The Lusiads

The Penguin Classics edition uses William Atkinson's 1952 English prose translation, which makes no attempt to convey anything of the poetical quality of the work. The gods' debates on Olympus have all the romance of a board meeting, and Vasco da Gama sounds more like a schoolteacher than a seafaring adventurer. But it's a fast, breezy read, and gives a good idea of the subject-matter of the poem. If we want to know what Camões was like as a poet, I suppose the only answer is to learn Portuguese.

Reading the poem in this translation, you are very conscious of its political agenda. On one level it's an adventure story: a brave band of men from a little European country boldly going to India round the Cape of Good Hope, a journey no-one show more has made before. But Camões goes to great lengths to tie the story in both with classical precedents and with Portuguese history. Allusions to the Aeneid in particular are very frequent. Da Gama is the Portuguese Aeneas, off to found a new Rome in the East for his country. Even though da Gama is also supposed to be a Christian emissary into the infidel world, Camões shows us how important his mision is by having the classical gods and goddesses fight about him, just as they did about Aeneas (Venus is rooting for him because she supports Portugal; Bacchus is trying to stop his journey because he feels that his monopoly is being infringed). The young king Sebastião is the ostensible addressee of the poem, and Camões doesn't hesitate to remind him that Augustus found Virgil very useful as a propagandist and gave him a nice pension. At one point a whole canto of the poem is taken up by Da Gama giving a lecture on Portuguese history as a form of Manifest Destiny; at another, a helpful nymph fills us in — in quite remarkable detail — about what is going to happen in the seventy years between da Gama's voyage and the publication of the poem.

Whenever he gets the chance, Camões has a go at Sebastião and his Christian fellow monarchs for not acting with a unified front against the Moslems. "We have the superior technology for the moment: if we all got together we could wipe out Islam and Christianise the world," is his message, which should go down well with today's loonier anti-Islamic politicians too. Unfortunately, Sebastião seems to have taken his advice to heart, going off a few years later on a disastrous crusade to Morocco with the entire army, and leaving the door open for Philip II of Spain.

It is interesting to observe how Camões takes it for granted that da Gama and his crew are able to communicate with the locals throughout most of their journey in Arabic: when they reach Calicut, they even encounter a Moroccan traveller who speaks Spanish. Calicut is already trading regularly with Europe through merchants based in the Arabian peninsula. It's easy to forget when we talk about "voyages of discovery" that this wasn't about going to new places: rather it was a matter of finding new, cheaper ways to get to the sources of the raw materials. All Camões's talk about spreading the Gospel is a bit of a smoke-screen: da Gama didn't bother to convert anybody (in fact, Camões never mentions whether they even had any priests or missionaries with them), but he did make jolly sure that he came back with samples of spices. show less

It is difficult to understand why anyone would want a text like this for one’s national epic: a pompous imitation of Virgil's Aeneid, itself a dubious piece of imperialist propaganda to begin with. I admittedly am unable to judge the quality of the original Portuguese, but this excellent Dutch verse translation gives enough of an impression of the epic's aggressive xenophobia and violent content, including the unprovoked destruction of African villages by cannon (I.88 ff.), the repeated slaughter of non-Christians, and the crew’s happy engagement in the mass rape of local "nymphs" (IX.219 ff.). The role of the Olympian gods is totally preposterous.

I read this because Slauerhoff romanticized and wrote beautifully about Luís de show more Camões. And because I have a professional interest in the history of empires. Os Lusíadas is indeed an interesting historical source for the study of early modern globalization, just as the Aeneid is an interesting source for the study of Roman imperial ideology -- but as a work of art it is no longer very enjoyable. show less

The Lusiads was a book I dreaded reading. It's old. And an epic poem. And written by some unheard-of (by me) Portuguese poet. With the right translation, it is a surprisingly quick, delightful read. This translation, by Landeg White, kept the structure of the original poem intact by sacrificing the rhyme scheme. The translator also chose to structure the English translation using the sentence structures of the English Language, rather than the Portuguese. The result is a fluid poem that doesn't feel "old" or "difficult". Camões' tale of Vasco da Gama's 1498 voyage around Africa to India in is a fascinating combination of mythology, history, and literature. The detailed history of Portugal was not boring (and I always find straight-up show more history books boring). The passages about the Greek gods, including their oblique and overt references to The Aeneid and Metamorphoses are beautiful. I was intrigued by the coincidence of the world of the Greek gods and the Catholicism of the sailors; the gods are portrayed as personally involved in the fate of this voyage while the Portuguese are completely unaware of their involvement. And it ends with a huge love-fest, what can be better? show less

There’s no doubt that this deserves its place on the 1001 books list. There’s no doubt that this is one of history’s greatest works, an epic poem of both literary and historical proportions rightly famed. And there’s no doubt that this is one of the most laborious books I’ve read in a long time.

This is a hagiography of early Portuguese explorers who not only did no wrong, but quite rightly stamped out any wrong they found, installing in its place enlightenment where there was before only darkness. The baddies are very definitely the conquered (although not referred to as such of course), the goodies, are, quite deservedly, the Portuguese.

No mention of genocide or syphilis here. No mention of forced abductions or looting of show more local resources. This depicts the first tantalising groundswell of world colonisation. Not only was there a divine mandate, the people themselves were in fact divine!

It must be a confusing text for the modern-day Portuguese to read. Much of what was their former empire is still riven with poverty and internal strife (think Madagascar and Mozambique). As my mother lives in the land of Lusitania, I’ve visited it many times. Lovely though much of it is, there is very little there to support the belief these days that they were descended from gods. It displays a far humbler countenance.

I certainly found this work confusing as much of the narrative consists of lengthy speeches by both dwellers of earth and heaven. As with much classical literature, the gods can’t help getting involved. Their speeches are even harder to fathom. Through this, in patches, you get glimpses of the voyages that da Gama undertook. But that’s certainly not easy to follow or the main thrust of the work.

A difficult text and one very much a product of the 16th century when the white man, it seemed, could do no wrong. show less

Quite an amazing book. A history: A travelogue: An extraordinary tangle of riches of mythology and Christianity.Camões captures the pride that is still obvious in Portugal in their heroic past when men like Vaso de Gama rounded the Cape of Good hope and made their way to India and parts further east. I must say I found this obsessive pride in the past slightly strange when surrounded by the decay that was obvious when I visited Portugal in the 1970's...but it was palpable. And it's reflected in the florid and exaggerated prose of Camões in the Lusiads. (Admittedly he was writing for a king and potential patron). But a wonderful tale of daring and adventure. Below, I've included some extracts from both the introduction and also the show more poem itself.
Introduction
Camões knows that these songs have words sung ‘sweetly and in harmony’, and he adds the intriguing comment, ‘whether rhymed or in prose we could not gauge’. It is Camões the poet, interested in other people’s poetry, who notes a problem which still preoccupies students of African oral performance, namely, that the borderline between poetry and prose is unfixed and uncertain.
Above all else, however, The Lusíads is an epic. History supplies its heroes (the Portuguese) and its subject-matter (da Gama’s voyage to India in 1497–8). The poet’s experience of the same voyage over half-a-century later supplies a thousand intimate touches.
Some of Camões’s references are so erudite, not to say arcane, as to function effectively as riddles. How many of us know that ‘the bright lover of the adulterous Larisseian’ refers to Apollo and his affair with Coronis of Larissa,
What are we to make of this fusing of Christian and pagan myths? One long tradition of commentary on The Lusíads, has been to read all the pagan episodes allegorically,
Much of our difficulty here lies in that word ‘allegory’. Since the eighteenth century most allegorical writing has been political, offering the reader subversive codes, with one-to-one correspondences between the ciphered and the actual events.
It is important to note that the gods and goddesses never accomplish anything. Like the sylphs in Pope’s Rape of the Lock, they go about their business blissfully unaware that all their efforts amount to nothing.
Da Gama has no difficulty in explaining all that befalls him in terms of a quite different set of beliefs (nor has the modern reader in attributing Portuguese setbacks to a mix of commercial jealousy and natural disasters).
The debates on Mount Olympus and in Neptune’s underwater palace allow him to emphasize the significance of da Gama’s achievement as a turning-point in human history, comparable to mankind’s legendary first voyage in pursuit of the Golden Fleece,
‘Ethiopians’ is the word used of the peoples encountered by the navigators along the coasts of South Africa and Mozambique. The word means, in its Greek derivation, simply dark-skinned or sunburned,
As The Lusíads opens, with the navigators already in the Mozambique Channel, the Cape of Storms has come to mark the boundary between the known Africa of the west coast and the unknown Africa bordering the Indian Ocean.
Adamastor charges the Portuguese with breaching ‘what is forbidden’, desecrating ‘Nature’s secrets’, a charge rich in meaning to the Renaissance reader.
But paganism does not obtrude until the fleet is in the Indian Ocean, provoking the debate on Mount Olympus.
By raiding the Latin classics for references associating Bacchus with India
Once embarked on this course, it was surprising how many classical tales could be adapted to his purpose—
His style, or rather his variety of styles, reflects this, mixing Latin or Latinisms with Castilian Spanish and vernacular, sometimes vulgar, Portuguese, in a combination demonstrably his own.
The most troublesome aspect of The Lusiíads to the modern reader must surely be Camões’s treatment of Islam.
The destruction of the Turkish fleet at the Battle of Lepanto occurred while Camões was putting the finishing touches to The Lusíads.
Even in this context, Camões’s hostility is disturbing. Muslims are consistently presented as astuto, falso, enganoso, malicioso, pérfido, sábio, sagaz, torpe, and gentes infernais.
The label ‘Moors’ insists on two things. It declares that Islam is a single and united enemy; and it identifies the Swahili traders of East Africa and the Muslim rulers of the Persian Gulf, Turkey, and parts of India, with the Muslim Berbers driven out of Portugal
during the twelfth to fourteenth centuries.
Yet not long before, in the tenth and eleventh centuries, students had been flocking to Muslim Andalusia—to read Aristotle in Arabic with commentaries by Averroes, to study Galen, to learn the use of the astrolabe, to benefit from the new mathematics
The Lusíads, then, belongs with the Song of Roland, the epic of El Cid, and more directly, Dante’s The Divine Comedy, in claiming the spiritual, cultural, and intellectual initiative for Europe after a long period during which Islam has been in the ascendancy.
during his years in Goa, Macau, and Mozambique, Camões ‘discovered’ two things.
First, he learned what it was to be Portuguese, to come from a landscape whose towns and rivers he loved,
Secondly, he learned to celebrate what the Portuguese had given to the world with the pioneer voyages of the fifteenth century,
Translator’S Note
is an illusion to believe that the verse form of Camões’s epic can be replicated in English. Portuguese is an inflected language and its sentences are shaped differently.
all translations involve painful choices. I have respected the eight-line units of the original text with its formal closes. But, in ambition at least, I have adopted a diction and prosody free to reflect the subtle modernity of Camões’s style.
[I've extracted some of the actual phrases below, which capture the essence of the story].
THE LUSÍADS
Boast no more about the subtle Greek
Or the long odyssey of Trojan Aeneas;
Enough of the oriental conquests
Of great Alexander and of Trajan;
I sing of the famous Portuguese
To whom both Mars and Neptune bowed.
You, mighty King, on whose India
The new-born sun directs his first beam,
Shines on your palace in mid-hemisphere,
And casts his last ray on the Brazils;
you are looking for stature equal
To Charlemagne or Julius Caesar,
Consider Afonso the first whose lance
Eclipsed all foreign reputations;
They were midway on the wide ocean
Cleaving the ever-restless waves;
The billowing wind blew gently,
The sails of the ships were concave;
White spume was whipped backwards
As the mighty prows sped on
Then Jove spoke, making his purpose known
With gravity and menace in his tone:
There cannot have passed from your thoughts
The strength and courage of the Portuguese,
And now it is common knowledge
What the Fates have in store for them,
Conquests which recall the ancient hour
Of Syrian, Persian, Greek, or Roman power.
‘Now you can watch them, risking all
In frail timbers on treacherous seas,
By routes never charted,
I resolve they shall be welcomed
On the African coast as friends,
These were Jupiter’s pronouncements
And in due order the gods replied,
Against him spoke the lovely Venus,
Favouring the people of Portugal
For her love of the Roman virtue
She saw resurrected in them;
the men of war
Had cut the seas and were already
There where the south meets the Orient
In the channel between Madagascar
And Mozambique:*
Vasco da Gama,* the stalwart commander
Saw no reason to make landfall
On islands which looked uninhabited;
Our people were overjoyed and could only
Stare in excitement at this wonder.
—‘ Who are these people?’ they kept exclaiming,
‘What customs? What beliefs? Who is their king?’
Their craft, as we could see, were built
For speed, being long and narrow;
Even as we were mooring, these strange
People were shinning up the ropes.
They came smiling, and courteously
Our great captain greeted them;
The powerful Lusitanians replied,
Conscious of the need for diplomacy:
—‘ We are Portuguese from the Occident;
We seek the passage to the Orient.
‘And now, since you have voyaged so far
Seeking the Indus and its parched banks,
Accept from us a pilot to reveal
The correct course across the ocean.
With these words, the Muslims returned
With all the company to the boats,
Each within himself meditated
On these people and their strange ways,
And how believers in so false a creed
Through so many lands could spread their seed.
If, as you said, you want to see weapons
I can satisfy this desire of yours;
But view them as a friend, for well I know
You’ll never wish to see them as a foe.’
But now from all the Sheikh was shown,
And all he recorded with a sharp eye,
Suspicion took root in his heart,
And his thoughts became malevolent;
Nothing showed in his face or gestures
As, behind a cheerful mask, he continued
Treating them with gentle condescension,
Until he could act out his true intention.
So from our boats the fusillade began
In murderous volleys. Lead balls dealt
Death, the screams were inhuman,
The Portuguese were relentless, pursuing
Victory with destruction and death,
Bombarding, burning, and looting
The exposed, unstockaded village.
The flag of truce he was plotting war;
For the promised, but deceitful pilot
With treachery stamped on his heart,
Even so, from among those prisoners
On board, sentenced for gross crimes
So their lives could be hazarded
In predicaments such as these,
He sent two of the cleverest, trained
To spy on the city and defences
Of the resourceful Muslims, and to greet
The famous Christians he so longed to meet.
I promise you, daughter, you will see
The Greeks and Romans far outshone
By what people of Portuguese descent
Will accomplish throughout the Orient.
Though devout Aeneas steered safely
Between Scylla and Charybdis,
Your greater navigators will unfold
New worlds to the amazement of the old.
The independent kings of India
Will be subject to the king of Portugal,
Bringing, when all falls under his command,
A better dispensation to that land.
‘You will watch them, in mighty Diu,
Be invincible through two sieges;
There they will show their calibre
In outstanding feats of arms;
Great Mars will swell with envy
At the ferocity of the Portuguese,
While the defeated Sultan, facing death,
Will damn Mohammed with his final breath.
The captain received with great joy
The happy envoy and his message,
And made the Sultan a further present
Brought with him for just such occasions:
Scarlet cloth, its colours flaming,
Rich, delicately branching coral,
Which grows on the sea-bed in spongy gardens,
Till in the broad light of day it hardens.
There was no shortage of fireworks,
Imitating the quivering comets;
The bombardiers did their office,
Blasting land and waves and sky;
On the shore, they responded at once,
With rockets leaping and whistling;
Burning wheels spun in the air;
Hidden sulphur powders exploded;
Shouting rose to the night skies;
The sea was lit up by flames and the land
All those present were waiting eagerly
For what the great da Gama would say,
When, losing himself a little in thought,
He raised his eyes and spoke:
—You command me, O King, to describe
My people’s long descent, yet this is no
Extraneous tale you ask me to begin,
But the glories of my own kith and kin.
In the uttermost north, close beneath
The Polar Star, are the alps named
Hyperborean,* after the wind
The sea is ice-bound, frozen too the fountains.
Here there live in vast numbers
Scythians,* who long ago fought a war
With the rulers of ancient Egypt
Over the origins of the human race;
So far were both sides from the truth
(So prone to error is the human mind),
Within this region are to be found
Ice-bound Lapland, bleak Norway
And Scandinavia, that peninsula
Whose Goths once conquered Italy;
Beyond it, there opens a channel
To the vast inland Baltic Sea,
Navigable when not in winter’s chains
By Prussians, cold Swedes, and chilly Danes.
Today, Rome’s power is in decline,
And here, as if crowning Europe’s
Head, is the little kingdom of Portugal,
Where the continent ends and the sea begins,
By Heaven’s will she prospered
Against the unworthy Mauritanians,
Driving them out;
This is my blessed home, my earliest love,
Where, if Heaven allows my safe return
There was a king in Spain, by name Alfonso,*
Who took battle to the Saracens
So ruthlessly and with such skill
Many lost their land and their lives.
Of these, Henrique* (younger son, it’s said,
Of a well-attested king of Hungary),
Was given Portugal as his portion,
Then little valued by the world;
So at Guimarães* the battlefield where
She, so unlike a mother, denied
Her son her love and his inheritance,
Was steeped in the blood of civil war.
But the fair prince won the field
Over his stepfather and wicked mother;
And at a stroke the whole realm,
Which had fought against him, was his;
Already the proud army, full of fight,
Was drawn up in the plain of Ourique,*
Confronting the Saracen enemy,
Though weaker far in men and weaponry.
Five Moorish kings were the enemy
So the new king, his courage blazing
With God’s and his people’s favours,
Fell on the barbarians, rampant
At the head of his inspired army.
War engulfed the whole plain;
But the Portuguese hacked and chopped
with flailing swords, shattering harness, mesh and mail.
So the Portuguese emerged victorious
Gathering a rich prize of trophies;
Three days the great king stayed in the field
Where the Spanish Moors were broken.
For there were passing from the Elbe
And the Rhine, and from snow-bound Britain,
Many knights with the holy ambition
To destroy the might of the Saracens;
Anchoring in the pleasant Tagus,
They joined forces with great Afonso,
Whose fame persuaded them to change their plan,
So the patient siege of Lisbon began.
And so, at last, Lisbon was captured
What city anywhere had the strength
To stand against those mighty forces
Whose fame was already widespread
If Lisbon could not resist them?
In command of this vast company,
Emir Al-muminin invaded Portugal;
He led thirteen Moorish kings of note,
All subject to his sceptre;
And doing whatever harm he could
In whichever towns he could harm,
He advanced to Santarém to surround
Dom Sancho, ill-prepared for what he found.
Meanwhile, the old man, now compelled
By years of labour to retirement,
But learning that his son was besieged
In Santarém by the infidel,
He rode out as when he first won his spurs,
No less alert for his advancing years.
With his famed men, all veterans,
He went to his son’s rescue and, as allies
They speedily laid waste the Moors
With the customary Portuguese ferocity;
Having accomplished so many victories,
Aged Afonso,* the illustrious prince,
Who had conquered all before him,
Was at last conquered by time;
Sancho, strong youth, who continued
Matching his father’s bravery,
As he had proved, while he yet lived
After Afonso’s death, there succeeded
Sancho the second,* callow and remiss,
Whose negligence was so extreme
He was ruled by those he ruled.
So his brother,* the Count of Boulogne,
Governed in his stead and became King, when in his customary,
Leisurely manner, Sancho died.
Seeing this vast, unassailable army,
The proud King of Castile feared
Much more than his own demise,
A second conquest of Christian Spain,
And to beg support from the mighty Portuguese, he sent as envoy
His dear consort, the beloved daughter
Of the same king she needed to support her.
United on the plain of the Salado
The two Afonsos, at length, confronted
Such a multitude of the infidels
Plain and mountain could not hold them.
The Ishmaelites* were as if laughing
At the Christians’ puny forces, And were sharing out estates
In the same manner the Moors insulted
The Christian armies, not realizing
They were backed by the might of Heaven
When the massed regiments of the Moors
Were destroyed by the two kings,
With greater carnage than any victory
Yet recorded in the world’s memory.
Riding in triumph from such a victory,
Afonso returned to Portuguese soil,
To secure as much fame with peace
As he had gained in the rigours of war;
Little time passed before Pedro
Was avenged* for this mortal injury,
When ascending the kingdom’s throne
He laid hands on the assassins,
Helped by that other Pedro, the Cruel;
Enemies together of human life,
Their pact was as brutal as when Augustus
Conspired with Antony and Lepidus.
And to show how an infatuation
Makes idiots of the mightiest,
Take Hercules, turned transvestite
While his Omphale wore his skin and club.
Mark Antony’s fame was overshadowed
By his obsession with Cleopatra,
And you, too, Hannibal when you betrayed
Your lust for the Apulian peasant maid.
For if our people longed for a hero*
Soon afterwards, they obtained him
In João the First of the House of Avis,
Of distinction, with abilities to spare,
And (though a bastard) Pedro’s rightful heir.
Beatrice was the daughter married
To Juan of Castile, who claimed the throne,
And was said to be Fernando’s child,
If that tale is to be believed.
Castile upheld it, declaring roundly
The daughter should succeed the father,
And from all the different nations of Spain
Assembled his troops* for this new campaign.
The war trumpet of Castile sounded,
Horrifying, savage, mighty, and ominous;
Many faces were drained of colour
As their life blood rushed to the heart;
In great danger, our apprehension
Far exceeds the danger; or, if not,
It seems so; for the actual fury
Of attacking and vanquishing the foe
Makes us oblivious to the battle cry
As men lose eyes or arms or legs, or die.
Castile recognized the fates were malign
Accepted them, and abandoned his design.
He withdrew, leaving the field to the victor
And happy not to have left his life;
In their hearts’ core was the anguish
Of death and of wealth squandered,
Of bruises and dishonour, and the deep offence
That others should triumph at their expense.
Some went away blaspheming, cursing
Whoever was the first to invent war;
Others blamed that ravenous hunger
That reckless, insatiable greed
Cast down by these defeats, and others,
The Castilians were in despair,
Till peace, which the people now desired
Was granted at last to the vanquished.
Yet time, which knows no constancy,
Alternating joy with sadness,
And good with evil, was not auspicious
When King Duarte occupied the throne.
The prince who became ruler
Was João II and the thirteenth king.
He appointed envoys* who passed
Through Spain, France, and Italy,
They crossed the eastern Mediterranean,
Passing the sandy beaches of Rhodes,
And headed for the river banks*
Made famous by the death of Pompey;
They passed Memphis and the lands watered
By the floods of the sinuous Nile;
Beyond Egypt to Ethiopia,
where still Is maintained the ancient Christian ritual.
They parted the waves of the Red Sea
They voyaged into the Persian Gulf
Where the Tower of Babel* is still recalled,
Where Tigris and Euphrates mingle
Waters from the Garden of Eden.
They went searching for the sacred spring
But from journeys so long and rigorous,
It is not easy to come home;
They died, remaining on that distant strand,
Eternally exiled from their native land.
Manuel, who succeeded João
Both to the kingdom and his exalted quest,
Was just as eager in his devotion
To exploring and mastering the ocean.
The king summoned the lords to council
To tell of the figures of his dream;
The words spoken by the venerable saint
Were a great wonder to them all. T
hey resolved at once to equip
A fleet and an intrepid crew,
Commissioned to plough the remotest seas,
To explore new regions, make discoveries.
Manuel the Fortunate laid in these very hands
The key to this pursuit of unknown lands.
King Manuel rewarded them generously,
Giving greater zeal to their preparations,
And inspired them with noble words
For whatever hardships might come.
It was as when the Argonauts assembled
To battle for the Golden Fleece
Having done everything practical
To make ready for so long a voyage,
We prepared our souls to meet death
Which is always on a sailor’s horizon.
The holy chapel* from which we parted Is built there on the very beach,
And takes its name, Belém, from the town
Where God was given to the world as flesh.
The people considered us already lost
On so long and uncertain a journey,
The women with piteous wailing,
The men with agonizing sighs;
As for us, we dared not lift our faces
To our mothers and our wives, fearing
To be harrowed, or discouraged
But an old man* of venerable appearance
Standing among the crowd on the shore,
Fixed his eyes on us, disapproving,
And wagged his head three times,
Then raising a little his infirm voice
O pride of power! O futile lust
For that vanity known as fame!
That hollow conceit which puffs itself up
And which popular cant calls honour!
What punishment, what poetic justice,
You exact on souls that pursue you!
To what deaths, what miseries you condemn
Your heroes! What pains you inflict on them!
‘Already in this vainglorious business
Delusions are possessing you,
The heresy “Long live Death!” is already
Current among you, when life should always
Be cherished, as Christ in times gone by
Who gave us life was yet afraid to die.*
As the honourable old man was uttering
These words, we spread our wings
To the serene and tranquil breezes
And departed from the loved harbour;
We were navigating waters only
Portuguese had sailed before us,
Seeing the islands and latitudes
Plotted by Henry,* our noble prince;
Off to our left were the mountains
And towns of Mauretania, once home
Of giant Antaeus,* while on the right hand
All was unknown, though rumour spoke of land.
We passed the fine island of Madeira*
We skirted the Numidian desert
Where the Berber people, who never enjoy
Cool water, nor green leaves, pasture
Their cattle, endlessly wandering:
We crossed the northern limit of the sun’s
Heavenly course at the Tropic of Cancer,
Having passed by now the Canary Islands*
Once called the Fortunate Isles,
We crossed the broad gulf,* bypassing
That huge part of Africa to our east,
Our sailors had discovered long since,
In that new hemisphere, the Southern Cross,*
Though those who had not witnessed it
For a while doubted its existence.
For I saw with my own eyes sights
which those with higher intelligence
Dismiss as false or feebly understood.
saw beyond question St Elmo’s Fire,*
And cloud, joined by what could only be
A spout sucking up moisture from the sea.
went on growing little by little
To the thickness of a mast-head;
Though here narrow, and there wider as
It drew up great gulps of water;
By now the moon at her shifting post
In the first sphere had five times shown
Her crescent face, five times her full,
We went ashore* at an open stretch,
But I, eager to know where I was,
Stayed on the sandy beach with the pilots
To measure the sun’s height, and use our art
To fix our bearing on the cosmic chart.
We found we had long ago left behind
The southern Tropic of Capricorn,
Being between it and the Antarctic,
I saw a stranger with a black skin
They had captured,
began by showing him pure gold
The supreme metal of civilization,
Then fine silverware and hot condiment:
Nothing stirred in the brute the least excitement.
Even as I spoke, an immense shape*
Materialized in the night air,
Grotesque and of enormous stature,
It spoke with a coarse, gravelly voice
Booming from the ocean’s depths;
‘Because you have desecrated nature’s
Secrets and the mysteries of the deep,
Hear from me now what retribution
Fate prescribes for your insolence,
Year by year your fleets will meet
Shipwreck, with calamities so combined
That death alone will bring you peace of mind.
I demanded: ‘Who are you, whose
Outlandish shape utterly dumbfounds me?’
I am that vast, secret promontory
You Portuguese call the Cape of Storms,*
The people who owned the country* here,
Though they were likewise Ethiopians,
Were cordial and humane,
By now we had made a complete circuit
Of black Africa’s coast, pointing
Our prows towards the equator,
In the little Arabic they could manage
And which Fernão Martins spoke fluently,
They said their sea was crossed and recrossed
By ships equalling ours in size;
They appeared from where the sun rises,
Sailing south to where the coast bulges,
Then back towards the sun where (as they say)
Live people like us ‘the colour of the day’.
Here we careened the ships, scraping
The hulls clean of six months’ sludge,
And barnacles and limpets, harmful
But for all the joy and fervent hope
That harbour gave us, pleasure was not
Unsullied,
From a disease more cruel* and loathsome
Than I ever before witnessed, many
Slipped from life, and in an alien land
It attacked the mouth.
The gums Swelled horribly, and the flesh alongside
Turned tumid and soon after putrefied.
Had always risked all at our side.
How simple it is to bury a man!
Any wave of the sea, any foreign
Mound, as with our friends, will accommodate
Flesh, no matter how lowly or how great.
In search of more certain news;
We came at length to Mozambique
At long last, to this safe anchorage,
This welcoming harbour which gives health
To the living and life to the dead,
All the Malindians were spellbound
By the eloquent captain’s words,
As he brought to an end his long account
Of exalted and heroic deeds.
cannot admit without reproach
The reason we have so few poets
Is that poetry is not an art we love;
For who can cherish what he’s ignorant of?
He took his leave of the kindly, generous Moor
Who urged that this new friendship should endure.
The Sultan begged further, that his port
Should always be honoured by their ships,
In his new pilot* there was no deceit,
Just an expert knowledge of the course,
Bacchus began to unveil the secret
Torment gnawing at his soul.
Named after one of my former vassals,*
Has found the courage to dominate
You, me, and the entire world.
Look how they dare to plough oceans
Where even the Romans never ventured;
The passion surging through the gods’
Hearts in that instant left no room
For debate nor sober reflection,
Furiously, they instructed Aeolus,*
On Neptune’s behalf, to unloose at once
His strongest, wildest nor-and-nor-east-galers,
Once and for all to rid the seas of sailors.
All agreed in this and invited Veloso
To tell whatever tale he pleased.
And to learn from me, and it, to behave
Nobly and with honour, I will speak
Of courtiers born and raised in Portugal,
The Twelve of England,* and heroes all!
happened once that the gentle ladies
Of the English court and their noble lords
Quarrelled with angry words
The delicate ladies, unaccustomed
To such insults, appealed to relative and friend.
They took their tale of insolence and taunt
To the Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt.
‘So the wily Duke counselled them,
And named at once twelve strong men;
And he advised the ladies to draw lots
So each had her knight,
‘Then, obtaining due leave from their king,

There sailed from the famous Douro river
Those twelve knights picked by the judgement
Of the veteran Duke of Lancaster.
But one of the dozen, Magriço* by name,
Begged to be indulged in a secret aim:
desire To go by land, if this suits everyone;
I will rejoin you afterwards in London.
‘The appointed day arrived to enter
The lists against the twelve English
In the tourney guaranteed by the king;
‘But she, to whom had fallen by lot
The still-absent Magriço, was robed
As for mourning, having no brave knight
From all sides it was being judged
An ill-matched and unfair contest,
Eleven with a dozen; but then a loud
Buzz of excitement passed across the crowd.
When a knight rode in on horseback,
Wearing full armour, ready for combat;
To the king and the ladies, he made salute,
And joined the eleven, and it was Magriço,
The signal given, trumpets sounded,
Inciting the warriors to battle;
At once, pricking their spurs, they loosened rein,
Aimed their lances, and struck fire from the plain.
One flies rather than falls from his horse;
One falling to the earth with his horse, groans;
One’s white armour is soaked with bloody spume;
One whips his horse’s flank with his helmet plume.
To our side fell the palm of victory
And to the ladies, honour, and glory.
‘The Duke regaled the victorious twelve
With feasting and revelry in his palace;
But just then, as they were listening,
The bo’sun who was watching the weather
Blew on his whistle and, springing to life,
The mariners rushed to their posts;
The angry winds give them no time
To react but, smacking the sail head on,
Ripped it to pieces with a clap like thunder
As if the very globe was rent asunder.
ship,’ said the bo’sun at once.
‘All together! Everything overboard!
You others to the pumps. Hurry, or down
We go! Look alive! It’s pump or drown!’
Vasco da Gama, realizing that close
To his goal he was about to drown,
Watching the seas, now gaping to hell,
Now mounting in fury to the heavens,
Divine guardian, merciful providence,
Who art Lord of earth, sea, and heaven;
You, who guided the children of Israel*
Why, O God, do you now forsake us?
In the same manner, the other nymphs
Swiftly tamed the remaining lovers;
Soon they had surrendered to lovely
Venus All their anger and their tumult;
this, bright dawn broke in those heights
Where the River Ganges has its source,
As the sailors, aloft at the mast head,
Saw mountains glimmering before the prow.
—‘ That land ahead is surely Calicut!*
Da Gama contained himself no longer
But knelt on deck, arms raised towards the sky,
And gave his heartfelt thanks to God on high.
You, Portuguese, as few as you are valiant,
Make light of your slender forces;
Heaven has made it your destiny
To do many and mighty deeds
For Christendom, despite being few and weak,
For thus, O Christ, do you exalt the meek!
And what of you, unworthy Gaul?*
You lay claim to other Christian lands
As if your own were not enough,
So why not to Barbary and Egypt
Historic enemies of the sacred name?
Here, of all other towns,
Calicut Is undisputed head, beautiful
And prosperous, a city to glory in;
Its ruler is known as the Samorin.
As the fleet anchored off this rich domain,
One of the Portuguese was dispatched
Among those who came running to see him
Was a Mohammedan* born in Barbary,
Catching sight of the envoy, he exclaimed
In delight, and in fluent Castilian
—‘ Who brought you to this other world
The Muslim, whose name was Monsayeed,
Was astounded by the immense voyage,
The captain embraced him, overjoyed
To hear clearly the accents of Castile;
He sat, and calmly plied him with questions
About India and all its ways.
You people,’ he began, ‘whom nature made
Neighbours of my own dear homeland,
What chance, what stroke of destiny
Led you to embark on such a passage?
‘Surely, God brought you here, purposing
Some task of his own performed by you;
‘The people, rich and poor alike, share
One religion, a tissue of fables.
There are two kinds of people, the Nairs
Are the aristocrats, while all the rest
Are Pariahs, and their type are classed
Unfit to marry with the ancient caste.
‘Their priests are known as Brahmins,
An ancient and venerable title;
They are disciples of Pythagoras,*
Who gave philosophy its name;
Da Gama, who now had the king’s licence
To disembark, left for the shore
Without delay, gorgeously robed
And attended by knights of Portugal;
As they went, da Gama and the Catual
Conversed as opportunity provided,
Monsayeed, between them, interpreting
Those of their words which he understood.
On the gates of the surrounding wall
Were carvings worthy of Daedalus,
Depicting the rulers of India
From her most remote antiquity.
One showed a mighty army marching
East along the banks of the Hydaspes;*
The captain spoke the message he had brought:
—‘ A great king in the farthest west
Desires that you and he be bound as friends.
‘If you are willing, with sacred pacts
And treaties of sincere friendship,
To begin trade in the abundance
this would beyond question be
Profit for you, and for him greater glory.
He will be ready when any danger
Of war should threaten your kingdom
To support you with men, arms, and ships
As if you were a friend and brother;
He must consult with his counsellors,
To enquire into everything he claimed
About the king, land, and people he had named;
And now it became the Catual’s task,
In his diligent service of his master,
To discover more about this strange breed,
He summoned Monsayeed, to discover
What he could tell of these novel people.
Eager and curious, he demanded
A full account, and sure proof
‘With superhuman might and exploits
Talked of to this day, they expelled us
From the fertile meadows of the rich
Tagus and the pleasant Guadiana;
‘They showed no less strength and strategy
In the other wars that engaged them
Whether against the fierce Castilians,
Or with armies descending the Pyrenees.
Never once against foreign lances
Are they known to have known defeat;
By now the Hindu burned to inspect
Everything the Muslim had told him;
He summoned boats, to go out and review
The ships in which da Gama sailed.
By the first of the paintings,* the Catual
Paused, to study the figure who bore
In his hand a green branch as an emblem,
In a wise voice, Paulo annotated
And the wise Mauretanian translated.
—‘ All these figures depicted here,
Were yet more bold and magnificent
In their real lives and exploits;
This is Lusus,* from whose legendary fame
Our kingdom Lusitania took its name.
‘The branch you see him bear as a token
Is the green thyrsus, symbol of Bacchus,
A reminder to our own times
‘This is Ulysses; the altar is sacred
To the goddess who taught him eloquence;
If there in Asia he burned great Troy,
Tell me,’ asked the astonished Malabari,
‘Who is this next prodigious figure
Routing so many squadrons, devastating
Such vast armies with so few men?
That is Afonso the First,’ said da Gama,
‘Who seized all Portugal from the Moors,
‘Now a priest, look, brandishing a sword
Against Arronches, which he captures
In revenge for Leiria, taken by those
Who bloody their lances for Mohammed.
He is Prior Teotónio.*
‘Here a Portuguese
Master of the Order Of Santiago,* returns from Castile
To conquer the land of the Algarves,
He is Dom Paio Correia, envied
By all for his skill and courage.
‘Can you not see a Portuguese army
On the verge of defeat, all because
The devout captain has withdrawn in prayer
‘Should you wish to discover his name
Who dares so much, with such faith in God,
“Portugal’s Scipio” he could be called,
But Dom Nuno Álvares is the greater title.
Happy the fatherland with such a son,
‘Now behold two princes,* Pedro
And Henrique, the splendid sons of King João:
Pedro in Germany won for himself
The fame which eclipses death itself;
Henrique, the renowned Navigator,
Explored and charted oceans, starting
At Ceuta, pricking the Moors’ vanity,
do not deny there exist offspring
Of these noble lines and rich houses,
Whose worthy, blameless conduct
Sustains the name they have inherited;
But the painter finds too few of them today.’
So da Gama expounded the great deeds
Rendered there in different colours
By the skilled hand of the painter,
With such rare and convincing artifice.
The Catual’s eyes were spellbound
By history so well displayed:
The Devil, honest for once, revealed
The newcomers would indeed impose
A perpetual yoke, eternal bondage,
Destroying the people and their power.
Astonished, the augur rushed to the king,
With his terrifying interpretation
Of the dreadful portents he detected
In all the victims’ entrails inspected.
With bribes, of gold and other seductions,
They co-opted the country’s rulers,
And with sophistry persuaded them
Of the ruin the Portuguese would bring,
To govern well, how much a monarch
Must guard that his counsellors and friends
Are men of rectitude and genuine
Da Gama, having fulfilled his
Voyage, was preoccupied by one thing:
To carry the sure proof back to his king.
resolved to speak with the Samorin
And finish his business and go home,
As he finished, da Gama, who had quickly
Guessed that only Muslim intrigue
Could be the source of the insinuations
To which the king had given voice,
‘Because no venture is carried forward
Without vexations, and in every quest
Fear follows in hope’s footsteps
And only sweat keeps hope alive,
You allow yourself scant confidence
In my good faith, without considering
The counter-arguments which would seem just
Had you not trusted men you should not trust.
We have voyaged to your court. I have spoken.
What remains is to take my king some token.
‘This, king, is the truth; were it
Otherwise, I would not spin so long
And so fanciful a yarn, for such
Uncertain benefit, so feeble a reward.
The Samorin was struck by the confidence
Which reinforced all da Gama said;
At length, he bade da Gama return
Directly to the ships, secure from harm,
And send ashore whatever merchandise
He wished to sell, or to exchange for spice.
He begged especially for textiles
Not found in the kingdoms of the Ganges,
If he had brought anything fine from there
Where the land ends and the sea begins.
The goods were brought ashore and at once
The corrupt Catual took them in charge;
Álvaro and Diogo* accompanied them
To sell them for what they were worth:
But that profit mattered to him far more
Than honour, orders, or obligation,
The Catual showed to any who had eyes,
Releasing da Gama for the merchandise.
He freed him, convinced he had in hand
Sufficient stake to guarantee him
Da Gama accepted it would be foolish
To return ashore and risk being Re-imprisoned,
Gold conquers the strongest citadels,
Turns friends into traitors and liars;
Persuades the noblest to acts of infamy,
Betraying their leaders to the enemy;
The two factors remained in the city
Many days without trading the goods,
For the Muslims, mixing guile and falsehood,
Ensured no merchant would buy them:
Their whole purpose and intention
Was to detain the discoverers, until
The annual fleet from Mecca should descend
Bringing Portuguese endeavours to an end.
So much they trusted in this recourse,
They sought nothing more than to delay
The navigators, letting them survive
Until the fleet from Mecca could arrive.
And at long last his men were homeward bound
With proofs on board of the India he had found.
For he had some Malabaris, seized
From those dispatched by the Samorin
When he returned the imprisoned factors;
He had hot peppers he had purchased;
There was mace from the Banda Islands;
Then nutmeg and black cloves, pride
Of the new-found Moluccas, and cinnamon,
The wealth, the fame, the beauty of Ceylon.
So there sailed away from the torrid coast
Those happy ships, turning their prows
To where nature ordained her southern
Outpost at the Cape of Good Hope,
Bearing to Lisbon the joyous news
And the response of the Orient,
Considering this, she resolved further
To make ready for them, in the midst
Of the sea, some divine, enchanted
Isle adorned with greenery and flowers.
How often have the hearts of potentates
Been smitten by various shepherdesses,
Or ladies, with rough, common lovers,
Been ensnared in Vulcan’s net?*
The ships were ploughing their way over
The vast ocean to their dear homeland,
On the look-out for fresh water
For the prolonged voyage ahead,
When with sudden rapture, all at once,
Caught sight of the Isle of Love,
Three towering peaks came into sight
Thrusting upwards with a noble grace,
And draped with grassy enamel
On that lovely, happy, delightful island;
Clear streams, festooned with creepers,
Cascaded from the summits,
Trees beyond number climbed to the sky
With luscious, sweet-smelling fruits;
Pomegranates gaped, exposing jewels
Richer, redder than any rubies;
Vines threaded the boughs of the elm
With hanging clusters, purple and green;
Amidst all this fresh luxuriance,
The second Argonauts disembarked,
Where the lovely nymphs were strolling
In the forests as if all unaware;
The nymphs fled between the branches
But, more contriving than nimble-footed,
One by one with smiles and little sighs
They let the greyhounds overtake their prize.
As they were running, their golden tresses
And flimsy silks were blown aside;
Desire was redoubled by the glimpse
Of naked skin, suddenly revealed;
What further happened that morn and noon
As Venus fanned the flames of love,
Better to relish than disparage it;
Let those begrudge who cannot manage it.
Tethys herself, the greatest among them,
Whom all the nymphs obey, and said
To be daughter of Coelus and Vesta
Took, as he deserved, the captain
In a manner both regal and sincere,
Then having revealed to him her name,
She explained, in noble, gracious words,
Her task, at Fate’s immutable
Bidding, was to reveal through prophecy
The still-unmapped continents,
The oceans as yet unsailed,
Taking his hand, she guided him
To the summit of a holy mountain,
There they passed the long day
In sweet games and continuous pleasure;
So the brave men and their lovely brides
Lingered the best portion of the day,
With a sweet joy they had never known,
As quittance for their labours;
The goddess sang that from the Tagus,
Over the seas da Gama had opened,
Would come fleets to conquer all the coast
Where the Indian Ocean sighs;
She sang of one who would embark*
In Belém destined to repair this wrong,
The great Pacheco, Portugal’s Achilles,
Arriving at length in the far east
He will hurry with his tiny crew
To succour the King of Cochin,
The Samorin will summon reinforcements;
As both the hostile faiths prepare for war,
Muslims by sea and Hindus on the shore.
So a second time, dauntless Pacheco,
Will destroy them by land and by sea,
And all Malabar will be astounded
At the multitudes of those killed.
But at this, the nymph dropped her pitch T
o a throaty dirge, heavy with tears,
As she sang of the deep ingratitude
With which bravery was rewarded:
‘As for you, O king, who so badly repaid
Such a servant, this is your one blot:
You denied him a fair estate
When he won for you a rich realm.
‘But here’, she resumed, ‘comes another,
Francisco de Almeida,* the viceroy,
And his son, destined to win on the seas
Fame as great as any Roman of old.
Together, by the power of arms,
They will castigate fertile Kilwa,*
‘Mombasa,* too, furnished with such
Palaces and sumptuous houses,
Will be laid waste with iron and fire
In payment for its former treachery.
‘Here comes the father, magnified
By his anger and grief, his heart
On fire, his eyes swimming, his soul
Transfixed by paternal love.
He has taken an oath his noble rage
‘But it is Emir Hussein’s grappled fleet
Bears the brunt of the avenger’s anger,
As arms and legs swim in the bay
‘But sadly, after this great triumph
As he sets sail for his native Tagus,
His glory is all but stolen away
In the dark and mournful outcome!*
The Cape of Storms, which keeps his memory
Along with his bones,
Pagans, unable to comprehend,
Attribute to ill fortune or mischance
What providence ordains and heaven grants.
There in Dawn’s very emporium,
Renowned, opulent Malacca!
For all your arrows tipped with poison,
The curved daggers you bear as arms,
Amorous Malays and valiant Javanese
All will be subject to the Portuguese.’
This siren would have sung more stanzas
In praise of illustrious Albuquerque,
But recalled that act which damned him
‘Even the noble isle of Taprobana,
As famous under its ancient name
As today when its fragrant groves
Of hot cinnamon make it supreme,
She, too, will be taxed by the flag Of Portugal,
hoisted mighty and proud
In Colombo, high on the great tower
Where all the people recognize its power.
You, too, da Gama, as prize for this
And your future exile, will return
With a count’s title, honoured overlord
To govern the great region you explored.
‘But Death, that dire necessity
No human being can avoid,
Will remove you, amid royal dignity,
From this world and all its deceit.
‘To fierce Sampaio there will succeed
Da Cunha,* at the helm for many years;
He will build the fortress of Chale
Making famous Diu quake at his name;
Strong Bassein will surrender to him
Though not without much blood,
‘After will come Noronha,* destined
To repulse from Diu the Turkish siege
‘From your Estêvão the reins will pass
To one already honoured in Brazil,
Martim Afonso de Sousa,*
‘The King of Cambay, for all his pride,
Will surrender rich Diu’s citadel,
In return for protecting his kingdom
From the all-conquering Mogul;
Later, in a tactic of great daring,
He will block the Samorin in Calicut,
Despite the multitudes he brings that day,
Driving him back in bloody disarray.
When all had feasted to the full
From the noble dishes set before them,
And from the nymph’s harmonious strains
Tethys addressed da Gama in this way:
God in supreme wisdom* favours you,
O hero, to behold with bodily eyes
What is beyond the shallow knowledge
Of erring and wretched mortals.
Follow me, with courage and wisdom,
You and your men, by this mountain path’:
Soon they found themselves on a summit
And in a meadow so thickly sown
With emeralds and rubies, they perceived
They were treading on holy ground.
Here, in the air, they saw suspended
A lustrous and translucent globe,
Then the goddess spoke:
‘This sphere I set before you, represents
The whole created world, so you may see
Where you have been, and are, and wish to be.
‘The first sphere which circles round
The lesser orbs which it contains
And which radiates with such brightness
It dazzles mortal sight and mind,
‘Each of these planets moves in a different
Course, some ponderous, others swift,
But you must go further on to view
Malacca, that vast sea’s emporium,
Where every kingdom of whatever size,
Dispatches all its richest merchandise.
‘Look: dividing Cambodia is the great
River Mekong,* the “prince of waters”;
Its people believe, in their ignorance,
That at death, even animals are consigned
To be punished or rewarded, like mankind.’
‘The coast beyond is called Tsian Pa;
In its forests grow fragrant aloes;
See Cochin-China, still scarcely known,
‘See the Great Wall, incredible structure,
Dividing one empire from another,
Most certain and obvious proof
Of sovereign power in its pride and wealth.
But do not omit the oceans’ islands
Where nature seems most inventive;
This one, half hidden, facing the coast
Of China, from whence it may be reached,
Is Japan, with its reefs of silver ore,
And soon to be illumined by God’s law.
‘And here is Timor, with its forests
Of scented, invigorating sandalwood.
Look at Java, so vast its southern
Mountains to this day are unexplored.
‘And again, Sumatra, made an island
And the marvel of the aromatic tears,
Wept by a tree, which surpass
In fragrance all Arabia’s myrrh;
And matching what the other have, behold
It yields as well soft silks and finest gold.
‘Further on, facing the Red Sea strait,
Is Socotra, with its bitter aloes;
And other islands, subject to you
Along the desert coast of Africa,
Are the source of ambergris, most secret
And precious perfume known to man.
‘Such are the new regions of the East
You Portuguese are adding to the world,
Opening the gates to that vast ocean
Which you navigate with such courage.
But it is fitting you glance westwards*
To observe the exploit of a Portuguese
Who, believing himself snubbed by his king,
Made another voyage beyond imagining.
‘Behold a vast continent which stretches
From the Great Bear to the opposite pole,
‘Here where it bulges, you will colonize
Brazil, named for its red brazil-wood,
Though first christened Santa Cruz
When your fleet is the first to find it.
Magellan—in all his actions Portuguese
If not completely in his loyalties.
‘Thus far, Portuguese, you are permitted
To see into the future, learning
Of the deeds heroes will accomplish
On oceans no longer unmapped.
‘Now you may embark, with following winds
And a tranquil sea, for your homeland.’
So she spoke: and at once they made ready
To set sail from that happy lovers’ isle.
behold them ploughing the calm seas,
With friendly winds, not a hint of a storm,
Until their homeland, the country long
Yearned for, rose before their sight.

What's my overall take on the book. I found the blend of mythology and Christian doctrine confusing. The hatred and intolerance of the Muslims, interesting. Clearly a Portuguese history written for Portuguese consumption....full of the glorious deeds of its heroes. Obvious parallels with the works of Homer and Virgil. An easy four stars from me. show less

This has been lurking on the shelf for a long time, uniquely orange among the other varicoloured Penguin Classics, so I thought I had better read it in case it was an undiscovered gem in the collection. No. Basically it is a comprehensive and jingoistic history of Portugal, framed loosely in a narrative of the voyage of Vasco da Gama to East Africa and India, and cast as an epic poem in imitation of Virgil's Aeneid.

Atkinson's translation is deeply unpoetic, and very much in the style of old English prose renderings of Virgil, which highlights Camoens' slavish imitation of his classical models, and often becomes faintly ridiculous (As she moved--Cupid waxing sportive unseen--the nipples on her breasts danced). Little of the poetic show more imagery was interesting or memorable in its own right, though I did like the image of the universe as a miniature globe in the tenth canto. The clash between the Christian-Moslem conflict and the machinations of classical gods are truly bizarre, and culminate in a magnificent speech in which, after giving a lengthy summary of the future history of the Portuguese Empire, the nymph Tethys expounds her own non-existence: We are but creatures of fable, figments of man's blindness and self-deception. Our only use is for the turning of agreeable verses. It is also odd to find the Roman pantheon so far outside their usual territory: I found a curious frisson in reading a line such as From there Mercury continued to Mombasa... The poet's contrivances are so artificial, and his obsessions so driven home, that it became a little wearisome: so many expostulations about how the Portuguese were the greatest nation that history had ever seen (with the sole fault that they paid insufficient attention to their poets!), their king the mightiest potentate of the West, and how each of their military heroes was greater than the last in crushing another thousand Moslem warriors (plus a few Spaniards) into the dust. The nymph resumed her long [sic] story, beginning to sing of Soares de Albergaria, who was to hoist his banner and strike terror all along the shores of the Red sea. "Loathsome Medina will come to fear him, and Mecca and Jidda no less, and the farthest strands of Abyssinia.".

My expectation was, in a way, fulfilled. It was a book worth reading once; but, I would add (like Samuel Johnson on the Giant's Causeway), not a book worth buying in order to read it. I would put it on the "Out" pile, but it is Mrs Bookworm's copy and I am not permitted to unburden the shelves.

MB 9-iv-2013 show less

I have no idea how to rate this one; it's a huge piece of literature, but it's also a gigantic (and conscious) imitation of Homer and Virgil-- fine and dandy, but doesn't really fit the time or place. A not-unenjoyable read, and an interesting take on colonialism as it was happening-- but I don't need to read it again.