XXX.

Compares himself, shot by love, to a little bird shot by a sportsman.

HE pretty, sweet, and wanton little bird

THE

With its small beak its feathers is arranging;

Its soft, bright notes, beyond all measure changing,

All pouring from the woodland twig are heard.

The cruel bowman, stealthily awake,

And turning from his path with footstep sly,
Fixes his arrow-head with rapid eye,

And builds him final nest in Stygian Lake.
E'en thus the heart that erst had beaten free,
Though for long period past it destined lay,
Where it had least suspected wounded lies;
Because the archer blind lay wait for me,
That he might seize his unsuspecting prey,
Lying close hid within thy brilliant eyes.

METZ, September 1880.

XXXVII.

A memoria de algum companheiro de Santo Ignacio de

N

ÃO

Loyola.

passes, caminhante. Quem me chama? Hua memoria nova e nunca ouvida,

De hum que trocou finita e humana vida
Por divina, infinita, e clara fama.

Quem he, que tão gentil louvor derrama?
Quem derramar seu sangue não duvída,

Por seguir a bandeira esclarecida

De hum capitão de Christo que

Ditoso fim, ditoso sacrificio,

mais ama.

Que a Deos se fez e ao mundo juntamente !

Pregoando direi tão alta sorte.

Mais poderás contar a toda a gente

Que sempre deo na vida claro indicio

De vir a merecer tão santa morte.

XXXVII.

To the memory of a warrior, supposed by the V. de Juromenha to have been a companion of Saint Ignacius de Loyola.

STOP, passer by-Who calls me? 'Tis the claim Of a new memory, heard of ne'er before;

Of one who human finite life gave o'er

For infinite divine and brilliant fame.

Who's he that sheds such lustre round his name?
He who shrank not to shed his blood of yore
In honour of the exalted flag he bore,
Captain of Christ, to love Whom was his aim.
Thrice blessed end, thrice blessèd sacrifice,
Made to his God, and to the world as well;

So high a call I'll sing with loudest breath;
More canst thou teach the world his name to prize;

His life by brilliant tokens did foretell

He would be worthy of such holy death.

XL.

Visitando um logar onde outra ora fôra feliz (talvez Cintra), depois da morte de D. Catharina de Athaide.

LEGRES campos, verdes arvoredos,

ALEGR

Claras e frescas águas de crystal,

Que em vós os debuxais ao natural,
Discorrendo da altura dos rochedos:
Sylvestres montes, ásperos penedos
Compostos de concêrto desigual;
Sabei que sem licença de meu mal
Ja não podeis fazer meus olhos ledos.
E pois ja me não vêdes como vistes,
Não me alegrem verduras deleitosas,
Nem águas que correndo alegres vem.
Semearei em vós lembranças tristes,
Regar-vos-hei com lagrimas saudosas,
E nascerão saudades de meu bem.

XL.

Cintra revisited after the death of Catharina de Athaide.

E cheerful meadows and ye woodlands green,

YE

And ye, ye crystal waters, fresh and clear,
Whereon like nature painted these appear,
Who take your source the lofty rocks between;
Ye sylvan mounts, harsh crags, that in the scene
An aspect of unequal concert wear,

Know that without compliance of my care
Ye are not to my eyes what ye have been.

And since ye view me not as long ago,

No longer now delights the verdured mead,

Nor cheerful running streams can pleasure bring;

Among you sad remembrances I'll sow,

Will water with recording tears the seed,

And longing memories of my joy shall spring.

TRIESTE, August 1880.