"Well mightest shorn of rays, O Sun! appear to fiends like these on day so dark and dire; as when Thyestes ate the meats that were his seed, whom Atreus slew to spite their sire. And you, O hollow Valleys! doomed to hear her latest cry from stiffening lips expire-- her Pedro's name,--did catch that mournful sound, whose echoes bore it far and far around! "E'en as Daisy sheen, that hath been shorn in time untimely, floret fresh and fair, and by untender hand of maiden torn to deck the chaplet for her wreathèd hair; gone is its odor and its colours mourn; So pale and faded lay that Ladye there; dried are the roses of her cheek, and fled the white live color, with her dear life dead. "Mondego's daughter-Nymphs the death obscure wept many a year, with wails of woe exceeding; and for long mem'ry changed to fountain pure the floods of grief their eyes were ever feeding: The name they gave it, which doth still endure, revived Ignèz, whose murthered love lies bleeding, see yon fresh fountain flowing 'mid the flowers, tears are its waters, and its name 'Amores!'[12] "Time ran not long, ere Pedro saw the day of vengeance dawn for wounds that ever bled; who, when he took in hand the kingly sway, eke took the murth'erers who his rage had fled: Them a most cruel Pedro did betray; for both, if human life the foemen dread, made concert savage and dure pact, unjust as Lepidus made with Anthony' and Augustus." [6] Viriatus. [7] Valdevez, or Campo da Matança, A.D. 1128 (Canto iv. 16). [8] Battle of Ourique, A.D. 1139. [9] _I. e._, disclose Thyself; show a sign. [10] Alfonso IV. (1325-1357). [11] Writing his name upon the tree-trunks and leaves. [12] The famous _Fonte-dos-Amores_, near Coimbra. THE CANZON OF LIFE I Come here! my confidential Secretary Of the complaints in which my days are rife, Paper,--whereon I gar my griefs o'erflow. Tell we, we twain, Unreasons which in life Deal me inexorable, contrary Destinies surd to prayer and tearful woe. Dash we some water-drops on muchel lowe, Fire we with outcries storm of rage so rare That shall be strange to mortal memory. Such misery tell we To God and Man, and eke, in fine, to air, Whereto so many times did I confide My tale and vainly told as I now tell; But e'en as error was my birthtide-lot, That this be one of many doubt I not. And as to hit the butt so far I fail E'en if I sinnèd her cease they to chide: Within mine only Refuge will I 'bide To speak and faultless sin with free intent. Sad he so scanty mercies must content! II