XII.
As a fond mother, whose sick infant lies
Weeping, importunate for what she knows
If giv'n will double all his pangs and woes,
In tenderest mercy his desire denies;
Till, moved to pity by his streaming eyes,
She can withstand no longer, but in haste
Submits the flavourous mischief to his taste,
And seals his ruin, though she stills his cries;
So to my sick and frenzied thoughts that yearn
And plead to me for thee, I would deny
The fatal fruit with merciful concern;
But night and day they murmur, weep, and pine,
Till I, alas, consent to soothe their cry,
Forgetful of their death, and ev'n of mine!
XIII.
If lamentations and complaints could rein
The course of rivers as they rolled along,
And move on desert hills, attired in song,
The savage forests, if they could constrain
Fierce tigers and chill rocks to entertain
The sound, and with less urgency than mine,
Lead tyrant Pluto and stern Proserpine,
Sad and subdued with magic of their strain;
Why will not my vexatious being, spent
In misery and in tears, to softness soothe
A bosom steeled against me? with more ruth
An ear of rapt attention should be lent
The voice of him that mourns himself for lost,
Than that which sorrowed for a forfeit ghost!
XIV. EPITAPH ON HIS BROTHER, D. FERNANDO DE GUZMAN,
Who died of the Pestilence at Naples, in the twentieth year of his age, serving in the army of the Emperor against the French.