Although his learning, his piety, and the austerity of his life, caused him to be regarded with universal respect, yet he had enemies, the result, probably, of his very excellencies. These took advantage of a slight imprudence he had committed, to plunge him into the most frightful misfortune. He greatly loved and admired Hebrew poetry; and, to please a friend, who did not understand the learned languages, he translated into Spanish, and commented upon, the Song of Solomon. His friend was heedless enough to permit copies to be taken, and it thus became spread abroad. Who was the machinator of the disaster that ensued we are not told; but he was accused before the tribunal of the inquisition of heresy, for disobeying the commands of the church, in translating Scripture into the vulgar tongue. He was seized, and thrown into the prison of the inquisition, at Valladolid, in the year 1572. Here he remained five years, suffering all the hardships of a rigorous and cruel confinement. Confined in a dungeon, without light or space--cut off from communication with his friends--allowed no measures of defence--hope seemed shut out from him, while all means of occupation were denied him. His pious mind found consolation in religion. He could turn to the objects of his worship, implore their aid, and trust to the efficacy of their intercession before God. Sometimes, however, his heart failed him, and it was complaints rather than prayers that he preferred. His odes to the Virgin were written during this disastrous period; and among them that from which we have already quoted, in which he pathetically describes and laments the extremity of adversity to which he was reduced. The whole ode in Spanish is full of pathos, and gentle, yet deep-felt lamentation, a few stanzas may give some idea of the acuteness of his sufferings. Thus he speaks of the hopeless, lingering evils of his imprisonment:-- If I look back, I feel a wild despair--[24] I shrink with terror from the coming days, For they will mirror but the hideous past; While heavy and intolerable weighs The evil load of all that now I bear; Nor have I hope but it will ever last-- The arrows come so fast; I feel a deadly wound, And, shudd'ring, look around; And as the blood, rushing all warm, doth flow, Behold! another, and another blow! While they who deal to me such fierce annoy. Rejoice to see my woe-- Lamenting still they do not quite destroy! To what poor wretch did heaven e'er deny Leave to declare the misery he feels? Laments can ease the weight of heaviest chain; But cruel fate with me so harshly deals, Stifling within my lips the gushing cry, So that aloud I never may complain: For, could I tell my pain, What heart were hard enough, Though made of sternest stuff, Tiger or basilisk, or serpent dread, That would not gentle tears of pity shed, Symbols of tender sorrow for my woes? The while by hatred fed, Fate's hostile fury ever fiercer grows.