, along the purple vines! | |
| How pure the azure of the opening skies! | |
| How resonant the nearer rock replies | |
| To call of early mariners! and hark! | 15 |
| The distant whistle from yon parting bark, | |
| That down the channel as serene she strays, | |
| Her gray sail mingles with the morning haze, | |
| Bound to explore, o’er ocean’s stormy reign, | |
| New lands that lurk amid the lonely main! | 20 |
| A transient fervor touched the old man’s breast; | |
| He raised his eyes, so long by care depressed, | |
| And while they shone with momentary fire, | |
| Ardent he struck the long-forgotten lyre. | |
| From Tagus’ yellow-sanded shore, | 25 |
| O’er the billows, as they roar, | |
| O’er the blue sea, waste and wide, | |
| Our bark threw back the burning tide, | |
| By northern breezes cheer’ly borne, | |
| On to the kingdoms of the morn. | 30 |
| Blanco, whose cold shadow vast | |
| Chills the western wave, is past! | |
| Huge Bojador, frowning high, | |
| Thy dismal terrors we defy! | |
| But who may violate the sleep | 35 |
| And silence of the sultry deep; | |
| Where, beneath the intenser sun, | |
| Hot showers descend, red lightnings run; | |
| Whilst all the pale expanse beneath | |
| Lies burning wide, without a breath; | 40 |
| And at midday from the mast, | |
| No shadow on the deck is cast! | |
| Night by night, still seen the same, | |
| Strange lights along the cordage flame, | |
| Perhaps the spirits of the good, | 45 |
| That wander this forsaken flood, | |
| Sing to the seas, as slow we float, | |
| A solemn and a holy note! * * * * * | |
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