“How shall our voices, on a foreign shore,”
(We answer’d those whose chains the exile wore,)
“The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew?
If I forget, midst grief and wasting toil,
Thee, O Jerusalem! my native soil!
May my right hand forget its cunning too!”
SONNET 128.
“Huma admiravel herva se conhece.”
There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour to hour
Still to the sun with fond devotion turns,