PART II.

VII.

FRANCISCO MARTINEZ DE LA ROSA.

Throughout the civilized world, and even beyond it, this eminent

statesman has long been heard of, as one who, while devoting his life

faithfully to promote the welfare of his own country, had exerted

himself no less assiduously for the general interests of mankind. As

an orator, a statesman and a political writer, he has thus obtained a

deservedly high European reputation, due to his services and merits. In

Spain he is further known as one of the first literary characters of

whom his country has to boast, and as a dramatist and lyric poet of a

very superior order.

Martinez de la Rosa was born the 10th March, 1789, at Granada, where

also he received his education, completing it at the University in that

city. Before the age of twenty he had gone through the usual course of

study in the ancient and some of the modern languages, in philosophy,

mathematics, canon and civil law, with such success as to have been

enabled to undertake a professorship of philosophy there, perfecting

himself in the art of oratory, in which his natural talents already

had become manifest, as they soon afterwards gave him the means of

greater distinction. From those pursuits he was called away, in 1808,

on the occurrence of the French invasion, to take an active part in

the struggle for national independence, into which he entered with

youthful ardour, by public declamations, and by writing in a periodical

instituted to maintain it.

As the French arms advanced victoriously, Martinez de la Rosa, with

others of the party who had been most conspicuous in their opposition

to them, had to take refuge in Cadiz. He was first employed to proceed

to Gibraltar, as his future colleague, the Conde de Toreno, had been

sent to London, to obtain a cessation of hostilities, in the war

then yet existing between England and Spain, and concert measures

of alliance against the French. In this mission he had the desired

success, having further obtained from the governor of Gibraltar arms

and ammunition, which enabled the Spanish forces under Castanios to

march and obtain, at Bailen, the memorable triumph of the 19th July,

1808. In consequence of this victory, the French had to evacuate

Madrid, and the Central Junta was formed, superseding the first actors

in the conflict. On this, Martinez de la Rosa took advantage of the

circumstances to go to England, and observe there himself, says his

biographer, the celebrated Pacheco, “in its birth-place, where it was

natural, complete and necessary, that representative system, which the

spirit of reform wished to bring over for the people of the Continent.”

Wolf says he had there a diplomatic commission, adding, that he took

advantage of it “to familiarize himself with the English constitution,

for which he always had a great predilection.”

Whether he had public duties entrusted to him or not, Martinez de

la Rosa seems then to have stayed some time in London, studying the

workings of the parliamentary system, the good fruits of which he,

as Mirabeau had before him, found in his legislative career. There

he printed, in 1811, his poem, Zaragoza, written in competition

for the prize offered by the Central Junta, in celebration of the

defence of that city in 1809, and there also he wrote several other

poems. The one of Zaragoza seems not to have been reprinted in Spain

till the publication of his collected poems in Madrid in 1833,

and no adjudication ever was made on the compositions prepared at

the suggestion of the Junta, but it is stated that the judges had

unanimously agreed to confer on him the premium offered in the name of

the nation.

In 1811 the French armies had driven the assertors of national

independence from all the other principal parts of Spain to Cadiz,

and there the Cortes were convoked to meet. There then, Martinez de

la Rosa returned, and though not yet of the age required by law to be

chosen a Deputy, he took part in all the deliberations of the national

councils, and was appointed Secretary to the commission on the freedom

of the press. Meanwhile the siege of Cadiz was commenced by the French

and pressed unremittingly; but the spirit of the defenders did not

fail them. Martinez de la Rosa and Quintana continued their literary

labours, and the former produced a comedy and a tragedy, both of which

were received with much favour. The latter continues a favourite on the

stage, on a subject well chosen from Spanish history, and entitled the

‘Widow of Padillia.’ To use his own words, “It was represented, for the

first time, in July 1812, and in days so unfortunate, that it could

not be produced even in the theatre at Cadiz, on account of the great

danger from the bombs of the enemy, which had nearly caused, a little

before, the destruction of the building, crowded at the time with a

numerous audience. For this reason they had to erect a theatre of

wood in another part of the city, at a distance from where the French

artillery had directed their aim.”

Shortly after this the siege was raised, and the French having

again evacuated Madrid, the Cortes were convoked to assemble there,

when Martinez de la Rosa was elected Deputy for his native city. He

had throughout the struggle joined the most active members of the

liberal party, Arguelles, Quintana and others, who, all honourable and

patriotic characters, had acted in perfect sincerity in forming the

Constitution of 1812, as it was called, which they hoped would secure

the future freedom of the country.

In this, however, they found themselves mistaken; the representative

system had scarcely time to develope its advantages, when it was

overthrown entirely on the return of Ferdinand to Spain, who, by

his decree of the 4th of May, 1814, annulled the Constitution,

and dissolved the Cortes. Had he been contented with this, as in

re-assumption of the regal authority exercised by his predecessors,

the liberal party might have had only to lament the abrupt termination

of their hopes. But, unfortunately, proceedings still more arbitrary

were commenced against their leaders individually, of a nature unknown,

even in Spain, till then, and in comparison with which the rule of the

Prince of the Peace was a pattern of toleration. As those leaders had

not been guilty of any act which could make them amenable to any legal

tribunal, Ferdinand VII. took on himself to pass the sentences he chose

to inflict on them for the opinions they had held, and the conduct

they had pursued, in the momentous struggle for national independence,

resulting in his restoration. The partisans of the Absolute King wished

to extort from Martinez de la Rosa a retractation of the opinions

he had maintained; but they miscalculated his character. He refused

to listen to their overtures, and he was sentenced to ten years’

imprisonment in the penal settlement of Gomera in Africa.

In 1820 a reaction took place, and the constitutional party again

obtained possession of the government. Martinez de la Rosa had then

passed six years of unjust imprisonment, when he was recalled to Spain,

and was received, in his native city, with triumphal arches erected to

welcome him, and other tokens of public respect and rejoicing. At the

first election of deputies afterwards for the Cortes, he was sent with

that character from Granada, but his sentiments on public affairs had

become considerably modified. Others of the liberal party had returned

from exile or imprisonment with exasperated feelings; but Martinez de

la Rosa had employed his time more philosophically, in considering the

means that should be adopted, to use his own expression, “for resolving

the problem, most important for the human race, how to unite order

with liberty.” Avoiding all extreme opinions, he gave his support to

the ministry he found existing and their successors, as the means of

preserving order, until they fell under the combination of unworthy

jealousies among their own party, and the constant attacks of those

holding the extreme opinions of democracy and absolutism.

On the 1st March, 1821, Martinez de la Rosa was called on to form a

ministry, which duty he finally undertook, though he had at first

strenuously declined it. He had good reason to decline it, as the king

himself was throughout that period plotting against his own ministers

and government, to re-establish himself in absolute power. At the

end of June, Martinez de la Rosa found himself under the necessity

of tendering his resignation, and insisting upon its being accepted,

though both the king and the council at first refused to do so. The

moderate course which he wished to follow pleased neither party; and

even he, who had suffered six years of unjust imprisonment in the

popular cause, was now looked on as a traitor by the people, and ran

great risk of being murdered in a public commotion raised in the city.

Had he chosen to take a more decisive part, either on the one side or

the other, the weight of his character would no doubt have given it the

preponderance. As it was, the question was decided by the invasion of

the French under the Duc d’Angoulême, who restored Ferdinand VII. to

his former authority.

When the French entered Spain, the constitutionalist government had

retired to Seville; but Martinez de la Rosa had been obliged, from

illness, to remain at Madrid. There being called upon to give in his

adhesion to the authority imposed by foreign arms on the nation, he

declined to do so, and thought himself fortunate in having no severer

penalty to suffer thereupon, than to have his passport given him to

go from Spain, while others had to suffer so much more severely. He

then retired to Paris, where he resided eight years, paying occasional

visits to Italy, and though not proscribed directly as an exile, yet he

was not allowed to return to his country.

During those eight years he devoted his leisure to literary pursuits,

and composed most of those works on which his fame must permanently

rest; such as his poem, ‘Arte Poetica;’ his very beautiful ‘Ode on

the Death of the Duchess de Frias,’ and several plays; among them the

‘Tragedy of the Conspiracy of Venice,’ considered the best of all he

had written. Thus occupied in endeavouring to make future generations

wiser and better, Martinez de la Rosa gained increased respect at home

with his increased reputation abroad; and on the moderating of the

first angry party-feelings in Spain, was at the end of eight years

allowed to return to Granada.

The events of 1830 had produced the effect in Spain of milder councils

being adopted in the government, which prevailed still more on the

Queen Christina assuming power, first on the illness of the king, and

afterwards as Regent on his death in 1833. Martinez de la Rosa had

then been permitted to return to Madrid, and in this latter year he

published the first collection of his poems, dedicating himself to

writing at the same time his ‘Life of Perez del Pulgar,’ one of the

old warriors of Spain, and other works. From these labours he was

then called to undertake again the duties of government. The existing

ministry formed under a former line of policy, was not suitable to

the exigences of the times, rendered still more pressing now by the

pretensions of Don Carlos to the throne. It was necessary to oppose

those pretensions, by obtaining the zealous aid of the constitutional

party; and Martinez de la Rosa was chosen as the leader, embodying in

himself the characteristics of moderation and just principles, to form

a ministry.

It does not become a foreigner, least of all in a purely literary

work, to enter in judgement on any questions of a political nature.

The best-intentioned persons in the world may take different views of

the same question, under the same emergences, and the wisdom of any

particular measure is not always to be judged of by the result. In

the conflicts of contending parties, the most unscrupulous and daring

may often succeed, where wiser and better men may fail. Of Martinez

de la Rosa, his biographer has observed, that “he was one of those

men who would not conspire even for good ends unlawfully; and that if

he could not obtain what he wished by just means, he would cross his

arms, and leave the rest to Providence.” The events of those years

present much ground for regret for all parties, and it is a truly

honourable consideration for such a one as Martinez de la Rosa, that,

acting according to the best of his judgement on many very difficult

occasions, he might have been compelled to yield to force and violence,

without any imputation on his probity or statesmanship.

But if it be beyond our consideration of duty to enter on questions

of internal polity, there are two others, connected with his

administration, to which we may venture to refer, as to be judged of

by those great principles of right and justice, which are applicable

to all times and all countries, and become thus fairly subject to

commendation or censure, as affecting the general interests of mankind.

Though Martinez de la Rosa had been one of the principal actors among

those who had established the Constitution of 1812, for which also

he suffered as a prisoner and an exile, he learned soon to perceive

that it required considerable modifications in a country like Spain,

where the people were not fully prepared to receive it. One of his

first measures then was to promulgate what might be termed a new

Constitution, called the Estatuto Real, the general wisdom and

propriety of which may be admitted, or at least not disputed, while

one part of it may be pronounced indefensible. This was in the design

to subvert the ancient rights of the Basque people, by amalgamating

their provinces into the kingdom, without obtaining or asking their

assent. This was a measure unjust in itself; and because unjust, also

impolitic; leading to a long-protracted struggle, in which the whole

force of Spain being employed, army after army was destroyed, and

general after general disgraced, by a comparatively inconsiderable

number of undisciplined peasantry. When England sought to incorporate

the Parliaments of Scotland and Ireland into that of the United

Kingdom, it was sought by what might be called legal, though not always

honourable means. On the same principle, the consent of the Basques

ought to have been obtained by the Spanish government, rather than the

attempt made, furtively or forcibly, to deprive them of their ancient

privileges.

On another great question affecting humanity, it is pleasing to

consider Martinez de la Rosa among the foremost characters of the age,

in attempting the suppression of the slave trade with Africa. In 1817

a treaty was made between England and Spain to suppress this traffic,

which, after the experience of a few years, it was found necessary to

make more stringent. Propositions to this effect were therefore made

year after year to successive Spanish governments by the British, but

in vain, until in 1835 Lord Palmerston was successful enough to find

in him a minister of Spain, who had the courage to consent to those

suggestions. The treaty of that year was then entered into, and signed

on the part of the two countries, by Sir George Villiers, now Earl of

Clarendon, and Martinez de la Rosa, which has had the desired effect of

preventing the trade being protected by the Spanish flag. But this able

statesman has done still more, to entitle him to the respect of all who

look with interest on this important question. One of the stipulations

of the treaty declared that a penal law should be passed in Spain, in

accordance with it, to punish all Spanish subjects found infringing it.

This stipulation no other Spanish minister could be found to fulfil;

and after the lapse of ten years, having again come into power, it

was left for him in good faith to accomplish the engagement he had

previously undertaken. Accordingly in 1845, he passed a law, answering

the purposes required, which received the approbation of the British

government, and which seems to have been so far effective in its

application.

Great, undoubtedly, is the praise due to those philanthropic statesmen,

who, even at the Congress of Vienna, agreed to protect the liberty

of Africa. But much greater must be acknowledged due to one who,

unsupported almost in his own country, having to oppose himself to a

strong colonial interest, and the cry they raised against him of acting

in subservience to a foreign power, yet had the moral courage to follow

the dictates of justice and humanity, on behalf of an injured race,

notwithstanding all the enmity he had to encounter in so doing.

In 1836 Martinez de la Rosa had to yield his place in the government to

other hands; and in 1840 he thought proper to retire again to Paris,

engaging himself in those literary pursuits from which he had latterly

been estranged. It is not our province to follow his political course,

through the different public questions on which he had to act. During

the four intermediate years various ministries were formed, to some of

which he had to give an honourable support, to others as honourable an

opposition; but the Regency of Espartero he avoided to acknowledge.

When this fell under the attack of Narvaez, he came forward again into

public life, and accepted office for a short time in the government;

but seemed resolved to take the first opportunity of giving up the post

of active exertion for one of more private character, though of no

less public utility. Accordingly, on the accession of Pius IX. to the

Papacy, he was appointed Ambassador to Rome, which important office he

still continues to hold, for the advantage of the Roman Catholic church

itself, as well as of his own country, in the several questions that

have come since under discussion, subject to his intervention.

As a politician, Martinez de la Rosa has been conspicuous for constant

rectitude and consistency of principles. “Not even in moments of the

utmost defamation,” says his biographer, “has a word been ever raised

against his purity of conduct, nor have his greatest enemies ever

permitted themselves to impugn in the least his intentions.” As an

orator, he has had few to equal him in his time, none to surpass him;

but his eloquence has been modelled by his character to persuade and

defend rather than attack; and thus, if not abounding in brilliant

sallies, it has been found of more essential service to the cause of

good government.

Beyond the ‘History of Perez del Pulgar,’ Martinez de la Rosa has

written several other works in prose, one of which, the latest,

entitled ‘Spirit of the Age,’ is in fact, so far as yet published,

a History of the French Revolution, preceded by a few general

observations on political questions. It has already advanced to

six volumes, and becoming a political and philosophical history of

contemporaneous events, may be extended to the utmost limits. A novel

which he wrote earlier in life, ‘Donna de Solis,’ is acknowledged

a failure, as showing “that no man, however eminent, can write

successfully on all kinds of subjects.”

The principal literary success which Martinez de la Rosa has had,

seems to have been as a dramatist; but into those works it would be

impossible to enter, to treat them with justice, except by making them

a prominent subject of consideration. His poems, published as before

stated in 1833, contain compositions in various styles, from the light

Anacreontic to the project of an Epic Poem on the Wars of Granada, of

which, however, he has only published fragments. Besides a translation

of Horace’s ‘Art of Poetry,’ he has also given the world an ‘Ars

Poetica,’ for the benefit of his own countrymen, which he has enriched

with many excellent notes and criticisms.

Some of the rules laid down in this ‘Ars Poetica’ are well worthy of

study, as giving room for reflection, for carrying their suggestions

even further than he has done. Thus, while insisting on the young

poet depending on the excellency of his ear for the melody of verse,

instead of having to count the syllables for the requisite purpose,

he observes, that as the ancients regulated their metres by time,

making so many long or short feet of equivalent measure, of which the

judgement must depend on the cadence, so in the verses of the best

Spanish poets, there are often some lines containing three or four

more syllables than others, to which they form the counterpart, and

which are read in the same measure, with increased pleasure for the

variation.

The same observation may apply to English verse, though perhaps not so

fully. Many of our syllables containing shortly sounded vowels, such

as a Hebrew scholar might call Sheva and its compounds, pronounced

distinctly, but two in the time of an ordinary syllable, may be found

to give an elegance to the line, which would sound faulty with only

one of them. But we may go further, and observe, that as in music the

melody may be continued by the pause, instead of a note in the bar,

so in a line, a pause with one or more long syllables may have the

effect of a syllable, instead of the sound or foot to make up the

measure. Readers of poetry will not require to be reminded of instances

of this adaptation of sounds, and if they notice any such lines in

these translations, they will perceive that they have been written in

accordance with the precepts referred to.

It must be acknowledged, that in the generality of his poems, Martinez

de la Rosa has not risen to any such height of sublimity or fancy as to

give him a place in the superior class of poets. But one of the latest

critical writers, Ferrer del Rio, who has given a more disparaging

estimate of his poetical talents than justice might award, pronounces

the ‘Epistle to the Duke de Frias’ as a composition for which “judges

the most grave and least complaisant might place him on the top of

Parnassus.” The ‘Remembrance of Spain,’ Del Rio declares to be poor in

images, without feeling or depth, but with much of pastoral innocency.

The ‘Return to Spain’ is, according to him, a mere itinerary of his

travels, more than an expression of pleasure on escaping from past

evil. But in the ‘Epistle to the Duke de Frias,’ he finds “true-felt

inspiration, an appropriate expression, and a plan well traced

out,”--“without vagueness or artificial labour, but with phrases that

soften and ideas that satisfy the mind,” becoming the subject.

Another anonymous critic finds the writer dwelling too much on the

remembrance of his own sorrows, instead of offering consolation to the

mourner, and some incongruity in felicitating him on having witnessed

the last pangs of mortality. But these topics, on such an occasion, are

true to nature. Grief is apt to be egotistical, and the mind cannot but

dwell on the subject in which it is absorbed. Nor is the other a less

natural suggestion; and thus we may observe, that the great master of

antiquity represents the sweetest of his characters lamenting that she

had not been by the side of her lord at such a time, as the height of

her misfortune, to receive his last embrace, and his last word to be

remembered ever after:--

Ἕκτορ, ἐμοὶ δὲ μάλιστα λελείψεται ἄλγεα λυγρά.

Οὐ γάρ μοι θνήσκων λεχέων ἐκ χεῖρας ὄρεξας

Οὐ δὲ τί μοι εἶπες πυκινὸν ἔπος, οὖ τέ κεν αἰεὶ

Μεμνῄμην νύκτας τε καὶ ἤματα δακρυχέουσα.

In this ‘Epistle to the Duke de Frias,’ Martinez de la Rosa has also

introduced, as a fit consideration in his grief, the same topic of

the instability of earthly things, which “the Roman friend of Rome’s

least mortal mind” offered him on a similar occasion of sympathy. But

it also seems a favourite subject of our poet’s thoughts at all times,

as befitting the philosopher and the scholar, to dwell on the passing

nature of worldly greatness, and so lead the mind to higher suggestions

than those of the present moment. These ideas he has carried further in

another work he has published, ‘Book for Children,’ in which, like many

other eminent characters, who have given the aid of their talents to

the development of juvenile minds, he has inculcated lessons of virtue,

and the instinct of good taste, with the feelings of patriotism and

religion, as the basis of moral well-being.

Martinez de la Rosa published his works in a collected form first, in

five volumes, 1827-30, at Paris, where they have been again lately

reprinted. Besides these, there have been two editions in Spain, one

at Madrid and the other at Barcelona. From Her Catholic Majesty he

has received the decoration of the Golden Fleece, the highest order

of Spain, besides other similar honours. But the world at large will

consider his greatest honour to consist in having raised himself from

mediocrity of station, by his talents and exertions, to the high

position he has attained “without stain or reproach,” while, by his

literary works, he has enabled all mankind to become benefited by his

genius, and interested in his fame.

FRANCISCO MARTINEZ DE LA ROSA.

REMEMBRANCE OF SPAIN, WRITTEN IN LONDON IN 1811.

I saw upon the shady Thames

Unnumber’d ships with riches fraught;

I saw the power the nation claims

Immense, the greatness it has wrought,

And arts that such renown have brought.

But the afflicted mind exhaled

A thousand sighs; again to view

The flowery banks the wish prevail’d,

Where glides the Douro calmly through,

Or Henil’s streams their course pursue.

I saw the proud Court’s ladies forth

Their wealth and grandeur gaily show;

I saw the beauties of the North,

Their bright complexions white as snow,

Commingling with the rose’s glow.

Their eyes appear’d of heavenly blue,

Their tresses of the purest gold;

Their stately forms arose to view,

Beneath the veil’s transparent fold,

As white and lovely to behold.

But what avail the gay brocade,

The city’s silks, and jewels’ pride;

Or charms in rosy smiles array’d,

With brilliant gaiety supplied,

That all to beauty are allied?

When but is seen my country girl,

Clad in her robe of simple white,

Shamed are the needless silk and pearl;

And by her pure and blooming light

Confused hides beauty at the sight.

Where shall I find in icy clime

Her black and beaming eyes of fire?

That whether scornfully the time,

To look, or kindly they desire,

To rob me of my peace conspire?

Where the black hair that may like hers

In hue with ebony compare?

Where the light foot that never stirs,

When bounding o’er the meadows fair,

The lowly flowers that blossom there?

Maids of the Henil! dark ye be;

But ne’er would I exchanged resign

Your charms for all that here I see,

Proud Albion shows, of brows that fine

Ev’n as the polish’d ivory shine.

O, father Douro! gentle stream,

Whose sands a golden store supply,

Deign of my heart the wish supreme

To hear, thy sacred margins by,

That it may be my lot to die!

RETURN TO GRANADA, OCTOBER 27, 1831.

My loved country! thee again

I come at length returned to see;

Thy beauteous soil, thy fields where reign

Plenty and joy unceasingly!

Thy radiant sun, thy peaceful skies,

Yes! there extended o’er the plain,

From hill to hill, I see arise

The far-famed city! Noble towers,

Midst groves of ever-blooming flowers;

Kissing her walls are crystal streams,

Her valley lofty heights surround,

And the snow-topp’d Sierra gleams,

Crowning the far horizon’s bound.

Not vain thy memory me pursued

Where’er I stray’d; with that imbued,

Troubling my hopes, my joys, my rest,

The thoughts my heart and soul oppress’d.

On the cold margin of the Thames,

Or Seine, I thought of thee, and sigh’d

Again to view the bank that gems

Thy Henil’s or thy Douro’s tide.

And if perchance my voice essay’d

Some gayer song, for short relief,

Soon for lament the attempts I made

Were check’d, and doubled was my grief.

Vain the delicious Arno show’d,

Offering to me her fruitful shore,

Of peace and loves the soft abode,

With flowers enamell’d o’er.

“More blooming are the plains where flows

The gentle Henil through,

And lovelier still Granada shows

Her pleasant site to view!”

Murmuring such words in mournful thought,

I oft with tearful eyes repined,

Upraised to Heaven, as memory brought

My fathers’ homes and hearths to mind.

At times the solitary view

Of rural scenes more seem’d to soothe;

From cities terror-struck I flew,

And breathless, anxious, o’er the uncouth

Rough Alps I took my way.

But not so pure, so vivid show’d

Their snowy tops the sun’s bright ray,

As from our snow Sierra glow’d

The streams of light, the god of day

O’er earth and heaven bestow’d.

My griefs Pompeii flatter’d more:

Its fearful ruins, silent streets,

Deserted porticos, retreats

Of men with grass run o’er.

And in my troubled mind began

Grave thoughts to rise, how vain is all

The power of miserable man.

To abase his fame, his pride to gall,

How fate delights! and works that vast

He rears, and dares eternal call,

Throws over with a blast!

Today the traveller, as he roves

Along the Tiber, has to trace

Through ruins, where that was high Jove’s

Triumphant city had its place!

The plough breaks up the fruitful mould,

The sacred relics now we see

Of Herculaneum that enfold,

As in a darksome tomb! If be

Pompeii’s walls still standing, yet

Are their foundations undermined

By age, and as the rude winds threat,

They tremble to their fall inclined.

Thus in my youth I saw the tower

Of the superb Alhambra lower,

Broken, and imminent appal

The Douro threatening with its fall.

Each rapid moment of my life

Hasten’d the term with ruin rife;

And of the Alcazar’s sovereign pride,

Where once the Moorish power enchain’d

Their fame as left to ages wide,

Mine eyes may soon not find descried

Its ruins ev’n remain’d.

As that dark image o’er me glooms,

My heart sinks heavy in my breast;

I bow myself before the tombs,

In tears with grief oppress’d.

What is thy magic? what may be

The ineffable enchantment found,

O, country! O, sweet name, in thee?

Ever so dear to man the sound!

The sunburnt African will sigh

For his parch’d sands and burning sky,

Perchance afar, and round the plains

However blooming he disdains.

Ev’n the rude Laplander, if fate

In luckless hour him off has torn

From his own soil, disconsolate

Will to return there longing mourn;

Envying the eternal night’s repose,

His icebound shores and endless snows.

And I, to whom kind fate assign’d

My birth within thy happy fold,

Granada! and my growth as kind

Within thy blissful bounds to mould,

Far from my country, and beset

With griefs, how could I thee forget?

On Africa’s inhuman shore,

To the wreck’d seaman rough and drear,

Thy sacred name I o’er and o’er

Repeated, which the waves to hear

Back to the Spanish regions bore.

On the far Pole’s dark furious sea,

By the Batavian’s energy

Bridled, again thy name was heard:

Heard it the Rhone, the foamy Rhine,

The Pyrenæan heights the word

Repeated with the Apennine,

And in Vesuvius’ burning cave

Then first the sound the echos gave.

EPISTLE TO THE DUQUE DE FRIAS, ON THE DEATH OF THE DUQUESA.

From the dark gloomy borders of the Seine,

Where with black clouds around the heaven extends,

The earth o’erwhelm’d with snow, the heart with pain,

Thee thy unhappy friend his greeting sends;

To thee still more unhappy! nor deters

Him ev’n the fear to touch the wounds unheal’d,

Yet bleeding sore, or see thee how it stirs

Fresh tears to bathe thine eyes thy sorrows yield.

What would he be, if man were not to weep?

A thousand times I’ve thank’d our God, who gave

The heart to soothe its griefs in tears to steep;

As rain we see subdue the raging wave.

Weep then, ay, weep! others, and abler friends

As faithful, with success may in thine ears

Make heard the voice that stoic virtue lends;

But I, who in the world my cup of tears

Oft to the dregs have drain’d, no cure could find

For grief, but what from grief I might derive;

When with vain struggling tired, the powerless mind

Submissive ceased beneath the weight to strive.

Dear friend! wilt thou believe me? time will come,

When the sharp edge of sorrow worn away,

That grief and anguish now so burdensome,

At length a placid sadness will allay;

In which absorb’d, as yet o’erwhelm’d, the soul

Folds itself up all silently to bear;

Nor seeks nor envies, as around they roll,

The world’s delights or pleasures more to share.

Thou doubt’st perchance; and once there was a time

I also doubted it; and endless thought

My deep affliction, and insulting crime

To tell me to an end it could be brought.

And yet it was! for so from God to man

That is another mercy, which alone,

Amidst so many woes ’tis his to scan,

Aids him this weary life to suffer on.

Hope then, believe my words, and trust in me:

Who in this world the unhappy privilege

Has bought so dear to speak of misery?

These many years that saw it me assiege,

Saw me no day but as the plaything vile

Of a dire fate, that like a shrub amain

The hurricane tears up, and raised awhile

It fiercely dashes to the earth again.

I know it true, against the blows of fate,

When that against ourselves they only glance,

The firm heart shielded can withstand its hate;

But so it is not oft: and thou, perchance,

Mayst think I never one have lost I loved

More than my life. If sorrow will give truce

Thee for a moment, turn thine eyes disproved

To an unhappy orphan, weak, recluse,

And sorrowing solitary in the world,

Without scarce one to whom to weep his woe;

For to the grave relentless death had hurl’d,

One after one, all he was born to know.

In the same season, thou wilt see sufficed

Thy loss to open forth the wounds I bear,

I lost a mother kind, and idolized,

My joy, and comforter in every care;

On her steps my reaved father to the grave

Soon follow’d, and both sank o’erwhelm’d in tears,

Calling my name afar; the cries they gave

Fell on my heart, but not upon my ears.

I ran, I flew, I came, but all in vain:

Both now beneath the fatal stone reposed,

And I my height of anguish to attain,

But found the covering earth yet newly closed.

Thou in thy grave affliction more hast found

Thee to console, if possible; (how turn

Rebels against me thy own woes around!

From my rude voice perforce thou hast to learn

That he who fortune flatter’d not before,

Will neither flatter grief) thou in thy loss

Hast found a thousand comforts, which forbore

My cruel fate to grant my path across;

Thou soothing saw’st thy wife in her last pains;

Her last sigh couldst receive; couldst press her hands,

Her arms raised to thee, and her pledge remains

In thine, her daughter still thy love demands.

But I, not wishing it, am in thy breast

A dagger striking, thus again to view

That fatal night’s dark image to suggest,

When life with death its fearful struggles drew.

Now ended are her pains, for ever o’er!

Herself she pray’d for it, with pious eyes

To heaven, and hope, amidst the pangs she bore,

Shone on her brow serene in death to rise.

O! were it given us to penetrate

The secrets of the tomb, how oft our grief

Would it not soften down, however great!

In this same moment who of the belief

Could not assure thee, while thou dost lament,

Unhappy, thy lost wife’s untimely doom,

That she is there enjoying permanent

A lot more happy than this side the tomb?

Thou, silent, lowly bendest down thy head;

But thou mayst not be silent; answer me;

Sound, if thou darest it, the abyss to tread,

That separates thy lost loved wife from thee.

Take through eternity thy course, and then

Tell me of where she is, what is her state?

Happy or miserable? or again,

We should rejoice in, or lament her fate?

To thee I may repeat it, others gay

Will laugh at my dark fancy; not long past

The time I was by that enchanting bay

Of the Tyrrhenian sea; the city vast,

Mother of pleasures, I forsook, and bent,

Absorb’d, my feeble steps, where lowly lies

Pompeii; palaces with gardens blent

And fountains brilliant, shone before my eyes;

But deeper penetrates the mind, and sad,

Slowly along I went with heavy heart:

Flowers amid lava grew! and rich, and glad

Today the scenes on every side impart

The towns and villages, which others hide

That stood as happy there a former day;

Those now that flourish built up by the side

Of some forgotten that have pass’d away.

At length I came where we the walls descry

Of the deserted city, which the abode

Proclaim’d it was of men in times gone by;

Their sepulchres stood bordering the road!

There for a resting-place the traveller stays,

For shade and for repose: the gate now gain’d,

Awhile the vacillating foot delays

To enter, as if fearing it profaned

Too bold the mansions of the dead. No word,

No sound, no murmur. It would seem that there

Ev’n Echo’s self is mute, no answer heard!

Slowly I through the narrow streets repair

Without a human footstep! Porticos

And plazas by no living beings trod,

Walls with deserted hearths, and temples rose

And altars, without victims or a god.

How little, mean and miserable seem’d

The world before mine eyes, when there I stood!

A bitter smile upon my features gleam’d,

To think of man’s ambition, schemes of blood,

And projects without end, when by a blast,

Like smoke, their good and evil are represt;

Ashes a mighty city overcast,

As light dust covers o’er some poor ants’ nest!

Thus wrapp’d in mournful thoughts, I paced along

That vast and silent precinct, as behind

Roves some unbodied shade the tombs among;

The ties me yet to this low earth that bind

I felt to loosen, and the soul set free

Launch’d itself forth, ev’n into endless space,

Leaving behind it ages.--Couldst thou see

What is this wretched life, compared its trace

With that immensity, most surely, friend,

In thine eyes would remain congeal’d those tears,

Which now profuse thou shedd’st, and thou wouldst bend

Down on the earth thy gaze, where soon appears,

Thyself must see, the end of all our toil;

The rest that she enjoys beyond the sky,

For whom thou weep’st, whilst o’er this care-worn soil

Dragging life’s heavy burden, as do I.

Yet till ’tis granted thee to meet again

Thy lost adored, the moments consecrate

Of absence to her memory that remain:

Thy heart let her remembrance animate;

Let thy lips ever her dear name repeat:

Nor how forget that clear ingenuous mind,

That heavenly beauty, generous soul, to meet

So rare! the world admired such gifts combined.

But now I see thee to the dusky grove

Of cypress and rose-bay trees take thy way;

On thy right hand a crown is hanging, wove

Of mournful everlastings; nor astray

Thine eyes scarce raising, fearing to behold

The monument of thine eternal grief,

That guards her ashes! Different she consoled,

Hastening in charity, as for relief

The poor unhappy and the orphans knew!

For whom she ever show’d a parent’s care:

They who partook her gifts and kindness true,

Now in long files and slow, thy griefs to share

Silent and mournful on thy steps attend,

Around her tomb; dost thou not hear them? theirs,

Theirs are the tearful sobbings that ascend,

And cries that interrupt the funeral prayers.

Not ev’n a flower to deck her sepulchre,

Have I to send thee! flowers may not be grown

To bud in beds of ice; or if they were,

They soon would wither at my touch alone.

ANACREONTIC.

Let the thunder burst,

Pour out and drink the wine!

Thou never saw’st a thunderbolt

Strike the tender vine.

Vesuvius himself

To Bacchus tribute pays,

And spares the vineyard flourishing,

Where his lava sways.

In Italy in vain

I hero sought or sage;

Mine eyes but dusty ruins found,

Mouldering with age.

Of Rome the image scarce

Remains to be portray’d;

A tomb is Herculaneum,

Pompeii is a shade.

But I found Falernum,

His nectar rich remain’d,

And in memory of Horace,

A bottleful I drain’d.

BACCHANALIAN.

In chorus we sing, of wine, sweet wine,

Its power benign, and its flavour divine.

Against power so sweet

No guard is secure,

Nor gate, nor yet wall,

Nor will castle endure,

Nor doubtings, nor watchings,

How strict or demure.

Chorus.

With thee the fair maiden

Shows herself fairer,

With thee has the matron

New beauty to glare her;

Ev’n the sad widow

Finds love an ensnarer.

Chorus.

With thee the poor captive,

Though heavy his chains,

Ne’er feels in his feasting

Or torments or pains,

But a place with his lord

As an equal he gains.

Chorus.

With thee the worn seaman

The south wind defies,

While echoes the thunder

He singing replies,

And of winds and the waves

Will the fury despise.

Chorus.

Thou hast power o’er the lip

Of the fool and the sage,

From the breast to root out

Gall, venom and rage,

What rancour and envy

Would hide, to assuage.

Chorus.

With thee will the coward

Of courage make show,

The niggard so vile

Learn bounteous to grow,

And the feeble and old

Fresh vigour to know.

Chorus.

Thy colour so pure

Outrivals the flowers,

Thy odorous essence

The rich myrrh’s showers,

The rosemary honey

Thy taste overpowers.

Chorus.

Oblivion thou givest

To troubles and sorrow,

Joys fleeting a show

Of eternal to borrow,

And robb’st of its horrors

The fate of tomorrow.

In chorus we sing, of wine, sweet wine,

Its power benign, and its flavour divine.

VIII.

ANGEL DE SAAVEDRA, DUKE DE RIVAS.

There are few persons to whom Fortune can be said to have “come with

both hands full,” more truly than to the illustrious subject of this

notice; even the very reverses of life, which have fallen to his lot,

have come like favours; as they have been incurred honourably, and have

proved the harbingers of many advantages.

Angel de Saavedra was born at Cordova, the 1st March, 1791, the

second son of Don Juan Martin de Saavedra, Duke de Rivas, and Donna

Maria Ramirez, Marchioness of Andia, Grandees of Spain, both persons

not less eminent for private virtues than for their exalted rank. He

received his primary education under his father’s care; but he dying

in 1802, Angel was then removed to the College of Nobles at Madrid. In

accordance with the privileges then enjoyed by youths of noble birth,

he was, while yet a child of ten months, nominated a cornet of cavalry,

and held a commission as captain when but seven years old. At that

age, pursuing his studies, it was observed that he did not show much

application or inclination for abstruser subjects; but his quickness of

apprehension, and felicity of memory gave him a superiority over his

companions, many of whom were distinguished for much greater industry.

History and poetry were, from his earliest years, his favourite

subjects of study; and in original compositions and translations from

the classics, he then already began to show the bent of his genius.

At the same time he also began to show his great talent for drawing,

in which art, no less than in poetry, he has so much excelled; and

it is recorded that for the greatest punishment to be awarded him

for juvenile delinquencies, it was found sufficient to take away his

pencils, and forbid his taking his drawing lesson for the day.

In 1806 the regiment, to which he was attached, had orders to join

Napoleon’s army in Germany, with the Spanish contingent; whereupon

the Duchess de Rivas, as her son’s guardian, procured his exchange

into the Royal Guard, by which he lost rank, having now only that of a

sub-lieutenant, in the rank as a guardsman. Having joined this corps

in the beginning of 1807, it was the lot of Don Angel to witness the

scenes which then occurred in the palace, little creditable to any

of the parties, including the arrest of the Prince of the Asturias,

afterwards Ferdinand VII., and the proceedings against him. It was

perhaps fortunate for the young guardsman that he was so soon called

into active service. A privileged corps is always a dangerous trial

for a young man entering into life; though, in addition to his

own right-mindedness, he had the good fortune to be joined to the

Flemish battalion of the guard, where he became intimate with a young

Belgian officer of kindred tastes and character, who, by example

and association, confirmed him in his inclinations. He also became

acquainted with some other young men who had the conducting of a

literary periodical, to which he contributed several articles, both in

prose and verse. For a young man of sixteen, desirous of distinction,

this was a privilege which could not fail of producing good results in

subsequent improvement, if his early efforts were found to be approved,

as an encouragement to continue them.

From such occupations was Saavedra called away soon, to engage in the

important events, upon which the future fate of his country was to

depend. Napoleon’s troops had crossed the Pyrenees, and under pretence

of marching through the country to Portugal, had seized upon the

principal fortresses of Spain. The Court of Madrid, aware too late

of the treachery intended, was thrown into irremediable confusion,

heightened by the internal dissensions of the royal family. The troops

at Madrid were summoned in haste to the king at Aranjuez, when Saavedra

among them witnessed the pitiable scenes, which ended in the abdication

of Charles IV. and the declaration of Ferdinand VII., in whose escort

he returned to Madrid. But the French armies were already in possession

of the country, and had the royal family in their power. They soon had

further possession of Madrid, and the guards, in which Saavedra’s elder

brother, the Duke de Rivas, was also serving with him, were ordered

away to the Escurial, as the French leaders were aware of the part they

had taken at Aranjuez, and were fearful of their influence with the

people, in the course of resistance then widely spreading against the

invaders.

Murat, then chief of the French forces, and of the provisional

government, had good reason to fear that so influential a body as the

Royal Guards, all composed of individuals of rank, might be induced

to take part with the insurrectionists in the rising struggle; and he

therefore sent to them to the Escurial, one of the principal Spanish

officers, also one of the Royal Guard, who had attached himself to

the French interest, to persuade the others to join the same cause.

This officer having accordingly come to the Escurial, called together

the members of the guard, and stating to them that the students of

the Military College at Segovia were in a state of rebellion against

the authorities, expressed Murat’s wish that the guards should join

the French troops to suppress the movement, to prevent further

ill-consequences. The assembly received the proposal at first in

silence and perplexity. But it was one of those occasions when a right

mind and strong heart availed more than conventional dignity; and thus,

though perhaps the youngest person present, Angel de Saavedra rose

up, and with all the impetuosity of youth, declared in impassioned

language, that “none of the guard would do treason to their country,

or become an instrument of foreign tyranny, for the oppression and

punishment of their companions in arms.” He therefore, in the name of

his comrades, gave a positive refusal to the mandate.

In this, his first harangue, the spirit was as noble, as the sentiments

were bold and patriotic. The manner in which it was received showed

that it was also in unison with the feelings of the rest of the guard,

and Murat’s messenger was obliged to content himself with attempting

to reprove the young officer, who had ventured to speak before others,

so much his superiors in rank and service. But his efforts were of no

avail, and he had to return to Madrid, with the information that the

guards were also apparently about to join the national party. These

passed the night in watch, with their arms and horses prepared, for

whatever might be the result. In the morning they received orders to

return to Madrid, and obeying the order, at halting for the night,

came to deliberate on the course they should adopt. Some thought it

would be better to disperse, and go to their respective provinces,

to join the several parties already armed in resistance against the

invaders. Others, among whom were the two brothers, Saavedra and the

Duke de Rivas, thought it would be better for them to keep united,

and join as a body, with their standards, the first effective Spanish

force they could meet. Unfortunately there was no one of sufficient

authority present to command; and the first suggestion, where most of

them naturally wished to share the fates of their families, prevailed.

Accordingly they dispersed, and the two brothers entered Madrid

secretly, finding that those who remained together were too few to

remain as a body, against the numerous bands of the enemy spread over

the country.

The first wish of the brothers was to join Palafox at Zaragoza, and

they started for that purpose with false passports; but found the road

too closely beset by the French. In one place, however, they met with

a mischance on the other side; where the people, now risen against

the invaders, fancied that the travellers who were going armed so

mysteriously, were emissaries of the French, and would listen to no

declaration to the contrary. Fortunately there happened to be in the

town a comrade of the guard, well known there, who hearing the uproar,

came and recognized the prisoners, and assuring the multitude of

their true character, made them be received with as much enthusiastic

welcome, as they had just before been with violence.

Turning from this course, the two brothers then hastened back to join

the forces under Castanios, flushed with their triumph at Bailen; and

at Sepulveda, Angel Saavedra had his first encounter in fight with the

French. With the army he joined, he found about 200 of his comrades

of the guards, and these, as a body, now effected much service in the

various skirmishes and actions that took place. They had these with

varied success at Ucles, Tudela, and other places, where the two

brothers distinguished themselves by their activity and bravery. At

Tudela the Duke had his horse killed, and received several contusions,

which resulted in a fever, on account of which his brother had to take

him to their mother’s care at Cordova.

Having recovered from this, they again joined the army, and were

present at “the memorable battle of Talavera,” after which they had to

share in the several encounters of Caminias, Madrilejos and Herencia.

But now a severer trial awaited them. On the 18th of November, 1809,

on the eve of the disastrous battle of Ocania, the French and Spanish

forces had an encounter at Antigola, when the Royal Guards, under the

Duke de Rivas, though pressed by superior numbers, charged three times

on the enemy, before they retired, with the loss of one-third of their

number, to Ocania.

In this skirmish, Angel Saavedra had his horse killed at the beginning

of the affray, and then had to fight hand to hand at a disadvantage.

Thus he soon received two wounds in the head, and another in the breast

from a lance which prostrated him, and left him insensible, while the

combatants were riding over him and others laid in the same state.

About the middle of the night he recovered his sensibility, and found

he had been robbed of his clothes. He attempted to rise, but fell down

again, unable to move. Happily for him he had sufficient strength to

call to a man he saw near, who proved to be a Spanish soldier seeking

for spoils, and he, learning the name of the wounded officer, put him

on his horse, and took him to his brother. The Duke, who had already

been searching for him, and had sent others out for the same purpose

unavailingly, now hastened to procure for him medical assistance.

With much difficulty he found a surgeon, who, on seeing the patient,

declared the case hopeless, and left him to attend to others. The cold

air had arrested the bleeding, which now burst forth from the motion of

the horse and the warmth of the room used for the hospital, so as to

leave him apparently dying. The Duke was in despair, when the people

about him brought the barber of the place to dress the wounds, which

he did with great skill, giving him hopes of success in saving his

brother’s life.

As the morning broke, the drums were heard beating for action,

announcing the advance of the enemy. The Duke had barely time to

procure a common cart of the country into which to place his brother,

who was found to have no fewer than eleven wounds upon him, and send

him away with seven other wounded companions, before he had to join

his troop. Going slowly along, the seven died by his side one after

another, and in a few hours they were overtaken by fugitives, whose

flight showed the ill-fortune of the day. Saavedra might have shared

this ill-fortune further; but one of the escort knew the country well

and took him along by-paths to a retired place, where his wounds were

again dressed, and afterwards to Baeza, in which city he found better

attendance. There, after three weeks, all his wounds were healed,

except the one in the breast, and one in the hip, from which he was

lame for some years afterwards. He then was enabled to proceed to his

mother at Cordova, and there was received, in his native place, with

marks of public respect, which could not fail of being very gratifying

to his feelings, though at the expense of so much suffering.

In the beginning of 1810 the French came marching towards Cordova,

and Saavedra and his mother fled to Malaga. He had frequent bleeding,

apparently from the lungs, and his medical advisers were fearful that

any extraordinary exertion would have a fatal result. Before they could

embark at Malaga for any other place, the French had got possession

of the city, and Saavedra and the Duchess had to take refuge,

disguised, in a fisherman’s hut. In this extremity they were found by a

Spanish officer in the French interest, who had formerly shared their

hospitality at Cordova, and he repaid it now by procuring for them

passports and giving them the means to get to Gibraltar, whence they

passed over to Cadiz, then the last hope of Spain.

Arrived at Cadiz, Saavedra was received with the consideration due to

his merits. He was put into active service, as far as his strength

would allow, and on the staff his talents for drawing as well as for

ready composition were found of great value. Many of the military

reports were written by him; and he also wrote a defence of the

military establishments against a pamphlet which had been published,

conducting at the same time a military periodical, published weekly,

at Cadiz, throughout 1811. Thrown into association with such men as

the Conde de Noronia, Arriaza, Quintana, and Martinez de la Rosa, his

love for poetry was further excited, and he composed verses like them,

some of which have been preserved among his later works, while he has

allowed others to be forgotten. He continued also cultivating his taste

for drawing, attending the schools at Cadiz to draw from life as well

as from the models; while at leisure moments on duty he amused himself

with sketching portraits of his comrades, or of the scenes presented to

their view.

But his military duties did not cease at Cadiz. Having been sent out

on important commissions with orders, he was led away by his ardour to

join in the encounter which took place with the French at Chiclana, in

forgetfulness of the commission with which he was charged. Afterwards a

division of the army being found in a state of resistance to the orders

of the Regency, on account of their general refusing to acknowledge the

Duke of Wellington as commander-in-chief, Saavedra was sent with full

powers to arrest the disorder. This he did effectually, drawing the

division out of Cordova in good order, after deposing the general and

other chiefs of the insurrection, who but for this might have brought

further reverses on the Spanish arms, such as so many other incapable

officers had done previously, influenced in like manner by their

presumption and self-conceit.

Saavedra, so far from joining in the vanity and folly of those of his

countrymen, who fancied themselves competent to act independently of

the British commander, on the contrary, sought to be employed on the

staff under the immediate orders of Lord Wellington, but he could not

effect it. The wound in his breast again occasioned large effusions

of blood from the mouth, and he was obliged to return to Seville, and

ultimately was quartered at Cordova. When the war came to an end, he,

under these circumstances, retired from military service with the rank

of lieutenant-colonel.

While at Cadiz, Saavedra had joined, unreservedly, in the councils of

those who framed and attempted to establish in Spain the constitution

of 1812. When Ferdinand VII. returned and set it aside, he therefore

fully expected that he would be included in the proscription directed

against Martinez de la Rosa and others who had distinguished themselves

in the assertion of liberal opinions. But instead of this, the king,

who probably considered him more of a military than a political

character, received him favourably, and gave him the rank of colonel,

assigning him Seville for his residence. There accordingly he retired,

and while Spain was subjected to the rule of absolutism, employed

himself in literary pursuits and drawing, for which the magnificent

paintings of Murillo and other Spanish masters in that city gave one of

his inclinations so great an incentive. In 1813 he published a volume

of poems, and in the following six years brought forward several

plays, some of which were represented at Seville with considerable

applause, and one had the “marked honour of being prohibited by the

censorship.” These he republished in a second edition of his works at

Madrid in 1821, but though favourably received at the time, they are

all acknowledged now to be of little merit. In fact, at that time,

having studied principally the later poets of the classical school as

it was termed, his mind had not yet attained that expansiveness and

vigour which subsequent years of study were destined to give it.

In 1820 Saavedra happened to be in Madrid, probably engaged in

superintending this edition of his works, when the events of that

year brought into power the party with whom he had been associated at

Cadiz at the time of the siege. With characteristic ardour he entered

again into close alliance with them, resuming the principles he had

previously maintained with them. But though now those friends were in

office, he sought nothing for himself further than leave to travel

into neighbouring countries, which permission he had sought in vain

from the previous government. This favour he now obtained, with full

salary allowed, and a commission to examine the military establishments

of other nations, and to report to the government on their advances

and improvements. He went accordingly to Paris, and after a careful

attention to the duties entrusted to him, was about proceeding to

Italy, when he was called back to Spain to engage in a new career of

public importance.

Before going to Paris, Saavedra had paid a short visit to his native

city, and there formed a close intimacy with Alcala Galiano, one of the

most learned and talented men of his age, who, with Don Javier Isturitz

(the present respected Minister of her Catholic Majesty at London),

was now at the head of the government. Galiano, by the fascination of

his eloquence, had completely won the good feelings of the young poet,

and inspired by the desire of having so able and popular a follower

in the legislature, had procured his election as Deputy to the Cortes

from Cordova. Flattered by the favour shown him by his fellow-townsmen,

Saavedra entered with his accustomed ardour on his duties, and was

appointed Secretary to the Cortes, where he came forward as one of the

most vehement speakers in the maintenance of liberal opinions. But

those opinions were not responded to by the great mass of the people,

and were opposed by the foreign courts of Europe. Saavedra had voted

for the removal of the court to Seville, and there further voted for

the suspension of the king and his transference to Cadiz, when the

entry of the French army re-established Ferdinand on his throne. On

the 1st October, 1822, Saavedra and Galiano had to take flight from

Cadiz to Gibraltar, where he remained till the following May, when

he proceeded to London to join the other emigrants there, Isturitz,

Galiano, the celebrated Arguelles, whom his countrymen, on account of

his remarkable eloquence, have termed the divine, and others.

Even during his short political career, Saavedra had continued his

literary pursuits, and now in London he renewed them, writing his poem

‘Florinda’ and minor pieces, as well as continuing his recreative art

of drawing. For his participation in the proceedings against the king,

he had been sentenced to death, and his property had been sequestrated.

This same measure had been visited on his brother, the Duke de Rivas,

who had taken part also in the proceedings, and thus Saavedra had

become reduced to very straitened circumstances. Their mother, with

natural feeling, forwarded him all the supplies in her power; but

these were scanty, and it was necessary for him to seek means of

subsistence for himself. He therefore determined on going to Italy to

perfect himself in the art of painting, as the best means of employment

left him, finding the climate of England also too rigorous for his

constitution.

As the Spanish emigrants were forbidden to go to Italy, the Duchess

de Rivas besought the Pope’s Nuncio at Madrid to grant her son a

passport and obtain for him permission to go there for the purposes

specified. The Nuncio having communicated with Rome, was enabled

to reply, that “as Don Angel Saavedra engaged neither to speak nor

to write on political subjects in Italy, nor to frequent English

society, his passport would be granted him, assuring him he would

there find hospitality and protection.” The required securities having

been given, and the Nuncio’s authorization obtained, on which he had

himself written, “Given by express order of His Holiness,” Saavedra

left London in December, 1824, for Gibraltar, where he remained till

the June following. In the meantime he there married, according to

previous arrangement, Donna Maria de la Encarnacion Cueto, daughter of

a distinguished colonel of artillery, and then, with his young wife,

proceeded to Leghorn. Arrived at this city, and presenting his passport

to the Roman consul, he was told that, notwithstanding the assurances

given him, he was now forbidden to go to Rome; besides which he

received an order from the Tuscan government to leave their territories

within three days. Finding all remonstrances useless, Saavedra now,

in right of a passport from Gibraltar, applied for aid to the British

consul, who took him to his house, and as the only means of putting

him in safety, embarked him on board a small Maltese vessel then about

to sail for that island. After a protracted voyage, with wretched

accommodations and subjected to great peril in a storm, when the men

abandoned their tasks, and the captain and Saavedra had to compel them

by blows even to resume their labours, they at length reached Malta.

Here Saavedra intended to have remained only until he could obtain

the means of returning to Gibraltar; but the advantages of climate, of

cheapness of living, and the reception he met with from the English

authorities, induced him to continue there, until his stay at length

extended to five years’ residence.

Fortunately for him, there happened then to be residing at Malta Mr.

J. H. Frere, formerly British Minister at Madrid, who, in addition

to a highly cultivated taste and great general knowledge, was well

conversant with the Spanish language and literature also in particular.

With this gentleman Saavedra soon entered into terms of intimate

friendship, and was taught by him to turn his thoughts from the tame

class of poetry he had copied from the French school, and elevate

his mind to the high tone of the older poets of Spain, as well as to

the study of English literature. These lessons he followed, and thus

proved another instance of the remark of Plutarch, that the Muses often

suggest the best and most approved productions of genius, taking exile

as their means to aid them: Καὶ γὰρ τοῖς παλαιοῖς (ὥς ἔοικεν) αἱ Μοῦσαι

τὰ κάλλιστα τῶν συνταγμάτων καὶ δοκιμώτατα, φυγὴν λάβουσαι σύνεργον,

ἐπετέλεσαν.

At first Saavedra continued his former style of writing, but after a

short time his mind seemed suddenly to expand, and to act under the

influence of another genius. He finished, after his arrival at Malta,

his poem of ‘Florinda,’ and wrote there several plays, of the same

character as those he had formerly written, but at the same time showed

that a change was coming over his mind, by an ‘Ode to the Lighthouse

at Malta,’ known to the reader by Mr. Frere’s translation of it, which

for spirit and range of thought proved itself the offspring of another

and truer inspiration. The expectations thus raised were destined

to be fully realized, and the poem he then began, and published

subsequently, the ‘Moro Esposito,’ or ‘Foundling Moor,’ proved one of

a class entirely unknown to Spanish literature, but quite in accordance

with the national genius, so as to be at once accepted by the Spanish

public, as entitled to their unqualified admiration. To use the words

of his biographer, Pastor Diaz, himself a writer of considerable

reputation, “This work, which had no model, nor has yet had a rival, is

one of the most precious jewels of our literature, and in our judgement

the most beautiful flower of his poetic crown.”

But it was not to poetry alone that Saavedra gave his attention at

Malta. He continued also his application to painting, not having

forgotten his original intention of adopting this art professionally.

Notwithstanding the advantages he enjoyed there, however, he was

anxious to be nearer his own country, and sought permission to go to

France, for which purpose he had an English vessel of war assigned to

take him to Marseilles. On arriving there, instead of being allowed

to go to Paris as he desired, he was directed to fix his residence

at Orleans, where, having exhausted the means afforded him for

subsistence, he found it necessary to establish a school for drawing.

In this he met with some success, having obtained various pupils and

commissions for portraits, and a painting which he had finished with

care and ability having been bought at a high price for the museum

of the city. Four others of his paintings are in the choir of the

cathedral at Seville.

After a few months’ residence at Orleans, the revolution of July, 1830,

allowed him to go to Paris, where he found his valued friends Isturitz

and Galiano, both, like himself, having moderated the warmth of early

opinions by the effect of observation as well as of time. Instead of

interfering in political questions therefore, he continued his artistic

labours. Several portraits he had painted appeared in the Exhibition

of 1831 at the Louvre, and his name is to be found in the list for

that year of professional artists established in Paris. In consequence

of the cholera having broken out there, Saavedra soon after retired

to Tours, where he finished his poem, the ‘Moro Esposito,’ and the

Tragedy, ‘Don Alvaro,’ publishing the former at Paris in two volumes,

in 1833.

On the death of Ferdinand VII., under the milder sway of Queen

Christina, the emigrants hitherto excluded from Spain were allowed to

return to their country. Angel Saavedra hastened to take advantage of

the amnesty, and arrived in Spain the 1st of January, 1834, to take the

oaths required; after which he took up his residence at Madrid, and

gave his adhesion to the government over which Martinez de la Rosa then

presided. Now, however, an important change came over his fortunes,

which brought him still more prominently before the world, and involved

him again in the vicissitudes of public life.

On the 15th of May, 1834, his elder brother died without children; and

Angel Saavedra thereupon succeeded to his honours as Duke de Rivas,

and to the family estates entailed with the title. As a Grandee of

Spain, the new Duke had to take his place in the Chamber of Peers,

where he was chosen, on the 24th of July following, second Secretary,

and shortly after, first Secretary of the Chamber and Vice-President.

Here again, as formerly in the Cortes, he then took his part in the

public debates, having on several occasions shown himself to possess

great oratorical abilities. One speech he made on the exclusion of

Don Carlos and his descendants from the Spanish throne, has been

particularly mentioned as combining much eloquence with high political

considerations.

But notwithstanding his elevation and parliamentary duties, he still

continued his literary pursuits. Having finished the Tragedy of ‘Don

Alvaro,’ he now brought it forward, and it is not too much to say that

never had a drama been produced in Spain of so high a character, or

that was attended with such success. At first it was received with

wonder, then with long and loud applause; it was repeated at every

theatre in Spain, and still continues to excite the admiration of

audiences, casting into the shade all his former dramatic productions,

and in fact causing a revolution in the dramatic art of the Spanish

stage. The old worn-out characters and constantly recurring self-same

incidents that had encumbered the scenes have since been swept away,

and a higher tone has been in consequence adopted by later writers,

though still this remarkable production remains without a rival on the

Spanish stage. Yet it is not without faults, and it has been subjected

to severe criticisms; but on the representation, so absorbing is the

interest which it is said to excite, that all faults are lost sight

of in admiration. The subject of the drama is that of the old Greek

tragedy, Fatality. Don Alvaro is an Œdipus, destined for misfortune,

and not even religion can save him from his mission of crime. “It is a

character which belongs to no determinate epoch, perhaps more universal

in this as it belongs to all, like the heroes of Shakespeare.” There

can be no question but that it was the study of Shakespeare which

elevated his genius to the production of this masterpiece of the modern

Spanish theatre, as had the study of Walter Scott and Byron enabled him

to give the world the great poem of the ‘Moro Esposito.’

On the 15th of May, 1836, the Duke de Rivas was called on to join the

government formed by his friends Isturitz and Galiano, to which he

consented with much reluctance. But this ministry was doomed to be of

short duration, and was overthrown in the midst of popular commotions.

The Duke had to take refuge in the house of the British Minister, the

present Earl of Clarendon, where he remained twenty-four days, refusing

to emigrate as others of his colleagues had done, though at last he

felt himself compelled to do so. With much difficulty he then escaped,

and after many perils, passing through Portugal, arrived at Gibraltar.

The moderate counsels of the Isturitz ministry were not agreeable to

the temper of the public, and thus the Duke de Rivas was now driven

into banishment by his former friends the liberals, as he had formerly

been by their mutual enemies the Absolutists. At Gibraltar he thereupon

remained a year, dedicating himself again to poetry and painting,

having then composed much of his next, and perhaps most popular work,

‘Historical Romances.’ On the promulgation of the constitution of 1837,

accepted by the Queen, the Duke gave in his adhesion to it, and was

thus enabled to return to his family from his second exile, on the 1st

of August of that year.

In the ensuing elections, the Duke was elected Senator for Cadiz,

when, in consonance with his principles, he gave his general support

to the ministry, and distinguished himself by several animated

discourses he pronounced in the Chamber; particularly one in favour of

returning to the nunneries their sequestrated properties, and another

for maintaining to the Basque provinces their ancient privileges and

rights. For this just and disinterested advocacy of their interests,

the constituents inhabiting the two provinces of Biscay and Alava

respectively elected him to the Senate in 1840, though the government

which then existed did not think proper to sanction their choice.

Shortly after this, another change occurred in the government, and

under the administration of Narvaez, the Duke de Rivas was appointed

Minister from Her Catholic Majesty to the Court at Naples, in which

city he continued upwards of five years in that mission; during also

the residence of Pius IX. there, while a fugitive from Rome. On the

marriage of the Conde de Montemolin, eldest son of Don Carlos, with

a sister of the King of the two Sicilies, he demanded his passport,

leaving his post, for which he received the approbation of his

sovereign. Since his return to Spain, the Duke has been again appointed

Vice-President of the Senate, but seems to have taken little part in

public affairs.

Mr. Borrow, in his very amusing work, ‘The Bible in Spain,’ describes

the Duke de Rivas, in 1836, as “a very handsome man;” and so his

portraits represent him, agreeing with all the accounts of his personal

appearance and courtly manners. Favoured by fortune with the possession

of high rank and ample means, he has been still further favoured in

his domestic relations, and with a large family, the solace of his

age. We have thus traced him through life, distinguished, in every

stage in which he has had to exert himself, for eminent ability as

well as honourable conduct. As a soldier, engaged in the noblest of

causes, the defence of his country, he showed himself conspicuous among

the most active and bravest of her defenders. In public life, as an

orator, a diplomatist and a statesman, he has proved equally eminent.

In private life, he has been no less exemplary for the exercise of the

domestic virtues, having in his needs exerted himself to discharge his

duty to his family, by the practice of the talents with which he had

been endowed, as an artist of superior proficiency. As a dramatist,

his works have in that most difficult department gained the fullest

success; and in poetry he is the only modern writer in Spain who has

given the world a poem of the highest class, combining varied incidents

with well-drawn characters and a sustained interest. Our greatest poet

of modern days felt constrained to say,

I twine

My hopes of being remember’d in my line

With my land’s language;

and in such aspirations may the Duke de Rivas indulge in the retrospect

of his past labours to ensure for him a like future remembrance.

Passing by the poems written under the influence of an adhesion to the

rules of the classical school, we find the poem of the ‘Moro Esposito,’

or ‘Cordova and Burgos in the fifteenth century,’ well-deserving of

being classed with the poetical romances of Sir Walter Scott, on the

model of which it was written. The subject is the History of the Seven

Infantes of Lara, made known to the English reader by Southey and

Lockhart, and it contains many passages of extraordinary merit, though

severe criticism would point out many faults. “To make felt,” says his

biographer, “or to record all the beauties of this book, a book as

large would be necessary, and they may well compensate for the defects,

notwithstanding that at times those same beauties make us see at what

small cost the author might have sent forth his work more finished.” As

in every-day life, he has joined in his narration scenes of the most

opposite character, the most magnificent descriptions with what is most

ludicrous, and the tenderest with what is oppressing to sensibility.

The passages referring to his native city of Cordova are peculiarly

beautiful, and show the feelings of the exile, as they lean to his

country, in all ages and under all circumstances,--to “sweet Argos” or

sacred Athens--

γενοίμαν,

ἵν’ ὑλᾶεν ἔπεστι πόντου

πρόβλημ’ ἁλίκλυστον, ἄκραν

ὑπὸ πλάκα Σουνίου,

τὰς ἱερὰς ὅπως προσείποιμεν Ἀθάνας.

The dedication to Mr. Frere has the singularity of being written in the

English language.

The ‘Ode to the Lighthouse at Malta’ is another exemplification of the

Duke’s patriotic feeling, as well as the poem of ‘The Exile,’ which

has been translated into English by Mr. Reade. One of his latest works

is in the form of a drama, but, like those of Lord Byron, it is not

intended for the stage. It is entitled, ‘Undeception in a Dream,’ and

represents the life of man, contrasting its vicissitudes and events

with his hopes and desires. Like the tragedy of ‘Alvaro,’ it is a

highly poetical conception, and worthy of the reputation of the noble

writer.

It has already been intimated that the most popular of the Duke’s

works is one published at Madrid in 1841, ‘Historical Romances,’ from

which has been taken, for translation, the ‘Alcazar of Seville.’ These

romances are, in fact, ballads on various subjects in Spanish history,

written in the ballad measure of octosyllabic lines, with asonante

rhymes for the second and fourth of each quatrain, similar to our own

ballads. In the prologue to this work the Duke has written a defence

of this measure, which required no defence beyond his own adoption of

it, with the example of such writers in it as Melendez and Arriaza

in modern times, and almost all the best writers in the language

previously. Ochoa has praised “above all” the romance of the Conde de

Villa Mediana, and readers generally find most interesting the ‘Tale of

a Veteran,’ so that it may require an explanation for the choice of the

one taken, that the character of Pedro, surnamed the Cruel, was best

known to the English public, as associated with English history. That

of the Conde de Villa Mediana is a lively description of some scenes

which led to his assassination by order of the king, who was influenced

by jealousy; the ‘Tale of the Veteran’ gives an account of an adventure

in a nunnery, where a nun invites an officer to her cell and poisons

him in revenge for his slight to her sister. She then shows him the

corpse of a brother officer, who had already fallen a victim to her

arts for the like wrong to herself, and she tells him the whole history

of her motives and conduct, while she induces him to dig a grave for

the first victim, with whom, she tells her second, that he is also to

be placed.

Few writers have given the world so many works of a superior order,

distinguishable separately for varied excellence, as the Duke de Rivas.

He has concentrated in his later productions all the chief merits of a

poet, in the choice of his subjects, in the delineation of character

and the power of maintaining throughout the interest of the narrative.

If he has failed too often in the mechanical execution, in attending to

the harmony of verse or poetic expression of the thoughts, these are

faults which we may hope will be corrected in subsequent editions, so

as to leave him still greater claims on the admiration of his readers.

THE DUKE DE RIVAS.

THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE.

I.

Magnificent is the Alcazar,

For which Seville is renown’d,

Delicious are its gardens,

With its lofty portals crown’d.

With woods all carved elaborate,

In a thousand forms about,

It raises high its noble front

With cornice jutting out;

And there in ancient characters

A tablet may be seen,

Don Pedro built these palaces,

The sculptures placed between.

But ill beseem in its saloons

The modern triflings rear’d,

And in its proud courts men without

The antique vest or beard.

How many a soft and balmy eve,

In pleasant converse there,

Have I with Seville’s mirthful sons,

And Seville’s daughters fair,

Traversed those blooming bowers along,

On entering which are rude

Gigantic shapes in myrtles cut,

Of various attitude;

And rose-bay trees, in long arcades,

With oranges unite,

And shady labyrinths form, the which

To thefts of love invite;

And hidden jets of water spring

All sudden from the floor,

When trod the painted pebbles laid

In rich mosaic o’er,

That sprinkle on the stranger there,

While shouts of laughter rise,

From those who warn’d by former fate

Now shun such pleasantries!

In summer time, at close of day,

When mid the light cloud’s fold,

The sun declines, encircling them

With scarlet and with gold,

That bright transparent heaven above,

With purple mists o’erspread,

Cut in a thousand varied hues,

By softest zephyrs led,

That glowing atmosphere, in which

One seems to breathe of fire,

How temper they the languid frame,

And soul divine inspire!

The view too of those baths, that gain

From all who know them praise,

And that proud edifice which Moors

And Goths combined to raise,

In some parts harsh, in some more light,

Here ruins, there repair’d,

The different dominations pass’d

Are thus by each declared;

With records, and remembrances

Of ages long pass’d by,

And of more modern years alike

To arrest the fantasy.

The lemon’s and the jasmine’s flowers,

While they the eyes enchant,

Embalm the circumambient air

With sweets they lavish grant.

The fountains’ murmurs, and afar

The city’s varied cries,

With those that from the river near,

Or Alameda rise,

From Triana, and from the bridge,

All lost, confused amain,

With sound of bells vibrating loud

In high Hiralda’s fane;--

A scene that never is forgot

Enchanted forms the whole,

The thoughts of which unceasing cause

To beat my heart and soul.

Many delicious nights, when yet

My now all-frozen breast

Beat warmly, have I seen those halls

By youthful footsteps press’d;

Fill’d with a chosen concourse gay

In country dance to meet,

Or light quadrille, while festive sounds

The orchestras repeat:

And from the gilded roofs rebound

The steps, the laugh perchance

And talk of happy pairs, by love

United in the dance;

With sound of music mix’d the while,

Confused and blended o’er,

As sent according echos forth

From the enamell’d floor.

Yet, ah! those lovely bowers along

I never once have stray’d,

But saw as in a mental dream

Padillia’s gentle shade,

Flitting before my view to pass,

Heaving a sigh profound,

Light as a vapour, or a cloud

That skims the trees around.

Nor ever enter’d I those halls,

But fancying arise

I saw the founder’s phantom, stain’d

With blood congeal’d the dyes.

Nor in that vestibule obscure,

Where with the cornice blend

The portraits of the kings, arranged

In columns to extend,

To that which is blue-tiled below,

And enamell’d is on high,

Which shows on every side around

A rich-set balcony,

And gilded lattice roof above

That crowns it with dark shade,

But thought I saw upon the ground

A lifeless body laid!

Yet on that pavement may be seen

A dark stain to this day!

Indelible, which ages pass

And never wash away:

’Tis blood that dark tenacious stain;

Blood of the murder’d dead:

Alas! how many throng it o’er,

Nor think on what they tread!

II.

Five hundred years shone younger

The Alcazar to the day,

Its lofty walls yet lustrous,

And faultless its array;

And brilliant were the enamels

Which its gilded roofs reveal,

It showed itself the mansion fit

Of the king of proud Castile;

When on one balmy morn it chanced

Of florid May betide,

In that saloon whose balcony

Is on the plaza’s side,

Two persons of illustrious mien

In silence deep were there;

One was a Cavalier, and one

A Lady passing fair.

A Barbary carpet richly wove

Upon the floor was laid,

The gift or tribute which the Moor

Granada’s king had paid;

A silken curtain, bright with flowers,

And ribbons curious wrought,

With various eastern colours deck’d,

Which to our Spain had brought

Venetian galleys, as perchance

Her Doge’s gift of state,

Was thrown across the balcony,

The light to moderate.

In the recess in front, with woods

Well carved, and richly graced

With mother-o’-pearl inlayings,

Was an Oratory placed;

Where of the sovereign Virgin

The image stood devout,

The sculpture somewhat rude, but yet

Attractions not without;

Which with a plate of silver,

For ornament was crown’d,

Its rim reflecting amethysts,

And emeralds around.

A manuscript of holy prayers,

Which miniatures adorn,

Precious with gold and ivory

Upon its coverings borne,

Was seen there placed upon a stand,

Form’d of an angel’s wings,

The figure badly sculptured,

But with neat finishings.

And on the floor of gold brocade

A cushion one might see,

Which by its sunken pressure show’d

The marks of bended knee.

And on the pure white walls were hung

Bright arms along the space,

And interspersed were banners,

And trophies of the chase.

An ornamental table stood

In the middle of the floor,

On which a well-tuned lute was placed,

Though partly covered o’er;

A rich-cut board for game of draughts,

And a coffer by its side

Of silver filigree, and jars

With chosen flowers supplied.

The Lady near the balcony

Sat very pensively,

In a great gilded chair of state,

Whose back was form’d to be

A canopy, or cover o’er,

And in gay curvings down

Were lions, castles, and the whole

Surmounted with a crown.

Her dress a silken robe of green,

Which show’d a various tinge,

In twisted threads, with pearls and gold

The embroidery and fringe.

Her head-dress than the snow appear’d

Ev’n whiter to behold,

And covering o’er the fine clear lawn

Her long dark tresses roll’d.

Her face was heavenly, and her neck

Divine, but in their hue

Like wax, the colour which fear paints,

And long-known sorrow too.

Her eyes were like two beaming suns

Beneath their lashes tall,

Where shone two precious pearly drops

As ready down to fall.

She was a lily fair, whom death

Was rudely threatening seen,

For a corroding worm the heart

Was tearing deep within.

Now in her thin pale hands, convulsed

It seems with fear or doubt,

Her kerchief white, of border’d lace

And points, she twists about;

Or with absorb’d distracted mien

She agitates the air,

With fan, whose feathers Araby

Had sent, the choicest there.

The Cavalier was slightly form’d,

And of the middle size,

With reddish beard, a restless mouth,

And most unquiet eyes.

His visage pale and dry appear’d,

Nose sharp and of a crook,

Noble his port, but sinister

And terrible his look.

In a red mantle he was wrapp’d,

With golden plates o’erspread,

And gracefully his cap was placed

On one side on his head.

With measured steps, from end to end,

He paced along the room,

And different passions o’er his face

Though silent seem’d to come.

At times he reddens, darting round

Fierce looks, that seem to tell,

As flames cast forth from eyes of fire,

The very deeds of hell.

And now a fierce and bitter smile

The extended lip displays,

Or on the gilded roof he fix’d

A darkly lowering gaze.

Now hastening on his course, from head

To foot he trembles o’er,

And now proceeds his noble mien

Of calmness to restore.

Thus have I seen a tiger fierce,

Now tranquil, now with rage

Revolve himself each side across,

And round his narrow cage.

Thus pacing o’er the carpet there

His footsteps are not heard,

But soundless they, yet were distinct

As ever that he stirr’d,

The crackling of his arms and knees:

In distant lands, ’tis said,

That with like noise has Heaven supplied,

For man to shun in dread,

O, wonder rare! a serpent, named

Thence Rattlesnake, that springs

Quick at the moment it comes nigh,

And kills whome’er it stings.

The Lady was Padillia,

That sat in mournful strain;

And the stern silent Cavalier

Don Pedro, King of Spain.

III.

As round some solitary tower,

At setting of the sun,

Fierce birds of prey are whirling seen,

Revolving one by one,

Thus with Don Pedro in their turn

Have various thoughts a trace,

Whose shadows darken as they pass

The expression of his face.

Now occupies his angry mind

His brother’s power and state,

Of those whose mother he had slain,

And birth would criminate.

Now of unquietnesses borne,

Great scorn and insult shown,

Or of his failing treasury,

Nor means to fill it known.

Now of the fair Aldonza’s charms,

His fortune ’twas to gain,

Or of the blood-stain’d forms of those

He had unjustly slain.

Now some projected enterprise,

Some treaty to defeat,

Faith-breaking with Granada’s Moor,

Or treason or deceit.

But as the birds the lonely tower,

The broken heights between,

Are all at length, as one by one,

Retiring hiding seen;

And constant only one remains,

Revolving it infest,

The fiercest, strongest on the wing,

That will admit no rest;

Thus all that multitude confused

Of passions wild and strange,

Of which Don Pedro for a while

Was tangled in the range,

At length from breast and head alike

Fled finding a retreat,

And living left distinct alone,

With horror great replete,

The image of Fadrique,

His eldest brother famed,

The pride of knights and Master those

Of Santiago named.

Now from Humillia’s conquer’d walls,

With matchless courage won,

In triumph had Fadrique come

O’er vanquish’d Aragon.

Where erst the bars, the castles now

He floating left abroad,

And to present the keys he brings

His brother, king and lord.

Well knows the king no rebel he,

But friend and ally true,

And more than Tello madly hates,

And more than Henry too.

’Twas he Fadrique had the charge

From France to bring the queen,

The Lady Blanche, but he allow’d

A year to intervene.

With her in Narbonne he delay’d,

And rumours thus of those,

Which whether true or false alike

Are poisonous, arose.

And in Medina’s tower the price

The Lady Blanche now pays,

Of all the palace whisperings,

And journey’s long delays.

And on his shoulders yet untouch’d

His head Fadrique wears,

Because of his great wealth and power

And honour’d name he bears.

But, woe for him! the ladies all

Him as their idol own,

For his gay port and gallant mien,

And manly courage known.

And if he cause the throne no fear,

In his fidelity,

He gives what’s worse, though that were bad,

The heart strong jealousy.

Meanwhile the fair Padillia,

Whose judgement clear and great,

Her royal lover’s secret thoughts,

Though deepest penetrate,

In whom the goodness of her heart

The enchantment still excels,

That in her beauteous face and form

So marvellously dwells,

Unhappy victim lives of fears,

That ever her attend,

Because she loves the king, and sees

His course in evil end:

She knows that based in blood and grief,

And persecution’s train,

A palace never is secure,

No throne can fix’d remain.

And she has two young tender girls,

Who with another sire,

Whate’er their lot, might all have gain’d

Their hearts could best require;

And in Fadrique’s worth she sees

A stay and partisan.

She knows he comes to Seville now,

And as from words can scan

Her fierce lord’s brow dark lowering,

In evil hour he came,

And to allay suspicions,

Or give them higher aim,

At length, though with a trembling lip,

The silence breaking dared

To speak, and thus the words that pass’d

Between the two declared:

“Your brother then, Fadrique,

Triumphant comes today?”

“And certainly in coming,

The wretch makes long delay.”

“He serves you well, and hero-like,

As does Humillia show,

Of loyalty gives proofs, and brave

He is”--“Sufficient so.”

“You may be sure, Sire, that his heart

Will ever true remain.”

“Tomorrow still more sure of that.”

Both silent were again.

IV.

With joy the Master to receive,

Through Seville’s streets along,

Great rumour spreads, and arms resound,

And men and horses throng.

And shouts of welcoming, amidst

Repeated echoes rise,

Which from Hiralda’s lofty tower

Are scattered to the skies.

Now comes the crowd approaching near,

But less the shouts resound,

And now the palace gates they reach

Mid silence all around:

As if the Alcazar had enjoy’d

The privilege to appear,

In sight, and still the enthusiast flow,

And turn it into fear.

Thus mute and breathless, motionless,

The people stood in dread,

As if with magical respect

The plaza’s bounds to tread;

And enters there the Master now,

With but a scanty train,

And of his order some few knights,

The palace gates to gain.

And forward on his course directs,

As one without alarms,

Who goes to meet a brother kind,

With open heart and arms:

Or as some noble chieftain comes,

For glorious deeds the cause,

From grateful monarch to receive

Due honours and applause.

Upon a dark and mettled steed,

That breathes of foam and fire,

And while the bridle scarce restrains,

Seems proud of its attire,

With a white mantle o’er him cast,

Flung loosely to the air,

O’er which the collar and red cross

His dignity declare;

And cap of crimson velvet girt

His brows, whereon unfold

The winds the feathers’ snowy plumes,

And tassels bound with gold.

All pale as death, the furious King

His brother saw from far,

When on the plaza entering first,

And fix’d as statues are,

Awhile he stood upon the floor,

And from his angry eyes

Seem’d burning horrid lightning thence

In flashes to arise.

But starting soon, himself around

He turn’d the room to leave,

As if he would some welcome guest

Right affably receive.

When thus Padillia saw him turn,

Her heart beyond relief

Of anguish full, and countenance

So beauteous mark’d with grief,

She rose, and to the balcony

Went troubled, by the square,

And to the Master motions wild,

With gestures to declare,

In evil hour he comes, and waves

Her kerchief him away,

And by mute signs thus bids him seek

Safety without delay.

Nothing of this he comprehends,

But for saluting takes

The warning, and discreetly thus

A gallant answer makes.

And to the open’d portal comes,

With guards and bowmen lined,

Who give him passage free, but leave

His followers behind.

If he knew not Padillia’s signs,

Don Pedro knew them well,

As he before the chamber door

A moment seem’d to dwell,

In deep suspense o’er his resolve,

When turning back his eye,

He saw the Lady warn him thus

By motions thence to fly.

O, heaven! then was that noble act,

Of pure intent to be

What call’d the executioners forth,

And seal’d the stern decree.

Follow’d by two esquires alone,

The Master scarce in haste

Upon the royal vestibule

His foot confiding placed,

Where various men-at-arms were seen,

In double iron barr’d,

Pacing along as sentinels

The entrance stairs to guard,

When over from the balcony,

Like fiendish shape of ill,

The King looks out, and “Mace-bearers,”

He shouts, “the Master kill.”

Quick as the lightning in a storm

Comes ere the thunders call,

Six well-appointed maces down

On Don Fadrique fall.

He raised his hand to grasp his sword,

But in his tabard’s gird

The hilt was bound, impossible

To draw it at the word.

He fell, a sea of blood around

Ran from the shattered brain,

Raising a cry which reached to heaven,

And doubtless not in vain.

Of deed so horrible the news

At once around was spread,

And thence the brotherhood and knights

Together quickly fled.

To hide them in their houses fled

The people, trembling sore

With horror, and the Alcazar’s bounds

Were desert as before.

V.