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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL
 
 All rights reserved
 
 ANT HERO DE OUENTAL
 
 ANTHERO 
 DE QUENTAL 
 
 SIXTY-FOUR SONNETS 
 
 ENGLISHED BY 
 
 EDGAR PRESTAGE 
 
 BALLIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD 
 
 CORR. MEMBER OF THE LISBON 
 
 GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY: EDITOR 
 
 OF 'THE LETTERS OF A 
 
 PORTUGUESE NUN' 
 
 E T C. E T C. 
 
 n 
 
 LONDON 
 
 Published by DAVID NUTT 
 
 IN THE Strand 
 
 1894
 
 Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable 
 Printers to Her Majesty
 
 
 CO 
 
 pa 
 
 TO MY FRIENDS 
 
 THEOPHILO BRAGA 
 LUCIANO CORDEIRO, JOAQUIM DE ARAUJO 
 XAVIER DA CUNHA, JAYME BATALHA REIS 
 TOMMASO CANNIZZARO, GORAN BJORKMAN 
 
 MAXIME FORMONT 
 
 <"^or^ 

 
 PREFACE 
 
 NCOURAGED by 
 
 the ready welcome 
 given to my version 
 of the ' Lettres de 
 la Religietise Por- 
 tttgaise^^ which was an attempt 
 to bring one of the masterpieces 
 of Portnguese literature to the 
 notice of Englishmen, I now in- 
 troduce a very different character 
 
 ^ The Letters of a Portuguese N'tm {Marianna Alcoforado). 
 Translated by Edgar Prestage. London, 1S93. 
 
 Vll
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 from the love-lorn Ntm of Beja. 
 Anthero de Qtiental, the Philo- 
 sopher-Mystic, is one of the three 
 distijiguished poets that Portttgal 
 has prodnced in this century — the 
 others beiiig Almeida Garrett and 
 foao de Dens — and his Sonnets 
 are, excepting those of Camoens, 
 the finest in the language. As 
 regards their subject, they illus- 
 trate some important phases of 
 modern Ettropean thoitght as well 
 as show the varioiis philosophical 
 stages through which their author 
 passed, while in form they are 
 perfect of their kind, Anthero 
 having, like Petrarch, spent years 
 over the labor limae. Critics, to 
 
 VUl
 
 PREFACE 
 
 quote the words of Anthero him- 
 self, will be mterested to observe 
 in them tJie effects of Germanism 
 on the tmprepared mind of a South 
 Eziropean, and the poems, as he 
 suggests, cannot fail to attract the 
 attention of all who study the com- 
 parative psychology of natiojis. 
 
 Their exceptional merit has 
 indeed been already widely recog- 
 nised, and translations of the 
 whole or a part of them exist i7i 
 French, Swedish, Italian, Gennan, 
 and Spanish, while a Polish ver- 
 sion is understood to be in prepara- 
 tion. Stich being the case, it is 
 tmforttmate that they should not 
 yet have found an English trans- 
 
 IX
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 lator, or at least one better able 
 than myself to do them justice, 
 for, it has been truly said, 
 
 ' Let Poets be by Poets read, 
 By Poets be interpreted 
 Their works divine ! ' 
 
 Out of the one hundred and nine 
 Sonnets collected and published 
 by my friend Senhor Oliveira 
 Martins'^ I have selected sixty- 
 four for translation here. My 
 ahn has been to give such as are 
 most characteristic of their author, 
 or most striking in themselves ; 
 and I have consequently rejected 
 those that seemed to be of less 
 
 1 Os Sonetos Completos de Anthero de Quental. Publicados 
 por J. P. Oliveira Martins. Porto, 1886. 2nd ed. 1890.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 interest or merit. But nearly all 
 are worthy of an English dress, at 
 least from one point of view, 
 namely, that they form a com- 
 mentary on the intellectiial life of 
 the poet, and enable us to under- 
 stand better one of the most re- 
 markable men of the ti^ne, called, 
 not inaptly, the Portuguese Hehie. 
 In the present version I have 
 kept as closely as possible to the 
 original, and in most cases the 
 translation is line for line. I 
 preferred, if 7zecessary, to sacrifice 
 form rather than matter, and to 
 appear bald rather than give a 
 paraphrase, my reason being that 
 these Sonnets are not the work 
 
 XI
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 of a mere Parnassian, but of a 
 Philosopher who laid bare his 
 thoughts, and a Mystic who re- 
 corded his dreams in this par- 
 tictdarform. Nearly all of them 
 are here published for the first 
 tifne, the only exceptions being 
 six reprinted from the 'Academy,' 
 a7id a few others that have already 
 appeared in Portuguese papers. 
 
 The portrait facing the title- 
 page is reproduced from a photo- 
 graph taken shortly befoi'e An- 
 therds death, and I am indebted 
 to Senhor Oliveira Martins for the 
 loafi of the original. 
 
 The Introduction, which is only 
 designed to supplement the Attto-
 
 PREFACE 
 
 biography , will, I hope, be foimd 
 to contain sufficient about the life 
 and work of the poet for a due 
 comprehension of his Sonnets. 
 Following this comes the Attto- 
 biography in the form of a letter 
 addressed by Ant hero to Dr. 
 Storck, his German translator, and 
 since it is a particularly valuable 
 document, both for the literary 
 critic and the psychologist, I need 
 not apologise for its insertion. 
 
 Lastly, I have to thank my 
 friends Mr. York Powell, Mr. 
 Hutchings of Ealing, and Mr. 
 Oliver Elton of Owens College, 
 Manchester, for many a suggestion 
 and emendation; bftt for their 
 
 XIU
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 kindly help the present version 
 would have been far more lame 
 and faulty than it actually is. 
 
 EDGAR PRESTAGE. 
 
 Chiltern, Bowdon, 1894. 
 
 XIV
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFACE, ..... vii 
 
 INTRODUCTION, . . . . i 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY, .... 25 
 
 THE SONNETS, . . . • • 55 
 
 INDEX TO THE SONNETS, . . .131
 
 INTRODUCTION
 
 Only a breath divides faith and unfaith, 
 only a breath divides belief from doubt. 
 
 Omar Khayyam.
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Avc! da niort(T, que piando agouros 
 Tinges iiu'us arcs de fuucroo Into ! 
 Avc da mortc (que em teus ais a escuto) 
 Mcus dias murcharAs, mas nao mcus louios : 
 Doou — me I'liebo aos scculos vindouros, 
 Deponho a llor da vida, e guardo o fructo, 
 Pagando em vil materia um vao tributo, 
 Rctcnho a posse de immortaes thesouros. 
 
 BoCAGi',, Sonnet cccxlviii. 
 
 NTIIERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 was born in the year 1842 
 at St. Michael in the 
 Azores, an island that has 
 j^^ivcn distinguished writers 
 to modern rortugal, in- 
 cluding Thcophilo l^raga^ and our Toet. 
 
 ' This Introduction is founded on Dr. Thcopliilo Brnga's 
 exhaustive work As Modernas Ideias na Litteralura Portu- 
 gucza, Lisboa, 1893, as well as on Sciihor Oliveira Marlins' 
 Prcfnce to the Sonclos Coi/iplctos.
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 His family was a good one, and his father 
 a man of position and talent. His mother, 
 a fervent Catholic, brought him up strictly, 
 but the influence of heredity joined to a 
 hostile environment proved too strong, and 
 Anthero soon left the beaten track. The 
 revolutionary and mystical tendencies which 
 he exhibited in after life were inherited, 
 the former from his grandfather, a friend of 
 the poet Bocage, and the latter from his 
 ancestor, Padre Bartholomeu de Quental, 
 a well-known seventeenth-century writer and 
 preacher, and the founder of the Portuguese 
 Oratorians. 
 
 After spending a short time at school 
 in Lisbon under the poet Antonio Feliciano 
 de Castilho, whose authority in the world 
 of letters he was in after years so effectu- 
 ally to destroy, Anthero was sent to the 
 University of Coimbra in 1854, and there 
 
 4
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 he led a Bohemian existence, and never 
 studied systematically. 
 
 His early poems show him to have been 
 the disciple of Lamartine, Herculano, and 
 Soares de Passos, but this was merely a 
 transient phase. Before long he had the 
 misfortune to lose his faith in Christianity 
 under the influence of the revolutionary meta- 
 physicians whose works he then read, and 
 he became the head of those students who 
 were bent on the same study, and leader of 
 all the more disorderly elements in the Uni- 
 versity. An incident which happened at 
 this time, and did more than anything else 
 to confirm his prestige, is perhaps not un- 
 worthy of mention. Prince Humbert, now 
 King of Italy, happened to visit Coimbra 
 while on his European tour, and Anthero 
 was chosen by the general body of students 
 to welcome him in their name. In the 
 
 5
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 presence of the chief authorities of the place 
 who had assembled to greet the Prince, he 
 bluntly and boldly said, ' We have not come 
 here to welcome you as the son of King 
 Victor Emanuel and heir to the throne of 
 Italy, but as the friend of Garibaldi.' 
 
 In spite, however, of his turbulence and 
 eccentricity, it was not long before Anthero 
 exhibited signs of great and unusual poetical 
 talent. Allusion has already been made to 
 his early verse of a religious character, all 
 of which he afterwards destroyed, and it is 
 now time to mention the Sonnets of the first 
 period ^ (i860- 1862), which contain in embryo 
 all his later sentiments and ideas, while 
 belonging to no one school. Anthero, it 
 should be mentioned, adopted the form of 
 
 ^ The Sonnets published by Senhor Ohveira Martins in 
 the Sonetos Co77ipletos were divided by him into five periods. 
 This arrangement has been preserved in the present version, 
 and is referred to above and elsewhere.
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 the Sonnet under the influence of Joao de 
 Deus, whom he now proclaimed the foremost 
 Portuguese poet for three centuries, and the 
 inheritor of the tradition left by the great 
 Camoens. 
 
 These first Sonnets of his are deistic in 
 religion, but that to the ' Unknown God ' 
 shows how fantastic and shadowy his ideas 
 on the subject then were. They contain a 
 medley of hope and despair, although the 
 latter predominates, yet they are impregnated 
 at times with a tender melancholy, and 
 marked by none of the violent affirmations 
 and denials that characterise the productions 
 of later years. The poet is on the search for 
 a God, but a being of a strange order ; he 
 seeks certainty and sees the vanity of all 
 things ; he fluctuates to and fro and is 
 ' blown about by every wind of doctrine,' For 
 a moment Platonic Love presents itself as 
 
 7
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 a possible solution, but he finally decides 
 that 
 
 ' The greatest ill is ever to have lived.' 
 
 The struggle against Destiny has proved 
 to be vain, Christianity seems to him a 
 failure, and he cries out in his despair, 
 
 ' Perhaps there may be happiness sans hope.' 
 
 From the tone of his earlier Sonnets it is 
 plain that pessimism had taken a firm hold 
 of Anthero, and indeed it never afterwards 
 left him. 
 
 It was while a student at Coimbra that 
 he first distinguished himself as a pamphle- 
 teer, a branch in which he outstripped all 
 rivals, and one for which his inge?tium par- 
 ticularly fitted him. His literary style, it 
 may be remarked in passing, is excellent, 
 and his prose the best since the days of 
 Almeida Garrett, that of the Consideracoes
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 sobre a PhilosopJiia da Historia Litter aria 
 Portugueza being especially worthy of praise. 
 
 In 1864 he completed his law course at 
 the University, but stayed on for another 
 year, a victim to nostalgia, and without a 
 plan for the future. He was chiefly occupied 
 in making a selection of his best poems, 
 and these he published in 1865 under the 
 title of Odes Modernas. The book, which 
 includes many of his Sonnets, is inspired by 
 the revolutionary and freethinking ideal, and 
 reveals the influence of Victor Hugo in the 
 Chatiments. Many of the pieces it con- 
 tains are, like ' A Historia,' powerful in 
 conception as well as beautiful in expression, 
 while others are both far-fetched and weak. 
 
 The second series of Sonnets (1862- 1866), 
 written about this time, forms a marked 
 contrast to the Odes Modernas. While 
 psychologically the least original, it is, as 
 
 9
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 Oliveira Martins remarks, artistically the 
 most brilliant, and includes such composi- 
 tions as the ' Eastern Dream,' the ' Idyll,' 
 ' Velut Umbra,' and the ' Palace of Happi- 
 ness.' With much that is peaceful and 
 natural there are yet some jarring notes. 
 The poet hungers still, and is not satisfied, 
 for, to adopt his own words, ' the fever of 
 the Ideal is wasting him.' But an under- 
 current of resignation pervades his occasional 
 throes of despair, and he perceives that he 
 should have braced himself up for the 
 struggle of life, and not lived, as he has, in 
 ' dreams and anxiousness.' To this phase 
 there succeeds one of satire, and the series 
 ends with the noble sonnet entitled 'A 
 Romantic Burying-Place,' in which, by means 
 of a symbol, the poet prays for annihilation 
 and absorption into the Universal Whole. 
 This has been called his Baudelaire and 
 
 lo
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Espronceda period, and here they stopped, 
 but it proved to be only a stage in Anthero's 
 philosophical pilgrimage. 
 
 In 1865 began the famous Coimbra 
 Question, from which sprang the school of 
 that name, as well as the wonderful revival 
 of Portuguese literature our day has seen. 
 At first it consisted of a reaction on the 
 part of the rising generation against the 
 poet Castilho, who, ever since the death of 
 Garrett and the retirement of Herculano, 
 had reigned supreme in the world of letters 
 and denied an entrance to those who re- 
 fused to do him homage ; but it ended by 
 proclaiming the death of Ultra-Romanti- 
 cism, and by opening a new era to Portu- 
 guese thought.^ Castilho was a man of 
 
 ^ The specific offence of which Castilho had been guilty, 
 and the one that did more than anything else to discredit him 
 with Young Portugal, was his severe and unjust criticism of the 
 Lusiads in his Preface to the D. Jay me of Thomaz Ribeiro. 
 
 II
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 another age, an 'old Arcadian' as Anthero 
 called him, who knew nothing of modern 
 ideas, and whose sole claim to distinction 
 rested on the fact of his being a first-class 
 artist in language. Theophilo Braga with 
 the Visao dos Tempos, inspired by Victor 
 Hugo's Legende des Siedes, struck the first 
 blow at Castilho and his Mutual Praise 
 School, and Anthero followed. Then a 
 regular pamphlet war broke out, and for 
 a time the Coimbra Question formed the 
 chief and almost the only topic of conversa- 
 tion. It must be confessed that Joao de Deus 
 was the true precursor of the new school 
 that arose out of the defeat of Castilho, but 
 Theophilo Braga and Anthero deQuental were 
 its actual founders, though the latter retired 
 from the contest before it was half over, having 
 neither the perseverance nor the energy 
 necessary to carry through a great movement. 
 
 12
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 In 1867 and the following years Anthero 
 travelled in France and the United States, 
 and during his stay in the former country 
 visited both Michelet and Renan. On return- 
 ing to Lisbon he took up the Iberian Ques- 
 tion, which was then agitating men's minds, 
 and wrote a pamphlet on the subject, but 
 soon gave it up in favour of Socialism. 
 He became convinced that literature could 
 never of itself regenerate Portugal, and 
 therefore, in conjunction with a Swiss named 
 Fontana, he organised the Portuguese Social- 
 ists, and began a series of Conferences at the 
 Lisbon Casino, which, however, the Govern- 
 ment quickly suppressed on the ground that 
 they were dangerous. But they could never 
 have resulted in good, for, at this time, 
 Anthero's philosophy was entirely destruc- 
 tive, and he spoke of revolutions as 'the 
 Christianity of the modern world.' His 
 
 13
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 ' Programme of Work for the New Genera- 
 tion,' that had been so much talked about, 
 never appeared, and deserting both Socialism 
 and Society he retired within himself. 
 
 In the Sonnets of this latter period (1864- 
 1874) the mind of the philosopher reacts on 
 the temperament of the poet, and a system 
 is gradually evolved out of the old fury. For 
 though he is now, as Oliveira Martins ob- 
 serves, both a Nihilist in philosophy and an 
 Anarchist in politics, it is evidently but a 
 passing phase. He tends more and more to 
 emancipate himself from the nebulosity of 
 the first two periods, and finally decides 
 that the ' Summum Bonum ' is to be found 
 only in the Conscience. He now begins to 
 see clearly where others only grope, and his 
 poems become sculptural and Dantesque.^ 
 
 ^ Anthero was a student of Dante, and translated part of 
 Canto VI. of the Purgaiorio into Portuguese. 
 
 14
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 His pessimism is systematic, and his atheism 
 resolves itself into a keen but kindly sarcasm. 
 The period which embraces the next six 
 years (1874- 1880) is one of transcendental 
 irony. ' What is man ? ' he asks, and answers, 
 ' A luckless mixture of light and darkness,' 
 or ' perhaps no one,' and the same note is 
 struck in several compositions of this series. 
 The ' Convert ' shows traces of remorse for 
 the past, but ends 
 
 ' I only need to know if God exists.' 
 Now too he begins to idealise Death, as in 
 the fine sonnets, 'Mors Liberatrix' and *Mors- 
 Amor,' and announces himself a Stoic. He 
 proclaims metempsychosis in 'the Circus,' and 
 the result of his study of Buddhism appears 
 in the sonnet entitled ' Nirvana,' and he winds 
 up by declaring in a tone of sad conviction 
 that it is not worth while having lived. 
 
 The fifth and last period extends from 
 
 15
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 1 880 to 1 884. Anthero was now near the end, 
 and had learnt that there is no satisfaction 
 for the soul on earth, and, in the series of 
 sonnets entitled ' In Praise of Death,' his one 
 desire is to escape from existence.. He wel- 
 comes Death in a spirit of faith, nay, of eager 
 expectancy — for is not non-being the only 
 true being'? He has now left forms behind, 
 and sees their essences, the world is smoke 
 before him, and in * Lacrymae Rerum ' and 
 ' Redemption ' he hears all things in Nature 
 sighing for the hour of their deliverance. 
 Everything is vain, except Love, which sur- 
 vives all else ; and Nirvana, which is liberty, 
 is his ideal, with Love as its mediator. 
 Finally, Death invites the toilers to repose, 
 and in the last sonnet of the collection 
 Anthero rests ' in the hand of God.' 
 
 On his retirement from the world of action 
 the poet had gone to Oporto, and there made 
 
 16
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 the acquaintance of Senhor Oliveira Martins, 
 who became his alter ego. It is to this friend- 
 ship that the collection and publication of 
 the Sonnets, as well as the perspicuous Pre- 
 face which accompanies them, are owing. 
 Anthero, however, tired of Oporto before long, 
 and, being desirous of more privacy than a city- 
 afforded, he transferred himself to Villa do 
 Conde, sixteen miles off, where he lived in 
 complete solitude and in a state of moral 
 depression in which all action was distasteful 
 to him. His life's work was now over, and 
 his last public appearance took place on the 
 formation of the ' Liga Patriotica do Norte,' ^ 
 when he was dragged from retirement to 
 
 ^ This League was founded after the British Ultimatum of 
 January 1890, which proved to be the first step in the 
 spoliation of Portugal's Central African provinces, and 
 showed how little, despite Mr. Herbert Spencer, the great 
 principle of Justice was understood by our statesmen. Had 
 Garrett been alive at the time he would assuredly have 
 erased from his Camoes the lines in which he names 
 England ' senhora de justi9a.' 
 
 17 B
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 lend the sanction of his presence to the 
 attempt to unite the North of Portugal in a 
 society for resisting English aggression, but 
 he soon found himself out of his element 
 and withdrew. In 1891 he passed through 
 Lisbon on his way to the Azores, and, as 
 though he had a presentiment of death, 
 deposited his family treasure, the MS. of the 
 works of Padre Bartholomeu de Ouental, with 
 Senhor Oliveira Martins for presentation to 
 the Academy of Sciences. On reaching St. 
 Michael his spinal disease, which had been 
 pronounced incurable, became worse, and, 
 lacking, as he did, faith in God, he fell a 
 victim to final despair and shot himself in the 
 public square of Ponta Delgada, on Sep- 
 tember nth, 1 89 1. 
 
 From what has gone before it will be seen 
 that the poems of Anthero de Quental are 
 
 18
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 mainly psychological, and give evidence of 
 the perpetual strife at work within him. 
 Like poor Marianna, the Nun of Beja, he 
 is 'torn asunder by a thousand contrary 
 emotions,' and is ever striving after the Ideal. 
 Though wonderfully versatile as a writer, the 
 conflict between his imaginative and reasoning 
 powers which was always going on, with- 
 out either being strong enough to overcome 
 the other, proved a source of weakness and 
 robbed him of energy. His misfortunes, too, 
 were in great measure fancied rather than 
 actual, although it is true that his later years 
 were rendered miserable by neurosis. His 
 agony was chiefly that of the mind, caused 
 by regarding the perpetual misery of the 
 world that reflected itself within him, and he 
 exemplifies the pregnant line of Victor Hugo : 
 ' Un poete est un monde enferme dans un homme.' 
 His religious ideal, if so it may be called, 
 
 19
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 consisted of a Hellenism crowned by a 
 Buddhism, and of this the Autobiography 
 speaks more at length. Few men of his 
 generation have exercised a greater and 
 more subtle influence for weal or woe on 
 the minds of his countrymen than Anthero 
 de Quental, and no man was more beloved 
 and revered by those that knew him. 
 Among his friends, indeed, he was called 
 ' Saint Anthero,' a title which his asceticism 
 and charity did something to explain, and 
 scarcely a man of note visited Oporto without 
 making a pilgrimage to the poet's humble 
 cottage at Villa do Conde. 
 
 The time has not yet arrived, nor is this 
 the place, for a critical estimate of the value 
 of his work, but it may safely be said that he 
 will rank with the foremost poets of the nine- 
 teenth century, in the company of Heine 
 and Leopardi. 
 
 20
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Such then was the man, a selection from 
 whose masterpiece is here presented for the 
 kindly consideration of the English public, 
 a poet whose device might well have been 
 those lines of the sweet singer Christovam 
 Falcao : 
 
 * All discretion doth consist 
 In man knowing soon as may be 
 That no pleasure maketh happy, 
 For the course of life is triste.' ^ 
 
 ^ ' Toda a descricam consiste 
 em saber homem com cedo 
 que nenhum prazer faz ledo 
 pois o seer da vida he triste.' 
 
 Cantigas. 
 
 21
 
 AUTOB lOGRAPH Y
 
 ' Tutti gli uomini d'ogni sorte, die hanno fatto qualche 
 
 cosa che sia virtuosa, o si veramente che le virtu 
 
 somigli, doverieno, essendo veritieri e da bene, di 
 
 lor propia mano descrivere la loro vita.' — 
 
 Vita di Beiivenuto Cellini, lib. i.
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 PONTA DELGADA, 
 
 Island of St. Michael, Azores, 
 14//^ May 1887. 
 
 EAR SIR,i— The biographi- 
 cal and bibliographical in- 
 formation that you ask for 
 may be compressed into 
 the following narrative. I 
 was born in this Island of 
 
 St. Michael in April 1842, and am a descen- 
 dant of one of the oldest families of colonists 
 here. I have therefore completed my forty- 
 
 1 This autobiographical letter was written by Anthero to 
 Dr. Storck, the German translator of the Sonnets, as men- 
 tioned in the Preface. Dr. Theophilo Braga printed it from 
 the MS. in his Raios de extutda hiz, Lisboa, 1892, and it is 
 here translated verbatim, save for a few lines at the begin- 
 ning and end, that consist of personal references and only 
 concern the addressee. 
 
 25
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 fifth year. I studied at the University of 
 Coimbra from 1856 to 1864, and took my 
 degree of baccalaureus juris there, but I con- 
 fess that it was not the study of law that 
 interested me or absorbed my attention dur- 
 ing those years, for I was and have remained 
 an indifferent lawyer. 
 
 What had an important, and probably the 
 most decisive influence on my life at that 
 time, was the kind of intellectual and moral 
 revolution that I underwent, when, but a 
 shy youth, I found myself all at once torn 
 away from the almost patriarchal existence 
 of a distant province, whose history was a 
 record of undisturbed repose, and thrown 
 into the midst of the merciless intellectual 
 excitement of a centre where the conflict- 
 ing currents of modern thought came, more 
 or less, into collision. In a moment my 
 Catholic education, with all its traditions, was 
 
 26
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 swept away, and I fell into a condition 
 of doubt and uncertainty that affected me 
 the more from my being naturally of a 
 religious turn of mind, and born to believe 
 calmly, and obey without questioning, an 
 established authority. I found myself with- 
 out a guide ; a dreadful state of mind, and 
 one in which nearly all my contemporaries 
 more or less shared, when, for the first time 
 in Portugal, the path of tradition was 
 deliberately and consciously abandoned. 
 
 If you add to this an ardent imagination, 
 with which I had been exuberantly endowed 
 by Nature, the awakening of the amorous 
 passions that marks early manhood, the im- 
 petuosity and presumption, the excitability 
 and despondency of a Southern temperament, 
 much straightforwardness and honesty of 
 purpose, but a great lack of perseverance 
 
 and method, you will have an idea of my 
 
 27
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 capabilities and shortcomings on my entering, 
 at the age of eighteen, into the great world 
 of thought and poetry. 
 
 Amid the desultory reading to which I 
 then abandoned myself, devouring with an 
 equal zest novels and books of natural 
 science, poets, publicists, and even theolo- 
 gians, the perusal of Goethe's Faust, in the 
 French translation of Blaze de Bury, and 
 Remusat's book on the recent German 
 Philosophy, made a deep and lasting impres- 
 sion on my mind. I was definitely won over 
 to the German school of thought, and if, 
 among French writers, I gave the preference 
 to Proudhon and Michelet, it was doubtless 
 because these two breathed most of all the 
 spirit of beyond the Rhine. I subsequently 
 read much of Hegel in Vera's French trans- 
 lation, for it was not until a later time that 
 
 I learnt German. I do not know whether I 
 
 28
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 rightly understood him ; my independence 
 of mind, too, revolted against acknowledging 
 a master, but I was certainly carried away 
 by the imposing tendencies of his great 
 synthesis. At any rate, Hegelianism was the 
 starting-point of my philosophical specula- 
 tions, and I may justly say that my intellec- 
 tual development took place in accordance 
 with its tenets. 
 
 How, though, did I reconcile this devotion 
 to the doctrines of the apologist of the 
 Prussian State with the Radicalism and 
 Socialism of Michelet, Quinet, and Proudhon? 
 These are mysteries of youthful incoherence 
 of thought ! Certain, however, it is, that, 
 arrayed in this armour, more brilliant than 
 enduring, I confidently entered the arena. 
 I wanted to reform everything — I, who had 
 not even half completed my own educa- 
 tion. I employed a good deal of industry 
 
 29
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 and some talent that might have been 
 devoted to a better purpose, in newspaper 
 articles, pamphlets, manifestoes, and revolu- 
 tionary conferences. At the same time that 
 I was conspiring to bring about the Iberian 
 Union, I was founding, on the other hand, 
 Trades Unions, and, being a disciple of Marx 
 and Engels, introduced the International 
 Association of Workmen into Portugal. 
 Hence for about seven or eight years I was 
 a sort of Lasalle on a small scale, and had 
 my hour of vain popularity. 
 
 All that I can remember of what I then 
 published is as follows. My first pamphlet 
 dates from the year 1864. It is called 
 A Defence of the Encyclical of His Holiness 
 Pope Pius IX. against so-called Liberal 
 Opinions} It is a protest against the illogi- 
 
 ^ Defensa da Carta Encyclica de S.S. Pio IX. contra a 
 chamada opiniao liberal. 
 
 30
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 cal position taken up by the Liberal Press, 
 which attacked the Syllabus, and yet pro- 
 fessed at the same time to be strictly 
 Catholic. The author, while extolling the 
 Pope for what was admirable in his uncom- 
 promising attitude towards the spirit of the 
 age, recognised in this very attitude an his- 
 torical law, and reverently intoned a 'De 
 Profundis ' for the Church, doomed {sic /) by 
 the very sublimity of its institution, to fall 
 unscathed, but not to give way, and he 
 attacked the insincerity of the Liberal papers. 
 My last pamphlet is dated 1871. It is 
 entitled A Letter to His Excellency the 
 Marquis of Avila and Bolaina, concerning 
 his Edict putting an end to the Conferences 
 at the Lisbon Casino} These democratic 
 
 ^ Carta ao Ex"" Marquez de Avila e Bolania, sohre a 
 Portaria que mandoii fechar as Conferencias do Casino 
 lisbonense.
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 Conferences had been set on foot by me 
 with the co-operation of a group of young 
 men, almost all of whom are now well 
 known in politics, and they were well 
 attended by the better class of working men. 
 The Government, however, considered them 
 dangerous, and arbitrarily put a stop to 
 them. My pamphlet appears to have con- 
 tributed, as was then rumoured, to the fall 
 of the ministry, though indeed it could not 
 have lasted long, since it was one of those 
 that are called Transition Ministries. The 
 pamphlet is a diatribe, but an eloquent 
 one. 
 
 Between these two dates occurred the 
 famous Literary or Coimbra Question, which 
 for more than six months kept our small 
 literary world in agitation, and was the, 
 source from which the present development 
 of Portuguese literature took its rise. In-
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 deed the more modern literary school dates 
 entirely from that time. The Hegelianism 
 of the Coimbrans caused an explosion. Old 
 Castilho, the posthumous Arcadian, as he 
 was then called, saw the rising generation 
 rebel against his superannuated leadership. 
 In all this there was much want of respect, 
 much that exceeded due bounds, but it is 
 undeniable that Castilho, a first-rate artist, 
 but entirely devoid of ideas, was unfit to 
 undertake the leadership he claimed of the 
 rising generation, which was full of ardour, 
 and above all aspired to a new direction, 
 an ' orientation,' as it was called later on, 
 amid the intellectual currents of the epoch. 
 At that time the younger minds were under- 
 going a great intellectual fermentation, con- 
 fused and disorderly, it is true, but still 
 fruitful. Castilho, who misunderstood this, 
 imagined it could be suppressed by pedagogic 
 
 33 c
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 measures. Inde ii'ae. I opened fire with 
 a pamphlet, Sound Sense and Good Taste: 
 a Letter to Mr. A. F. de Castilho?- This 
 was followed up by Theophilo Braga, and 
 after him by many others ; la melee devint 
 genirale. The whole of the winter 1865- 
 1866 was taken up by this conflict. When 
 the smoke had cleared away, it was as 
 plain as could be that Portugal held a 
 group of fifteen to twenty young men who 
 cared nothing for the Academy and the 
 Academicians ; who were neither Catholics 
 nor Monarchists ; who spoke of Goethe and 
 Hegel as their elders had spoken of Chateau- 
 briand and Cousin, and of Michelet and 
 Proudhon as the others had done of Guizot 
 and Bastiat ; who quoted barbarous names 
 and unknown sciences, such as glottology 
 
 1 Bom senso e Bom gosto : carta ao Ex'"-" A. F. de 
 Castilho. Coimbra, 1865. 
 
 34
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 and philology, who, owing to their presump- 
 tion and want of respect, inspired perhaps 
 little confidence, but who were unquestion- 
 ably possessed of talent and honesty, and 
 from whom, moreover, something might be 
 expected when they should have settled down. 
 Facts have confirmed this impression. 
 For of the ten or twelve names that stand 
 highest in the literature of to-day, all, with 
 the exception of two or three, belonged to 
 the Coimbra School, or have been influenced 
 by it. Germanism had obtained a firm 
 footing in Portugal, and a new era began 
 for Portuguese thought. The old Portugal, 
 which had so far been kept artificially alive 
 by a conventional literature, was dead at 
 last. I was the standard-bearer of this kind 
 of revolution, and, though I am not conceited 
 about it, I cannot say either that I regret 
 it. If an artificial order of things was 
 
 35
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 succeeded by a sort of anarchy, the latter 
 was, even so, preferable, containing as it did 
 germs of life, while nothing at all could be 
 expected from the former. To this period 
 further belongs the pamphlet entitled The 
 Dignity of Letters and Official Literature} 
 I spent the year 1867 and part of 1868 
 travelling in France and Spain, and I visited 
 the United States of America. At the enH 
 of the latter year I published the pamphlet 
 Portugal in face of the Spanish Revolution?' 
 In it I advocated the Iberian Union by 
 means of a Federal Republic, which was 
 then represented in Spain by Castelar, Pi y 
 Margall, and the majority of the Constituent 
 Assembly. It was a great delusion, which 
 I only abandoned, like many others of that 
 
 1 A Dignidade das Leitras e as Litteraturas officiaes. 
 Lisboa, 1865. 
 
 - Portugal perante a Revolu(ao de Hespanka. ' 
 
 36
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 period, after experience with its rude and 
 oft-repeated lessons had compelled me to 
 do so. So hard is it to correct a sort of 
 false idealism in social matters. 
 
 My Treatise on the Causes of the 
 Decadence of the Peninsular Peoples in 
 the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries} 
 although based on firmer premises, and on 
 historical facts, still showed many traces 
 of the influence of preconceived political 
 ideas and biassed historical criticism. It 
 dates from the year 1871. In that and the 
 following year I took an active part in the 
 Socialist movement which began in Lisbon, 
 and wrote a good deal for political papers 
 both in that city and in Oporto. At the 
 same time I published a series of studies 
 in a little volume under the title of Re- 
 
 1 Discurso sobre as causas da decadencia dos Povos penin- 
 sulares nos seculos XVII. e XVIII. 
 
 37
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 flections on the Philosophy of Portuguese Lit- 
 erary History} I believe that this is still 
 the best, or at least the most rational, of my 
 prose works. But I honestly confess to you 
 that I attach very small importance to all 
 these occasional writings of mine, and that, 
 at times, even, I can hardly refrain from 
 feeling ashamed of myself, for having pub- 
 lished so much without having given more 
 thought to it. And for all that I met with 
 applause ! Why ? First of all, as I be- 
 lieve, because those who applauded me 
 were, in reality, neither deeper nor juster 
 thinkers than myself Then again because 
 nature had given me a talent for Portuguese 
 prose, not for the conventional sort that 
 apes the style of the seventeenth and 
 
 ^ Considera^oes sobre a Philosophia da Historia Litteraria 
 Portugueza (a proposito d'alguns liv7-os recentes), por Anthero 
 de Quental. Porto-Braga, 1872. 
 
 38
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 eighteenth centuries, but for one having 
 its model in the language actually in use 
 at the present day, analytical certainly in 
 the mode of development, but always and 
 altogether Portuguese in expression. It 
 pleased, for it was suited to the time, and, 
 to speak briefly, I ended by being cited 
 as a model prose-writer. The fact, however, 
 remains, that these are all occasional writ- 
 ings, and that, so far, I have not produced 
 anything in prose that can be called a 
 work, — that is to say, something original, 
 individual, and the result of study. I have 
 long known how to write, but it was not 
 until I attained forty-five that I found 
 something to write about. Therefore let us 
 leave behind us all this medley, which I 
 only mention in compliance with your re- 
 quest for bibliographical information, and 
 let us pass on to Poetry. 
 
 39
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 Besides the collection of Sonnets with which 
 you are acquainted, I have published two 
 other books. One of them, which appeared 
 in 1872 under the title Romantic Springtimes }- 
 contains my juvenilia, love-poems, and fancy 
 pieces, written almost entirely between i860 
 and 1865, that lay dispersed through various 
 periodicals, and were not collected by me until 
 1872, when they appeared in book form 
 together with several later productions similar 
 in style. Perhaps I can best characterise 
 this volume if I describe it in French as 
 ' du Heine de deuxieme qualite.' As many 
 persons in this country have been struck by 
 the similarity, it is not unworthy of remark. 
 The second part of the Complete Sonnets, 
 which contains pieces of this period only, 
 will give you an adequate idea of its tenor 
 
 ^ Primaveras Rotnaiiticas, Versos dos vinte annos 
 (1861-1864) por Antliero de Quental. Porto, 1872. 
 
 40
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 and style, just as the third part will of the 
 Modern Odes} the first edition of which 
 appeared in 1865. I do not know precisely 
 how to characterise this book. It is certainly 
 above mediocrity, for it contains real passion 
 and elevation of thought, but, besides being 
 declamatory and abstract, it is indistinct at 
 times, and fails to express clearly and typi- 
 cally the condition of mind to which the 
 poems owe their existence. What however 
 it does show clearly enough is the peculiar 
 combination, already alluded to, of Hegel's 
 naturalism, and Radical French humanitari- 
 anism. It is above all what the French 
 term ' poesie de combat ' : behind the poet 
 glimpses are caught of the pamphleteer, and 
 the Church, the Monarchy, and the great 
 men of the world are apostrophised by him 
 in the character of an ideal leveller. In other 
 
 ^ Odes Modernas, ist edition 1865, 2nd edition 1875, 
 
 41
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 poems, certainly, a calmer tone prevails, and 
 in these the philosophical intent of the book 
 appears, indefinite, it is true, but humane 
 and elevated. The novelty, the boldness, 
 may be even the undecided tone of thought, 
 only vaguely idealist and humanitarian, made 
 the fortune of the book with the rising gener- 
 ation, which proves, at least, that it was well 
 timed, and that is about all I can say of 
 it. To this cycle belong the Sonnets con- 
 tained in the third part of the Complete 
 Sonnets, many of which had already ap- 
 peared in the Modern Odes. In the year 
 1874^ the latter book went through a second 
 edition, vastly improved, and enlarged by 
 several new pieces. I consider this edition, 
 such as it now is, and in spite of the defects 
 inseparable from work of this kind, defini- 
 tive. 
 
 1 Its imprint is of the next year, 1875. 
 42
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 In that same year of 1874 I fell danger- 
 ously ill of a nervous complaint from which 
 I never thoroughly recovered. The conse- 
 quent enforced idleness, the prospect of 
 approaching death, the ruin of many ambi- 
 tious plans, and a certain sensitiveness 
 peculiar to those that suffer from neurosis, 
 again, and more imperatively than ever 
 before, brought me face to face with the great 
 fjroblem of existence. My past life seemed 
 to have been unprofitable, and existence on 
 the whole incomprehensible. The poems 
 that make up the fourth part (1874- 1880) of 
 my little book, as well as many others that I 
 afterwards destroyed — those only remaining 
 which Oliveira Martins published in his intro- 
 duction to the Sonnets, — bear witness to the 
 struggle that I was then engaged in for five 
 or six years with my own thoughts and feel- 
 ings, both driving me to a barren pessimism 
 
 43
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 and despair. You know them, and therefore 
 I need not explain them to you. I will only- 
 remark, however, that this evolution of 
 feeling corresponded with an evolution of 
 thought. Naturalism, however sublime and 
 harmonious, even that of Goethe or Hegel, 
 affords no real solution, for it leaves the con- 
 science in suspense, and the mind unsatisfied, 
 as regards everything in which it is most 
 deeply interested. Its religiousness is false 
 and lies merely on the surface ; at bottom it 
 is nothing more than an intellectual and 
 refined form of Paganism. Thus I strove 
 in despair, without being able to over- 
 step the bounds of Naturalism, within which 
 my intellect had been born and developed. 
 It made up the very air I breathed, and yet 
 I felt as if it stifled me. Naturalism in its 
 empirical and scientific form is ' the struggle 
 
 for life,' a horrible strife, in which every man's 
 I 44
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 hand is against his neighbour amid universal 
 blindness ; in its transcendental form it is a 
 cold and barren course of dialectics or a 
 selfishly contemplative Epicureanism. Such 
 were the consequences I then saw result from 
 the doctrine on which I had been brought 
 up, from my alma mater, so to speak, 
 when I questioned it with the gravity and 
 earnestness of one who before dying at least 
 wishes to know what he came into the 
 world for. 
 
 The reaction of my moral forces, and a 
 fresh quickening of thought, preserved me 
 from despair. At the same time, perceiving 
 that the voice of moral consciousness cannot 
 be the only unmeaning one amid the 
 innumerable voices of the universe, I found, 
 on reforming my philosophical education, 
 that point of view confirmed, whether I 
 referred to doctrines or to history. I now 
 
 45
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 diligently resumed the perusal of works on 
 philosophy, such as those of Hartmann, 
 Lange, and Du Bois-Reymond, and, hark- 
 ing back to the sources of German thought, 
 Leibnitz and Kant. More than this, I read 
 the ancient and modern moralists and mys- 
 tical writers, especially the Theologia Ger- 
 manica, and Buddhist literature. I found 
 that mysticism, as the last word of psycholo- 
 gical development, must naturally correspond 
 with the deepest essence of things, unless 
 the human conscience be an incongruity in 
 the system of the universe. 
 
 Naturalism struck me not as the final 
 explanation of things, but merely as the 
 outer system, the law of phenomena, the 
 phenomenology of Being. In Psychism, 
 that is, in good and in moral freedom, I 
 found the final and true explanation, not 
 only of moral man, but of all nature, even 
 
 46
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 in its physical and elementary moments. 
 Leibnitz's Monadology, properly emended, 
 lends itself perfectly to this idea of the 
 world, at once naturalistic and spiritual. 
 The spirit is the type of reality ; nature is no 
 more than a distant imitation, a vague mimi- 
 cry, a dim and imperfect symbol of the 
 spirit. Goodness, therefore, is the supreme 
 law of the universe, and the essence of 
 the spirit. Freedom, in spite of the in- 
 flexible determinism of nature, is by no 
 means an empty word ; it is possible, and 
 is realised in holiness. To the saint, the 
 world ceases to be a prison ; on the con- 
 trary, he is master of the world, because he 
 is its highest interpreter. Through him alone 
 the universe knows the reason for its exist- 
 ence, and he only realises its end. 
 
 These thoughts and many more, but in 
 systematic combination, form what I will 
 
 47
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 call my philosophy. My friend Oliveira 
 Martins has made me out a Buddhist.^ 
 There is, I must confess, much in common 
 between my doctrines and those of Buddhism ; 
 but still I believe the former contain some- 
 thing more than the latter. To my mind 
 this is the tendency of modern thought, 
 which, given its direction and starting-points, 
 cannot escape from Naturalism, as its every 
 endeavour to do so is succeeded by still 
 further discomfiture, except through the 
 door of Psychodynamism or Panpsychism. 
 This I believe is the nucleus, the centre 
 of attraction of the great nebula of modern 
 thought on its way to condensation. Every- 
 where, but particularly in Germany, I find 
 evident traces of this tendency. The West 
 will therefore in its turn bring forth its 
 Buddhism, its definitive mystic doctrine, 
 
 1 Vide Preface to the Sonetos Completos. 
 48
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 but on more lasting foundations, and under 
 conditions in every way more favourable, 
 than was the case with the East. 
 
 I do not know whether, much as I wish it, 
 I shall ever succeed in reducing my philo- 
 sophical ideas to a system. I should like to 
 concentrate on this great work the whole 
 energy of the years that I may still have to 
 live, but I have no confidence in my ability 
 to carry it out. The complaint that attacks 
 my nervous system compels me to abstain 
 from so great, so persistent an effort as would 
 be indispensable to bring such an important 
 undertaking to a successful issue. I shall 
 die, though, with the satisfaction of having 
 foreseen the eventual direction of European 
 thought, of having beheld from a distance 
 the Polar Star that attracts the needle 
 of the divine compass of the human mind. 
 But I shall also die, after a life so full of 
 
 49 D
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 moral agitation and sorrow, in the serene 
 repose of thoughts closely connected with 
 the innermost longings of the human soul, 
 — die, as the ancients used to say, in the 
 peace of the Lord. This is what I hope. 
 
 The last twenty-one Sonnets of my little 
 book reflect this my final state of mind, 
 and represent symbolically and emotionally 
 my present views upon the world and human 
 life. It is very little as compared with a 
 subject so comprehensive, but to produce 
 anything more or better was beyond my 
 power. Poetical composition was always 
 something quite involuntary with me, and 
 therefore I have at least this advantage, 
 that my verses have ever been written 
 in perfect sincerity. I prize this little 
 volume of Sonnets, because, like the record 
 of a private diary, and with no more con- 
 sideration than the accuracy of such daily 
 
 so
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 entries demands, it accompanies the succes- 
 sive phases of my hfe, whether intellectual or 
 emotional. It forms a kind of autobio- 
 graphy of thought, and, as it were, the 
 memoirs of a conscience. 
 
 My reason for entering into such extensive 
 biographical explanations is the conscious- 
 ness that the greater part of the interest 
 likely to be inspired by the perusal of these 
 Sonnets would be otherwise lost. German 
 critics may perhaps find it interesting to 
 observe the effects of Germanism on the 
 unprepared mind of a Southerner^ and a 
 descendant of the Catholic navigators of 
 the sixteenth century. This phenomenon 
 will possibly furnish another section, though 
 but an unimportant one, in the history of 
 
 1 In appearance Anthero belonged to a Northern type, 
 with his fair skin, flaxen hair, and blue eyes. His family, 
 indeed, is said to have been of French origin. 
 
 SI
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 Germanism in Europe, and attract the 
 attention of those who study the com- 
 parative psychology of nations. 
 
 I am, etc., 
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL. 
 
 52
 
 THE SONNETS
 
 i86o — 1862
 
 Chorosos versos meus . . . 
 
 Se OS ditosos vos ISrem sem ternura, 
 
 Ler — vos— hao com ternura os desgra9ados. 
 
 BOCAGE, Sonnet u.
 
 IGNOTO DEO 
 
 HAT mortal loveliness is like to thee, 
 Thou vision dreamt of by mine 
 
 ardent sprite, 
 That dost reflect in me thy vasty light, 
 E'en as the sun is mirrored in the sea? 
 
 The world is wide — my longing counsels me 
 Seek thee on earth : but though, poor faithful 
 
 wight, 
 I search below a pitying God to sight, 
 His altar, old and bare, is all I see. 
 
 What I adore in thee is not of earth. 
 
 What art thou here ? a kindly glance in need, 
 
 A drop of honey in a poisoned bowl : 
 
 Pure essence of the tears I weep sans dearth, 
 Dream of my dreams, if thou be Truth indeed, 
 Show thee in heaven, at least, dream of my soul ! 
 
 57
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 A LAMENT 
 
 at^ SEA of light descends the mountam- 
 '"^ side ; 
 
 The day, the sun, that spouse 
 beloved, is here ! 
 There 's not a care in all the world so wide 
 That dares amid the earth-bathing light appear ! 
 
 An icebound gulf or troubled ocean tide, 
 A struggling flower upon a hill-top drear, 
 Where doth the being so God-forsaken bide, 
 Whose prayer for peace the heavens refuse to 
 hear? 
 
 God is a father ! the All-Father too : 
 His love embraces every creature born : 
 He ne'er forgets the wrongs his children rue. 
 
 Ah ! if God give his sons good hap as wage 
 This sacred hour, and I cannot but mourn ; 
 1 'm like a son reft of his heritage ! 
 
 58
 
 SONNETS 
 
 TO SANTOS VALENTE 
 
 ^^^iOW small through life the cup of 
 
 r pleasure is ! 
 fl^j^ But deep as seas are deep and wide 
 as wide, 
 In joys unfruitful as their endless tide, • 
 The bitter chalice of unhappiness. 
 
 And yet our souls but fruitful love and bliss 
 Demand of life as through the world they glide, 
 And pilgrims, full of doubting, they confide 
 In no vain hope as fully as in this. 
 
 This mighty yearning is God's high decree, 
 
 And still Illusion must impose on Life, 
 
 It gives us darkness, bids us seek the dawn ! 
 
 Ah ! since the All-Father centred such a sea 
 Of love and grief within us 'mid the strife, 
 Why was the mirage made or why withdrawn ? 
 
 59
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 THE TORMENT OF THE IDEAL 
 
 KNEW the Loveliness that never dies 
 And yet was sad. For as a man 
 may see 
 
 From lofty mount oceans and earth so wee, 
 And thence the tallest tower or ship espies 
 
 Grow less, and vanish 'neath the brightening skies, 
 E'en so the world and all appeared to me 
 To lose its hue, like clouds that o'er the sea 
 Make journey as the sun to slumber hies. 
 
 Asking of forms, in vain, the Ideal pure, 
 I stumble in the dark on matter dure. 
 And see how crude are all things that exist. 
 
 Such baptism as poets get was mine, 
 Amid imperfect shapes I sit and pine. 
 And ever have remained pallid and triste. 
 
 60
 
 SONNETS 
 
 TO FLORIDO TELLES 
 
 F power I compare or gold or fame, 
 Good fortunes that conceal a wicked 
 guile, 
 
 With that supreme affection for awhile 
 Known as true love and light of purest flame, 
 
 I see that they are like an artful dame 
 Who hides deceit under an honest smile, 
 And he that follows them an imbecile, 
 Leaving who loveth him for pleasure's name. 
 
 That sterile joy is born of arrogance, 
 
 And all its glory is but a deceit, 
 
 Like his that bears the palm for vanity :' 
 
 From passion springs its fairest radiance. 
 And passion's boisterous storms soon cover it, 
 But love is soul-born in its majesty ! 
 
 6i
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 TO JOAO DE DEUS 
 
 F 'tis a law which rules o'er thought 
 obscure 
 That searching after verity is vain, 
 That in Ught's stead we must to dark attain, 
 And every gain must failure fresh insure ; 
 
 'Tis law besides, though torment cruel and dure, 
 That we should ever seek for what is plain, 
 And only hold as clear and certain gain, 
 That which our reason long has rendered sure. 
 
 What is the soul to choose 'midst wiles so great ? 
 For now it doth believe and then suspect ; 
 It seeks, but meets with nought save vanity ! 
 
 God is our only help in such a fate : 
 
 Let us eternity's clear light expect. 
 
 Be this world Exile, heaven our Destiny ! 
 
 62
 
 SONNETS 
 
 TO ALBERTO TELLES 
 
 LONE ! the hermit on the mountain- 
 side 
 God visiteth and gives him con- 
 fidence : 
 The sailor, tossed by storms and in suspense 
 At sea, a favouring breeze from heaven doth bide. 
 
 Alone ! yet he whom seas and land divide 
 From friends in memory hath a sure defence : 
 And God hath left him with at least the sense 
 Of hope who sobs alone at eventide. 
 
 He 's not alone who, grief and toil despite, 
 Hath still one tie that binds him to this hfe, 
 A faith, a wish — e'en an anxiety. 
 
 But he that folds his arms, disdainful wight, 
 Or stalks alone amid the crowded strife. 
 He 's the forsaken one, the solitary ! 
 
 63
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 TO J. FELIX DOS SANTOS 
 
 LWAYS the future, and the present 
 ne'er ! 
 Oh, be this hour of Hfe with misery 
 And doubt ever the wretchedst, and be 
 Desire but sated by a good not there ! 
 
 Ah ! what imports the future if, as e'er, 
 That hour arrives which we have longed to see. 
 Inclement, and but waits on grief to flee ? 
 And so what hope of ours is not a snare ? 
 
 Unhappiness or madness ? What I chase. 
 
 Deceitful mirage is, if it but fly, 
 
 Worse if it wait, a spectre foul and base. 
 
 E'en thus our life must loiter and pass by ; 
 The present sighing for the future's face ; 
 The future e'er a phantom and a lie ! 
 
 64
 
 SONNETS 
 
 TO GERMANO MEYRELLES 
 
 ■LS only meet us, nought but grief 
 
 exists, 
 And joys are only born of fantasy ; 
 Of nothing but a dream our good consists. 
 Each moment, hour, and day is misery. 
 
 If we search for what is, what ought to be 
 By nature's law in smallest way assists ; 
 Save sadness, there is left no remedy 
 For him who to a mind-born good e'er lists. 
 
 Oh that we had the power to travel through 
 Life in a dream, nought seeing, sure 'twere best ! 
 But 'twould be labour lost amid the unseen ! 
 
 Had we the hap to lose all memory too ; 
 E'en then our ills would not be lulled to rest, 
 For to have lived the worst has ever been ! 
 
 65
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 AD AM ICOS 
 
 ' N vain we strive. As in a misty space 
 The uncertainty of things our mind 
 }^^j^ involves, 
 Our soul as it creates, as it revolves, 
 Ensnares itself in its own net's embrace. 
 
 For thought, which many cunning plans will trace 
 A vapour is that vanishing dissolves : 
 And the ambitious purpose that resolves. 
 Breaks like a wave upon the headland's face. 
 
 Our soul is as a hymn to liberty. 
 
 To light, to fruitful good, ye Sons of Love, 
 
 The prayer and cry of foresight heavenly ; 
 
 But in a desert with deep barren bed, 
 Our voices echo back, and Destiny 
 Hovers impassible and mute o'erhead. 
 
 66
 
 i862— 1866
 
 LIVING LOVE 
 
 'O love ! but with a love that has some 
 life, 
 And not those weak arpeggios some 
 admire, 
 Not only wild delirium and desire 
 Of foolish heads made hot with passion's strife. 
 
 A love that lives and glows ! a light that's rife 
 To fill my being, not a kiss of fire 
 Snatched in the air — delirium and desire — 
 But love ... of those amours that have some life. 
 
 Yes, warm and vivid ! then the light of day 
 Will not dispel it, clasped to my breast, 
 As though it were an empty fantasy : 
 
 Nor the sun's lifted torch its strength deprive ; 
 For what can heavenly bodies do, at best. 
 Against the weakest loves ... if they 're alive ? 
 
 69
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 A VISIT 
 
 'ITH prickly thistle-flowers my room 
 was starred, 
 I scented me with fragrant musk 
 and sweet, 
 And, robed in glowing purple to the feet, 
 I conned my canzons over like a bard : 
 
 My face and hands anointed were with nard 
 Brought from an Eastern garden, as was meet, 
 With fitting pomp and dignity to greet 
 The visit I had looked and longed for hard. 
 
 But what king's daughter was it, or what fay, 
 Or angel else, that thus came down to me. 
 Inside the humid dwelling where I lay ? 
 
 Nor yet princess, nor fay. Nay, flower fair, 
 That knock was but the memory of thee 
 At my love's golden gate bright sans compare ! 
 
 70
 
 SONNETS 
 
 LITTLE ONE 
 
 KNOW they call thee 'little one' 
 full oft, 
 Fine as the veil in dancing dis- 
 arrayed, 
 That thou art not as yet in judgment staid, 
 And that thy childish frocks are scarcely doffed. 
 
 That thou 'rt a rill of water slight and soft, 
 The linden leaf that to and fro is swayed. 
 The breast with running that's soon weary made, 
 The head that bends when breezes suffering waft. 
 
 But, daughter, there where I 've been wandering 
 Among the hills, I grew so full of fear 
 The Infinite's deep echoes listening to. 
 
 That I don't wish to rule or be a king, 
 But that thy breast should be my kingdom dear, 
 And all thy dolls my subjects — this I do ! 
 
 71
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 AN EASTERN DREAM 
 
 ,T times I dream I rule an isle of mine, 
 Far distant, planted in an Eastern 
 sea, 
 
 Where the clear night is full of fragrancy, 
 And o'er the water the full moon doth shine. 
 
 Vanilla's and magnolia's perfume fine 
 Floats in an air of breathless clarity, 
 The sea with frothy ripples, lazily, 
 The strand is lapping at the wood's confine. 
 
 And while against an ivory balcon's side 
 I lean, and muse from morn till eventide, 
 Thou 'rt wandering in the moonlight clear, my 
 sweet, 
 
 The tangled gardens through, from glade to glade, 
 Or resting underneath the palm-tree's shade. 
 With a pet lion outstretched before thy feet. 
 
 72
 
 SONNETS 
 
 AN IDYLL 
 
 'HEN we set out, we twain, our hands 
 clasped tight, 
 '^ LiUes and daisies plucking in the 
 vale, 
 When at a bound the hill's long side we scale 
 Still wet and sparkling with the dews of night ; 
 
 Or, seaward looking from some lonesome height, 
 Gaze at the evening clouds, as day doth fail. 
 That, piled up on the horizon pale, 
 Seem like fantastic ruins to the sight : 
 
 How often, suddenly, thy speech doth go. 
 And in thine eyes a strange light fluctuates ! 
 I feel thy hand shake, see thee pallid grow : 
 
 I hear the murmured prayer of seas and winds. 
 And poetry from all things saturates. 
 So lovingly and slow, our hearts and minds. 
 
 73
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF NIGHT 
 
 iPIRIT that passest, when the wind 
 sleeps low 
 O'er ocean and the moon is waxing 
 great, 
 Thou only know'st how cruel is my fate, 
 Coy son of darkness floating to and fro. 
 
 And as a song that — sorrowful and slow — 
 Wafted from far, doth subtly penetrate. 
 So o'er my heart, in tumult-troubled state. 
 Thou pourest out oblivion of woe. 
 
 To thee I trust the dream in which I 'm borne 
 By instinct's light, that darkness' veil hath torn 
 And seeks the lasting Good where phantoms wone. 
 
 Thou knowest all my nameless misery, 
 The fever of the Ideal wasting me. 
 Thou Genius of the Night, and thou alone ! 
 
 74
 
 SONNETS 
 
 A DREAM 
 
 jr[V DREAMT — and dreams are not all 
 empty guile — 
 A wind had snatched me up, and 
 that apace 
 'Twas bearing me across the starry space 
 Where an eternal dawn doth beauteous smile. 
 
 The stars, that wait the morn in guardian style. 
 E'en as with secret sorrow in my face 
 I passed, looked towards me with an anxious gaze, 
 And said: 'Where dwells our sister, friend, the 
 while ? ' 
 
 But I cast down my eyes for fear, perforce, 
 They should betray the sorrow that I feel, 
 And furtively and silent held my course ; 
 
 Nor had I or the will or power, in fine. 
 To tell those stars, thy sisters pure and leal. 
 How false thou art, my sweet, and how indign ! 
 
 75
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 SELF-DENIAL 
 
 jAY rose and lily rain thy neck 
 around! 
 And may thy soul be flooded with 
 a psalm 
 Of praise and adoration's kindly balm, 
 My darling dove, my hope that knows no bound ! 
 
 May heaven give thee stars, and flowers the 
 
 ground. 
 Perfume and songs the air and shade the palm, 
 And when the moon is out and ocean calm, 
 Its lazy loitering roll a dream profound ! 
 
 Oh ! may'st thou ne'er remember that I mourn, 
 And e'en forget I love thee, poor forlorn. 
 And, passing me, look not from off the soil ; 
 
 While, from the tears fast flowing out mine eyes, 
 May faithful flowers beneath thy feet uprise. 
 For thee to careless crush, or smiling spoil. 
 
 76
 
 SONNETS 
 
 A SPECTRE 
 
 •^,NE day, my love — for now I see it 
 loom, 
 
 E'en now I feel my heart is breaking 
 fast !— 
 Thou wilt remember, pitiful at last, 
 The tender oaths I made, fearing my doom. 
 
 Then in the secret corner of a room, 
 Beneath the lamp that flickering rays doth cast, 
 I '11 rise up like a phantom of the past, 
 A ghost escaped its exile in the tomb. 
 
 And thou, at seeing me, with many a sigh 
 
 And groan, with outstretched arms and eager face 
 
 Wilt seek to grasp my garments then and cry, 
 
 * Oh ! listen ! wait ! ' — but I '11 refuse to hear, 
 And, dreamlike, fleeing from thy dear embrace, 
 As smoke amid the air will disappear ! 
 
 77
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 A MOTHER 
 
 MOTHER — to compose my life of 
 
 pain, 
 To watch this chilly night about my 
 bed, 
 And with her pitying hands retie the thread 
 Of my poor being, nearly cut in twain. 
 
 To bear me at her bosom, overta'en 
 
 By sleep, when passing places dark and dread, 
 
 And in the stream of clear effulgence shed 
 
 By her dear glance to cleanse my soul from stain. 
 
 For this I 'd give my manly pride, and eke 
 My fruitless knowledge, careless of the rest, 
 I 'd turn me to a little child and weak, 
 
 And be as happy, docile, without fear, 
 If I could take my sleep upon thy breast. 
 If only thou couldst be my mother, dear ! 
 
 78
 
 SONNETS 
 
 THE PALACE OF HAPPINESS 
 
 'N dreams an Errant Knight I seem 
 to be. 
 Through deserts, under suns, by 
 night obscure, 
 Love's paladin, I search for eagerly 
 The enchanted house of Happiness secure ! 
 
 But now I 'm faint and worn and like to flee, 
 My sword is broken, armour insecure, 
 When lo I sight it shining, suddenly, 
 In all its pomp and airy formosure ! 
 
 With many a blow I strike the gate and cry : 
 ' The Wanderer, the Disherited am I ! 
 Ye gates of gold, to my complaining ope ! ' 
 
 With a loud noise the golden gates fly wide, 
 But nothing meets my sorrowing gaze inside, 
 Save deathlike calm, and darkness without hope. 
 
 79
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 AN OATH 
 
 Y wrinkles on a forehead deep in 
 thought, 
 i And by the questioning look that 
 nought can see, 
 And by the icy hand of misery 
 That has eclipsed the star our soul's eye sought ; 
 
 And by the crackling of a flame distraught, 
 Amid the failing fire's last agony, 
 By the fierce cry of one who 's left to dree 
 The ruin swift her lover on her brought ; 
 
 By all things fateful, all that mingled shade 
 And terror, that beneath a gravestone lies ; 
 
 gentle dove of esperance ever-green ! 
 
 1 swear to thee I 've seen, and been afraid 
 Of horrors — but a thing in any wise 
 
 More cruel than a child's laugh I 've never seen ! 
 
 80
 
 SONNETS 
 
 WHILST OTHERS FIGHT 
 
 W^i ERE I to grasp the sword the valiant 
 bear, 
 And rush into the fight, intoxicate, 
 In that dread battle-field, where Death and Fate 
 Give laws to trembling Kings, and nations dare ! 
 
 And were my lungs to breathe the fiery air 
 The arena, stained with blood, gives forth, elate ; 
 Were I to fall, shrouded in radiance great 
 By glittering sword-blades with their tawny glare ! 
 
 I should not have to see the morning pale 
 
 Of my so useless years and hourly wail 
 
 Them spent in nought save dreams and bitterness ! 
 
 Nor watch while, in my very hand undone, 
 The roses fall to pieces, one by one, 
 Of this my sterile youth and colourless ! 
 
 8l F
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 DESPONDENCY 
 
 5^H let it go, the bird from which 
 they 've ta'en 
 Both nest and young, its all, sans 
 ruth or care, 
 And be it carried by the boundless air, 
 On parted wings, from solitary pain ! 
 
 Oh let it go, the ship the hurricane 
 Has whirled across the ocean, loath to spare, 
 When darkest night came down from out its lair, 
 And when the winds rose from the Southern main ! 
 
 Oh let it go, the soul that, full of gloom. 
 Has lost all trust and all its peace, for aye, 
 To silent death and to the restful tomb ! 
 
 Oh let it go, the ending note and slow 
 Of a last song, and then hope's final ray . . . 
 And life . . and love, as well . . Oh let life go ! 
 
 82
 
 SONNETS 
 
 DAS UNNENBARE 
 
 .^^^^^'HIMERA, thou that passest cradled 
 m right 
 
 Amid the wavelet of my dreams of 
 woe, 
 And brushest with thy vapoury vesture's flow 
 My forehead pale and weary of the light ! 
 
 Thou 'rt carried by the air of peaceful night : 
 In vain, with anxious mien, I seek to know 
 What name on thee the venturesome bestow 
 In thine own country, mystic fairy wight ! 
 
 But what a fate is mine ! What a dim glow 
 This dawn brings, like that at the sun's last pace, 
 When only livid clouds float to and fro ! 
 
 For night grants no illusion, and I seem 
 To view thee far off" only when I dream. 
 And even then I cannot see thy face ! 
 
 83
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 A WOMAN FRIEND 
 
 Y dear ones have been scattered by 
 some wind, 
 I see them not, I know not where 
 they wone, 
 I stretch my arms out when the Hght has flown, 
 And kiss the phantoms called up by my mind. 
 
 While others cause me pangs of sharper kind 
 Than yearning for the dead, whose lot alone 
 I envy, for they pass as if they 'd grown 
 Ashamed of me, unfriended, and declined ! 
 
 Of all that happy spring-time once enjoyed 
 
 No flower is left, not e'en a rose, to-day ; 
 
 The wind has swept them off, the frost destroyed ! 
 
 But thou wast faithful, and, as in the past, 
 Thou turnest still thine eyes, so bright and gay, 
 To see my tale of ills — and mock at last ! 
 
 84
 
 SONNETS 
 
 THE VOICE OF AUTUMN 
 
 ;;IST thou, my wearied heart, attentively. 
 To Nature's voice and words to thee, 
 forlorn : 
 
 ' It had been better if thou hadst been born 
 'Mid deserts drear, in helpless nudity, 
 
 If thou hadst made thy moan in infancy 
 Upon a cheerless pasture place and lorn. 
 If Beauty's Fairy had not, night and morn, 
 Within Illusion's cradle dandled thee ! 
 
 Better if silent, and with grief down-bowed, 
 Thy visionary soul its way had ta'en 
 Amid the hostile world, the varying crowd, 
 
 (Of all thou hast loved not seeing one sole flower) 
 By hate and sorrow torn — than, to thy bane. 
 To have dreamt ideal dreams hour after hour 1 ' 
 
 85
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 A ROMANTIC BURYING-PLACE 
 
 ?^^HERE the great sea breaks, with a 
 j^ swirl and roar 
 
 /■^ Monotonous, 'tis there my heart 
 shall find 
 Its place of sepulture, and where the wind 
 Uplifts its lamentation on the shore. 
 
 And let the summer suns their rays outpour 
 Upon it, day by day, in lingering kind, 
 In winter-time let blasts, with fury blind, 
 Toss up around it the dry sandy floor, 
 
 Until it is undone, and then, resolved 
 In finest dust, oh, let it be revolved 
 Amid the whirlwinds lifted by the breeze, 
 
 And swallowed up at last with all its pain, 
 Its weariness and strife, its loves insane, 
 In those unfruitful tides and bitter seas ! 
 
 86
 
 1864^1874
 
 THE IDEAL 
 
 'UT what is the Ideal? Who has 
 seen 
 Once, only once, this hidden pilgrim 
 wight ? 
 And who has kissed her hand of heavenly might, 
 Or clothed him with her loving glance's sheen ? 
 
 Pale image that some rivulet serene. 
 Reflecting, carries off with it, a light 
 So dubious that it barely comes in sight, 
 A cloud the air brought and bore off at e'en. 
 
 Oh haste to meet her then, your arms upraise^ 
 Lean from the fever deepest musing's birth. 
 All ye who follow her through boundless space ! 
 
 And yet my weeping Soul and sorrow-sure. 
 Thou hast no other love through all the earth 
 Than this disdainful virgin, icy pure ! 
 
 89
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 VI 
 
 HERE is no other love ! life doth not 
 hold 
 A better shelter for our heads in lieu, 
 Nor yet a sweeter balsam and more true 
 To heal our wound of centuries untold ! 
 
 For whether she fly coyly, or make bold 
 To yield, as one that loves and tells it too, 
 And whether she be clouded or in view, 
 She will be e'er the promised spouse of old ! 
 
 To thee, O cold one, rise our longings aye, 
 E'en as the arms of a poor exiled wight 
 Towards his fatherland, by night and day. 
 
 If thou dost flee, our soul, delirious. 
 Will follow thee across the infinite, 
 Till it returns with thee, victorious ! 
 
 90
 
 SONNETS 
 
 VII 
 
 "'^"'^^^t^vt^^H what a wondrous marriage that will 
 be! 
 "^^^■^QJX How glorious ! when the Heavens 
 
 form the bed 
 Of love, and where are pendent overhead 
 The stars for curtains and a canopy ! 
 
 The bridal of Desire all frenzied by 
 Good luck at last, and visions fiery red 
 Of one that goes to fervent fancies wed, 
 Caught up and carried through immensity ! 
 
 There, where imagination ends its sway 
 'Mid dreams of beauty far beyond our ken, 
 And where the night is brighter than our day ; 
 
 There, in the bosom of eternal light, 
 
 Where God gives answer to the voice of men, 
 
 We shall embrace thee. Truth, and win outright ! 
 
 91
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 VIII 
 
 ^UT where is there} The sky of the 
 Idea, 
 The sky the faithful soul doth con- 
 stant pray 
 And long for, my unconquered heart, I say 
 Thou vainly seekest in this boundless sphere ! 
 
 For Space is mute ; the immensity austere 
 In vain is lighted up by night and day. 
 The roses of a spring to last for aye 
 In not a star or sun do yet appear ! 
 
 And Paradise with Truth's immortal fane, 
 Oh worlds unnumbered, suns and starry zone. 
 None of you have it in your endless reign ! 
 
 But the Ideal, the Word, the Essence and 
 The Greatest Good reveal themselves alone 
 To man beneath the sky of Conscience-land ! 
 
 92
 
 SONNETS 
 
 WORDS OF ONE OF THE DEAD 
 
 J'VE lain here dead upon the mountain 
 crest 
 A thousand years, exposed to wind 
 and rain ; 
 As lean as I there is no spectre vain, 
 Nor an abortion more deformed. At best 
 
 My spirit only lives, on guard, oppressed 
 By one fixed thought of never-ending bane ; 
 * Buried alive ! ' my constant torturing pain 
 Is only this — no matter for the rest. 
 
 I know I lived once . . . though but for a day, 
 No more . . . and then Idolatry, for aye, 
 Gave altars and a cult . . . they worshipped me 
 
 As though I had been Some one ! just as though 
 Life could be Some otie ! — afterwards, oh woe ! 
 They said I was a God ... and shrouded me ! 
 
 93
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 TO A POET 
 
 '"S^jj^^^^ ALM spirit, that beneath the cedar-tree 
 Bent down with years, art resting, 
 slumber-swayed, 
 E'en as a Levite in the altar's shade, 
 Far from the noisy strife of earth and free. 
 
 Awake ! 'tis time ! The sun in majesty 
 Has put to flight the ghosts, the spectres laid, 
 And a new world waits but the signal made 
 To rise from out the bosom of the sea. 
 
 List thou ! for 'tis the people's clamouring ! 
 And they who rise, thy brethren ! Lo they sing 
 A battle-song, and give the alarm afar ! 
 
 Up, soldier of the Future, rise at last. 
 
 And from the rays that purest dreams have cast, 
 
 Thou dreamer, forge thyself a sword for war ! 
 
 94
 
 i874— i88o
 
 SONNETS 
 
 MORS LIBERATRIX 
 
 ITHIN thine hand, O sombre cavaher, 
 All girt about with armour black as 
 
 night, 
 
 There gleams a falchion forged of 
 comets bright, 
 That rends the veil of dark with rays most clear. 
 
 Pursuing thine adventurous career, 
 Clothed in a thick and self-projected night, 
 The tawny ribbon of thy sword of light 
 Alone emerges from the fog so drear. 
 
 ' This sword I wield is shimmering and stark 
 (Makes answer that Knight Errant of the Dark) 
 Because it is the sword of Verity. 
 
 I slay, but save ; I conquer and lay low, 
 And yet console ; I ransom if o'erthrow ; 
 And, being Death, am also Liberty.' 
 
 97 G
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 MORS— AMOR 
 
 HAT coal-black steed, whose tramp 
 of fearful might 
 I hear in dreams, when darkness 
 cloaks the sky, 
 Whom at full gallop I have seen pass by 
 On the fantastic causeways of the night, — 
 
 Whence comes he ? or what regions out of sight 
 And full of terrors has he crossed, or why 
 Seems he so dark and wondrous to the eye, 
 Why tosses he his mane as though affright ? 
 
 A cavalier of dread and mighty gest. 
 Whose port is calm yet terrible to view, 
 From head to foot in shining armour dressed, 
 
 Bestrides that mystic beast all fearlessly, 
 
 And the black courser neighs, ' I 'm Death ! ' and 
 
 you ? 
 • 'Tis I am Love !' his rider makes reply ! 
 
 98
 
 SONNETS 
 
 MY SOUL 
 
 RIM Death was there a, little way 
 ahead, 
 Confronting me, so like unto a 
 snake 
 That sleeping on the highway doth awake, 
 And dart up as she feels the traveller's tread. 
 
 That fell bacchante, with her gesture dread 
 And devilish, was a sight at which to quake ! 
 And when I asked, ' Thou ravening beast, whose 
 
 wake 
 Art following through the world ? ' she only said, 
 
 ' Fear not ' (and then a sort of irony. 
 Most sinister and yet most calm, did roll 
 And writhe a mouth that spoke of cruelty) 
 
 ' 'Tis not thy body I am seeking — No ! 
 
 That were too great a trophy 'Tis thy soul' 
 
 ' My soul,' I made reply, ' died long ago.' 
 
 99
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 THE DIVINE COMEDY 
 
 !|EN lift their arms to heaven from out 
 the fray, 
 Apostrophise the powers invisible, 
 And make their moan — ' Ye Gods impassible, 
 Whom e'en triumphant fate must needs obey, 
 
 Why did ye make us ? Since, from day to day, 
 Time flies, and but begets unquenchable 
 Illusion, Grief and Sin, Strifes horrible. 
 All in a whirl of frenzy and dismay. 
 
 Were it not better in the kindly peace 
 Of Nothingness, and of what is not yet, 
 To have stayed and slept a sleep that cannot 
 cease? 
 
 Why have ye called us forth to sorrow thus ? ' 
 
 To which, in tones of even more regret, 
 
 The Gods reply, ' O Men ! why made ye us ? ' 
 
 lOO
 
 SONNETS 
 
 NOX 
 
 NIGHT, my thoughts fly to thee and 
 
 thy reign, 
 When, by the cruel glare of day, I 
 see 
 So much vain striving, so much agony. 
 So many bitter torments all in vain. 
 
 Thou stiflest at the least those cries of pain 
 The dungeon yields, brimful of tragedy ; 
 The ever-raging roaring 111 in thee 
 Reposes, and forgets awhile its bane. 
 
 But oh ! that thou wouldst fall asleep as well. 
 Once and for aye, and, changeless then as fate. 
 Forget thee with the World beneath thy spell, 
 
 And that the World, all seeing striving o'er, 
 Would sleep upon thy breast inviolate, 
 Night of Non-being, Night for evermore ! 
 
 lOI
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 ON THE JOURNEY 
 
 '.j^PON the narrow path, near which 'tis 
 rare 
 To see a flower or bird, or sip one 
 taste 
 Of water, where are rugged rocks and bare, 
 Or deserts parched, a fever-stricken waste, 
 
 I entered straightway with a fearless air, 
 And, seeing them in front, all fearless faced 
 The ghosts that on the horizon, from their lair, 
 Rose up to combat my stout heart in haste. 
 
 Who are ye, mystic pilgrims here below ? 
 Grief, Disillusion, Weariness and Woe; 
 And Death is watching still behind the crew. 
 
 I know you, the last guides that I shall need, 
 My silent comrades and my friends indeed : 
 Oh, welcome all, and thou. Death, welcome too ! 
 
 102
 
 SONNETS 
 
 QUIA AETERNUS 
 
 .'^f^^^HOU hast not died, though vain 
 ^ philosophy 
 
 Full proudly vaunts the fact to all 
 mankind, 
 The yoke and reins of heavenly tyranny 
 Are not so straight and easy to unbind ! 
 
 An empty boast, for this great victory 
 That Reason revels in — effete and blind — 
 Of thine eternal tragic irony 
 Is but a novel form, one more unkind. 
 
 Spectre, thou art not dead ! Thought, as of yore, 
 Must face thee ; thou 'rt the bane of all that pore 
 And puzzle over books from year to year. 
 
 And those who love debauchery, alas ! 
 How oft it haps that, as they raise the glass, 
 They pause, and, trembling, pallid grow for fear ! 
 
 103
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 IN THE WHIRLWIND 
 
 [HILST I am dreaming ghostly forms 
 file by, 
 The creatures of my thoughts, e'en 
 as a band 
 Swept onward by the winds from land to land, 
 And in their vasty whirl caught up on high. 
 
 Wreathed in a wondrous spiral, whence a cry 
 And weird lamenting echoes o'er the strand, 
 They pass, a shadowy group, and, as I stand, 
 I catch their features now and then, and sigh. 
 
 O phantoms of my self and soul, whose mien 
 Is dreadful calm, a terror to have seen, 
 Borne forward on the troubled billow's breast, 
 
 My brethren and my butchers, who are ye ? 
 Avenging ghosts, the spirit of misery ? 
 Ah me ! ah me ! and who am I at best ? 
 
 104
 
 SONNETS 
 
 IGNOTUS 
 
 [HERE art thou hiding ? Lo, our 
 fruitless prayer 
 As we sigh on, and raise our hands 
 in vain ! 
 Now hoarse our voices grow, our hearts with strain 
 Are weary — and we give up in despair. 
 
 We seek o'er seas and lands, through heaven so fair, 
 The Spirit that fills space ; and, full of pain, 
 Our voices only echo back again 
 Amid the solitude . . . thou art not there ! 
 
 Whither ? and where ? ye heavens and earth make 
 
 cry — ■ 
 But the ancient Spirit only gives reply. 
 In tones of weariness and woe combined : 
 
 ' Cease your complaint, sons of perplexity. 
 For I myself, from all eternity. 
 Do also seek myself — but cannot find ! ' 
 
 los
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 IN THE CIRCUS 
 
 ^P|V AR hence, and yet I know not when 
 or where 
 *!^^^!?Cjj That world was that I lived in, nor 
 
 the way. 
 But 'twas so distant I could almost say 
 That I was dreaming whilst I moved there. 
 
 For all things were aerial and fair. 
 
 And being dawned upon me bright and gay, 
 
 And I was as the light, until, one day, 
 
 A wind caught up and whirled me in mid-air. 
 
 I fell and found me suddenly engaged, 
 There where at large a brutal fury raged. 
 In bestial strife upon the circus floor : 
 
 I felt a monster grow inside of me, 
 And saw I 'd turned wild beast quite suddenly ; 
 And hence it is I with the lions roar ! 
 
 io6
 
 SONNETS 
 
 NIRVANA 
 
 'EYOND this Universe so luminous, 
 So full of forces and of forms, 
 
 j:^r?S:/* oppressed 
 
 By noisy strife and longings vain at best, 
 
 A realm lies open dark and vacuous. 
 
 The billows of this sea tumultuous, 
 Retired into themselves, come there and rest ; 
 In boundless immobility and blest 
 There Being ends for each and all of us. 
 
 And when Thought, thus absorbed and occupied, 
 Hard though it be, from this dead world hath hied, 
 And turns to look at Nature once again, 
 
 At lifetime's loveliest light so Hmitless, 
 It only sees, o'ercome by weariness, 
 That all things are illusory and vain ! 
 
 107
 
 i88o— 1884
 
 TRANSCENDENTALISM 
 
 ^ OW that the strife is o'er, in peaceful 
 
 state 
 j^'^ My heart is resting free from fear 
 
 of bane, 
 I 've come at length to understand 'tis vain 
 The good disputed with the World and Fate. 
 
 With fevered brow oft did I penetrate 
 
 Into the sanctum of Illusion's fane, 
 
 And only found, confused and pierced by pain. 
 
 Darkness and dust, brute matter desolate. 
 
 There is not in the world's immensity — 
 Though great it seems in early manhood viewed — 
 Aught that our souls' desire can satisfy. 
 
 There 'mid the unseen and the intangible, 
 O'er deserts, vacuum and solitude, 
 The Spirit floats above impassible ! 
 
 Ill
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 EVOLUTION 
 
 |g WAS a rock, and, on a distant day, 
 A trunk or tree-branch in a wood 
 unknown ; 
 
 A wave, I broke against the granite stone, 
 My oldest enemy, in clouds of spray. 
 
 I roared, a beast perhaps, upon the way 
 To shelter in some cave all heather-grown ; 
 Or, ancient monster, raised my head alone 
 'Mid reedy marshes, where my pasture lay. 
 
 Now I 'm a man — and, in the densest shade, 
 I see, below, the stair of many a grade 
 That, spiralwise, goes down the immensity ; 
 
 The Infinite I call on and weep sore ; 
 
 But, stretching out my hands in space, adore 
 
 And yearn for nothing else than liberty. 
 
 112
 
 SONNETS 
 
 IN PRAISE OF DEATH 
 
 I 
 
 ^ FT the Inconscient, at night's mid- 
 most pace, 
 Shakes me with force, and I awake 
 in fright. 
 My heart, as if crushed by a blow, poor wight, 
 Although no weakling, pauses in its race. 
 
 Not that my mind fills full of ghouls this space. 
 This vacuum of still and awful night. 
 That reason forces it to put to flight 
 Some pangs remorseful it dare hardly face. 
 
 No visionary ghosts of night I spy, 
 No mortuary phantoms filing by, 
 Nor yet of God and Fate a fear I feel. 
 
 Nothing ! the bottom of a warm dank well, 
 Curtained around by gloom, a silent spell. 
 And Death's sepulchral footsteps at my heel. 
 
 113 H
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 II 
 
 [Y painful thoughts immure themselves 
 and me, 
 Each day, in dreamland's forest 
 undefined. 
 Through realms of vague oblivion and blind, 
 Step after step, I 'm led by fantasy. 
 
 I pierce at dark the chilly mist, and see 
 A world of wonders peopled by the wind, 
 While full of doubt and querulous my mind 
 Trusts but the ghosts of night full hopefully. 
 
 What mystical desire distracts me so ? 
 Nirvana's deep abyss appears below, 
 Confronting me, so silent and so vast ! 
 
 And as I traverse solitary space, 
 I only seek to meet thee and embrace, 
 Sister of Love and Truth, thou. Death, at last ! 
 
 114
 
 SONNETS 
 
 in 
 
 KNOW not who thou art, yet do not 
 seek, 
 So great my trust is, to discover it. 
 Enough among night's forms with whom I 
 
 speak, 
 If thou beside me in the dark dost sit. 
 
 Across the stillness full of gloom and bleak 
 Thy steps I follow, fearing not a whit, 
 Right o'er the chasm of the Future, eke, 
 I lean me at thy voice, to fathom it. 
 
 For thee engulfed amid the world of night 
 Where phantoms dwell, and on a nameless strand, 
 I try to fix thy wondrous gaze aright. 
 
 To fix and fathom it an hour 's enow, 
 Funereal Beatrice with the icy hand. 
 The one consoling Beatrice here below ! 
 
 "5
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 IV 
 
 GUESSED not long (what mist in- 
 vincible 
 Blinded my spirit, this I may not 
 know !) 
 Who 'twas that by my side did constant go, 
 By day and night, comrade impassible. 
 
 Ofttime, 'tis true, amid the unbearable 
 Extremest tedium of a life of woe, 
 To thee I gave a troubled look, and so 
 Invoked thee, my last friend most peaceable. 
 
 But then I loved thee not nor knew indeed ; 
 My weak and listless mind could nothing read 
 On this calm countenance, this silent scroll. 
 
 But now, enlightened by an inner flame, 
 Child of the selfsame sire, I know thy name, 
 Death, co-eternal sister of my soul ! 
 
 ii6
 
 SONNETS 
 
 55 PECTRE austere, how shall I name 
 thee, pray, 
 Whom at the high-road's turning, 
 undismayed, 
 I spy, e'en as my soul's poor strength doth fade, 
 And she is worn and weary of the way ? 
 
 The crowd sees in thine eyes a gulf, and aye 
 It hides its visage, and draws back afraid. 
 But I confide in thee, thou veiled shade, 
 And think I understand what thou dost say. 
 
 And, step by step, I see appear more bright 
 In thy profoundest gaze that ne'er doth cease. 
 The sign of the Ideal, daughter of night. 
 
 I '11 sleep upon thy breast changeless as fate, 
 In the communion of a world-wide peace, 
 O liberating Death inviolate ! 
 
 117
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 VI 
 
 few^W'^lE only whom Non-being doth affright 
 Feareth thy silence vast and mor- 
 tuary, 
 
 Night without end and space most solitary, 
 Thou night of Death, the dark and dreadsome 
 hight, 
 
 Not I ; my humble soul yet full of might 
 
 Thy hall of mourning enters faithfully ; 
 
 To others thou art ashes, vacancy. 
 
 For me thy gloomy face hath smiles most bright. 
 
 I love the holy peace ineffable, 
 
 The peerless silence of the Unchangeable, 
 
 That cloaks the eternal good in mourning suit : 
 
 Non-being though 'twere wrong to seek thee out, 
 One yet may worship thee and dream about. 
 The only Being true and absolute. 
 
 n8
 
 SONNETS 
 
 LACRYMAE RERUM 
 
 5^ NIGHT, Death's sister, Reason's 
 
 X constant mate, 
 ^ How many times I 've questioned 
 
 anxiously, 
 Thine oracle of deepest sanctity, 
 Thou gossip and interpreter of Fate ! 
 
 Where go thy suns, like to a cohort great 
 Of restless souls led on by Destiny ? 
 And why, so vainly seeking certainty 
 To comfort him, doth man walk desolate ? 
 
 But, 'mid the pomp of this great funeral, 
 The ill-boding night-time, still and masterful, 
 Goes on its course and turns the lazy hours. 
 
 I 'm compassed round by doubt, and grief is near ; 
 And, lost amid an endless dream, I hear 
 The sigh that comes from where the darkness 
 lowers. 
 
 119
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 REDEMPTION 
 
 OICES of wood and wind, and ocean's 
 cry, 
 When sometimes, in my dreaming 
 dolorous, 
 I 'm cradled by your song so mighteous, 
 I think ye suffer e'en as much as I. 
 
 O inmost life, expression peeping sly 
 
 From silent things ; O psalm mysterious ; 
 
 O art thou not, complaint so nebulous. 
 
 The world's lament from out the strife and sigh ? 
 
 A spirit dwells within the immensity ; 
 
 A cruel and poignant lust for liberty 
 
 Shivers and shakes all transient forms that be : 
 
 And well I understand your language strange, 
 Voices of ocean, wood, and mountain range. 
 Ye sister souls to mine, captive like me ! 
 
 120
 
 SONNETS 
 
 II 
 
 E oceans, winds, and woods, mourn 
 not your doom, 
 Ye ancient choir of voices mur- 
 muring, 
 
 Of voices primitive and saddening 
 E'en as tlie wail of spectres from the tomb. 
 
 Where gUmmering ghosts bemoan from out the 
 
 gloom 
 You will break forth one day all glittering, 
 From out this dream and shameful suffering, 
 Which your complaints so mystical unwomb. 
 
 Souls in the limbo of existence yet, 
 
 To Knowledge you '11 awake and freedom get. 
 
 And hovering high above, pure Pensament, 
 
 Behold the Forms, Illusion's children vain, 
 Undone and fall to earth like dreams inane, 
 And then at length your tortures will be spent. 
 
 121
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 STRIFE 
 
 )JGHT slumbers resting on the hilly 
 steep. 
 Like to a dream, oblivious save of 
 peace, 
 The moon mounts higher. The winds sink and 
 
 cease, 
 And plain and vale have ta'en a common sleep. 
 
 But as for me, the night, whilome a keep 
 Of sympathies divine, my thought doth freeze 
 With fear, and shadowy troops around increase, 
 The Fates and pilgrim Spirits crowding deep ! 
 
 Unfathomable problem ! Full of fright 
 
 My mind recoils ! And now, when prostrate quite 
 
 And stupefied with weariness and ill, 
 
 Inconscient I watch the ghostly band. 
 Whilst up and down the solitary strand 
 Thine ancient voice, O sea, doth echo still. 
 
 122
 
 SONNETS 
 
 LOGOS 
 
 HOU whom I see not, yet who art 
 quite close, 
 Nay more, within me, folding me 
 inside 
 A cloud of feelings and ideas so wide. 
 Which my beginning, middle, end, compose, 
 
 How strange a being (if being, as I suppose), 
 That thus doth snatch me up, and by thy side 
 Mak'st me to walk where fear and joy divide 
 The rule, in realms of yeses and of noes. 
 
 But a reflection of my soul thou art, 
 
 And, 'stead effacing thee unmoved, I start, 
 
 And trembling supplicate on seeing thee. 
 
 I speak, thou 'rt mute ; I stop, thou listenest ; 
 Thou 'rt sire and brother, yet thou torturest 
 When nigh — a tyrant, and I worship thee ! 
 
 123
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 WITH THE DEAD 
 
 HOSE I have loved, where are they ? 
 gone from sight, 
 Dragged headlong by the tempest's 
 whirling blind, 
 And borne, as in a dream, 'mong phantom-kind. 
 Amid the world's so swiftly rushing flight. 
 
 Whilst I myself, with feet immersed, poor wight. 
 And at the mercy of the stream and wind, 
 But livid surging foam around me find. 
 And here and there drowned faces meet my sight. 
 
 Yet if I pause awhile, and only can. 
 Seal up mine eyes, I feel them at my side 
 Again, my dear ones, living, man for man. 
 
 I see and list them, and they hear my say, 
 Joined in the ancient love and sanctified, 
 In the communion of Good for aye. 
 
 124
 
 SONNETS 
 
 OCEANO NOX 
 
 EAR to the sea, that raised with 
 gravity 
 Its tragic voice and harsh, while 
 rushing by 
 The wind went, hke a thought that soars on high, 
 And seeks, yet hesitates, all iitfully, 
 
 Near to the sea I sat down tristfully, 
 And gazed a while at the dull heavy sky, 
 And, musing, questioned this lament and sigh 
 That rose from out of things uncertainly. 
 
 What restless longing tortures you, what fate. 
 Ye rudimental Beings, force unknown, 
 Round what Idea do ye gravitate ? 
 
 But in far-reaching distant space, where hides 
 The Unconscious and Immortal One, a moan 
 And bitter cry makes answer, nought besides. 
 
 125
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 COMMUNION 
 
 'ETHINK thee now, my soul, for I'll 
 repress 
 My tears, what crowds have jour- 
 neyed us before, 
 And, full of doubt, their hands raised to implore 
 Beneath this sky austere in their distress ! 
 
 — A light of death ! a spring that's bitterness ! — 
 Yet still their patient hearts the strife upbore, 
 Believers but from instinct, they set store 
 By that heroic faith that e'er doth bless. 
 
 And am I more than they ? A fate like theirs 
 Binds me to that of multitudes unknown ; 
 My path I then will follow free from cares, 
 
 Amid those faces mute but of the fold. 
 Filled by the humble faith that ages own, 
 And in communion with our sires of old. 
 
 126
 
 SONNETS 
 
 SOLEMNIA VERBA 
 
 TO my heart : ' Regard the manifold 
 And useless paths we took ! Look 
 back and see 
 Now from this height, austere and cold may be, 
 The desert watered by our tears untold. 
 
 Ashes and dust where flowers bloomed of old ! 
 Where shone the spring is now obscurity ! 
 Regard the world beneath, despairingly. 
 Thou author of delusions, and their hold ! ' 
 
 To which my heart, made valorous and strong 
 Within the school of constant torturing pain, 
 And full of faith since tried by grief and wrong, 
 
 Made answer : ' I see Love from here in wait ! 
 If this be life, my life was not in vain, 
 Nor grief and disillusion were too great. 
 
 127
 
 ANTHERO DE QUENTAL 
 
 DEATH'S MESSAGE 
 
 !J^H ! let the toilers come to me secure ; 
 Oh ! suffer all the suffering to come 
 near; 
 
 And those who, worn by sorrows long and sure, 
 Eye their vain deeds at which they mock and jeer. 
 
 In me the Sufferings harsh that have no cure, 
 Doubt, Passions, Evil, pass and disappear. 
 Griefs torturing pains that pause not, cruel and 
 
 dure, 
 As in an ocean, cease their heads to rear.' 
 
 Such is Death's message. Death, the veiled Word, 
 The interpreter so sacred, though unheard. 
 Of things invisible, and cold as clay, 
 
 Is, in its silence, far more resonant, 
 Far, than the clamorous sea ; more rutilant. 
 More, in its night, than the fair light of day. 
 
 128
 
 SONNETS 
 
 IN THE HAND OF GOD 
 
 ITHIN God's hand, in His right hand, 
 for aye, 
 My wearied heart has found a rest 
 from care. 
 I 've gone down step by step the narrow stair 
 Of the charmed Palace 'neath Illusion's sway. 
 
 And like the flowers, fading in a day, 
 That childish ignorance will vainly wear, 
 The transient forms imperfect (yet so fair !) 
 Of Passion and the Ideal I 've put away. 
 
 E'en as a child that dismal journey goes, 
 Borne at its mother's breast secure from foes, 
 And passes, ever smiling, through and o'er. 
 
 Forests, and desert sands, and oceans deep, — 
 My liberated heart, now take thy sleep 
 Within the hand of God for evermore ! 
 
 129 I
 
 INDEX TO THE SONNETS 
 
 Ignoto Deo, . 
 
 
 
 
 57 
 
 A Lament, . 
 
 
 
 
 58 
 
 To Santos Valente, . 
 
 
 
 
 59 
 
 The Torment of the Ideal, 
 
 
 
 
 60 
 
 To Florido Telles, . 
 
 
 
 
 61 
 
 To Joao de Deus, 
 
 
 
 
 62 
 
 To Alberto Telles, . 
 
 
 
 
 63 
 
 To J. Felix dos Santos 
 
 
 
 
 64 
 
 To Germano Meyrelles 
 
 
 
 
 65 
 
 Ad Amicos, . 
 
 
 
 
 66 
 
 Living Love, 
 
 
 
 
 69 
 
 A Visit, 
 
 
 
 
 70 
 
 Little One, . 
 
 
 
 
 71 
 
 An Eastern Dream, . 
 
 
 
 
 72 
 
 An Idyll, 
 
 
 
 
 73 
 
 The Spirit of Night, 
 
 
 
 
 74 
 
 A Dream, 
 
 
 
 
 75 
 
 Self-Denial, 
 
 
 
 
 . 76 
 
 A Spectre, 
 
 
 
 
 n 
 
 131
 
 ANTHERO DE OUENTAL 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Mother, .,-... 78 
 
 The Palace of Happiness, 
 
 
 
 79 
 
 An Oath, 
 
 
 
 
 80 
 
 Whilst Others Fight, 
 
 
 
 
 81 
 
 Despondency, 
 
 
 
 
 82 
 
 Das Unnenbare, 
 
 
 
 
 83 
 
 A Woman Friend, . 
 
 
 
 
 84 
 
 The Voice of Autumn, 
 
 
 
 
 8S 
 
 A Romantic Burying- Place, 
 
 
 
 
 86 
 
 The Ideal— v., 
 
 
 
 
 89 
 
 VI., . 
 
 
 
 
 90 
 
 VII., . 
 
 
 
 
 91 
 
 VIII., . 
 
 
 
 
 92 
 
 Words of One of the Dead, 
 
 
 
 
 93 
 
 To a Poet, . 
 
 
 
 
 94 
 
 Mors Liberatrix, 
 
 
 
 
 97 
 
 Mors — Amor, 
 
 
 
 
 98 
 
 My Soul, 
 
 
 
 
 99 
 
 The Divine Comedy, 
 
 
 
 
 100 
 
 Nox, . 
 
 
 
 
 lOI 
 
 On the Journey, 
 
 
 
 
 102 
 
 Quia Aeternus, 
 
 
 
 
 103 
 
 In the Whirlwind 
 
 
 
 
 104 
 
 Ignotus, 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 . los 
 
 In the Circus, 
 
 
 
 
 106 
 
 Nirvana, 
 
 
 
 
 . 107 
 
 Transcendentalism, . 
 
 
 
 
 III 
 
 132
 
 INDEX TO T 
 
 HE 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Evolution, . . . . . .112 
 
 In Praise of Death— I., 
 
 
 
 
 113 
 
 II-, 
 
 
 
 
 114 
 
 III-, - 
 
 
 
 
 "5 
 
 IV., 
 
 
 
 
 116 
 
 v., 
 
 
 
 
 117 
 
 VI., 
 
 
 
 
 118 
 
 Lacrymae Rerum, 
 
 
 
 
 119 
 
 Redemption — I., 
 
 
 
 
 
 120 
 
 II., 
 
 
 
 
 
 121 
 
 Strife, 
 
 
 
 
 
 122 
 
 Logos, 
 
 
 
 
 
 123 
 
 With the Dead, 
 
 
 
 
 
 124 
 
 Oceano Nox, 
 
 
 
 
 
 125 
 
 Communion, 
 
 
 
 
 
 126 
 
 Solemnia Verba, 
 
 
 
 
 
 127 
 
 Death's Message, 
 
 
 
 
 
 128 
 
 In the Hand of God, 
 
 
 
 
 
 129 
 
 'JJ
 
 ERRATA 
 
 p. 21, 1. 6^for Falcao read Falcao 
 p. 60, 11. 2 and 3 — read 
 
 . . . As from a mountain he 
 
 That looks sees earth and ocean's emper)', 
 p. 61, 11. 7 and B—read 
 
 And their pursuer foolish, volatile. 
 
 As he who leaves his fair in pleasure's name, 
 p. 64, 1. 2>—fo>^ vi'retchedst read wretchedest 
 p. 66, 1. i-^—for Destiny read Fate above 
 p. 69, 1. I —for has some read speaks of 
 p. 69, 1. II — read As though it came of idle fancy's play : 
 p. 79, 1. 6— for armour insecure read and my mail unsure, 
 p. 80, 1. 7— for who 's left read condemned 
 p. 80, 1. 12 — read I swear that I have seen and felt afraid 
 p. 80, 1. 14 — read 
 
 More fierce than childish laughter ne'er have seen, 
 p. 91, 11. 5 and 6 — read 
 
 The bridal of Desire in ecstasy 
 
 With joy at last, etc. 
 p. 97, 1. 2— read Girt round by coal-black armour for the fight, 
 p. loi, 1. i—for to thee 7'ead toward thee 
 p. 104, 1. \2,~for spirit r^rt^ sport 
 
 p. 119, 1. 2— read How often have I questioned eagerly, 
 p. 120, 1. 2,— fit" so mighteous /"Crt^ altisonous, 
 p. 124, 1. B—for meet my sight read come to light 
 p. 124, 1. 14 — read In union with the eternal Good for aye. 
 p. 129, 11, 7 and 8 — read 
 
 The transient forms of Passioning and fair, 
 
 With old Ideals, I have put away.
 
 Edinburgh : T. and A. Constable 
 Printers to Her Majesty
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 QLfvPR 5^976 
 
 Form L9-Series 444 
 
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 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 447 158 7
 
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