Not with choice viands new and exquisite,
Not in the soft and lazy paths of joy,
Not with delights, varied and infinite,
Which generous breasts enfeeble and destroy;
Not with the never governed appetite,
Wherewith is Fortune ever wont to toy,
Who suffers none his footsteps to retrace
For any deed of valour or of grace;
But by an effort with strong arm to seal
The honours which he thus his own has made,
Watchful and putting on his polished steel,
Enduring storms, by cruel waves o'erlaid;
Victorious where the far South's colds congeal,
In regions tossed, all destitute of aid,
Reduced to feed upon corrupted fare,
Mingled with arduous suffering and despair;
By force of spirit, when the brow grows pale,
To wear a look possessed, collected, gay,
When the hot whistling cannon balls assail,
Tearing his comrades' arms or legs away;
Thus, noble hardness will at heart prevail,
Of wealth and honours scorning the display,
Of wealth and honours but by fortune gained,
And not by virtue, righteous and sustained.
'Tis thus the understanding becomes bright,
Which by experience mature doth grow,
And looks, as from exalted moral height,
On the base crooked human course below;
Such man, where rule shall own the force of right
And doth not leaning of affection know,
Shall rise to high command, as rise he ought,
Against his own desire and all unsought.
JÁ se viam chegados junto á terra
Que desejada já de tantos fôra,
Que entre as correntes Indicas se encerra
E o Ganges, que no ceo terreno mora.
Ora sus, gente forte, que na guerra
Quereis levar a palma vencedora!
Já sôis chegados, já tendes diante
A terra de riquezas abundante.
A vós, ó geração de Luso, digo,
Que tão pequena parte sôis no mundo,
Não digo inda no mundo, mas no amigo
Curral de quem governa o ceo rotundo:
Vós, a quem não somente algum perigo
Estorva conquistar o povo immundo,
Mas nem cobiça, ou pouca obediencia
Da Madre que nos Ceos esta em essencia :
Vós, Portuguezes poucos, quanto fortes,
Que o fraco poder vosso não pezais;
Vós, que á custa de vossas varias mortes
A Lei da vida eterna dilatais:
Assi do Ceo deitadas são as sortes,
Que vós, por muito poucos que sejais,
Muito façais na sancta Christandade :
Que tanto, ó Christo, exaltas a humildade!
Now they behold themselves close on the land,
The longed-for object of so many eyes,
Which doth between the Indian currents stand
And Ganges, that on heavenly earth doth rise.
Up, then, brave people, who would claim command,
And bear the palm in warlike victories!
Here are ye come, and here your view before
Lies an abundant land of wealth in store.
To you I say, O Lusian race! who hold
Yet in the world so very small a place,
I say not world, but in the friendly fold
Of Him Whose rule doth the round heaven embrace,
Ye, whom not only danger ne'er controlled
In going forth to conquer the vile race,
But greed ne'er moved, nor scant obedience given
To Mother, who in essence dwells in Heaven;
Ye Portuguese, as few as brave ye be,
With you your want of numbers hath no weight; Ye, though your various lives at risk ye see,
The Law of Life Eternal propagate ;
'Tis thus that Heaven disposeth destiny, For
ye, however small may be your state, May yet for sacred Christian Faith do much; Thy raising of the small, O! Christ, is such.
Vedel-os Alemães, soberbo gado,
Que por tão largos campos se apascenta,
Do successor de Pedro rebellado,
Novo pastor e nova seita inventa :
Vedel-o em feas guerras occupado
(Que inda co'o cego errôr se não contenta !)
Não contra o superbissimo Othomano,
Mas por sahir do jugo soberano.
Vedel-o duro Inglez, que se nomea
Rei da velha e sanctissima Cidade,
Que o torpe Ismaelita senhorea
(Quem vio honra tão longe da verdade!)
Entre as Boreaes neves se recrea,
Nova maneira faz de Christandade:
Para os de Christo tem a espada nua,
Não por tomar a terra que era sua.
Guarda-lhe por entanto hum falso Rei
A cidade Hierosolyma terreste,
Em quanto elle não guarda a sancta lei
Da cidade Hierosolyma celeste.
Pois de ti, Gallo indigno, que direi ?
Que o nome Christianissimo quizeste,
Não para defendel-o, nem guardal-o,
Mas para ser contra elle e derribal-o!
Achas que tens direito em senhorios
De Christãos, sendo o teu tão largo e tanto,
E não contra o Cinypho e Nilo, rios
Inimigos do antiguo nome santo?
Alli se hão de provar da espada os fios
Em quem quer reprovar da Igreja o canto:
De Carlos de Luis o nome e a terra
Herdaste, e as causas não da justa guerra?
Behold the Germans, like a flock, all pride,
Who over such vast plains extended feed,
Peter's successor, rebels, they deride,
Inventing novel shepherd, sect and creed;
Behold them, in foul battles occupied,
Nor in blind error happy or agreed!
Not 'gainst the o'erbearing Ottoman they fight,
But to shake off the sovereign yoke of right.
See the hard Englishman, who would be called
Of the most sacred ancient city King,
Which by the vicious Ishmaelite is enthralled
(Was honour e'er from truth more differing!)
Content, in Hyperborean winters walled,
He makes of Christian Faith a novel thing:
'Gainst those of Christ his naked sword is shown,
Not to regain the land that was His own.
And while a Monarch false doth keep the key
Of the Jerusalem terrestrial,
He doth not keep the law and sanctity
Of the Jerusalem celestial.
And thou, O Gaul unworthy, what of thee?
Who would'st, forsooth, thyself 'Most Christian' call, Not to defend that name, nor care bestow,
But to oppose it and to overthrow.
Think'st thou thou hast to Christian realms a right,
Seeing thine own so large and vast estate,
And not 'gainst Cinyphus and Nile should'st to fight,
Rivers the ancient Holy Name that hate?
There should they prove thy sword's keen edge and might
Where'er the Church's faith they imprecate;
From Charles and Louis thou hast land and name,
Shall not their Holy Wars thy efforts claim?
|