Camoens, from Fanshawe, the first, to Burton and Aubertin; and Burton
likens them to the Simoniacal Popes in Dante's Malebolge-pit--each one
struggling to trample down his elder brother. [322] Burton's work, which
appeared in 1882, was presently followed by two other volumes consisting
of a Life of Camoens and a Commentary on The Lusiads, but his version of
The Lyrics did not appear till 1884.

Regarded as a faithful rendering, the book was a success, for Burton had
drunk The Lusiads till he was super-saturated with it. Alone among the
translators, he had visited every spot alluded to in the poem, and
his geographical and other studies had enabled him to elucidate many
passages that had baffled his predecessors. Then, too, he had the
assistance of Aubertin, Da Cunha and other able Portuguese scholars
and Camoens enthusiasts. Regarded, however, as poetry, the book was a
failure, and for the simple reason that Burton was not a poet. Like his
Kasidah, it contains noble lines, but on every page we are reminded
of the translator's defective ear, annoyed by the unnecessary use
of obsolete words, and disappointed by his lack of what Poe called
"ethericity." The following stanza, which expresses ideas that Burton
heartily endorsed, may be regarded as a fair sample of the whole:

"Elegant Phormion's philosophick store
see how the practised Hannibal derided
when lectured he with wealth of bellick lore
and on big words and books himself he prided.
Senhor! the soldier's discipline is more
than men may learn by mother-fancy guided;
Not musing, dreaming, reading what they write;
'tis seeing, doing, fighting; teach to fight." [323]

The first six lines contain nothing remarkable, still, they are
workmanlike and pleasant to read; but the two concluding lines are
atrocious, and almost every stanza has similar blemishes. A little more
labour, even without much poetic skill, could easily have produced a
better result. But Burton was a Hannibal, not a Phormion, and no man can
be both. He is happiest, perhaps, in the stanzas containing the legend
of St. Thomas, [324] or Thome, as he calls him,

"the Missioner sanctified
Who thrust his finger in Lord Jesu's side."

According to Camoens, while Thorme was preaching to the potent Hindu
city Meleapor, in Narsinga land [325] a huge forest tree floated down
the Ganges, but all the king's elephants and all the king's men were
incompetent to