CAMOENS;

A DRAMATIC SKETCH. IN ONE ACT.

BY FREDERICK HALM.

In resuming our notices of the German drama, we shall, on this occasion, vary from our usual plan, by exhibiting entire a short dramatic sketch by a modern poet, instead of extracts from plays of greater length and higher pretensions. The name of the young author, Frederick Halm, is as yet little known in this country, though the high poetry contained both in his Griselidis and his later tragedy of the Adept, entitle him, we think, to a distinguished place among the living dramatists of Germany. In knowledge of stage effect, or ingenious development of plot, he is no doubt still deficient enough; and a certain anxiety to embody in each of his plays some philosophical idea, gives to them, in their general construction, a colder and more artificial character than is consistent with the reality and lifelike movement which is essential to dramatic interest. But the poetical enthusiasm and eloquence of individual scenes, place him far above the level of ordinary playwrights. In this dramatic sketch, which we have selected for translation, there is of course no plot, no minute display of character; it is simply a representation of the contrast between the poetical and the prosaic temperament in Camoëns and Quevedo ; the love of poetry for its own sake, and the love of gain ;-a cheering picture of that inward consciousness of having lived and laboured for eternity, which enables the true poet to rise superior to circumstances, and, amidst poverty, sickness, and desolation, to preserve his self-respect, and his confidence in his vocation unimpaired.

The DRAMATIS PERSONE are,

DON LUIS DE CAMOENS.

DON JOSE QUEVEDO CASTEL BRANCO, a rich merchant.
PEREZ, his son.

The Governor of the Great Hospital in Lisbon.

SCENE I.

A small room in the Great Hospital at Lisbon-the walls merely plastered: the plaster here and there decayed and falling off. In the portion of the stage, to the right of the spectators, a table covered with paper and books, and a few chairs; to the left, a wretched couch, on which Camoëns is asleep; a sword leans against the bed; above his head, hangs a lute covered with dust: in the background, immediately opposite to the spectators, is the entrance.

The door opens, and DON JOSEPH QUEVEDO and the MASTER OF THE HOSPITAL appear on the threshold; the latter with a bunch of keys at his girdle, and a book under his arm.

Quevedo. Three stairs already: must we mount for ever?
H. Master. No, Señor; we are at the spot.
Quev.

The perspiration trickles from my forehead,
My breath is gone entirely: so! 'tis here!

Thank God!

H. M. (opening the book which he held beneath his arm, and showing it to QUEVEDO.)

See, Señor! here it stands enregister'd,

"Don Luis de Camoëns, Number Five."

We are at Number Five. There's no mistake!

Quev. Indeed! And you yourself know not the man More nearly?

H. M.

No, good Señor.

Nor by repute?

H. M.

We go by numbers only: Here's no repute and no respect of persons. "Don Luis de Camoëns, Number Five," And nothing else-so stands it in the entry.

Quev. Quite right. You are a man that keeps his books In order. Here it is then! By St Jago!

A gloomy chamber-bars before the windows,

The bedding wretched-and the plaster bare!

H. M. We used to keep our madmen here confined : But this man longed so sadly for repose

And solitude-the room just then stood empty,

And, as he wish'd it, why we brought him here.

Quev. The madman's room! 'Twas well. You are a man

After my own heart. Would you could cram them all,

These versemakers, at once into a madhouse!

But, hush! is that the man that slumbers there

On yonder couch?

H. M.

I will awake him.

Quev.

Señor, it is. He sleeps.

Nay, for heaven's sake, do not:

I'll wait beside him till he himself awake.

H. M. Then fare-you-well, and may your purpose prosper.
Quev. Thanks, friend.-And take this trifle for your trouble.

[Exit the Master of the Hospital.

SCENE II.

QUEVEDO places himself in a chair near the table, keeping his eye upon Camoëns.

So here am I, and wearied to the death;

A little rest, methinks, will do me good.

Heaven knows I should not now be sitting here,

Did not some evil spirit drive this son

Of mine to scorn his father's trade, and sit
Hammering out poems, hunting after rhymes,
And counting feet, and dreaming of his laurels!
Ah, woe is me! my only son and heir
Dreaming of laurels. Gold he cares not for,
T' increase his goods, or emulate his father-
He must attain Camoëns' high renown-
There lies the man, the model he admires;
There lies he covered over with his laurels-
And in an hospital! There lies he wasted,

Shorn of an eye, all bleach'd and famine smitten-
The mighty man that sang the Lusiad,
That fought by Ceuta's walls and by Oran,
Lies in the madman's chamber: his possessions,

A rusty sword, a mouldering lute, alone!

What has his life been? weariness and woe!

"Don Luis de Camoëns, Number Five,"

And nothing else-so stands it in the entry

While I, poor I-whom once he scorn'd and scoff"d at,
Weighing out raisins, telling oranges,

But turning maravedis to crusados

I am a wealthy, well-condition'd man :
Three houses I can call my own: for me

Four galleys, richly fraught, career the sea!

His search was all for glory-mine for gold!
Could Perez only see him now, he must
Choose as I chose and so he shall, by Heaven!
Therefore I come. See him he shall-shall hear
From his own mouth how he has dreamt away
His life in blindness, madness, and delusion.

But, hush!—he moans in sleep-his eyes are opening.

Cam. (awakens.) So, then, 'twas but another broken slumber, That sternly wakens me anew to suffer,

And not that long last sleep that endeth all :

Death's shadow only, and not Death himself.

Ha! who stirs there? A man-a man beside me!
Who are you, and what marvel brings you here?
You must mistake, good friend.

Quev. (rising and approaching.) Not so, good Señor,
You are the man I sought, and I have found you.
Cam. Indeed! I scarce remember who I am.

You come, no doubt, to buy some marriage ditty?
No? Then, perhaps, you want a serenade ?

Look through those papers on the table there:

Choose from them as you will-what suits your purpose.
You'll find there poems of all sorts; and at

The cheapest rate-but two reals a-piece.

Quev. You do mistake

Cam. (Who has raised himself from his couch, and with the assistance of his sword has supported himself till he has reached a chair, sits down.)

What you would have me write

New verses upon your account? Good sir,

I pray you pardon me: I am exhausted,
I scarce can raise my body from my bed;
My strength is gone, my very thoughts are failing.
So please you, sir, let yonder heap content you.
Quev. I came not here to order verses of you,
Don Luis. Look on me-look long and closely-
You recognise me?

Quev. Even so, at Calvas. There wo quarrell'd often,

And many a beating you bestow'd upon me.

Bethink you. Recollect. Nay, you must know me-
Joseph Quevedo Castel Branco is

My name-your gossip Mariquitas' son.

Cam. Joseph Quevedo!

Quev.

Ay! The same, Don Luis

The same Quevedo whom you have so often

Cam. (interrupting him with a gloomy and frowning air.)

Well then-what seek you here, Joseph Quevedo?

Quev. I came to see how things were going with you! You look indifferent ill, methinks; much wasted:

I on the other hand grow corpulent.

So wags the world.

Lest he should fall.

Cam.

Fortune is round.

Quev.

Let him who stands take heed
Fortune is round.

Here in an hospital

Ay, true;

You lie, oppress'd by want, bow'd down by sickness:
You have grown old in looks, your hair is gray-
You are poorer by an eye—

Cam. (With a movement of impatience.) Joseph Quevedo ! Why do you count the furrows on my brow,

And tell the scanty hairs upon my temples?

Quev. I meant no harm, good friend: I only meant That times are changed, and we are changed with them. You are no more the tall and graceful stripling,

The ladies' favourite, the nobles' pride

No longer that Camoëns which you were.

Cam. It is most true.

But say my strength is broken,

Say that my life has been an idle dream

You at the least were never made my keeper,
And no Quevedo shall be judge o'er me.

Quev. (Aside.) St Jago! Fool! were't not for Perez' sake
I'd teach that pride to bend!

(Aloud.) Your speech is rough:

I had expected a less stern reception,

A milder greeting. But I see you are ill:
Were it not so, you would have bid me welcome-
Would have recall'd the memory of old days,
Your father's mansion, and the times of youth-
Our dances on the turf-the ancient lime-tree
We used to climb, where you were always highest-
Or how we play'd the huntsman and the deer,
The one before, the rest behind, with shouts
Following like hounds-you recollect?

Cam.

Well! well!

Quev. And how in autumn we at times would break
Into the garden, pilfering fruit, and how

The surly gardener came and storm'd and scolded.
Cam. (with a faint smile.)

Ay, ay! I know: we were wild youths of old!
Quev. And the steep summit of the little hill
Storm'd by one youthful squadron, and defended
Heroically by another:-swellings

Large as hen's eggs on every arm.

Cam. (Pointing to his breast.) This scar Dates from that time.

Quev.

O mercy! more's the pity.

Then, too, we ventured more than legs and arms:
The river's tempting waters once allured us-
We ventured not at first, but you-

Cam. (with emotion.)

Yes, I!

I was the first: you stood and hesitated

I threw myself exulting in, and struggled

With the wild waves until my arm subdued them

Till on their subject-backs far out I rode,

Far from the shore, where ye were calling loud

In fear. O fair, O fresh, O joyful time!

(After a pause.) Come here! Reach me thy hand. You know our

natures

Stood ever out in hostile opposition.

You seem'd to me-and yet perhaps you are not

What you appear'd-Come here You were of yore

My playmate. You have tasted joy beside me ;

And now, on the dark evening of my life,
You bring the glittering morning back anew.
Ah me! I am so much alone, that were you
My deadly enemy, I must embrace you.

Quev. (after a pause, drying his eyes.)
How fared it with you, then, since last we met?
You know I never saw you since my father
Removed me, ere I thought of it, from Calvas,

And brought me to Figuera. After that
No more of play-the day of labour came.

Cam. My fortune led me carly to Coimbra,
The sanctuary of knowledge and of art.
The strains of Homer and the Mantuan's lay,
These sounded in mine ear. With conquering power
The charm of beauty seized upon my soul:
What formless in me lay assumed a form;
The dull grew clear, the dead awoke to life,
Dim longings for the future stirr'd within me,
And blissful auguries flash'd across my breast.

Quev. Study, my friend, was never my department;
My college was a merchant's counting-house.
Yet he knew something-he had learn'd to calculate!
Cam. But years roll'd on, and the restraint of schools,
The gloomy lecture-rooms grew all too narrow;
I follow'd tremblingly my spirit's prompting.
I came to Lisbon; saw its courtly splendour;
Beheld the monarch glittering like the sun,
And all the stars of empire sparkling round him—
While I stood dazzled in the distance, deeming
The whole a dream, and dared not venture nigh.
Quev. Just such were my sensations, when I first
Beheld the crowded mart and wide exchange.

Cam. Then I beheld HER, and a cloud o'ercast
The glittering throne, the courtly pomp and splendour ;
And as God's breath into the weltering chaos
Infused the germ of life, the blessed light,
So shot her spring-like glance into my soul,
And from its depths another Eden sprang.
O she was fair! so shrinks the budding rose
Before the breath of air, the kiss of light,

And blushes at its bloom, and blooms the fairer :
And what the rose conceals within its bosom,

She too, a fairer rose, conceal'd within

For her pure soul was as a drop of dew.

Quev. I felt like you! The merchant's only child,

A pretty gentle maiden, touch'd my heart:

Her father had enough, and she was free;

And I was saving-not unhandsome neither

Camoens. We loved. Our love was like a chord of music,

Such as the wind that sweeps a lute draws forth,

Meeting a passive echo from another:

It was a vision such as blessed spirits

Dream on in heaven, their earthly days recalling.

It was a gleam such as the lightning darts,

That flashes, dazzles, and dissolves in darkness.

Quev. I, for my part, obtain'd the father's favour

He gave consent; and I, much envied, led

The handsome merchant's daughter to the altar.
Cam. O happy he who wins the meed of love;

Alas! I won it not; for we were parted.
She wither'd in a convent's dreary walls,
And died too soon the flowery death of longing.
But me the stream of life swept forth: the cry
Of war rang through the land: a knightly death
Inviting lay before me. Forth I fared.
I saw Morocco, fought at Ceuta's storm,
And left an eye behind—but not my life.
Quev. No happier lot was mine.
And long it was-for I was drown'd in grief-
Ere her succession could afford me comfort.

My dear wife died;