Doralice, who as courteous was as fair, And ill-assured withal, how it would end, And straight to truce and peace disposed her friend. Was brought his vengeful anger to suspend; And, wending where she willed, the Scottish lord, Left unachieved the adventure of the sword. For to leave Durindana such misdeed To him appeared, it past all other woes; His anguish grows, with such impetuous pains, He feels that life is ebbing from his veins. For weakness can the prince no further hie, Where in this need she could resort to leech, She, blaming fortune, and the cruel sky, Can only utter fond complaints and vain. Had fixt, as she bemoaned her, felt more pain Than that enduring and strong anguish bred, Through which the suffering youth was well-nigh dead. "So be thou pleased, my heart," (Zerbino cried), "To love me yet, when I am dead and gone, As to abandon thee without a guide, And not to die, distresses me alone. For did it me in place secure betide To end my days, this earthly journey done, "But since to abandon thee, to whom a prize My spirit, troubled and despairing, hies At this the sorrowing Isabel, declining Her mournful face, which with her tears o'erflows, Towards the sufferer, and her mouth conjoining To her Zerbino's, languid as a rose; Rose gathered out of season, and which, pining Fades where it on the shadowy hedgerow grows, Exclaims, "Without me think not so, my heart, On this your last, long journey to depart. "Of this, my heart, conceive not any fear. I with this sword to-day will pierce my breast. "I of our bodies cherish hope not light, That they shall have a happier fate when dead: She the poor remnants of his vital sprite 'T was here his feeble voice Zerbino manned, By that love witnessed, when thy father's land That, with God's pleasure, thou live-out thy day; That, well as man can love, have I loved thee. "God haply will provide thee with good aid, I think not these last words of Scotland's knight Who is there, that has power to tell aright On the ensanguined corse, in sorrow drowned, She with such rage, such fury, was possest, That, in her transport, she Zerbino's glaive The reverend father, who with natural sense Placing, from ancient Testament and new, The holy man next made the damsel see, Not that she would her mighty love forbear For her dead lord, nor yet his relics slight; The hermit therefore seconding her care, He thought to bear her to Provence, where, near Rose's Translation, Canto XXIV. THE LUSIAD. The discovery of Mozambique, of Melinda, and of Calcutta has been sung by Camoens, whose poem has something of the charm of the Odyssey and of the magnificence of the Æneid. THE MONTESQUIEU. HE Portuguese epic, the Lusiad, so-called from Lusitania, the Latin name for Portugal, was written by Luis de Camoens. He was born in Lisbon in 1524, lost his father by shipwreck in infancy, and was educated by his mother at the University of Coimbra. On leaving the university he appeared at court, where his graces of person and mind soon rendered him a favorite. Here a love affair with the Donna Catarina de Atayde, whom the king also loved, caused his banishment to Santarem. At this place he began the Lusiad, and continued it on the expedition against the Moors in Africa sent out by John III., an expedition on which he displayed much valor and lost an eye. He was recalled to court, but jealousies soon drove him thence to India, whither he sailed in 1553, exclaiming, "Ungrateful country, thou shalt not possess my bones." In India his bravery and accomplishments won him friends, but his imprudences soon caused his exile to China, where he accumulated a small fortune and finished his poem. Happier circumstances permitted him to return to Goa; but on the way the ship laden with his fortune sank, and he escaped, saving only his poem. After sixteen years of misfortune abroad, Camoens returned to Lisbon in 1569. The pestilence that was then raging delayed the publication of the Lusiad until 1572. The poem received little attention; a small pension was bestowed on the poet, but was soon withdrawn, and the unfortunate Camoens was left to die in an almshouse. On his death-bed he deplored the impending fate of his country, which he |