-for the language is homely enough. We shall give some extracts, beginning with Sá de Miranda's version of a pleasant apologue, originally fancied by the Provenzal Troubadour, Pierre Cardinal:

THE RAIN THAT CAUSED INSANITY.

Once on May morning fell a shower; All whom it wetted turned insane; One man alone, in lucky hour

(As then he thought), escap'd the rain. It chanc'd amid the springing wheat

He stood, the fair fields gazing over;
But saw black clouds above him meet;
Ran fast, and gat him under cover.

Next day the madmen scorn'd the wise;
One struck him fillips on the nose;
One pok'd his fingers at his eyes;

One gave him kicks, another blows. One laughing, cried, "that idiot! see!" Our martyr, now completely fretted, Exclaimed, no peace remains for me, Till I, too, like the rest, am wetted."

66

A pool, made by the rain, he found,
Bath'd, and was cur'd of common sense.
The neighbours ran, flew, rush'd around,
To greet him with due deference.
Some bowing low, some flatt'ring loud,

Some gifts with eager kindness handing. He march'd off with the joyous crowd,

Now match'd with them in understanding.

The idea in this extract is a very ancient one. The famous Egyptian ascetic, called St. Anthony the Great, the founder of Monachism, who was born in the third century, used to say, "A time will come, when men will be so foolish, that when they see a man who is not a fool, they will ridicule and revile him, as if he were the only idiot in the world."

EXTRACTS FROM SECOND PORTUGUESE
ECLOGUE.

'Tis healthy sign to gaze on nought
Save virtue, whether sad you sigh,
Or blest you smile; nor suffer aught
To change her aspect to your eye.
Weak were all foes 'gainst him so free,
So firm, whom faithful guide thus leadeth.
Hence, more than from nobility

A manly confidence proceedeth.

Virtue is her own recompense,
Yea, oft her sole; but nought of ill
Or good, that Fortune may dispense,
Can alter him who trusts her still.
He walks in calm security,

Who knows his road, and where it tend-
eth;

Nor leaves his path, whoe'er may cry, "Turn right," "turn left," but straight on wendeth.

Nothing stands still-now good, now base, Runs current coin. Day comes and goes; Nights follow; all grows old apace.

Each man a moving impulse knows, Like dancers that in village reels,

To catch the fiddle's notes seem flying; Beyond command their arms and heelsNow here, now there, in motion vieing.

The well-fed calf sports round and round
His grassy field, so wild and free;
Full-grown, to plough or cart he's bound,
And plies his labours wearily.
Forgot are all the merry days

Of which have age and toil bereft him.
He fails at work—the hatchet slays
The time-worn ox, whose strength has
left him.

Errors can well amended be

At first; but later, ill, or never. Art going wrong? then speedily

Turn back; bad leads to worse for ever. Think him no friend, whose flatt'ring tongue Gives all thou wilt his approbation.

Wise men of old have said and sung,
That honest truth oft brings vexation.

'Tis perilous to take the lead;
Before thee let the elders move;
To self-will'd passion give no heed—
Its counsels always evil prove.
He who, with canker'd soul, for ill

Looks out, to his own grief will find it.
Is thy lot hard or changeful?-still
Keep thy heart firm, and never mind it.

When all things spoke in ancient days,
A stag fed in a pasture fair;
A horse, when passing, stopp'd to graze
A moment on the herbage there.
The stag repuls'd him; "This is mine;"
"My will, my power," his only reason:
These little pronouns, mine and thine,

They check us all at every season.

Indignant at such churlishness,

Off sped the steed the man to seek; And pray'd his help to gain redress, And vengeance on his foe to wreak. "Would the horse bear a saddle?" "Yea!"

"Then," quoth the man, "I'll not be idle In cause so just "—without delay

He saddl'd, mounted, grasp'd the bridle.

The pair attack'd the stag, who, when He saw the horse had Man his friend, Ran off to distant plains, and then

The contest came to sudden end. The victor horse leap'd high with joy, But found he'd made the man his master;

And soon he own'd his first annoy

Was nought compar'd to this disaster.

Some dreading want, and fain to be
Sav'd from its evils, sell for gold
Their only treasure, liberty,

For sordid coin too cheaply sold.
Let not their wealth thy peace disturb ;
Nor envy them with coils surrounded;
The mouth is bleeding from the curb,

And by the spur the sides are wounded.

The following sonnet appears to have been addressed by Sá de Miranda to the object of his first love:—

SONNET.

I know not what it is that most in thee At thy sweet words, thy sight, I hear, see, feel,

Nor what thy silence can to me reveal; Nor, when thou'rt absent, what my soul doth see;

Nor what, where'er I turn, appears to me, Whether I gaze on ocean, earth, or skyAnd thy soft breathing, thy so plaintive sigh, That doth so much express, what can it be?

What circulates between us? I know not If air in truth it is, as air it seems,

Or fire of some strange kind, in which my lot
Gives me to move in which I live ;-it
beams
Bright and unfading to the eye. Then how
Can I declare that I so scantly know!

This poem has always been greatly admired (in its vernacular) by those who are acquainted with Portuguese literature: the original idea, however, is to be found in a sonnet by Giovanni Dondi, a native of Pistoia, and a mem. ber of the celebrated Academy of the Arcadians in Italy; but more especially remarkable as the friend and physician of Petrarch, to whom he addressed the sonnet, which is the only specimen extant (or at least published) of Dondi's versification. It obtained celebrity by the circumstance of its having been answered by Petrarch in the same style; and thus it was brought under the notice of Sá de Miranda, who studied Italian poetry, and especially loved Petrarch's. We subjoin our translation for the satisfaction of the reader :

SONNET TO PETRARCH.

BY GIOVANNI DONDI.

I know not if I see what I do see,

Hear what I hear, or feel what meets my touch;

If what I read or speak be truly such As seemeth, or if all delusion be. With mind o'erwrought, in my perplexity

How to direct my course I find not-nay, Scarce know I if I live-my thoughts but stray

Farther, when I would call them home to

me.

Yet doth a counsel and a stay remain ;

In this bewildered maze my hope art thou

Thou hast the sole remede of all my pain;

Thou hast the power, the skill; console

me now.

And guide me on, till, sav'd from billows dark,

Some sheltering port receives the erring bark.

To this sonnet, the subject of which it is difficult to understand, Petrarch replied by a sonnet no less difficult. Nor having any translation of Petrarch's works at hand, we must give our own version:

SONNET.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH. (Il mal mi preme, e mi spaventa il peggio, &c.) I feel the present ill, but shuddering see At hand still worse, to which the open path

Seems sure; so that my frenzied spirit hath

With thy delirium more than sympathy.
I know not whether peace or strife it be
I ask from heaven; for injury wounds
deep,

And shame is sinful. But why mourn and weep?

Bow we to whatsoe'er be God's decree. Though thine high praise I merit not (for love

That blinds the clearest eye, deceiveth thine),

Yet will I counsel thee: to thy divine Creator raise thy thoughts, and fix above Thy heart arous'd and warm'd. The pilgrim's way

Is long; but ah! how short his fleeting day!

This sonnet, published, as it usually is, among Petrarch's poems, without any address without any mention even of the person to whom addressed -must necessarily appear very obscure to readers in general. But in both this and Dondi's sonnet the obscurity seems studiously intentional, as though the writers had some weighty reason for concealing their meaning from the world. And what could that meaning be? Obviously it is not of the bewilderments of love that the poet-philosopher and the physician-philosopher wrote to each other. Our own opinion is, that the subject of the sonnets was some religious doubtssome theological perplexities, that had suggested themselves to the minds of Dondi and Petrarch, on which (in the

64

fourteenth century, and within the sphere of the Papacy) they dared not be explicit. Dondi, in the excitement of restless doubts, seeks a solace by venting them to a faithful friend, in whose wisdom he trusts for guidance through his mental labyrinth. Petrarch replies to him, acknowledging a similarity of sentiment and feeling; confessing that he knows not whether that for which he himself prays would bring him peace, or cause him strife; and we think his prayer was for solution of his own doubts- for he immediately speaks of injury "and of "sinful shame," as though alluding to the injury that would accrue from the acknowledging of their opinions, and to the criminality of being ashamed to confess convictions. The danger of confession, and the shamefulness of concealment, these form the dilemIma in which the Italians appear to have been involved; but Petrarch wisely advises his friend to seek relief and guidance from heaven. It will be remembered that Petrarch lived at Avignon, within the circle of the Papal Court in its exile, and in its worst days; that he spoke strongly of its corruptions in his letters, and satirised its habits and manners in his allegorical eclogues; that he quitted Avignon in disgust, and on his departure sang the Psalm, "In Exitu Israel,"† or, "When Israel came out of Egypt, and the house of Jacob from among the strange people;" typifying Avignon and its Court as Egypt and the "strange people;" and that from various expressions in his writings, he has been strongly suspected of opinions and tendencies that his Church would have pronounced heretical. There were, it is well known, many in Italy at that time whose creed was shaken; but whose courage was unequal to the perils of separation from the established religion of the age, or whose doubts did not tend to such an extreme; as in the case of Petrarch, who lived and died within the pale of the Church of Rome.

But to return to our Portuguese poet. Sá de Miranda, in catching the idea of the Italian sonnets above quoted, improved upon it by disconnecting it from the metaphysical or theological obscurity in which it is shrouded, more

to the mystification than the gratifica tion of the reader; and by adapting it to the perplexities of love-a more tender and gentle theme, and one more secure of general comprehension and general interest.

We proceed to give extracts from Sá de Miranda's epistle, or “carta (in quintilhas, or five-line verses), addressed to King John III., which is considered the principal of his poetic letters. His stanzas on the Regal Dignity are characteristic of his nation. The Portuguese, from the first establishment of their country, have been always remarkable for their attachment to the persons of their kings, and their veneration for the kingly office. Portugal has been less convulsed by intestine commotions than, perhaps, any other European state; and in the few national crises that have occurred, affairs never assumed a democratic aspect; the parties and their leaders only disputed as to the claims of the respective candidates for the crown, but never contemplated or desired a republic. Though this epistolary poem commences with extolling royalty, and ends with proclaiming the exceeding love of the people for John III., it is not merely an adulatory composition. It speaks also of the duty of sovereigns to dispense impartial justice, set good example, eschew corrupt favourites, and to seek after those masked abuses which are too apt, even under the best-intentioned governments, to spring up from the interests of individuals. The style of this "carta" is as homely as that of the Eclogues; and the author apologises for it, alleging his desire not to trespass on the King's time by digressive ornaments; but to proceed, currente calamo, to his point; and likens himself to the unloitering dogs of the Nile, who (dreading the crocodile in ambush, as travellers tell us) lap the water as they run along, without stopping:

EXTRACTS FROM THE EPISTLE TO
JOHN III.
Where men exist, existeth there
Cupidity with evils rife :
Much needs impartial justice bare
Her glaive to cut each subtle snare,
And daunt the spiteful fiends of strife.