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ANTHERO DE OUEXTAL
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ANTHERO DE OUENTAL
3& '
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.
X
LONDON
Published by DAVID NUTT
in the Strand
Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable
Printers to Her Majesty
T O M V F RIEN I) S
THEOPHILO BRAGA
LUCIANO CORDKIRO, JOAQUIM DE ARAUJO
XAVIER DA CL'NHA, JAYME BATALHA REIS
TOMMASO CANXIZZARO, GORAN BJORKMAN
MAXIME FORMONT
i* \< I- l a c i
\
-
NCOURAGED y
///6 7 ready welcome
given to my version
of the ' Lett res de
la Rel intense Par-
tugaise,' 1 which was an attempt
to bring one of the masterpieces
of Portuguese literature to the
not ice of Englishmen, I now in-
troduce a very different character
1 The I a It, >:- of a for/ it ;n :, A'uit \Ma> iaiina AhoforaJo).
Ti.!ii-l.;<:<l l.v I : 'i I'ii '.';;<'. London, iXo ;.
A NTHERO D E OUENTAL
from the love-lorn Nun of Beja.
Anthero de Ouental, the Philo-
sopher-Mystic, is one of the tliree
distinguished poets that Portugal
has produced in this century the
others being A Imeida Garrett and
folio de Deus and his Sonnets
are, excepting those of Camocns,
the finest in the language. As
regards their subject, they illus-
trate some important phases of
modern European thought as well
as sJww the various philosophical
stages through which their autlior
passed, while in form they are
perfect of their kind, Anthero
having, like Petrarch, spent years
over the labor liniae. Critics, to
P R E F A C E
quote the words of Ant hero him-
self, will be interested to observe
in them the effects of Germanism
on the unprepared mind of a South
European, and the poems, as he
suggests, cannot fail to attract the
attention of all who study the com-
parative psychology of nations.
Their exceptional merit has
indeed been already widely recog-
nised, and translations of the
whole or a part of them exist in
French, Swedish, Italian, German,
and Spanish, while a Polish ver-
sion is understood to be in prepara-
tion. Such being the case, it is
unfortunate that they should not
yet have found an English trans-
A NT HERO DE OUENTAL
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 1 I have selected sixty-
four for translation here. My
aim 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 Souetos Completos de Anthero tie Quental. Publicados
porj. P. Oliveira Martin-;. Porto, 1886. 2nd ed. 1890.
P R E FACE
interest or merit . But nearly all
are worthy of an English dress, at
least front one point of view,
namely, that they form a com-
mentary on the intellectual life of
the poet, and enable us to under-
stand better one of the most re-
markable men of the time, called,
not inaptly, the Portuguese Heine.
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 necessary, 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
ANT HERO DE QUENTAL
of a mere Parnassian, but of a
Philosopher who laid bare his
thoughts, and a My s tie who re-
corded his dreams in this par-
ticular form. Nearly all of them
are here published for the first
time, the only exceptions being
six reprinted from the 'Academy,'
and a few others that have already
appeared in Portuguese papers.
The portrait facing the title-
page is reproduced from a photo-
graph taken shortly before An-
t herds death, and I am indebted
to Senhor Oliveira Martins for the
loan of the original.
The Introduction, which is only
designed to supplement the Auto-
PREFACE
biography, will, I hope, be found
to contain sufficient about the life
and work of the poet for a due
comprehension of his Sonnets.
Following this conies the Auto-
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, a] id Mr.
Oliver Elton of Owens College,
Manchester, for many a suggestion
and emendation ; but for their
A N T H E R O D E OUENTAL
kindly help the present version
would have been far more lame
and faulty than it actually is.
EDGAR PRESTAGE.
Chiltern, Bowdon, 1894.
CO XT I- \ TS
I'AGE
PREFACE, . . . vii
INTRODUCTION. i
AUTOBIOGRAII! . . . 25
THE SONNETS. . -55
INDEX TO THE SONNETS,
INTRODUCTION
Only a breath divides faith and unfaith,
only a breath divides belief from doubt.
Omak Khayyam.
I N T RODUCT10N
Ave da morte, que piando agouros
Tinges nieus ares de funereo Into !
Ave da morte (que em teus ais a escuto)
Mens dias murcharas, mas nao mens louros :
Doou me Phebo aos seculos vindouros,
Ueponho a tlor da vida, e guardo o fructo,
Pagando em vil materia um vao trihuto,
Retenho a posse de immortaes thesouros.
Bot'AGK, Sonnet cccxlviii.
NTHERO DE QUENTAL
was born in the year 1842
at St. Michael in the
Azores, an island that has
given distinguished writers
to modern Portugal, in-
cluding Theophilo Braga ' and our Poet.
1 This Introduction is founded on Dr. Theophilo Braga's
exhaustive work As Modcnias Ideias na I.ittcratura 1'ortn-
'{ncza, Lishoa, i S93, as well as on Senhor Oliveira Martins'
Preface to the Soiittos Completo .
A NT HERO 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
ANTHER O DE OUENTAL
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 1 (i860- 1 862), 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
1 The Sonnets published by Senhor Oliveira Martins in
the Sonetos Coniplelos 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
A N T II E R O D E 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 ingenium 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 Consideracbes
INTRODUCTION
sobre a Philosophia 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
CJidtiments. 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
A NT HERO 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
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. 1 Castilho was a man of
1 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 1). fayme of Thomaz Ribeiro.
ANTHERO DE QUENTAL
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 Lcgcnde des Siccles, 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
'3
A NT HERO 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. 1
1 Anthero was a student of Dante, and translated part of
Canto VI. of the Purgatorio 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
A N T HERO D E Q U E X T A L
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 OHveira 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,' 1
when he was dragged from retirement to
1 This League was founded after the British Ultimatum of
January 1S90, 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 [us'ice was understood by our statesmen. Had
(Barrett been alive at the time lie would assuredly have
erased from his Camoes the lines in which he names
Kngland ' senhora de justica.'
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 Quental, 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 1 ith, 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 I lugo :
' Un poctc est un monde enferme dans un homme.'
His religious ideal, if so it may be called,
'9
ANT HERO 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.
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.' l
1 'Toda a descricam consiste
em saber homem com cedo
que nenhum prazer faz ledo
pois o seer da vida he triste.'
Cantieas
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
' Tutti gli uomini d'ogni sorte, che hanno fatto qualche
cosa che sia virtuosa, o si veramente che le virtu
soinigli, doverieno, essendo veritieri e da bene, di
lor propia mano descrivere la loro vita.'
Vita di Benvenuto Cellini, lib. I.
U' TO HI CM", RAP MY
ponta delgada,
Island of St. Michael, Azores,
14M May 1887.
EAR SIR, 1 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 (ierman translator of the Sonnets, as men-
tioned in the Preface. Dr. Theophilo Braga printed it from
the MS. in his A'u/os dc extimla lie, Lisboa, 1892, and it is
here translated verbatim, save for a few lines at the begin-
ning and end, that consist of personal references ami only
concern the addressee.
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
ANT HERO 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
2S
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, Ouinet, 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-
1 Defensa da Carta Encyclica de S.S. Pio IX. contra a
chamada opinido 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 1 87 1. It is
entitled A Letter to His Excellency the
Marquis of Avila and Bolama, concerning
his Edict putting an cud to the Conferences
at the Lisbon Casino. 1 These democratic
1 Carta ao Ex'" Marquez dc Avila e Bolama, sot) re a
Portaria que mandou fechar as Conferencias do Casino
lisbonense.
3'
ANTHERO DE QUE NT A L
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
ANT HERO DE OUENTAL
measures. Inde irae. I opened fire with
a pamphlet, Sound Sense and Good Taste:
a Letter to Mr. A. F. de Casttl/io. 1 This
was followed up by Theophilo Braga, and
after him by many others ; la melee devint
generate. 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
1 legel 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 sen so e Bom gosto : aula 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
hist. 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
A N T 1 1 E RO D E O U E N T A L
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 end
of the latter year I published the pamphlet
Portugal in face of the Spanish Revolution.' 1
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 Let {/'as c as Litteraturas officiae
Lishoa, 1865.
- Portugal perante a Revohtcao de Hespanha.
A L* T O 1U O G R A PHY
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 Feninsular 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 scries of studies
in a little volume under the title of Re-
1 Di-icurso -oiir, as rausus da iktadcncia Jo* Povoi penin
It SarC 110: , 11 /c AT//. , XVI II.
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
1 Considcracbes sobre a Philosophia da Historia Litteraria
Fortngneza [a propositi) (Talgmis livros receiites), por Anthero
de Quental. Porto-Braya, 1872.
A U T O B I O G R A P II Y
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 brief!}', 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.
A N T H E R O D E QUENT A L
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 the)- 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
1 Primaveras Ronianticas. Versos dos vinte annos
(1S61-1864) por Anthem de Quental. Porto, 1872.
40
A U T O B I O G R A P H Y
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 Monarch}-, and the great
men of the world are apostrophised by him
in the character of an ideal leveller. In other
1 (>i,- Motkrna-, 1^1 L'llilinii 1 SO ^ , 2nd edition 1S75.
H
A NT HERO 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 1 ^e 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
AUTOBIOGRA P H Y
In that same year of 1874 I feU 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
problem 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 man)' others that I
afterwards destroyed those only remaining
which Olivcira 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
4 5
ANT HERO 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
44
A I' T O HI O G R A P H Y
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 1
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
4 6
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
A N THERO DE Q U E N T A L
call my philosophy. My friend Olivcira
Martins has made mc out a Buddhist. 1
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
] Vide Preface to the Sonctos CompLtos.
4 S
A U T O R I O G R A P H Y
but on more lasting foundations, and under
conditions in ever)- 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.
Hut I shall also die, after a life so full of
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
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
entries demands, it accompanies the succes-
sive phases of my life, 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 1 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,
ndeed, is said to have been of French origin.
5>
ANT HERO 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.
5^
THE SONNETS
i860 1862
Chorosos versos metis . . .
Se os ditosos vos lerem sem ternura,
Ler vos hfto com termini os desgracados.
BOCAGE, Sonnet II.
IGNOTO DEO
^r-n|^7HAT mortal loveliness is like to thee,
f 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 :
I'ure 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 !
ANTHERO DE QUENTAL
A LAMENT
li^A*-^ SEA of light descends the mountain-
W^iVc side ;
J^^J^kjJ 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 ;
I 'm like a son reft of his heritage !
5S
SONNETS
TO SANTOS VALENTE
J^T^'OW small through life the cup of
i^llrtr * pleasure is !
,^*/'(('^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 QUENTAL
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
S O N N E T S
TO FLORIDO TELLES
^T^ 4* F power I compare or gold or fame,
Good fortunes that conceal a wicked
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 '
ANTHERO DE QUENTAL
TO JOAO DE DEUS
~ A * F 'tis a law which rules o'er thought
obscure
That searching after verity is vain,
That in light'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
^ 1a* J/, LONE ! the hermit on the mountain-
b^vf side
^^r - 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 life,
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 '
ANT HERO DE QUENTAL
TO J. FELIX DOS SANTOS
tj^TA^LWAYS the future, and the present
^^J^g q^ De t hi s hour of life 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
SONNE T S
TO GERMANO MEYRELLES
J LLS only meet us, nought but grief
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 !
ANTHERO DE OUENTAL
AD AMICOS
^Tl a'N v ^in we strive. As in a misty space
jv^liv V The uncertainty of things our mind
>*V\*> 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 :
Xor the sun's lifted torch its strength deprive ;
For wiiat can heavenly bodies do, at best,
Against the weakest loves . . . if they 're alive ?
()
ANTHER O DE QUENTAL
A VISIT
rtlTH prickly thistle-flowers my room
was starred,
fi 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
%'VwvV KNOW they call thee l little one'
full oft,
_j^*X~* 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,
Hut that thy breast should be my kingdom dear,
And all thy dolls my subjects this I do !
ANT HERO DE QUENTAL
AN EASTERN DREAM
"ty A*"<r^ times I dream I rule an isle of mine
'^ykA^ Far distant, planted in an Eastern
v^v-^s*-^ , 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,
j Lilies 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.
7.5
ANTHER O DE QUENTAL
THE SPIRIT OF NIGHT
vZ/~^ ^PIRIT that passest, when the wind
^L'^HTri sleeps low
aw
Q^^S^m 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
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 >hould 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 !
ANTHERO DE QUENTAL
SELF-DENIAL
hffi/jrLA-Y rose an d lily rain thy neck
.W|> around !
f^K^'^*;V ^ n ^ ma y tn y sou l t> e 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
^>M1
YjNE day, my love for now I see it
loom,
J^^^P 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 1 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,
KiS-f^laif 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 !
7S
SONNETS
THE PALACE OF HAPPINESS
*^*y^^N dreams an Errant Knight I seem
## tobe -
,^vT^.>V Through deserts, under suns, by
night obscure,
Love's paladin, I search for eagerly
The enchanted house of Happiness secure !
Put 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 1 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
^t5*^" thought,
^Jkx^l 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 !
So
SONNETS
WHILST OTHERS FIGHT
^nf^^ERE I to grasp the sword the valiant
W&+. bear '
. 0^J[/ ^ 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,
( )f this my sterile youth and colourless !
Si i'
ANTHERO D E OUENTAL
DESPONDENCY
%^^^H let it go, the bird from which
viJ*^!^ they 've ta'en
TJ^SJf 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
^Vr^'HIMERA, thou that passest cradled
fo# ngHt
; : *^=s: * 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 fa< e !
ANTHERO DE QUENTAL
A WOMAN FRIEND
^l^ip'iY dear ones have been scattered by
Ay 1'^ some wind,
f^J^Sj^A I see them not, I know not where
they wone,
I stretch my arms out when the light 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 !
SONNETS
THE VOICE OF AUTUMN
WT. *C~ 1ST thou, my wearied heart, attentively,
To Nature's voice and words to thee,
<Tr^r m ~^ \ 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 ! '
ANTIIERO DE OUENTAL
A ROMANTIC r.URYING-PLACE
jr^VTHERE the great sea breaks, with a
r\ swirl and roar
f$ 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
[8641874
THE IDEAL
i
$ 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 eartli
Than this disdainful virgin, icy pure !
89
ANTHERO DE OUENTAL
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
S O N N ETS
VII
^x^V'tll what a wondrous marriage that will
$$ bc!
5^Z*C*f 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 our right '
ANTHERO DE QUENTAL
J/UT
VIII
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
^i-rT^'VE lain here dead upon the mountain
^\^Y crest
-^y*^** 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,
(lave altars and a cult . . . they worshipped me
As though I had been Some one I just as though
Life could be Some one ! afterwards, oh woe !
Thev said I was a Ciod . . . and shrouded me !
93
ANT HERO DE QUENTAL
TO A POET
^Vr^i'. ALM spirit, that beneath the cedar-tree
f^w^' Bent down with years, art resting,
An /^
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
1874 i^8o
SONNETS
MORS LIBERATRIX
TTHIN thine hand, O sombre cavalier,
All girt about with armour black as
"4 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 <
ANT HERO DE OUENTAL
MORS AMOR
k 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
if* RIM Death was there a little way
ahead,
*^-^ p> 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 vet 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.'
ANTHERO DE QUENTAL
THE DIVINE COMEDY
I EN lift their arms to heaven from out
[f y 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 ? '
SONNETS
N O X
/f~>Z'5 NIGHT, my thoughts fly to thee and
^fv wJv thy reisn '
5s\^^ft When, by the cruel glare of day, I
see
So much vain striving, so much agony,
So many hitter 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 !
IOl
ANT HERO DE OUENTAL
ON THE JOURNEY
5(/rgP0N tne narrow path, near which 'tis
<f I V^ws *\ rare
w|Sn4p
j}%~2\} 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 !
S O N NETS
QUIA AETERNUS
rvrr^./HOU hast not died, though vain
l?i\l philosophy
^J^V^K, 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 !
I low oft it haps that, as they raise the glass,
They pause, and. trembling, pallid grow for fear !
ANTHER O 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 ! '
"5
ANT HERO DE QUENTAL
IN THE CIRCUS
^V-^TTiAR hence, and yet I know not when
, JrtuLV
, vK"?^ *> or where
j ^_^-^J 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 !
io5
SONNETS
NIRVANA
^-if^^MEYOND this Universe so luminous,
^rr~*\' ^ ^ ^ f rccs ant ^ ot forms,
- 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 limitless,
It only sees, o'crcome by weariness,
That all things arc illusory and vain '
107
i8So 1884
T R AN S CE N D E N T AL I S M
vf^) O^ tnat ^ ie str ^ e i s ' er > m peaceful
state
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 !
1 1 1
ANTHER O DE QUENTAL
EVOLUTION
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.
SONNETS
IN PRAISE OF DEATH
'"^V^^V^FT the Inconscient, at night's mid-
Jfk'C^li most pace,
2&zS^f 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 late 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.
i i ; n
ANT HERO DE QUENTAL
^Jjyvfv/r^Y painful thoughts immure themselves
s
w^j 1.'^ an< ^ me,
^^-.V-~4 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
S O N NETS
SWVi^A^KNOW not who thou art, yet do not
V vli 1 seek,
C^*X*^^ 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 consoliny Beatrice here below '
ANTHERO DE QUENTAL
IV
GUESSED not long (what mist in-
vincible
i$^i>v) 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 !
116
SONNETS
G/^5* PECTRE austere, how shall I name
^2JUJ thee, pray,
^2^^, 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 '
ANTHER O DE QUENTAL
nttif^ K only whom Non-being doth affright
^TlMr* Feareth thy silence vast and raor-
.^'R'ila 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.
nS
SONNETS
LACRYMAE RERUM
NIGHT, Death's sister, Reason's
constant mate,
[o\v 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 antl 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.
ny
ANTHERO DE QUENTAL
REDEMPTION
''tyj^t 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 !
1 20
SONNETS
(*X^4j^?E oceans, winds, and woods, mourn
^iVO^ not your doom,
^r\ll^^ Ye ancient choir of voices mur-
muring,
Of voices primitive and saddening
E'en as the wail of spectres from the tomb.
Where glimmering 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.
I 21
ANTHERO DE QUENTAL
STRIFE
?&)> IGH.T slumbers resting on the hilly
steep.
J) 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, vvhilome 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
j^ HOU whom I see not, yet who art
quite close,
'$JPjflil 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 '
12}
ANT HERO 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, like a thought that soars on high,
And seeks, yet hesitates, all fitfully,
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 hitter cry makes answer, nought besides.
12-,
ANTHER O DE QUENTAL
COMMUNION
^jfjgJ^>ETHINK thee now, my soul, for I '11
>jt^f.-<- repress
jL-|^i 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
^f}^f\ 4^ TO my heart : ' Regard the manifold
3vT?I}j' And useless paths we took! Look
r<#v^>^ 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
ANT HERO DE QUENTAL
DEATH'S MESSAGE
cT/^^v^i H " et tne t0 ^ ers come to me secure ;
Vjk'*^l ^ Oh ! suffer all the suffering to come
*$/
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.
Grief's 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 HANI) OF GOD
'-^-rjr^V ITHIX God's hand, in His right hand,
'. J^MJL , 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 clay,
That childish ignorance will vainly wear.
The transient forms imperfect (yet so fair !)
Of Passion and the Ideal I've put away.
Cen as a child that dismal journey goes,
Pome 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 '
I2<) !
INDEX TO THE SONNETS
Ignoto Deo, .
A Lament,
To Santos Yalente, .
The Torment of the Ideal,
To Florido Telles,
To Joao de Deus,
To Alberto Telles,
To J. Felix dos Santos
To (Jermano Mey relies
Ad Amicos, .
Living Love,
A Visit,
Little One, .
An Eastern Dream, .
An Idyll,
The Spirit of Night,
A 1 >ream,
Self-Denial,
A Spectre,
PAGE
57
5*
59
6o
6i
62
63
64
65
66
69
70
7'
7-'
7.3
74
ANT HERO DE OUENTAL
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,
85
A Romantic Burying-Place,
86
The Ideal V.,
89
VI.,
90
VII.,
9i
VIII., .
92
Words of One of the Dead,
93
To a Poet,
94
Mors Lilreratrix,
97
Mors Amor,
98
My Soul,
99
The Divine Comedy,
100
Nox, .
IOI
On the Journey,
102
Quia Aeternus,
103
In the Whirlwind
j 04
Ignotus,
105
In the Circus,
106
Nirvana,
107
Transcendentalism, .
1 I !
INDEX TO THE SONNETS
PAGE
Evolution, . . . . . .112
In Praise of Death I.,
113
II.,
II 4
III.,
"5
IV.,
116
v.,
117
VI.,
118
Lacrymae Rerum,
119
Redemption I.,
120
II.,
121
Strife,
122
Logos,
. I2 3
With the Dead,
124
Oceano Nox,
125
Communion,
126
Solemnia Verba,
127
Death's Message,
12S
In the Hand of God,
129
A. Ci "'.-. r \ii.
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