LEAVES FROM THE

OLIVE.-NO.

IN noticing the poets of Portugal according to their chronological order, we have now reached the era of Camoens (who was born in 1524); but it is not our intention to make that prince of Lusitanian bards the subject of a paper; and our omission is in fact a mark of our high respect for his fame, and our great appreciation of his genius. We do not include Camoens in our series, because our object is to introduce to the reader those poets who, though renowned (and deservedly) in their own country, are comparatively but little known beyond the Peninsula-their language not being so generally studied as that of Spain, France, Italy, or Germany. But the fame of Camoens is worldwide-it is familiar to thousands who have scarcely heard even the name of any other Portuguese author; nay, who almost believe him to be the sole (as he is the brightest) genius of his native land. All the details that could be collected of his romantic and most unhappy life have been frequently published, and are often alluded to, and we are ourselves unable to add anything new to that which is already trite. We must, then, pass on to one who, in his time, enjoyed no small degree of fame in his native country.

ANTONIO FERREIRA, born at Lisbon in December, 1528, was the son of Martin Ferreira, knight of the order of San Jago (St. James), and agent to Don George, Duke of Coimbra, a natural son of King John II. The life of Antonio Ferreira, uneventful like that of Sà de Miranda,* was but the simple and almost monotonous life of a literary man of quiet, unromantic character, and in competent circumstances. In his time, the road to preferment in Portugal was through the temple of Astræa; and Antonio's father sent him to study law at the University of Coimbra, then flourishing under the auspices of John III. The young student applied himself to his profession with so much diligence, that at an early age he filled a professor's chair, with the degree of doctor,

V.

and gave lectures on jurisprudence. But his professional occupations did not divert him from the pursuit of literature, and especially poetry.

An affectation of depreciating the vernacular poetry was then gaining ground among the educated classes of the Portuguese. The students of Coimbra were in the habit of making Latin their poetic medium; and Spanish was largely adopted for the same purpose by many writers of note. But Ferreira, filled with a spirit of patriotism, was determined on being loyal to his mother tongue, employing no other in his writings, and endeavouring to persuade his fellow-countrymen to follow his example. In an introductory stanza, with which he headed the first collection of his poems, he says

TO THE TRUE-HEARTED.

To you alone, true patriot souls, I sing— For you and for the muses tune my lyre; To Love the tribute of my sighs I bring,

My sighs, fraught with his passion and

his fire.

Take to your faithful bearts my offering, The native strains that Phoebus deigns

inspire:

All that I ask of Fame is but to tell,
I loved my country and her children well.

But Ferreira was scarcely so wholly national as he intended to be. He had such a predilection for the classic style and metres, and for the structure of Italian verse (he was a proficient in Greek, Latin, and Italian), that he used them in preference to the Redondillas, and other national metres. It was his aim to be a poet on the classic type, and to be esteemed for correct language and a highly-polished style. His genius had dignity, but neither sublimity nor originality; his taste was generally sound, but his fancy circumscribed. His favourite model was Horace, whence he has been called the Portuguese Horace; but he did not equal his Roman prototype in terseness or lightness. In fact he is considered rather to have copied than imitated the Odes of Horace; yet many of Ferreira's odes have been greatly

admired for their structure and their elegance.

While at an early age, and before he left the university, he composed the greater number of the one hundred and thirteen sonnets that appear among his works. These sonnets are of different degrees of merit-some are graceful and pathetic, some cold and diffuse, some disfigured by conceits. The best (at least the most touching among them) are those dedicated to the object of his first love, whom he celebrates under the appellation of Marilia. Her real name we have not found recorded, nor indeed any particulars relating to her, save that Ferreira was deprived of her by her untimely death. We attempt the

translation of two of those sonnets, which are generally the most admired.

SONNET TO MARILIA.

When tenderly I sing thy name so dear (Thy name of love, my strain's enchanting theme),

Earth, ocean, air, bird, flow'ret, leaf, and

stream,

That blest and soft-ton'd word rejoice to hear. Then on the azure sky no clouds appear;

The list'ner then forgets all pain and woe; The sun (or setting Tagus' waves below Or rising) shines with ray more warm and dear.

The world rejoices, smiles, is renovate;

No star malignant rules-no pain nor ill. Alas! I only weep my hapless fate

All else are blest; but sorrow haunts me
still.

O miracle of love! the charm I see
Giving new life to all, brings death to me.

The following was written after the loss of the poet's beloved one:

But all too pure for this ignoble sphere,
She fled, and left it, O how dark and drear!)
Nymphs that with sweet and joyous strains
so late

Our loves, our happy loves, did celebrate, Now mourn your loss, my bitter griefs deplore;

Weep, weep with me, and smile and sing no

more.

Let the grass die on hill, the flowers on plain, The turbid fount flow never clear again.

We translate the following sonnet merely as a specimen of the fantastic ideas into which Ferreira, in violation of his usual good taste, could be seduced by the example of Italian Concetti :

SONNET.

Who hath seen burning snow, or fire like mine?

Cold while it flames!-what living man e'er stood

Within Death's gate, singing in joyous mood?

My words seem but wild ravings to combine. Tell it, Mondego† of the gentle tide,

Thou see'st, hearest, and dost weep for me; Tell it, ye nymphs who list so faithfully To those fond secrets that my lips confide; Thou, Love, that dwellest here-tell, for ye know,

How burns the fire that glances from mine

The talents of Ferreira acquired for him a large circle of admirers and friends, among whom were Diogo Tieve, Professor of Ancient Literature at Coimbra; Sà de Miranda, himself a celebrity; and some disciples of his poetic school, particularly Diogo Bernardes, Jeronymo Cortereal, and Pedro Andrade de Caminha. These three latter attached themselves in an especial manner to Ferreira, not only as literary but also as personal friends; and during his life the closest intimacy subsisted between them, and they testified for him unabated respect and affection. They submitted to Ferreira their works for correction, gladly adopting his suggestions; and they made him and each other the theme of such frequent and such long encomiums in verse, that it is difficult to find extracts from their epistles and eclogues, capable of interesting readers in general. It is certainly commendable that no literary jealousies ever marred this friendship and confidence; but it appears to us that they privately considered themselves pretty equally matched with each other in the poetic arena (for ourselves we esteem Bernardes the foremost in genius of the group). But while the four were praising each other, and extolling Ferreira, their great cotemporary, Camoens, was passed over by them (except by Bernardes) without the notice, much less the homage, that was due. We can but suspect that they saw his superiority too clearly, and were not anxious to call attention to it.

After a time Ferreira became tired of his university life, and desirous of establishing himself at court, as a more brilliant sphere for his talents, and he left Coimbra for his native city, Lisbon. There his ambition was gratified by the post of Judge of the Council of Grace, and the appointment of Gentleman of the Royal Household. Notwithstanding his official duties, he continued to write, and to polish his writings with his usual diligence.

The judgment of critics on the works of Ferreira is, generally speaking, to the following effect. His epistles are among the best of his poems; they are polished in diction, generous and patriotic in spirit, moral, and earnestly didactic; but too large a proportion

consists of laudations of individuals of

merely local fame. His elegies have pleasing descriptive passages, and are graceful and sentimental. His odes display a highly-cultivated style and much dignity, but little elevation, and are often not truly lyric. His eclogues are diffuse, and frequently insipid, and have been made too much the vehicles of individual panegyrics. His genius was, in truth, by no means of a pastoral turn. Though Ferreira was an oracle among men who were learned, or who professed to be so, there was a tinge of pedantry, a sort of Latinized air, in his writings, which prevented his being a popular poet in the wide sense of the word.

From an eclogue of Ferreira's, entitled "Tityro," the subject of which is a panegyric on Sà de Miranda, we extract a cantiga, sung in alternate stanzas by two shepherds, with which the eclogue concludes :

:

CANTIGA.

SERRANO.

My Lesbia, say how this can be?
My heart, all flame, still follows thee:
And thou, cold, chilly ever,
Hast chang'd me to a river.
Behold! its tide swells ceaselessly.

CASTALIO.

Behold! its tide swells ceaselessly
With tears, regrets-Hope's vain desire:
Turbid with tears it floweth,
Murmuring with grief it goeth;
Yet warm'd by Love's unquenching fire.

SERRANO.

Warm'd by my Love's unquenching fireColder thy heart than snow congeal'd;

Harder than stone that beareth Not water's force, but wearethE'en marble to my tears would yield.

CASTALIO.

Yea, marble to my tears would yield.
But ah! Crinora, still the more

I seek thee, woo thee, love thee, The less my sorrows move thee: Thy heart is hardening to its core.

SERRANO.

My Lesbia, thine is beauty rare;
The sun less radiant, moon less fair;

The stars less lovely, sparkling When midnight skies are darkling; Less sweet the flowers Spring loves to wear.