And all, in brotherly content,

Draw nearer round, to pass untold

The sparkling cups, that wine present

Of more than three years old.

And thus my pleasant days to pass,

In peace and happiness supreme,

(For so our tastes our pleasures class,)

But like a moment seem.

REMEMBRANCES OF YOUTH.

Like a clear little stream,

That with scarcely a sound,

Through the plain among flowers,

Glides whirling around,

So the fugitive years

Of my easy life sped,

Amidst laughter and play,

Like a dream have fled.

On that dream to look back,

Oft in wonder I dwell;

Nor to tear me have power

From its pleasing spell.

On each side in soft ease,

With friends cherish’d and gay,

In diversions and dance,

In banquets and play,

With roses Cytheran

Sweet martyrdoms twine,

Of the blinded ring join’d

To deliriums of wine.

And hopes so fallacious,

Bright castles that shone

In the air as upraised,

By the winds overthrown.

With the Muses to crown

The grave tasks, that are born

Of wisdom, with laurel

Their sons to adorn:

Here a thousand retreats

Of charm’d leafy arcade,

That to slumber beguile,

In freshness and shade:

There beyond in the bowers

Of sweet Cnidus arise,

As of fear and desire,

Half mingled, the sighs:

There the broad river spreads,

Showing soft its delights,

To oblivion of all

Whose crystal invites;

With a gaze of desire

The fair banks I descend,

And to the false waters

My thirsty lips bend;

For a full draught I seek,

But feel suddenly by,

Disenchant me the call

Of a friendly cry:--

“Where impell’d dost thou go,

In such blind madness, where?

O, fool! round thy footsteps

Hid dangers are there!

“The wild fancy restrain,

Light ill-omen’d is this,

Where but lures thee to whelm

A fatal abyss.

“Of thy happier years

Is the verdure dispell’d,

And what were then graces

Now vices are held.

“Thou art man! it befits

Thee repenting in truth,

To gild virtuous with toils

The errors of youth!”

I yield, from the current

I tremblingly fly:

But with eyes looking back,

Repeat with a sigh,--

“If to fall be a sin,

What hast thou, Nature, meant?

The path made so easy,

So sweet the descent?

“How blest are the creatures,

With instincts secure,

Whom to swerve from the right

No perils allure!”

OF THE SCIENCES.

I applied myself to science,

In its great truths believing,

That from my troubles I hence

Some ease might be receiving.

O! what a sad delusion!

What lessons dear I learn’d me!

To verses in conclusion,

And mirth and dance I turn’d me.

As if it were that life could

Produce so little trouble,

That we with toils and strife would

Make each one of them double.

I stand by smiling Bacchus,

In joys us wont to wrap he;

The wise, Dorila, lack us

The knowledge to be happy.

What matters it, if even

In fair as diamond splendour,

The sun is fix’d in heaven?

Me light he’s born to render.

The moon is, so me tell they,

With living beings swarmy;

“There may be thousands,” well they

Can never come to harm me!

From Danube to the Ganges,

History tells how did he

The Macedonian launch his

Proud banner fierce and giddy!

What’s that to us, to entice us,

If only half this valley,

To feed our lambs suffice us,

With all our wants to tally?

If not, leave all to justice:

Give me some drink, o’erpower’d

With but to name this goddess,

I feel myself a coward.

They much who study ever

Have thousand plagues annoy them;

Which in their best endeavour

Their peace and joy destroy them:

And then what do they gather?

A thousand doubts upspringing,

Which other puzzlings farther

Them other doubts are bringing.

And so through life they haste on,

One enviable truly!

Disputes and hates to waste on,

And ne’er agreeing throughly.

My shepherd girl! but bring me

Then wine abundant very,

And fear not songs I’ll sing thee,

As endlessly and merry.

THE DISDAINFUL SHEPHERDESS.

If, as thou sayst, thou lovest me well,

Dear girl, those scornfulnesses cease;

For love can ne’er in union dwell

With such asperities.

Show sharp disdain, to plight if e’er

Another proffers thee his troth;

To two at once to listen fair

Is an offence to both.

Let one be chosen, so to prove

How great your happiness may be;

Thou calmly to enjoy his love,

And he to love thee free;

Above all maids to extol thee most;

And thou to tenderness incline,

To yield repaying him the boast

His love gives forth for thine.

Reserve and rigour to preside

In love, is like the ice in spring,

That robs fair May of all its pride,

The flocks of pasturing:

But kindness, like the gentle rain,

Which April gives to glad the field,

Which makes all flourishing the plain,

And seeds their stores to yield.

Be not disdainful then, but kind:

Know not to certain beauteous eyes

Alone all beauty is confined,

Or locks of golden dyes.

Vain puff’d-up beauty will appear,

But like some showy ivy stem;

They may surprise, but fruitless, ne’er

Have any valuing them.

If join’d with kindness, like the vine

It seems, with fruitful stores array’d;

Where all contentedly recline,

Beneath its peaceful shade:

And whose green stems, the elm around,

When twining with adorning grace

Its leaves, will hold it also bound,

Firm in its fond embrace.

Flower of a day is beauty’s bloom;

Time leaves it soon behind: if e’er

Thou doubt’st my word, let Celia’s doom

The lesson true declare.

Celia, for witching beauty famed

Once far and wide, so foolish proud,

A thousand captives who contemn’d

That all before her bow’d,

Now worn by years would blindly try

Who to her service may be won;

But finds all from her turn to fly,

To look at her finds none.

For with her snow and rose the beams

And lustre of her eyes are flown,

And like a wither’d rose-tree seems,

Sad, wrinkled and alone.

’Tis but ingenuous kindness true,

The maid that loves in honour’s bonds,

Who listens to her lover sue,

And tenderly responds;

Who at his pleasantries will smile,

Who dances with him at the feast,

Receives the flowers his gift, the while

His love with like increased;

Who him her future husband sees,

Is neither coy nor feels ashamed,

For he as hers, and she as his,

The village through are named,

That always like the dawn will seem,

When calm its light shines o’er the plain,

And keeping all beneath her beam

Bound captive in her chain:

Years without clouding pass away;

Care to oppress her ne’er affects;

Ev’n rivalry forgives her sway,

And envy’s self respects.

Her cheerfulness and happy vein,

Being to latest age to share,

Delight of all the shepherd train,

Enchantment of the fair.

Be then, my Amaryllis! kind;

Cease those disdainfulnesses, cease;

For with thy pleasing grace combined

Such harshness ill agrees.

The heavens ne’er form’d thee perfect thus,

Surpassingly of matchless cost,

That such high gifts should ruinous

Be miserably lost.

Be kind, receive thy lover’s vow,

And all the village thou wilt find,

Who murmur at thy coldness now,

To praise thee then as kind.

Thus sang Belardo, at her door,

His shepherd girl to wait upon,

Who scornful, from her casement o’er,

Bids him be silent and begone.

IV.

LEANDRO FERNANDEZ MORATIN.

Spanish writers have in general too much overrated the merits of their

national dramas, and foreigners have too often repeated the eulogies,

as if they were deserved. Like those of antiquity, the Spanish,

though they abound in passages of much poetry and feeling, are almost

entirely deficient in that delineation of individual character, which

constitutes the highest class of the art. Thus all the representations

may be observed of the same description of personages and incidents,

given often with much ingenuity, but also often in the worst taste, and

always betokening a limited power of invention. Of this school Calderon

de la Barca was the great type, both as regards his merits and defects.

Lopez de Vega too, though his comedies are more representations of

manners and every-day life than Calderon’s, only showed his capability

of something better, if he had allowed his genius to seek a reputation

for perfectness, rather than for fecundity. The inferior order

of writers mistook the errors of these for excellences, and thus

exaggerated them.

There were not, however, wanting in Spain persons of better judgement,

who observed those errors with a view to correct them, and among

whom the prominent place is due to the two Moratins, father and son.

Of these the former seems to have been the first of his countrymen

who openly denounced the wrong tendencies of the national dramatists;

and the latter, following in the same track, may be pronounced the

great reformer of the Spanish stage, to whom it owes some of its best

productions.

The elder Moratin was one of the ablest writers of verses in Spain

during the last century, before the new æra of poetry arose, and his

merits, if not of themselves superior to those of his contemporaries,

have had an advantage over them, in connexion with the reputation of

the son, who has rendered them more celebrated by a pleasing memoir

of his father, prefixed to his works. From this we learn, that if the

father did not attain a high rank himself as a poet or dramatist, yet

he well deserves to be remembered as a bold and judicious critic, who,

both by precept and example, effected much good in his own day, and

still more by instilling good lessons into the mind of the son, so as

to enable him to attain his merited success.

In the words of this memoir, “Calderon at that time enjoyed so high a

reputation, that it appeared a sacrilegious hardihood to notice defects

in his comedies or sacramental pieces, which, repeated annually on the

stage with every possible pomp and appliance, delighted the vulgar of

all classes, and perpetuated the applauses of their famous author.

Moratin published three Discourses, which he entitled, ‘Exposition

of the Misconceptions of the Spanish Theatre,’ written with the good

judgement of a man of taste, and with the zeal of a citizen interested

in the progression and literary glory of his country. In the first

he showed the defects in which the old plays abounded; as also the

modern, with which poets, without rule or plan, supplied the players,

sanctioning every time more irregularity and ignorance. In the two

following, he proved that the Autos of Calderon, so admired by the

multitude, ought not to be suffered in a country that prided itself as

civilized. It is unnecessary to say what opposition these discourses

encountered; it is enough to add, that the third was scarcely

published when the government prohibited the repetition of what he had

condemned:--a memorable epoch in the annals of the Spanish stage, which

can never remember, without praise, that judicious and intrepid writer

to whom it owed so useful a reform.”

Of this able critic, Leandro Moratin was the only son that survived

childhood. He was born at Madrid, the 10th of March, 1760, and in his

earliest years is described as having been remarkable for infantile

grace and vivacity. At four years of age, however, he unfortunately had

a severe attack of the smallpox, which not only left its disfiguring

marks on his countenance, but also seemed to have changed his

character, making him the rest of his life shy and reserved. As he grew

up he shunned all playfellows; like Demophilus, he was a man among

boys,--Κεῖνος γὰρ ἐν παισὶν νέος--and devoting himself to drawing and

making juvenile verses, pursued his favourite studies in secret, so

that even the father seemed not to have been ever fully aware of the

bent of his son’s genius.

The elder Moratin, whose father had been jewel-keeper to Isabel

Farnesi, widow of Philip V., had been brought up to the profession

of the law, in which he had not acquired any eminence, though he had

some as an author. Seeing his son’s talent for drawing, he had first

intended him to take advantage of it as an artist, but finally placed

him with a brother, Miguel de Moratin, who was a jeweller, to learn

his occupation. In his earlier years the younger Moratin had been only

at an obscure private school in Madrid, but he had good examples and

lessons at home, and recourse to his father’s library, where he found

all the best works in Spanish literature, for secret study, beyond the

tasks set in routine for his education. In 1779 the Spanish Academy, in

the course of its objects for the promotion of literary pursuits, had

offered, as a subject for a prize poem, The Taking of Granada; when the

Accessit was awarded to a competitor who had signed himself Efren de

Lardnoz y Morante. On this person being called for, Leandro Moratin, to

the surprise of his father, presented himself as the author, producing

the rough copy of the verses he had sent. This was naturally a source

of great delight to the father, who might thus foresee, in hope at

least, his son’s future success. But he did not live to witness it,

having died the following year, at only forty-two years of age, leaving

a widow dependent on his son’s labours as a working jeweller. At this

business he continued, therefore, combining however with it his former

studies, as far as his leisure permitted him.

In 1782 he obtained the honour of another Accessit from the Academy for

a Satire on the vicious practices introduced into the Spanish language,

and a greater feeling thereupon arose in his favour from literary

persons who remembered his father, with the respect due to his merits.

Hence, also, Leandro Moratin, notwithstanding his natural reserve, was

drawn from his retirement into the company of several young men of

kindred tastes and pursuits, whose conversation and society had great

and good effect on his mind and future efforts.

In 1785 he published an edition of his father’s poems, with

reflections, which may be considered his first essay on criticism and

declaration of opinion on matters of taste, according to the precepts

of the purest classicism, then so much in fashion. From his earliest

years he had been much attached to the theatre, then sunk to the low

state which he so feelingly describes in the preliminary discourse to

his Comedies, subsequently published; and having witnessed his father’s

anxiety to reform its abuses, he felt it a sort of inheritance left

him to attempt the task. He had already begun one of his plays, which

however he had not sufficient leisure to complete, on account of the

demands for his daily labour; but about this time his mother died, and

Leandro had then only his own wants to consider.

At the same time the good and great Jovellanos, whose notice he had

attracted, proposed him as secretary to the Conde de Cabarrus, then

going to Paris on a special mission, where accordingly Leandro went

with that able and enlightened statesman, in January 1787, returning to

Madrid in the January following. Shortly after the Conde and Jovellanos

fell into ill-favour at court, and all their friends were involved

in their fall. Moratin took shelter in the obscurity of his original

occupation, and so escaped notice. He completed his play, but could not

get it represented, and in the course of delays had the license for it

withdrawn. He wished to be exempt from labour for maintenance, to give

himself up to his favourite studies, but sought in vain for other means

of attaining this end than from the favour of the government. A change

in the ministry having now occurred, he wrote a petition, in verse, to

the Conde de Florida Blanca, in which, humorously depicting his wants,

he asked a small benefice in the church. This, though a very small

one, was granted him, and thereupon he had to take the first orders of

the tonsure. Shortly afterwards, Godoy, Prince of the Peace, came into

power, and became a still more effectual patron for Moratin, on whom

he conferred other benefices and favours, to the amount of about £600

a year sterling, so that he became at once, for his position in life,

wealthy, and enabled to devote himself entirely to literature.

It has been the fashion lately for all parties to decry Godoy, and

there can be no doubt that he was guilty of much misconduct in the

exercise of power. But he was in this only acting according to the

circumstances in which he was placed, and the favourite and minister

of a weak-minded and despotic monarch could not be expected to have

acted much otherwise than he did. In the memoirs he published in his

later years in his justification, Godoy has, in a tone of apparent

sincerity and earnestness, sometimes amounting even to eloquence,

shown that often he could not have acted otherwise, and that his

faults were the faults of his position, while his merits were his

own. He declares that he was the first minister in Spain who curbed

the power of the Inquisition, and that he had never instituted any

prosecution for private opinions. His treatment of Jovellanos he

might well excuse to himself, as a return for hostility manifested to

him under circumstances that he might consider to warrant it. But of

other eminent men of learning and of the arts he was the munificent

patron, of Melendez among others, and of Moratin more especially. The

former dedicated to him the second edition of his works, and Moratin

now one of his plays, which had been received with much favour. From

this dedication, a judgement may be formed by the translation, of the

spirit of Moratin, that, while under the sense of great obligations,

he did not condescend, like other poets, to flatter his Mæcenas’s

vanity by ascriptions of descent from ancient kings or other fictions;

but dwelt only on his personal qualities, and the great power which

he undoubtedly possessed, as exercised in his favour. The same spirit

Moratin showed in his letter to Jovellanos, in which adulation could

less be imputed to him, as that illustrious individual was in disgrace

at court, and no longer the dispenser of the favours of the government.

But Moratin showed the independence of his character still more

decidedly, in refusing the request made by Godoy that he should write

eulogistic verses on a lady of the court; and it is to the honour

of Godoy, we are informed, that though he was at first angry at the

refusal, he passed it over without subsequent notice.

To another request made by Godoy, for an ode on the Battle of

Trafalgar, Moratin acceded, though it is stated with considerable

disinclination to the task. He could not, he replied at first,

celebrate a lost battle, and as Hermosillia tells us, could not hide

from himself the ridiculousness of having to represent a complete

defeat as a glorious triumph, though the “dreaded Nelson” had fallen

in it. He felt bound, however, to obey the favourite and to reconcile

his task to justice, wrote his ‘Shade of Nelson,’ in imitation of the

Prophecy of Nereus, and of the Tagus by Fray Luis de Leon. In this

poem, he represents Nelson appearing the same night on the heights of

Trafalgar, and foretelling England’s approaching ruin, notwithstanding

the victory which had been gained “so dearly, as to be in reality

a discomfiture.” He observes, that “Napoleon, having overcome the

Austrians, would now turn all his energies to the conquest of England,

while Spain would raise a mightier fleet to join him. He therefore

counselled his countrymen to abandon their ambitious projects and

make peace, and to create disunion in foreign countries by corrupting

their cabinets, for the purpose of maintaining their preponderance.”

The thoughts are expressed in elegant poetical language, but the whole

argument shows how little feeling he had in favour of the subject.

In the last edition of his works prepared for publication before his

death, he took care to have it omitted, but it has been again inserted

in subsequent editions.

Prior to this, however, he had had a full opportunity of judging the

character of the English nation. He had obtained permission to go

abroad from Godoy, who also munificently gave him the means for that

purpose. He first went to Paris, where he had scarcely arrived, in

September 1792, when hearing a great tumult in the streets, and looking

out for the occasion of it, he saw the head of the Princess de Lamballe

borne along by the infuriated multitude on a pike. Horror-struck at the

sight, he immediately left Paris for London, as, says his biographer,

“anxious to contemplate for the first time true liberty arrayed in

popular forms, without the mortal convulsions of licentiousness, or

the withering foot-marks of oppression.” Here he stayed about a year,

taking notes of the lively impressions made on him of the “character,

ideas, traditions, legislation, and political and commercial tendency

of that singular nation, so worthy of being studied.” It may be allowed

us to regret that those notes were never published, and perhaps the

censor’s license for them could not have been obtained. The only fruit

of his visit was a translation of Hamlet, which he published in 1798,

on his return.

On leaving England, Moratin passed through Flanders and some parts

of Germany and Switzerland to Italy, whence, after visiting all the

principal cities there, he returned to Spain in December 1796. Previous

to his arrival in Madrid, he had been appointed Secretary Interpreter

of languages, a valuable appointment in itself, but still more so to

him, as it left him sufficient leisure for study. He took advantage of

this to proceed with several dramas with which he enriched the Spanish

stage, and had projected others which he felt under the necessity

of abandoning. In several of his pieces, and especially in the

Mogigata, which Maury translates La Femelle Tartuffe, he had offended

the clerical party, so that he was denounced to the Inquisition, and

though preserved from their power under the protection of Godoy, he was

subjected to many and great annoyances. In consequence of these, he

determined to give up further writing for the stage, contenting himself

with producing afterwards only some translations from the French, and

with preparing his most valuable work, ‘On the Spanish Theatre.’ This

work treats the subject historically, and abounds with much interesting

information as well as sound criticisms. On it he passed the latter

years of his life, so that it was not published until after his death.

Shortly after his return from Italy he was named one of a commission

to reform the stage, and on this proving insufficient for the purposes

intended, he was appointed Director of Theatres by royal order. No one,

it might be thought, could be better adapted for this office, and it

would have seemed one agreeable to his inclinations; but he declined

it, preferring to effect the reforms he recommended by example rather

than by exercise of authority.

The events of the 19th March, 1808, deprived Godoy of his power, and

the French armies soon after entered Madrid. Moratin had remained at

his post in the execution of the duties of his office, and became

involved in the course of proceedings, the final character of which

he could not foresee. He was set down as one of the French party, and

so exposed to public obloquy, that when the French had to evacuate

Madrid, he felt himself under the necessity of going with them. When

they returned he returned with them, and was appointed, by Joseph

Buonaparte, Chief of the Royal Library, an appointment which was

most congenial to his taste, and which would have been exceedingly

appropriate for him to accept, had it been only from the national

government.

As it was, he had to fly from Madrid a second time with the intruders,

and henceforth there was nothing for him in life but privations to

endure. Some houses which he had bought had been seized, and one of

them sold. Another, which was restored to him, had been much injured,

and his books and property destroyed. His benefices were denied him; a

merchant, with whom he had entrusted his money, became bankrupt; and

a dependent, in whom he had confided, by his defalcation brought a

further heavy loss on his means. He had at first retired to France, but

having been excepted from the list of the proscribed by Ferdinand VII.,

he returned to Spain, and for a length of time resided at Barcelona.

But the Inquisition was attempting to rise again into power, and

Moratin, naturally of a timid disposition, felt himself marked out for

a victim. He could not submit to live subject to be watched and kept in

constant alarm; and even when this office was finally put down, he felt

the frequent recurrence of public commotions more agitating than he

could endure. He therefore determined again to retire to France, first

to Bayonne, in 1823, and afterwards to Bordeaux, to live with a friend,

named Silvela, who had a seminary at that place, and in whose society

he felt sure of enjoying domestic happiness.

Through his whole life, Moratin seems to have required the aid of

friends on whom to rely for daily needs and attentions; and it

was fortunate for him, in his advanced age and under the pressure

of infirmities, to possess such a resting-place as in Silvela’s

establishment. Shortly after this friend removed to Paris, where also

Moratin followed him, and there he died, the 21st June, 1828. He was

buried in the cemetery of Père la Chaise, in one of the lines to the

right of the chapel, between the remains of Molière and Lafontaine,

where a simple monument, with a cinerary urn, marks his grave.

“There,” says his biographer, “in a foreign land, lies a celebrated

Spaniard, to whom his country did not offer sufficient security to

allow him to die tranquilly in her bosom. A man averse to all party

feeling, obedient to existing authority, whether of fact or of right,

absorbed in his studies, teacher from his retirement of the purest

morality, incapable of injuring any one, or of exciting disorder even

indirectly, he had to wander forth many years, not proscribed, but

driven away by apprehensions too justly entertained.”

After his death there were several editions of his works published,

both in France and Spain: the last one in the collection of Spanish

authors by Rivadeneyra, Madrid 1848, as the last seems most correct and

complete. This republication is more interesting, as also containing,

in the same volume, the works of his father, Nicolas Moratin. It is to

be regretted that other works of his, yet existing in manuscript, have

not been added, especially the account of his travels.

Moratin was an exceedingly careful writer, and very fastidious in the

correction of his verses. His admirers, especially those of the classic

school, have praised him as a great lyric poet, even superior to

Melendez. This, however, he felt was not just; and without derogating

from his merits, we must pronounce him far inferior to that eminent

poet, whose works surpassed all that had preceded him in Spanish

poetry. The fame of Moratin must rest on his plays, into which,

however, it is not the object of this work to enter, confined as it is

to lyric poetry. They are only five in number, and, like Sheridan’s,

are remarkable for neatness and elegance of dialogue, as much as for

incident and character. The Spanish theatre owes all its subsequent

merit to Moratin; he reformed the taste of the times by giving the

stage better works than it had previously possessed, and assuredly was

thus one of the greatest public benefactors of his age.

LEANDRO FERNANDEZ MORATIN.

DEDICATION OF THE COMEDY OF THE MOGIGATA TO THE PRINCE OF THE PEACE.

This moral fiction, which the facile Muse,

Thalia kind inspired, and which await

The numerous crowds that throng the Spanish scene,

Therein acquiring voice, and life, and form,

To thee I now present, with feelings pure

Of gratitude and love. By other path

The difficult height of Pindus to ascend,

In vain have I aspired, in vain; and oft

Have wept me baffled, o’er the bold attempt.

How often, striking the Aonian chords,

To win her have I sought, so fleeting, coy,

The beauty that in silence I adore!

To imitate the voice and harmony,

Which Echo erst repeated in the woods

Of green Zurgüen: oft as Clio waked

The trumpet that diffuses martial rage,

I wish’d, with her sublimest ardour fired,

To celebrate the lofty deeds of Spain:

From her proud neck as beating, broken off,

The barbarous yoke; the conqueror in turn

Conquer’d on the burning sands of Libya:

Numantia with the miseries appeased,

Proud Rome was doom’d to know, abandon’d prey

To frightful military outrages:

Cortes, in the valley of Otumba,

Lord of the golden standard, at his feet

The sceptre of the West! but angrily,

Menander’s muse offended, soon reproved

My error, and the lyre and pastoral pipe

Snatch’d from me, and the clarion of Mars.

“Follow,” she said to me, “the only track

Which my voice indicates, if thou wouldst seek

The honour, that despite of silent death,

May make thy name immortal. I in love

A thousand times upon thy infant lip

Have printed a soft kiss, and bade thee sleep

To the repeated heavenly tones I raised.

Thou my delight wast ever, and my care;

And the propitious gifts, which Nature shed

On thee, it was my joy to cultivate.

Now with loud festive acclamation sounds

Thy country’s scene in thy just praise, on high

Thy glory to affirm. Thou follow on

To sacred Helicon, which Cynthia bathes

With her immortal light, the Muses’ crown

Of ivy and of laurel there to gain.”

Be not offended, Sir, if e’er so poor

The tribute that I dedicate; and what

Could worthy be the greatness of thy name?

The gift is humble, the desire is rich;

And not sufficing more my sterile vein,

What I can give I offer. Prostrate thus,

On the rude altars he has raised, is wont

The husbandman to heap the simple fruits

Of his fields gather’d round; and offering them

To the high tutelar deity he adores,

Spreads them forth grateful, incenses and flowers.

EPISTLE TO DON GASPAR DE JOVELLANOS, SENT FROM ROME.

Yes! the pure friendship, that in kindly bonds

Our souls united, durable exists,

Illustrious Jovino! nor can time,

Nor distance, nor the mountains us between,

Nor stormy seas hoarse roaring, separate

Remembrance of thee from my memory.

The sound of Mars, that now sweet peace awhile

Suspends, has long unhappy silence placed

On my affection. Thou I know content

Livest in obscure delicious quietude,

For ever with untiring zeal inspired

To aid the public weal; of virtue e’er.

And talent, the protector and the friend.

These verses which I frame unpolish’d, free,

Though not corrected with thy learned taste,

In truth announce to thee my constant faith.

And so may Heaven but soon to me return

The hour again to see thee, and relate

Familiarly discoursing, to my view

Whatever of its varied scenes the world

Presented. From my native shores to those

Which bathes the Seine, blood-stain’d and turbulent;

The daring Briton’s, master of the sea,

To the bold Belgian’s; from the deep-flowing Rhine

To the high tops of Apennine snow-crown’d,

And that height further, which in burning smoke

Covers and ashes over Naples wide,

The different nations I have visited,

Acquiring useful knowledge, never gain’d

By learned reading in retired abodes.

For there we cannot see the difference great

Which climate, worship, arts, opinions,

And laws occasion. That is found alone,

If thou wouldst study man, in man himself.

Now the rough Winter, which augments the waves

Of Tiber, on his banks has me detain’d,

Inhabitant of Rome. O! that with thee

’Twere granted me to rove through her, to scan

The wonderful remains of glories past,

Which Time, whose force can naught resist, has spared!

Thou nursling of the Muses and the Arts,

Faithful oracle of bright history,

What learning thou wouldst give the affluent lip;

What images sublime, by genius fired,

In the great empire’s ruin thou wouldst find!

Fell the great city, which had triumph’d o’er

The nations the most warlike, and with her

Ended the Latin valour and renown.

And she who to the Betis from the Nile

Her eagles proudly bore, the child of Mars,

The Capitol with barbarous trophies deck’d,

Conducting to her car of ivory bound

Great kings subdued, amid the hoarse applause

Of wide-throng’d forums, and the trumpet’s sounds,

Who to the world gave laws, now horrible

Night covers her. She perish’d, nor expect

More tokens of her ancient worth to find.

Those mouldering edifices, which the plough

Breaks through in shapeless masses, once they were

Circuses, strong palaces, and theatres;

Proud arches, costly baths, and sepulchres;

Where thou mayst hear perchance, for so ’tis said,

In the deep silence of the gloomy shade,

A funeral lament, they only tell

The glory of the people of Quirinus.

And this to future races but remains

The mistress of the world, illustrious Rome!

This and no more remain’d? of all her arts

And dreaded power? What could not aught avail

Her virtue, wisdom, valour, all conjoin’d,

With such her opulence, the law severe

To mitigate, or stay the blows of fate?

Alas! if all is mortal--if to Time

Alike the strong wall and the tender flower

Must yield--if that will bronze and porphyry break,

Destroying them and burying in dust,

For whom so guards unhappy Avarice

His treasuries untouch’d? for whom foretells

Immortal fame, the adulation vile

That crimes and violence traitorous exalts?

For what so hastening to the tomb runs on

The human race, revengeful, envious,

And haughty? Why, if all that e’er exists,

And what man sees is all but ruins? all.

For never to return the hours fly past

Precipitate, and to their end but lead,

Of the most lofty empires of the earth,

The perishable splendour. The Deity,

That hidden animates the universe,

Alone eternal lives, and He alone

Is powerful and great.

V.

JUAN BAUTISTA DE ARRIAZA.

In the history of the literature of every country, it is interesting

to observe with what noiseless steps true genius generally proceeds to

win popular favour, compared with the means to which mediocrity resorts

for whatever share of notice it can attain. There are some writers who,

with great talent, have some counterbalancing deficiency, respecting

whose merits more discussion will be consequently excited, than

respecting the superior qualities of others, not liable to the same

observations. To obtain that kind of notoriety, it is often requisite

to belong to some school or party, whose praise will give a temporary

importance to works written, according to their taste or system, while

those out of their pale will be passed over with at best only cold

commendations. In Spain, as elsewhere, poetry has had its classical and

romantic schools, and the merits of all writers, belonging to one or

the other of them, were fully set forth by their respective partisans;

while, if there happened to be one who could not be claimed by either,

like Arriaza, he was allowed to pass comparatively unnoticed by the

critics of the day.

Of this very pleasing author no detailed biography has been published;

and his claims to be considered one of the first modern poets of

Spain seem to be scarcely recognized by his countrymen, who read with

surprise the commendations passed on him abroad. Thus they have allowed

seven editions of his works to be circulated and exhausted, without

satisfying our curiosity by any of those particulars of private life,

with which we love to consider the characters of worth and genius. All

we are informed of him, in the short notices given of Arriaza by Wolf,

Maury and Ochoa, is, that he was born at Madrid, in the year 1770,

where the last-mentioned writer also says he died, in 1837.

From his name, it would seem that he was of Basque descent, and his

family connections must have been “noble” and influential, from his

career through life, though we have no account given of them. We learn,

however, that he was educated at the Seminary of Nobles at Madrid,

whence he was afterwards sent a cadet to the Military College at

Segovia, and that he finally entered the navy. In one of his Epistles,

in verse, he informs us that he was engaged in the expedition to Oran,

and thence sailed to Constantinople, of which he gives a poetical

description.

In 1798 he had to quit this service, on account of a disease of the

eyes; and he then published the first edition of his poems. In 1802

he was appointed Secretary of Legation at London, and there wrote his

principal poem, ‘Emilia,’ which was published at Madrid in the year

following. The subject was the wish of a lady of fortune to bring

up orphan children and others to the study of the fine arts; and it

contains many fine passages, but was left unfinished.

In 1805 he went to Paris, where also he resided some time. On his

return to Spain, he took part in the struggles against the French,

having entered the ranks as a soldier, and having by his verses also

vehemently instigated his countrymen to rise against the invaders. Of

all the poets of the day, he seems to have been the most prolific in

those patriotic effusions, which, no doubt, agreeing so well with the

national temperament, had no small effect in keeping up the spirit of

the Spanish people throughout the war. When the French entered Madrid,

Arriaza, while engaged in resisting them, had a brother killed by

his side, fighting in the same cause, to whose memory he has given a

tribute of affection accordingly among his verses.

In the subsequent discussions in Spain respecting the government,

Arriaza took part with those who advocated the rights of the absolute

king. For this advocacy, on the return of Ferdinand VII. to full power,

he received his reward, having been appointed Knight of the Order of

Charles III., and Secretary of Decrees, besides receiving several other

minor favours and offices. Henceforth Arriaza seems to have passed his

life at court, in the quiet enjoyment of literary pursuits. He might

be considered the Poet Laureate of Spain, as he seems to have allowed

scarcely any opportunity to pass by unhonoured, of paying homage to the

court in celebration of birthdays and other such occasions. His works

abound with these loyal effusions, though they might generally have

been better omitted.

It must, however, be said, in justice, that he was evidently sincere

in those principles, to which he adhered under all circumstances, even

when the Constitutionalists were in the ascendent. Once only he was

betrayed into an eulogium of the other line of opinions, which had an

effect rather ludicrous, so far as he was concerned in it. In 1820,

when the constitution of 1812 had been anew promulgated, a friend of

his, Don Luis de Onis, was appointed minister from Spain to Naples, and

a banquet having been given him on his departure, Arriaza was induced

to write verses on the occasion, which, full of apparent enthusiasm,

abounded in spirit and beautiful images, beyond his usual facility

and fulness of expression. Carried away, no doubt, by the contagion

of the company, he gave way to what, in soberer mood, he would have

thought most dangerous doctrines. He painted the envoy as going “to

Parthenope to announce our revolution;” adding, “To Parthenope that is

now groaning beneath flowery chains, and to whom, though her syrens

celebrate her in songs of slavery, thou wilt be the Spanish Tyrtæus,

and raise them to the high employ to sing of country and virtue;”

praising the heroism of Riego as to be offered as an example, “to throw

down the holds of oppression.” The Neapolitan government obtained

notice of this composition, and actually used it as sufficient cause

for objecting to receive Don Luis as Spanish minister, “because he

was coming to inculcate revolutionary principles.” Arriaza heard

with horror that he was stigmatized as a liberal, and was urgent to

disclaim such opinions, notwithstanding what he had written. Don Luis

meanwhile was detained at Rome, until, by a strange coincidence, the

revolution broke out at Naples also, and he entered the city almost as

in fulfilment of the prophecy, that he was to be the harbinger of it.

The best edition of Arriaza’s works is that of 1829, printed at the

Royal Press of Madrid, of which the one of Paris, 1834, is a reprint.

They consist of almost all varieties of song, and are almost all

equally charming. His satirical pieces even are light and pleasing, as

well as his anacreontic and erotic effusions, while his patriotic songs

and odes breathe a spirit well suited to the subjects.

Maury, who has made him better known abroad by his praises than others,

his contemporaries, seems to have regarded him with especial favour.

He says of him:--“Depuis Lope de Vega, M. d’Arriaza est le seul de

nos poëtes qui nous semble penser en vers. La nature le fit poëte,

les évènements l’ont fait auteur. Il était arrivé à sa réputation

littéraire sans y prétendre, il l’accrue pour ainsi dire à son corps

défendant.” In truth he seems to have poured forth his verses without

effort, as a bird does its song, with a simplicity and truthfulness

which went to the heart of the hearer, and left in it a sensation of

their being only the echoes of its own. As Maury has well observed,

“parlent à la raison et à l’esprit, comme au cœur et à l’imagination,

elles offrent en même temps aux amateurs de la langue Castillane les

sons harmonieux et les tournures piquantes qui la distinguent avec une

grande élégance de diction et une clarté rare chez la plupart de nos

écrivains.”

It is true that his style is exceedingly easy, and the expression

generally very clear, but it must also be acknowledged, on the part

of the translator, that obscurities are frequently to be found in his

lines, when he must discover a meaning for himself. It was Arriaza’s

own doctrine in the prologue to his works, “that there can be no true

expression of ideas where there does not reign the utmost clearness of

diction; that what the reader does not conceive at the first simple

reading, cannot make in his imagination the prompt effect required,

and much less move his heart in any way. This clearness,” he observes,

“should also be associated with a constant elegance of expression;

though he does not consider this elegance to consist in a succession

of grammatical inversions, or revolving adjectives, or metaphor

on metaphor, but the mode most select and noble of saying things

becomingly to the style in which they are written.”

Arriaza was eminently what the French call a _poëte de société_; and

thus his verses were favourites with the higher classes particularly.

He abjured the practices of the Romanticists who affected to despise

the shackles of metre, as if the melody of verse, being merely

mechanism, were of inferior consideration. On the contrary, he

intimates that he considers it of primary importance, as if “whether

a statue should be made of wax or marble.” Thus he made cadence a

principal study, and his verses becoming thereby better adapted for

music, obtained greater vogue in the higher circles by means of

accompaniments. Some even seem to have been expressly written for that

purpose; for instance, among other pieces of a domestic character,

one, a very pleasing Recitative, in which his wife and daughter join

him in thanksgiving for his recovery from a dangerous illness. Though

generally far from being impassioned, some of his verses are full

of tender feeling, as the ‘Young Sailor’s Farewell.’ This may be

pronounced the most popular piece of modern poetry in Spain, being most

in the memories of those whom he himself calls “the natural judges in

these matters, the youth of both sexes, in whose lively imagination and

sensible hearts may find better acceptation, the only two gifts with

which I may rejoice to have endowed my verses, naturalness and harmony.”

Arriaza must have acquired in his youth the rudiments of a sound

education, and he was distinguished in later life for a knowledge of

the French, Italian and English languages. Still he was not considered

by his contemporaries as a person of extensive reading; and thus

we do not find in his works any allusions or illustrations of a

classical character, though it is almost ludicrous to observe with what

pertinacity he introduces the personages of the heathen mythology, on

all occasions where he can do so. Some of his ideas also run into the

ridiculous, as in one of his best pieces, ‘La Profecia del Pirineo,’ he

says, that on the heroic defenders of Zaragoza “there were at once on

their faithful brows raining bombs and laurels.”

The Ode to Trafalgar, notwithstanding its being liable to the

observation above made, of too frequent invocations of the Muses, is

an admirable exemplification of an appropriate poem on such a subject.

This battle, no doubt on account of its decisive effect, has been more

celebrated than others. But it must be acknowledged to have been an

unequal fight between the British and the Spanish portion of the allied

fleet, as the former were in a high state of discipline, and the latter

were newly levied and hurried out of port, before the officers and

men had become sufficiently acquainted with one another to take their

respective parts, with the precision necessary for such an occasion.

Yet it is well known that the Spaniards fought with desperate and

unswerving courage throughout, and their poets were therefore well

warranted in taking the subject, as one doing honour to the national

bravery.

The circumstances of the battle have lately again come into discussion

in Spain, with naturally considerable warmth, on M. Thiers, in his

History of the Consulate and the Empire, having been guilty of the

extraordinary error to allege that the Spanish fleet fled, the greater

part of them, from the battle, when, in fact, it was only the division

of the French Admiral Dumanoir that had done so. This he did “for the

purpose of preserving a naval division for France,” as Dumanoir himself

afterwards stated, in his justification, though he was disappointed in

that patriotic wish, having been met a few days after by Sir Robert

Calder’s squadron, when all his four ships were taken in a less

renowned combat.

The translation of the Ode has been made as nearly into the same metre

with the original, as the forms of verse used in the two languages

would admit. That of the ‘Farewell’ may be considered in the same

light also, though the original has the first and fourth lines rhyming

together, and the second with the third. This is an old and common

form in Spanish poetry, and agrees well with our alternate lines of

eight and six syllables, which Johnson considered “the most soft and

pleasing of our lyric measures.” In the Ode, it is interesting to

observe not only the manly style of sentiment throughout, but also the

absence of any ungenerous feeling against the English. Arriaza had,

however, both as a seaman and a diplomatist, while resident in England,

had sufficient opportunities of learning to think more justly of the

English character than some other writers of the Continent.

Beyond his poems, Arriaza wrote several political pamphlets. The first

was published at Seville in 1809, after the battle of Talavera, when

the English, notwithstanding the victory, had to retreat into Portugal,

giving occasion to the French party in Spain to allege that they were

about to abandon the country to the French, and keep possession of the

principal ports. In this pamphlet, which he entitled the ‘Pharos of

Public Opinion,’ Arriaza combated these suspicions, and by a strenuous

assertion of the good faith of the English, succeeded in disabusing the

minds of his countrymen of what he termed “such malignant insinuations.”

The second pamphlet he termed ‘Virtue of Necessity,’ shortly after

the disastrous battle of Ocania; and its object was to stimulate the

English government and nation to give more assistance than they had

yet done, by money and otherwise. He proposed in return to give the

English free right of commerce with the Spanish colonies in America, at

least for a stated period, observing that they already had extensive

dealings with them by contraband, and that the free commerce would make

the English neutral, at least, in the question of the colonies wishing

to declare themselves independent, while otherwise it would be their

interest to have them independent. This pamphlet especially is full of

sound statesmanlike ideas, and proves how well he was acquainted with

the state of public feeling in England, on the several particulars

respecting which he was writing.

A third pamphlet he wrote in English, and published it in London in

1810, where he was then sent on the part of the Spanish government.

This he entitled ‘Observations on the system of war of the Allies in

the Peninsula;’ and he endeavoured in it to urge the English to send

more troops to the Peninsula, at certain points, where he considered

they would be of most avail in disconcerting the plans of the French,

and assisting the Guerrilla warfare the Spaniards were carrying on.

He explained the determined fidelity of the Spaniards to the cause of

their independence, but showed they would be insufficient to effect it,

without the assistance he came to seek. This pamphlet was favourably

received in England, and was noticed in Parliament; and the author

had the good fortune to hope that his efforts had been successful, as

he says, “The English government then sent greater reinforcements to

their army, which emerging from its inaction, acquired the superiority

preserved until the happy conclusion of the war.”

For these and other writings, Arriaza received the thanks of the

Regency in the name of the king, and had just cause to consider that

a sufficient counterbalance to the misrepresentations made of his

conduct in France, and elsewhere, by the opposite party. In a note

affixed to the last edition of his poems, he complains that in a work

published in France, ‘Biography of Contemporary Characters,’ there was

an article respecting him “full of errors, even regarding the most

public circumstances of his life,” which he seems to have considered

written from party feeling. If his surmises were correct, it is the

more to be regretted that he did not take the best means of correcting

those misrepresentations, by giving an authentic biographical account

of his career in reply. He might thus not only have done justice to

himself, but also have satisfied the desires of his admirers, who would

naturally have felt sufficient interest in his fame to have rejoiced in

those details. Whatever may be the course which a man of genius takes

in public life from honest principles, he may always rely on finding in

literature a neutral harbour where he may retire in confidence from all

turmoils, and expect full justice awarded to his motives and memory.

In the midst of political contentions, where so much always depends

on circumstances with which we are little acquainted, it is often

difficult at the time to know what is the proper course to follow. It

is enough for us that those we admire have ever been distinguished for

their sincerity and uprightness in the conduct they pursued.

With regard to Arriaza, our greatest regret must be that, with his

apparently extreme facility of versification, and capability of

elevating his mind to the conception of nobler subjects, he confined

his genius so much to trivial events of the day, and thus wrote for his

contemporaries instead of for posterity.

JUAN BAUTISTA DE ARRIAZA.

TEMPEST AND WAR, OR THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR. ODE.

I fain would sing of victory;

But know, the God of harmony,

Dispenser of renown,

For fortune’s turn has little care,

And bids superior valour bear,

Alone, the immortal crown.

See in his temple, shining yet,

Those at Thermopylæ who set

Of manly fortitude

Examples rare, or ’neath thy wall

Who, sad Numantia, shared thy fall,

But falling unsubdued.

There are to whom has fate bestow’d

The lot, that always on the road

Of docile laurels borne,

Success should fly their steps before,

And in their hands events in store

Should lose each cruel thorn.

As heroes these the vulgar choose,

If not as gods, but I refuse

Such homage for the mind;

And in Bellona’s doubtful strife,

Where fortune’s angry frowns are rife,

There heroes seek to find.

O! true of heart, and brave as true!

Illustrious Clio, turn thy view

Afar the vast seas o’er;

For deeds, in spite of fate abhorr’d,

Than these more worthy to record

Ne’er pass’d thy view before.

To abase the wealthy Gades, see,

From haunts of deep obscurity,

The fellest Fury rise!

And from her direful hand launch’d forth,

Transform’d the forests of the North,

She floating walls supplies.

Her envy is the city fair

Of Hercules, so proudly there,

Couch’d on the Atlantic gates;

Girt by the sea, that from the west

Comes fraught with gold, and her behest

Before her bending waits.

With venal aid of hate assists

Unfruitful England, throne of mists,

Whose fields no sun behold;

Which Flora with false smile has clad

In sterile green, where flowers look sad,

And love itself is cold.

Greedy the poison gold to seize,

They with the monster Avarice,

The peace of Spain abhor;

And by their horrid arts increased,

Turn ev’n the treasures of the East

To instruments of war.

Their proud Armada, which the main

Tosses to heaven, or threats in vain

To engulf, they mustering show:

Ye suffer it not, ye pupils brave

Of the Basans, and to the wave

Launch yours to meet the foe.

As by conflicting winds close driven,

The dark clouds o’er the vault of heaven

Across each other fly;

And troubling mortals with the roar,

The electric fluids flashing o’er

Dispute the sway on high,

So from both sides the battle roll’d,

The sails their wings of flame unfold,

And ship to ship they close;

Combined, O! day of hapless fame,

Four elements with man proclaim

The unequal war that rose.

Who in the whirlwind of dense smoke,

To Mars that in fit incense woke,

From hollow ordnance sent,

With iron flames, a countless host,

Sounds that unhinging shaking cross’d

The eternal firmament,--

Who in that lake of fire and blood,

Midst crashing masts and raging flood

Of havoc and its train,--

Who by the light the picture shows,

May not your blood-stain’d brows disclose,

O! noble chiefs of Spain?

With crimson dyed, or with the brand

Of sulphurous powder, firm ye stand,

As in the conflict dire,

The sacrilegious giants rear’d,

Serene the shining gods appear’d,

Midst rolling clouds of fire.

Shouts forth your courage hoarsely high

Bellona’s metal roar, the cry

The combat to inflame;

Nor fear ye mortals, when ye view

The streams of blood the waves imbue,

Your prowess that proclaim.

With iron clogg’d the air, the breath

Is drawn each with a dart of Death,

Whose skeleton immense

Rises exulting o’er the scene,

To see such fury rage, and glean

His devastation thence.

O! how he crops youth’s fairest flowers,

Or grief o’er life for ever lowers!

See there for vengeance strains

One arm for one that off is torn,

Or when away the head is borne,

Erect the trunk remains.

But, ah! what fiery column broke

There to the wind, and mid dense smoke

Then to the abyss down threw

Heads, bodies, arms and woods confused,

And hands yet with the swords unloosed

They for their country drew!

Struck by the sound groans Trafalgar;

Olympus shakes as in the war

The savage Titans waged,

When through the waves their forges roll’d

Ætna, Vesuvius, and untold

Volcanoes burning raged.

Trembling the monsters of the deep

Against each other beating, sweep

Off to the Herculean Strait;

In horror heaven is clouded o’er,

Lashing the seas the north winds roar,

In shame infuriate.

Of its own rage, the foaming brine,

Is born the tempest, fearful sign

Of more disastrous night;

Mars at the view restrains his cry;

Bark Scylla and Charybdis high,

The fiends whom wrecks delight.

Swift as a thunderbolt ye come,

The unhappy relics to consume

Of fire, ye winds and waves!

O, Night! who may thy fearfulness,

Thy vast amount of woes express,

Without the tear it craves!

Yield to the cruel element

At length the ships, that long unbent

Its haughtiest rage defied;

Men sink yet living, and for e’er

Closes o’er them their sepulchre,

The insatiable tide.

Save him, Minerva! who around

From East to West, the earth’s wide bound,

Was happier once thy care!

Urania, this thy votary save!

O, Love! how many fond hearts crave

That one’s last sigh to share!

Some to their much-loved country swim,

That horror-struck retires, and dim

In quicksands seems to fly;

Hid by the waves them death unveils,

And to the wreck’d-worn seamen’s wails

They only fierce reply.

Never may Time, in his long flight,

Join day more terrible and night:

But who in such a strife,

Who constant overcame such fate,

Where may we danger find so great

For dauntless heart in life?

O, Clio! where? yet midst that rage,

With golden pen and deathless page,

Thou lovest the brave to greet;

Gravina, Alava, each name

Write, and Escanio’s, echoes fame

Olympic will repeat.

And others, but my voice repels

The love that in my memory dwells;

O, Cosmo! hard thy lot!

O, Muses! him the laurels give,

Whose friend is only left to live,

And weep him unforgot.

Tried adverse fortune to endure,

Your valour proved sublime and pure,

O, Mariners of Spain!

Your life your country’s shield and strength,

Defended and avenged at length,

She will be yet again.

The Lion and the Eagle yet

May have them Neptune’s arm abet,

Now England’s slave and boast;

Who from her lofty poops shall view

Your troops resistless pouring through

In torrents on her coast.

Suffice it now, as tribute paid,

Her great Chief’s death; the Thames to shade,

Doubling with grief her gloom:

That cover’d thus with honour’d scars,

She sees you wait, in happier wars,

The combat to resume.

Ye go, as on the Libyan shore

The lion walks, that fiercely tore

The hunter’s cunning snare;

That not ingloriously o’erborne,

Calmly and fear’d, though bleeding, worn--

Regains his sandy lair.

THE PARTING.

Sylvia! the cruel moment’s near,

When I must say farewell!

For hark! the cannon’s sounds we hear

Of my departure tell.

Thy lover comes to give thee now

The last adieu, and part!

With sorrow overcast his brow,

And sorrowful his heart.

Come, object of my love divine!

Reach me those beauteous arms:

Would fate my happy lot assign

My home and rest thy charms,

The blow that threatens its decree

To give, I should not meet;

For sooner then than part, ’twould see

Me dying at thy feet.

O! had our passion equal force,

Or been of equal growth,

The grief of absence might its course

Divide between us both!

But thou a face indifferent,

Or pleased, dost give to view,

Whilst I have not ev’n breath content

To say to thee, Adieu.

A gentle river murmuring by,

In calmness bathes the plain,

And of its waters the supply

Sees beauteous flowers attain;

In silence thou, my lonely grief,

Dost bathe my wretched breast,

And Sylvia’s pity in relief

For me canst not arrest.

But what, my Sylvia, dost thou say?

What means that tender sigh?

Why do I see, mid tears that stray,

Shine forth thy beaming eye?

As opens to the sun opposed

On some clear day the cloud,

And his rays make the drops disclosed

To sparkle as they flow’d.

On me dost thou those languid eyes

Turn with that tender gaze?

Loses thy cheek its rosy dyes,

Nor beauty less displays?

Thy ruby lips a moment brief

Thou opest, and sorrow seals!

How fair the very show of grief

Itself in thee reveals!

Insensate! how I wildly thought

My bitter griefs would gain

Some ease, if thou wert also taught

A portion of my pain!

Pardon the error that deceived,

O, Sylvia! I implore;

Me more thy sorrow now has grieved,

Than thy disdain before.

My bliss! I pray no more to swerve!

Calm those heart-breaking pains:

Thy grief to have, does not deserve

All that the world contains.

May all life’s hours, in calm serene,

Be ever pass’d by thee;

And all that darker intervene

Reserved alone for me!

For me, whose lonely wretched doom

By heaven has been decreed

To bear fate’s cruelty and gloom,

Wherever it may lead.

But not on thee, so lovely born,

Form’d of a power divine,

To hold ev’n fate a subject sworn

To every will of thine.

Whilst thou my absence mayst lament,

Thy comfort mayst descry,

By fate a thousand lovers sent

More to thy choice than I.

Some one she pleases me above

To favour chance may show;

But one to love thee as I love,

That none can ever know.

’Twas not thy graces won my heart,

Nor yet thy faultless face;

But ’twas some sympathy apart

I might from birth retrace.

I long a picture loved to draw

Of charms I fancied true,

And thy perfections when I saw,

The original I knew.

No traveller upon the ground

By sudden lightning thrown,

The blow could more at once confound,

Left helpless and alone,

Than I to see that beauteous brow,

In hapless love was lost;

At thy feet forced at once to bow,

To adore whate’er the cost.

But I depart, alas! the pain

No words can e’er express;

Heaven only knows it that can scan

The inmost heart’s recess;

And saw the hours of deep delight,

So full now long pass’d by,

That all my wishes’ utmost height

Heap’d up could satisfy.

Now while the breezes fair avail,

The waves are gently stirr’d,

And of the mariners the hail

Confused afar is heard:

Now from the deep’s tenacious hold

The anchor’s fangs they heave,

And all conspiring are enroll’d

Me swifter death to give.

Now with a vacillating foot

The slender boat I tread,

Soon destined from the bank to shoot,

As to the great bark sped.

Sylvia, in this sad moment’s pause,

O! what a mournful crowd

Of thoughts around thy lover close,

To assault him and o’ercloud!

The sweet requital in return

Thou givest my love I know;

And kind remembrances discern

All thy affections show;

Whilst here each proof assures me well

That naught thy heart can move;

But in my absence, who can tell

If thou wilt faithful prove?

For those divine attractions whence

Now all my joys arise,

Perhaps may fate the cause dispense

Of all my miseries;

And whilst I absent and forlorn

My pledges lost deplore,

Some rival gains of me in scorn

The enchantments I adore!

But no, my bliss, my glory! ne’er

Were given the winds in vain

Those vows, which envied me to share

The universe my gain.

Let us time’s tyranny defy,

And distance, constant thus

Remaining in that changeless tie,

That then united us.

When rises first the beamy sun,

When sets his beauteous ray,

When moon and stars their courses run,

On thee my thoughts will stay.

From that enchanting form my heart

No moment will be free;

And traitress thou, when I depart

Wilt ne’er ev’n think of me!

At lonely hours across my thought

Gulf’d in the ocean vast,

The scenes to memory will be brought

With thee I saw and pass’d.

Then will my sorrows make me feel

My lot more dark to be,

And thou more cruel than the steel

Wilt ne’er ev’n think of me!

“There first her matchless form I saw;

There first my faith I swore;

And from her flattering lips could draw

The happy ‘Yes’ they wore!”

As these reflections by me file,

Rise griefs in like degree;

And thou, who knows, if thou the while

Wilt e’er ev’n think of me?

Then as I hours of glory call

Those when I thee beheld;

And of my griefs the sources all

When from thy sight repell’d;

A thousand times the thoughts enhance

The doom ’tis mine to see,

Meanwhile who knows, if thou perchance

Wilt e’er ev’n think of me?

When in the heavens I view unfurl’d

The awful signs arise,

With which the Ruler of the world

Poor mortals terrifies;

When sounds are in the deepest caves

Of horrid thunderings nigh,

And of the seas the troubled waves

Rage furiously on high;

When by the south wind is impell’d

The proud Tyrrhenian main,

As if from its deep bosom swell’d

To assault the starry train;

When the despairing steersman turns

To prayer, instead of skill,

Seeing his bark the ocean spurns

The plaything of its will;

Amid the hoarse and troubled cries

The people raise around,

While shines the sword before their eyes

Of death, to strike them bound;

Ev’n then will I my love’s farewell

In that dark hour renew,

And to the winds my sighs shall tell--

Sylvia! my life, Adieu!

VI.

MANUEL JOSÈ QUINTANA.

Connecting the present age of modern Spanish poetry with that of the

past generation, by a happily protracted existence, as well as by the

style and tone of his writings, the venerable subject of this memoir

still survives, to close a life of active usefulness in a healthy and

honoured old age.

Quintana was born at Madrid, the 11th April, 1772, of a respectable

family of Estremadura. He received his primary education in classical

learning at Cordova, whence he proceeded to Salamanca, and graduated

there in canon and civil law. In this university he had the advantage

of studying under Melendez Valdes, by whom he was soon favourably

noticed, and was made known to the illustrious Jovellanos, by whose

counsels also he had the good fortune to be assisted. Thus his natural

disposition for the study of elegant literature was encouraged, both by

precept and example, under two such able directors, to take a higher

course than the mere study of law, for which profession he was destined.

Having been admitted an Advocate of the Supreme Court, he has held

various appointments, as fiscal of the tribunal of commerce, and censor

of theatres; afterwards chief clerk of the Secretary-General to the

Central Junta of Government, secretary of decrees and interpretation

of languages, member of the censorship to the Cortes, and of the

commission for the formation of a new plan of education. In the last,

he was charged with the duty of drawing up a report of all the works on

the subject presented to the government, which was, in 1835, approved

of by the Cortes.

In the two former of these employments he was interrupted by the

French invasion, when he took an active part against the invaders.

Receiving afterwards the other offices mentioned, he wrote many of the

proclamations and other addresses which were put forth on the part

of the national government, during the struggle for independence.

Throughout those eventful times, he was in the most advanced rank of

the party that advocated constitutional rights, so that when Ferdinand

VII. returned to the possession of absolute power, in 1814, he was,

amongst the proscribed, made a prisoner, and confined in the castle of

Pamplona.

There he was kept six years, without being allowed to communicate with

his friends, or make use of his pen. On the constitutional government

becoming re-established, he was released, and restored to his offices

as secretary for the interpretation of languages, and member of the

board of censors. In 1821, the directorship-general of public education

having been formed, he was made president, until 1823, when the

constitution was again set aside, and he was again deprived of his

employments.

Hereupon Quintana retired to Estremadura to his family, and lived there

till the end of 1828, when he was permitted to return to Madrid, to

continue his labours and literary studies. The following year he was

named member of the board for the museum of natural sciences, and in

1833 was re-established in his former employment, as secretary for

interpretations for which his knowledge of the French, English and

other languages rendered him qualified, and also reappointed president

of the council of public instruction. He was shortly after appointed

preceptor to her present Majesty, Queen Isabel II., and although ever

maintaining strong liberal principles, has been since, under the

administration of Narvaez, named a senator of the kingdom.

Quintana first appeared as an author in 1795, when he published a

small volume of poems, among which was an Ode to the Sea, considered

one of his best compositions. The greater part, however, of them were

of unequal merit, and those have been omitted in subsequent editions:

the next one was published in 1802, and it has been reprinted with

additions several times. The best and most complete edition of his

poetical works was published at Madrid, in 1820, in two volumes,

entitled, ‘Poems, including the patriotic odes and tragedies, the

Duke of Viseo, and Pelayo.’ Of this edition five or six surreptitious

reprints have been made at Bordeaux and elsewhere, the laws regarding

copyright having only lately been made accordant with justice in Spain

as regards authors, though they do not yet extend them protection

against piratical republications from abroad.

The tragedy of the ‘Duke of Viseo,’ imitated from the English, the

‘Castle Spectre’ of Lewis, was brought forward in 1801, and that of

‘Pelayo’ in 1805. The latter, on a favourite subject of their ancient

history, was received with much favour by his countrymen, as were also

many of his patriotic odes and poems, written in a spirit accordant

with the national feeling. Most of these were at the time inserted in

two periodical works he had under his direction; the first, ‘Variedades

de Ciencias, Literatura y Artes,’ and the second, the ‘Seminario

Patriotico,’ which was of a political character, and established to

promote, and sustain the spirit of independence, against the French

invasion.

Beyond his original poems, Quintana has done an important service

to Spanish literature by publishing ‘A Collection of select Spanish

Poetry,’ altogether in six volumes, Madrid, 1830-33, with critical

and biographical notices, reprinted in Paris by Baudry, 1838. These

notices are written in a tone of great impartiality and fairness, and

are preceded by a Dissertation, as an Introduction, on the History

of Spanish Poetry, which, written as it is with eminent ability, Mr.

Wiffen has shown great judgement in translating, prefixed to his very

correct and elegant version of the works of Garcilasso de la Vega,

London, 1823. Besides this valuable collection of Spanish poetry,

Quintana has favoured the public with a work in three volumes,--‘Lives

of celebrated Spaniards,’ of which the first volume was published in

1807, the other two in 1830 and 1833 respectively.

The first volume, which has been translated into English by Mr.

Preston, London, 1823, contains the lives of the earlier heroes of

Spanish history,--the Cid Campeador, Guzman the Good, Roger de Lauria,

the Prince of Viana, and Gonzalo de Cordova; all bearing impressions

of the enthusiastic and poetic feelings, characteristic of the

comparatively youthful period of life at which they were written.

It was Quintana’s intention to have proceeded with a series of like

biographies; but the subsequent public events, in which he had to

take so active a part, interrupted the task, and when he resumed it,

after the lapse of twenty years, it was under the influence of other

feelings. He then proceeded principally with the lives of persons

distinguished in American history; the second volume containing those

of Vasco Nunez de Balboa and Francisco Pizarro; and the third volume

those of Alvaro de Luna, and Bartolome de las Casas. Of these two

volumes, the former has been translated into English by Mrs. Hobson,

Edinburgh, 1832; and of the third a translation has been announced,

London, 1851; both, and the latter especially, well deserving of study.

In the first volume, treating of heroes, whose history, almost lost in

the obscurity of remote times, might be considered among the fabulous

legends prevailing everywhere in the first formations of society, it

seemed only appropriate to give a colouring of poetry, to characters of

whose actions nothing could be judged, except by their outward bearing.

But in the others he could write as a philosophic historian, inquiring

into the motives of actions, and teaching lessons of public morality

by individual examples. The life of Alvaro is thus particularly

interesting, depicting the caprices of fortune, as they affect

The wish indulged in courts to shine,

And power too great to keep or to resign.

In the other lives he maintains the high tone of feeling shown in his

beautiful Ode to Balmis, the philanthropic introducer of vaccination

into America, where the ravages of the disease, so graphically

described by Humboldt, had made this benefit more peculiarly desirable.

The generous sentiments expressed in this ode are such as to do honour

not only to Quintana, but also to the nation, where they are in the

present generation adopted, as we find them repeated emphatically

by so popular a writer as Larra. More than thirty years had elapsed

after writing that ode, when Quintana, in the Life of the enthusiastic

Las Casas, proved his consistency of character and principles, by

maintaining them in a work of historical character, as he had done in

poetry in his youth.

In the prologue to the third volume he says, “The author will be

accused of little regard for the honour of his country, when he so

frankly adopts the sentiments and principles of the Protector of

the Indians, whose imprudent writings have been the occasion of so

much opprobrium, and of subministering such arms to the detractors

of Spanish glories. But neither the extravagance or fanatical

exaggerations of Las Casas, nor the abuse which the malignity of

strangers have made of them, can erase from deeds their nature and

character. The author has not gone to imbibe them from suspicious

fountains; nor to judge them as he has done, has he regarded other

principles than those of natural equity, or other feelings than those

of his own heart. Documents carefully appended for this purpose, and

the attentive perusal of Herrera, Oviedo, and others our own writers as

impartial and judicious as those, give the same result in events and

opinions. What then was to be done? To deny the impressions received,

and repel the decision which humanity and justice dictate, on account

of not compromising what is called the honour of the country? But the

honour of a country consists in actions truly great, noble and virtuous

of its inhabitants; not in gilding with justifications, or insufficient

exculpations, those that unfortunately bear on themselves the seal of

being iniquitous and cruel. To strangers who to depress us, accuse us

of cruelty and barbarity in our discoveries and conquests of the New

World, we might reply with other examples on their own part, as or more

atrocious than ours, and in times and under circumstances sufficiently

less excusable.…

“The great glories and usefulnesses, which result from extended

conquests and dominations, are always bought at a great price, whether

of blood, or violence, or reputation and fame: unhappy tribute to be

paid even by nations the most civilized, when the impulse of destiny

bears them to the same situation. Glorious, without doubt, was for us

the discovery of the New World! But at what cost was it bought! For

myself what affects me, leaving apart as not required here the question

of the advantages which Europe has derived from that singular event,

I will say, that wherever I find, whether in the past or the present,

aggressors and aggrieved, oppressors and oppressed, on no account of

ulterior utility, nor even of national consideration, am I able to

incline myself to the former, or to fail in sympathizing with the

latter. I may have put therefore into this historical question more

entireness and candour than is commonly expected, when referring to our

own conduct, but no odious prejudices, nor an inclination to injure or

detract. Let us everywhere give some place in books to justice, now

that unfortunately it is wont to have so little left it in the affairs

of the world.”

Holding such high opinions in all his writings, it may be seen that the

youth of Spain cannot have a better guide to take for private study

than those writings, the best preparatives for honourable exertion in

life; and Quintana’s own history shows, that whatever misfortunes may

befall any one individually, he does not labour or suffer in vain,

who labours or suffers honestly in a just cause. In another part of

the same prologue, Quintana says of his own lot, “Of this variety of

circumstances and continued alternations, from good to ill, and from

ill to good, not small has been the part fallen to the author of this

work. Drawn by the force of events from his study and domestic lares,

flattered and excessively exalted now, afterwards borne down and

contemned, falling into imprisonment and proceeded against capitally,

destined to a long and perhaps indefinite detention, deprived during it

of communications and even of his pen, released from it, when he least

hoped, to rise and prosper, and descending again soon to be endangered,

he has experienced all, and nothing now can be to him new. Let it not

be supposed from this that he puts it forth here as a merit, and

less, that he presents it in complaint. For of whom should I complain?

Of men? These in the midst of my greatest calamities, with very few

exceptions, have shown themselves constantly regardful, benevolent,

and even respectful towards me. Of fortune? And what pledges had she

given me to moderate for me the rigour with which she treated the rest?

Were they not of as much or more value than I? Political and moral

turbulences are the same as the great physical disorders, in which the

elements becoming excited, no one is sheltered from their fury.”

Resigning himself thus to his fate, Quintana seems to have learned

the philosophical secret of preserving his equanimity in all the

vicissitudes of life, to the enjoyment of a tranquil old age. The

privilege of attaining this is a favour to every one, to whom it is

granted; but its highest enjoyments must be consequent only on a life

of active usefulness, with a conscience void of offence. The man of

cultivated mind, who has been called upon to do or to suffer more

than others his fellows in the turmoils of the world, may then be

supposed to receive his greater reward in the remembrances of scenes,

happier perhaps in the retrospect than in the reality, which may have

given them even the semblance of a longer existence. As perspectives

appear lengthened, according to the number and variety of objects that

intervene to the view, so life itself may appear to have been longer

or shorter, according to the memory and character of events witnessed

in its course. Described as a person of athletic form, yet unbowed by

the burden of fourscore years, Quintana, as before observed, still

survives, to receive the honour justly due to him for his honourable

exertions through life, the remembrances of which may thus give him

more pleasurable enjoyments, than can be supposed to fall to the lot of

ordinary mortals.

As a poet, if a foreigner may be allowed to express an opinion, for

which he has no native authority to adduce, Quintana may be said to be

more eloquent than poetical. As Quintilian said of Lucan, both also

natives of Spain, “ut dicam quod sentio, magis oratoribus quam poetis

annumerandus.” Quintana’s eloquence consists in earnestness more than

in flights of fancy. His favourite subjects were the glories of his

country; and his patriotic odes, in which he endeavoured to incite his

countrymen to imitate the examples of their forefathers, have been

pronounced his best compositions. He has as a poet paid his tribute

of admiration to beauty and the arts; but his whole soul seems to be

poured forth when pathetically mourning over the dimmed glories of his

country, as when at the thought “of our miserable squadrons flying

before the British,” he turns to the Padillias and Guzmans of former

days, “when the Spaniard was master of half of Europe, and threw

himself upon unknown and immense seas to give a new world to men.”

As a patriotic poet Quintana has been compared to Beranger, and is

said to have had the same power over the minds of his countrymen.

If the parallel be correct, it may be curious to consider how

characteristically these two poets appeal to the feelings of their

admirers; one by songs and incidents, which though often trivial,

yet speak to the heart in its most sensitive points, while the other

proceeds to the same object by martial odes of commanding austerity.

Besides the Ode to Balmis, the other one in this work, on the Battle of

Trafalgar, has been chosen for translation, as most likely to interest

the English reader, though it may not be in itself so much to be

admired as some others of his poems. The reader will perhaps observe a

constrained style in it, even beyond that of translation,--sentiments

forced, as if the subject had not been taken voluntarily. It must

not therefore be looked upon as a favourable specimen of Quintana’s

genius, like the Ode to Balmis, which more fully shows the character of

his mind.

Quintana, more than other poets of his time, has written in one style

of verse, as in imitation of the Pindaric ode, or of our Gray and

Dryden. Thus with free metres and often unfettered by rhyme, he has

a staid measured tone, well suited to the subjects he has generally

adopted. They are considered in Spain as of an elegiac character; and

as accordant with them, they have fallen in the translation into the

form of our elegies, or the heroic lines with alternate rhymes, the

style of verse which Dryden, a high authority on such a question,

pronounced “the most magnificent of all the measures which our language

affords.”

Much as Quintana has published, both of his own works and of the works

of others, for the advancement of sound learning and moral instruction,

we have still great cause to regret that the circumstances of the times

in which he has lived have prevented him from publishing more. Not only

has he been interrupted in the course of those instructive biographies,

of which we have such valuable beginnings, but we might have hoped,

if he had lived in more peaceful times, that he would have given the

world some work, of a character more distinctively his own, to place

his name still higher in the history of elegant literature. It was one

of the maxims of the wise Jovellanos, “that it was not sufficient for

the purposes of good government to keep the people quiet, but that they

ought to be kept contented.” Without this condition the other cannot

be expected; and for all public commotions, therefore, the rulers are

always most responsible, as unmindful of this truth. The greatest

evil is, when the whole literary world has thus also further cause

to complain of their misdeeds, as affecting those who were endowed

with talents of a higher order, such as to make all men interested

in their well-being. It is to be hoped that we are now, under the

benignant reign of Isabel the Second, entitled to expect a more liberal

government, and the advent of a still brighter æra for the literature

of Spain.

Taking the space of eighty years, as comprehending the period during

which modern Spanish poetry has been peculiarly distinguished for

superior excellence, we may now make a further division of this period,

into the former and latter parts of it. All the poets, whose lives we

have hitherto traced, wrote their principal works previously to the

year 1810; after which time we have a succession of writers, whose

genius may perhaps be found to take a yet wider range of thought and

feeling, consequent on the extended field of knowledge, which later

events presented to their observation.

MANUEL JOSÈ QUINTANA.

TO THE SPANISH EXPEDITION FOR THE PROMOTION OF VACCINATION IN AMERICA,

UNDER DON FRANCISCO BALMIS.

Fair Virgin of the world, America!

Thou who so innocent to heaven display’st

Thy bosom stored with plenty’s rich array,

And brow of gentle youth! Thou, who so graced

The tenderest and most lovely of the zones

Of mother Earth to shine, shouldst be of fate

The sweet delight and favour’d love it owns,

That but pursues thee with relentless hate,

Hear me! If ever was a time mine eyes,

When scanning thy eventful history,

Did not burst forth in tears; if could thy cries

My heart e’er hear unmoved, from pity free

And indignation; then let me disclaim’d

Of virtue be eternally as held,

And barbarous and wicked be one named

As those who with such ruin thee assail’d.

In the eternal book of life are borne,

Written in blood, those cries, which then sent forth

Thy lips to Heaven, such fury doom’d to mourn,

And yet against my country call in wrath.

Forbidding glory and success attend

The fatal field of crimes. Will they ne’er cease?

Will not the bitter expiation end

Sufficed of three eventful centuries?

We are not now those who on daring’s wing,

Before the world, the Atlantic’s depths disdain’d,

And from the silence found thee covering,

That fiercely tore thee, bleeding and enchain’d!

“No, ye are not the same. But my lament

Is not for this to cease: I could forget

The rigours which my conquerors relent,

Their avarice with cruelties beset:

The crime was of the age, and not of Spain.

But when can I forget the evils sore

Which I must miserably yet sustain?

Among them one, come, see what I deplore,

If horror will not you deter. From you,

Your fatal ships first launch’d, the mortal pest,

The poison that now desolates me flew.

As in doom’d plains by ruthless foes oppress’d,

As serpent that incessantly devours,

So ever from your coming, to consume

Has it raged o’er me. See here, how it lowers!

And in the hidden place of death and gloom,

Buries my children and my loves. Affords

Your skill no remedy? O! ye, who call

Yourselves as of America the lords,

Have pity on my agony. See, fall

Beneath your insane fury, not sufficed

One generation, but a hundred slain!

And I expiring, desolate, unprized,

Beseech assistance, and beseech in vain.”

Such were the cries that to Olympus rose,

When in the fields of Albion found remote,

Variola’s fell havocs to oppose,

Kind Nature show’d the happy antidote.

The docile mother of the herd was found

Enrich’d with this great gift; there stored attent

Where from her copious milky founts around

She gives so many life and aliment.

Jenner to mortals first the gift reveal’d:

Thenceforward mothers to their hearts could press

Their children without fear to lose them heal’d;

Nor fear’d thenceforward in her loveliness

The maiden, lest the fatal venom spoil

Her cheek of roses, or her brow of snow.

All Europe then is join’d in grateful toil,

For gift so precious and immense to know,

In praises loud to echo Jenner’s name;

And altars to his skill to raise decrees,

There to long ages hallowing his fame,

Beside their tutelar divinities.

Of such a glory at the radiant light,

With noble emulation fill’d his breast,

A Spaniard rose,--“Let not my country slight,”

He cried, “on such a great occasion’s test,

Her ancient magnanimity to employ.

’Tis fortune’s gift discovering it alone;

That let an Englishman his right enjoy.

Let Spain’s sublime and generous heart be shown,

Giving her majesty more honour true,

By carrying this treasure to the lands

Which most the evil’s dire oppressions knew.

There, for I feel a deity commands,

There will I fly, and of the raging wave

Will brave in bearing it the furious strife;

America’s infested plains to save

From death, as planting there the tree of life.”

He spoke, and scarcely from his burning lip

These echoes had beneficently flowed,

When floating in the port, prepared the ship,

To give commencement to so blest a road,

Moved spreading her white canvas to the air.

On his fate launch’d himself the aëronaut.

Waves of the sea, in favouring calmness bear,

As sacred, this deposit to be brought

Through your serene and liquid fields. There goes

Of thousand generations long the hope;

Nor whelm it, nor let thunder it oppose;

Arrest the lightning, with no storms to cope,

Stay them until that from those fertile shores

Come forth the prows, triumphant in their pride,

That fraught remote with all their golden stores,

With vice and curses also come allied.

Honour to Balmis! O, heroic soul!

That in such noble toil devotest thy breath,

Go fearless to thy end. The dreadful roll

Of ocean always hoarse, and threatening death;

The fearful whirlpool’s all-devouring throat,

The cavern’d rock’s black face, where dash’d by fate,

Break the wreck’d barks, the dangers they denote

Greatest are not most cruel thee that wait.

From man expect them! Impious, envious man,

In error wrapped and blind, will prove him bent,

When hush’d against thee is the hurricane,

To combat rough the generous intent.

But firmly and secure press forward on;

And hold in mind, when comes for strife the day,

That without constant, anxious toil, can none

Hope glory’s palms to seize, and bear away.

At length thou comest; America salutes

Her benefactor, and at once her veins

The destined balm to purify deputes.

A further generous ardour then regains

Thy breast; and thou, obedient to the hand

Divine that leads thee, turn’st the sounding prow

Where Ganges rolls, and every Eastern land

The gift may take. The Southern Ocean now

Astonished sees thee, o’er her mighty breast

Untiring passing. Luzon thee admires,

Good always sowing on thy road impress’d:

And as it China’s toilsome shore acquires,

Confucius from his tomb of honour’d fame,

If could his venerable form arise,

To see it in glad wonder might exclaim,

“’Twas worthy of my virtue, this emprise!”

Right worthy was it of thee, mighty sage!

Worthy of that divine and highest light,

Which reason and which virtue erst array’d

To shine in happier days, now quench’d in night.

Thou, Balmis! never mayst return; nor grows

In Europe now the sacred laurel meet

With which to crown thee. There in calm repose,

Where peace and independence a retreat

May find, there rest thee! where thou mayst receive

At length the august reward of deeds so blest.

Nations immense shall come for thee to grieve,

Raising in grateful hymns to Heaven address’d

Thy name with fervorous zeal. And though now laid

In the cold tomb’s dark precincts thou refuse

To hear them, listen to them thus convey’d

At least, as in the accents of my Muse.

ON THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR.

Not with an easy hand wills Fate to give

Nations, or heroes, power and renown:

Triumphant Rome, whose empire to receive

A hemisphere submissively bow’d down,

Yielding itself in silent servitude,

How often did she vanquish’d groan? repell’d

As she her course of loftiness pursued!

Her ground to Hannibal she scarcely held;

Italian blood of Trevia the sands,

And wavy Thrasymenus deeply dyed,

And Roman matrons the victorious bands

Of Cannæ nigh approaching them descried,

As some portentous comet fearful lower.

Who drove them thence? Who from the Capitol

Turn’d on the throne, that founded Dido’s power,

The clouds that threaten’d then o’er them to roll?

Who in the fields of Zama, from the yoke

They fear’d, with direful slaughter to set free,

At length the sceptre of great Carthage broke,

With which she held her sovereignty, the sea?

Unswerving courage! that alone the shield

That turns adversity’s sharp knife aside:

To joy turns sorrow; bids despair to yield

To glory, and of fortune learns to guide

The dubious whirlwind, victory in its train;

For a high-minded race commands its fate.

O, Spain! my country! covering thy domain,

The mourning shows how great thy suffering state;

But still hope on, and with undaunted brow,

From base dejection free, behold the walls

Of thy own lofty Gades, which avow

Thy strength, though fate them now awhile appals;

Which though affrighted, blushing in their shame,

As bathing them around the waves extend,

Yet loud thy sons’ heroic deeds proclaim,

Far on the sounding billows they defend.

From the proud castled poop that crowns his high

Indomitable ship, the Briton round

Look’d, on his power and glory to rely,

And boastful cried, “Companions renown’d!

See, there they come: new trophies to attain

Wait your unconquer’d arms; the feeble pines

That Spain prepares for her defence in vain:

Fate from our yoke exemption none assigns.

We are the sons of Neptune. Do they dare

To plough the waves before us? Call to mind

Aboukir’s memorable day! to share

Another such a triumph: let us find

One moment as sufficing us to come,

To conquer, and destroy them. Grant it me,

Kind fate! and let us crown’d with laurels home

Our wealthy Thames again returning see.”

He spoke, and spread his sails. With swimming prows

Opening the waves, they follow him elate,

Conquerors of winds and waves. With dauntless brow

The Spaniards view them, and in calmness wait,

Contemning their fierce arrogance, and high

Their bosoms beating with indignant rage.

Just anger! sacred ardour! “There come nigh

Those cruel foes, who hasten war to wage,

And spill our blood, when we reposed secure

Beneath the wings of peace. They who are led

By avarice vile; who friendship’s laws abjure;

Who in their endless tyranny o’erspread

Would hold condemn’d the seas; who to unite,

As brothers, pride and insolence of power

With treachery and rapacity delight;

Who”--but with mantle dark night brings the hour

To enwrap the world. Wandering round the shrouds

Are frightful shades, dire slaughter that portend

And fearful expectations raise. Through opening clouds

The day displays the field, where wildly blend

Fury and death; and horrid Mars the scene

Swells loud with shouts of war, upraised in air

His standard high. To answer intervene

From hollow brass the mortal roarings glare.

The echo thunders, and the waves resound,

Dashing themselves in rage to Afric’s shore:

In conflict fly the ships to ships around,

By rancour moved. Less violent its store

Of heap’d-up ice in mountains, the South Pole

Emits immense, loud thundering through the waves

To glide, and on the adventurous seaman roll.

Nor with less clamour loosen’d from their caves

Rush the black tempests, when the East and North,

Troubling the heavens enraged in furious war,

And dire encounter, all their strength put forth,

And shake the centre of the globe afar.

Thrice the fierce islander advanced to break

Our squadron’s wall, confiding in his might:

Thrice by the Spanish force repulsed, to shake

His hopes of victory he sees the fight.

Who shall depict his fury and his rage,

When with that flag before so proud he saw

The flag of Spain invincible engage?

’Tis not to skill or valour to o’erawe,

Solely he trusts to fortune for success.

Doubling his ships, redoubling them again,

From poop to prow, from side to side to press,

In an unequal fight is made sustain

Each Spanish ship a thousand, thousand fires;

And they with equal breath that death receive

So send it back. No, not to my desires,

If heaven would grant it me, could I achieve

The task that day’s heroic deeds to tell,

Not with a hundred tongues; hid from the sun

By smoke, Fame’s trumpet shall their praises swell,

And bronze and marble for their names be won.

At length the moment comes, when Death extends

His pale and horrid hand, to signalize

Great victims. Brave Alcedo to him bends,

And nobly Moyua, with Castanios, dies.

And Alcalà, Churruca, also ye!

Of Betis and Guipuzcoa the pride.

O! if Fate knew to spare, would it not be

Enough to soothe, upon your brows allied

Minerva’s olive with Mars’ laurels seen?

From your illustrious and inquiring mind

What could the world, or stars, their mysteries screen?

Of your great course the traces left behind

The Cyclades are full, nor less the seas

Of far America. How seeks to mourn,

New tears from her sad heart her grief to appease,

The widow’d land such heroes from her torn;

And still she sheds them o’er your cruel fate.

O! that ye two could live, and I in place

Of grief, of sorrowing song, to consecrate

To you the funeral accents that I raise,

Might have opposed my bosom to the stroke,

And thus my useless life my country give!

That I might thus your cruel lot revoke,

To bear the wounds, so that ye two might live!

And she might proudly raise her front anew,

Victorious crown’d with rays of glory bright,

Her course ’gainst arduous fortune to pursue,

Triumphant in your wisdom and your might.

Yet fell ye not, ye generous squadrons! there,

Without revenge and slaughter. Spreading wide,

Rivers of English blood your powers declare.

And Albion also horror-struck descried

Mountains of bodies weigh, a heavy pile,

On her so proud Armada. Nelson, too!

Terrible shade! O, think not, no, that vile

My voice to name thee, e’er an insult threw

On thy last sigh. As English I abhor,

But hero I admire thee. O, thy fate!

Of captive ships a crowd, the spoils of war,

The Thames awaits, and now exults elate

To hail with shouts the conqueror’s return!

But only pale and cold beholds her Chief!

Great lesson left for human pride to learn,

And worthy holocaust for Spanish grief.

Yet still the rage of Mars impels the arm

Of destiny; mow’d down unnumber’d lives.

By fury launch’d, voracious flames alarm;

On every side planks burning. Loosely drives

Each ship a fierce volcano; blazing high

Through the wide air ’tis raised, and thrown again

With horrid bursting in the seas to lie,

Engulf’d. Do other havocs yet remain?

Yes, for that Heaven, displeased to see such foes,

Bids the inclement north winds rise to part

The furious combatants, and day to close

In stormy night. ’Tis order’d, and athwart

They throw themselves the miserable barks,

Lashing the waves on high with cruel wings.

As each this new unequal combat marks

For ruin, falls the mast, and over swings

Trembling beneath the assault. The hulls divide,

And where the gaping seams the waves invite,

They enter, while the dying Spaniards cried,

“O! that we were to perish, but in fight!”

In that remorseless conflict, high in air,

Then shining forth their glorious forms display’d

The mighty champions, who of old to bear

The trident and the spear, supreme had made

Before the Iberian flag the nations bow.

There Lauria, Trovar, and Bazan were seen,

And Aviles, their brother heroes now

Of Spain to welcome, and in death convene.

“Come among us,” they cried, “among the brave

You emulate. Already you have gain’d

Your fair reward. The example that you gave

Of valour, Spain in constancy sustain’d

Her warriors shows, inciting to prepare

For other conflicts they undaunted greet.

Look to the city of Alcides! there

Gravina, Alavà, and Escanio meet!

Cisneros and a hundred more combine

There in firm column, with proud hopes to bless

Our native land. Come, fly ye here, and shine

In heaven their stars of glory, and success.”