’Tis said, the sight of blood so much

Is wont to infuriate

The tiger, that he still rends on

With stomach satiate;

Solely because ’tis his delight

With blood the earth to stain,

So doubtless with the King it was

Such feelings grew amain.

For when he saw Fadrique laid,

Thus prostrate on the ground,

After the squires in search he ran

The palace all around;

Who tremblingly and livid fled

The apartments various o’er,

Nor find they any hiding-place,

Or whence to fly a door.

One happily at length succeeds,

To hide or fly outright;

The other, Sancho Villiegas,

Less happy or adroit,

Seeing the King still follow him,

Enter’d half dead with fear

Where was Padillia on her couch,

With her attendants near;

They trembling, as she senseless laid,

And by her side reclined

Her two young tender girls, who were

Angels in form and mind.

The unhappy youth still seeing there

The spectre following nigh,

That even this asylum mocks,

In his arms quickly high

Snatches the Lady Beatrice,

Who scarce six years has known,

The child for whom the King has e’er

The most affection shown.

But, ah! naught serves him this resource,

As in the desert naught

The holy cross avails, that clasps

The pilgrim hapless caught;

When roars the south wind, burns the sky,

And seems as if up-driven

A frightful sea, of waves of sand,

Commingling earth and heaven;

Thus with the child between his arms,

And on his knees compress’d,

The furious dagger of the King

Was planted in his breast.

As if that day had witness’d naught

The palace new or rare,

The King sat at the table calm

To eat as usual there;

Play’d afterwards a game of draughts,

Then went out pacing slow

To see the galleys, arming soon

To Biscay’s shores to go.

And when the night the hemisphere

Had with its mantle veil’d,

He enters in the Golden Tower,

Where he shut up has held

The fair Aldonza, whom he took

From Santa Clara’s walls,

And as in blind idolatry

Who now his heart enthralls.

With Levi then his treasurer,

Who though a Hebrew vile

Has all his confidence, he goes

On state affairs awhile;

And very late retires to rest,

With no attendants nigh,

Only a Moor, a wretch perforce,

His favourite waiting by.

Enter’d the lofty vestibule,

The Alcazar’s tranquil bound,

One moment paused the King and pass’d

His gaze in turn around.

A large lamp from the vaulted roof

Was hanging loose, and cast

Now lights, now shadows, as it swung,

As by the breezes pass’d.

Between the polish’d columns placed

Two men in armour were,

But only two dark figures show’d,

Watching in silence there.

And still was Don Fadrique laid

Extended on the ground,

With his torn mantle o’er him spread,

In a lake of blood around.

The King approach’d him, and awhile

Attentively survey’d,

And seeing that his brother yet

Was not entirely dead,

Since he perchance as breathing seem’d,

His breast a heave to make,

He gave him with his foot a push,

Which made the body shake;

Whereon he, giving to the Moor

His sharpen’d dagger bare,

Said, “Finish him,” and quietly

To sleep went up the stair.

IX.

MANUEL BRETON DE LOS HERREROS.

In the country of Lope de Vega and Calderon de la Barca, it was not to

be supposed, that on the general revival of the national literature,

the drama could be left neglected, in a state unworthy of its ancient

reputation. From the time of those great writers until the present,

notwithstanding the predilection of the Spanish people for the stage,

and the encouragement consequently given for genius to exert itself,

no dramas had been produced to equal them in the public admiration.

The younger Moratin, who may be justly termed the Spanish Molière, had

rather introduced into Spain a new style of drama, that which we call

genteel comedy, than followed the track of the ancient masters. It was

reserved for a later writer, the subject of this notice, to appear as

a rival to them in the exuberance of composition, and possession of

popular favour, though it may be a question for future ages to decide

on his relative merit.

Breton de los Herreros was born at Quel, a small village in the

province of Logronio, the 19th December, 1796. Of his early history,

we are only informed that he was educated at the school of San Antonio

Abad at Madrid, and that he entered a regiment of infantry as a

volunteer, when yet a boy of fourteen. The world at large may be

considered to be, with regard to contemporary characters of another

nation, in the relation of posterity, making distance have, as Bishop

Atterbury remarked to Lord Bolingbroke, the effect of time; and they

will thus inquire eagerly into the particulars of the life of one

distinguished for genius, however humble his birth, while they will

pass heedlessly by the noblest born personage, who has given them no

peculiar right of interest in his history. But, as on reading the life

of the Duke de Rivas, we feel it a subject of congratulation, that the

lance of a French marauder did not cut off one who was destined to be

the ornament of his country’s literature, so we rejoice again equally

that the chance passed away favourably, when a stray ball might have

deprived the world of the works of Breton de los Herreros. Serving in

his humble line, he was present at various skirmishes with the invaders

on their final expulsion from Valencia and Catalonia, at the same time

composing patriotic songs on the national triumphs. In 1812, when yet a

boy of fifteen, he wrote an Ode to the Constitution, and distinguished

himself as an orator among his comrades on the popular subjects of

discussion. On the return of Ferdinand VII. to absolute power, he must

have been compelled to restrain his tendencies for liberalism, and it

may be supposed that his time was at least as well employed in noting

the characters of those around him, and the scenes he had to witness,

as a storehouse of useful observations for his future writings.

In 1822 he obtained his discharge from the army, and after various

attempts made to obtain an eligible employment in the provinces, he

went to Madrid, in the summer of 1824, for the same purpose. There

again he was equally unsuccessful, and as a last resource, took to the

director of the theatre, a comedy which he had written some years

previously for pastime. Fortunately for him, the director happened to

be in want of a new piece to bring out on the king’s birthday, and

thinking the one presented would answer his purpose, he undertook its

production with more than usual care, on account of the occasion. It

was accordingly performed on the 24th October, 1824, and met with such

decided success, that the literary fame of the author was at once

secured.

The profits accruing from the representation of his comedies were

exceedingly trifling; but his natural inclinations led him to writing

for the stage, where he now found himself respected as a successful

writer; and as he had no other resource for maintenance, he applied

himself to this labour with better hopes. A succession of pieces he

wrote were equally successful, produced with a rapidity that reminded

the world of the fertility that had characterized the genius of Lope de

Vega or Calderon. One of his pieces was so much relished, that at the

close, the audience insisted on its being repeated all over a second

time, with which extraordinary demand the actors had to comply. In 1831

he brought out his comedy of ‘Marcela, or Which of the Three?’--the

most popular of all his productions, the subject being, which of

three lovers, all unworthy of her, the heroine, who is amiability

personified, should accept. It was repeated at all the theatres in

the kingdom, and went through six editions on publication, besides

several surreptitious ones, having some of the verses even passing into

“household words,” as popular expressions.

In the same year, 1831, he published a small volume of poems,

containing lyrical and miscellaneous pieces, and has since written many

more of the same character in the different periodicals of Madrid.

None of these are, however, deserving of note, except the satirical

ones, many of which abound with the wit and humour for which his

comedies are remarkable. He is now engaged in publishing at Madrid a

collection of all his works, the last volume being intended to contain

the miscellaneous poems, which, corrected and collected together from

the different papers in which they at first appeared, will no doubt

prove to be more worthy of his fame than those published in 1831. In

the lyrical poems he is avowedly a follower of the so-called classical

school, and rises no higher than those of the same class that had

preceded him; their utmost praise being to be characterized as--

Coldly correct and classically dull.

In the satirical pieces, however, he seems in his proper element,

playing on words and treating his rhymes with a command of language

truly surprising. For this reason, and on account of the numerous local

and national allusions contained in them, it is very difficult for a

foreigner fully to understand, and almost impossible to be able to

translate them. Those pieces attempted in this work may perhaps give

some faint image of his style; but they have been chosen as most easy

for translation, rather than as the best. Of the Satires published

separately after the volume above mentioned, the most applauded have

been those entitled, ‘Against the Philharmonic Rage;’ ‘Against the

Mania for Writing for the Public;’ ‘Against the Abuses introduced

into Theatrical Declamation;’ ‘Moral Epistle on the Manners of the

Age;’ and ‘The Rage for Travelling.’ With the Spaniards of the present

day as with their Roman ancestors, satire is a favourite species of

composition, and it has been observed, that a manual of the history of

the national dissensions might be composed out of the works of this

popular author alone.

Breton, independently of his original writings, has had the editorship

of one of the periodicals of Madrid, and occasional engagements

connected with others. He also had at one time an appointment in one

of the offices of the government, which he seems to have lost in 1840,

on his writing some satirical effusion on the change that had then

taken place. Literature has been in every age a grievous exaction,

for those who had to follow it as a profession, except under peculiar

circumstances. He had only his genius to befriend him, and apparently

had not even the virtue of prudence for a counsellor. Thus he has had

often to submit to circumstances, which though harassing at the time,

he had the wisdom to make subjects of merriment afterwards, to the gain

of his literary reputation.

In Spain there can scarcely yet be said to be formed a “reading

public,” notwithstanding the great number of good works that have

been lately published, to supply the demand whenever it shall arise.

The most evident and flattering of all the applauses that a literary

man can there receive, are those awarded to dramatic successes, and

of these, he has had the reward that was certainly due to him. In

such a climate as that of Spain, and with such a people, theatrical

amusements are more a matter of popular necessity than they are in a

colder climate, with people of more domestic requirements; and yet even

in England it may be a cause of surprise, considering the honour given

to the author of a successful play, that more works of genius have not

been produced for the stage. In both countries there is a complaint

of the public requiring “novelties;” but the fact is, that in seeking

novelties, they are only seeking excellence. When any really good work

is presented them, they know how to appreciate it, and in seeking for

others even of the same author, they are only expressing their sense of

his merits.

In the prospectus of the proposed new edition of his works, he had the

satisfaction of stating he had to republish more than sixty original

dramas, that had met with a successful reception from the audiences

of Madrid. He has besides these produced several that have not been

successful, and has translated from the French a great number of

others. These have been principally tragedies, and he has adapted them

for the Spanish stage, rather than translated them, showing a talent,

it has been observed by Del Rio, in so doing equivalent to making them

to be counted in the number of his original works. Del Rio cites as a

particular example, the translation from Delavigne’s Tragedy of ‘The

Sons of Edward.’ Breton’s talent is evidently pre-eminent for comedy;

but he has written several tragedies also, of which one, the ‘Merope,’

brought forward in 1835, was received with much favour.

This work, as it has been more than once already intimated, is intended

mainly to give an account of the lyrical poetry of Spain as nourishing

at present; and, therefore, it would be entering on subjects foreign

to our purpose, to inquire at large into the merits of any specific

dramatic performances. The Spanish drama may, no doubt, be worthy of

especial study, but I confess that I have not felt it deserving of the

extravagant praises which some writers have bestowed on it. It would

surely be much happier for the people of every country to seek their

greatest enjoyments in those of a domestic nature, rather than in those

miscellaneous congregations where the quieter virtues can have little

exercise. But as human nature is constituted, and public amusements

cannot be avoided, it is the duty of every friend of the popular

interests to support their being given on the foundation of good taste

and moral principles. Though Breton’s works do not appear free from

all blame in this respect, and though sometimes his witticisms may be

observed scarcely fitting even for the stage, yet they show, on the

whole, compared with the dramatic productions of other countries, at

least equal refinement, as they certainly do more inventive talent than

we can point out elsewhere in our age.

Larra, the most discriminating critic of Spain, has observed of Breton,

“that in nothing does his peculiar poetical talent shine more than in

the simplicity of his plans. In all his comedies it is known that he

makes a study and show of forming a plot extremely simple,--little or

no action, little or no artifice. This is conceded to talent only,

and to superior talent. A comedy, full of incidents, which any one

invents, is easy to be passed off on a public always captivated by

what interests and excites curiosity. Breton despises these trivial

resources, and sustains and carries to a happy conclusion, amid the

continual laughter of the audience, and from applause to applause, a

comedy based principally on the depicting of some comic characters, in

the liveliness and quickness of repartee, in the pureness, flow and

harmony of his easy versification. In these gifts he has no rival,

though he may have them in regard to intention, profoundness or

philosophy.”

Ferrer del Rio says of him, “that he has cultivated a style so much his

own, that at the first few verses of one of his works, the spectators

cry out his name from all parts. Originality is thus one of the

qualities that recommend him. He tyrannizes over the public, obliging

them to cast away ill-humour, and laugh against their will from the

time the curtain rises till the representation ends, and this the

same whether in the comedies they applaud, or those they disapprove.

He is consequently mirthful and witty in the extreme, and no one

can dispute the palm with him under this consideration. None of his

scenes fatigue from weariness; none of his verses fail of fullness and

harmony; they do not appear made one after another, but at one blow,

and as by enchantment. Thus all hail him as a perfect versifier and

easy colloquist. Infinite are the matters he has introduced in his

comedies, multiplied the characters sketched by his pen, innumerable

the situations imagined, and undoubtedly there is due to him the

well-founded ascription of a fertile genius. Originality, wit, easy

dialogue, sonorous versification, an inexhaustible vein, would not be

sufficient to form a good comic writer of manners without the criterion

of observation, fit for filling up his pictures with exactness. This

criterion also he possesses in a high degree.”

High as is this encomium, the writer says of him further, that if it

were decreed by Providence that a new race of barbarians should overrun

Spain, destroying libraries and other depositaries of human knowledge,

yet the name of Breton de los Herreros would survive the disaster,

and some vestige of his comedies would remain. “Histories, books of

learning, works of legislation, science, philosophy and politics are,

no doubt, more profound than his comedies, though from their peculiar

nature not so popular. Thus what we have said is to be understood as

a means of distinguishing between writings which, that they may not

perish in the course of ages, require studious men to adopt them for

a test, and learned men to illustrate them by their commentaries,

and those compositions that, to succeed in obtaining the honours of

immortality, require only a people to recite and transmit them verbally

from father to son. The name of Breton may become traditional in Spain,

that of other celebrated writers will belong to history.”

Breton has been elected a member of the Royal Spanish Academy, and

certainly one so highly gifted as he is in his department, is well

deserving of every literary honour. The times are gone by when a writer

of comedies could be all in all with the public as their favourite

author; but probably there is no other existing in Spain who enjoys so

much popular regard. As such, notwithstanding the inferior merit of his

lyrical and miscellaneous poetry, excepting his satirical writings, it

would have been a blameworthy omission to have left his name out of the

list of the modern poets of Spain. It was, however, for this reason

more advisable to make the selections from those satirical writings;

though independently of this consideration, it would have been also

desirable, in a work attempting to give a general view of modern

Spanish poetry, that so essential and popular a branch of it should not

be left unnoticed.

For the poems under this head, Breton has only given the general term

“Satirical Letrillias,” so that with those translated his numbering

only could be adopted for reference. The Letrillia, it may be proper

to observe, is what our musical writers call Motetts or small pieces,

having generally some well-known proverbial saying for the close of

each verse.

MANUEL BRETON DE LOS HERREROS.

SATIRICAL LETRILLIAS.--III.

Such is, dear girl, my tenderness,

Naught can its equal be!

If thou a dowry didst possess

The charms to rival of thy face,

I would marry thee.

Thou wert my bliss, my star, my all!

So kind and fair to see;

And me thy consort to instal,

At once for witness Heaven I call,

I would marry thee.

Thou dost adore me? yes, and I,

Thy love so raptures me,

If thou wouldst not so anxious try

To know my pay, and what I buy,

I would marry thee.

If thou wert not so always coy,

Ne’er listening to my plea,

But when I, fool! my cash employ

To bring thee sweets, or some fine toy,

I would marry thee.

If thou must not instructions wait,

As may mamma agree,

To write or speak to me, or state

When thou wilt meet me at the gate,

I would marry thee.

If ’twere not when to dine, the most

Thy meagre soup bouillie

Thou givest, as many airs thou show’st,

As Roderic at the hanging-post,

I would marry thee.

If for my punishment instead

Of ease and quiet, we

Might not three hungry brothers dread,

And mother too, to keep when wed,

I would marry thee.

If ’twere not when these plagues combine

With thy tears flowing free,

The virtues of a heavenly sign

I see must solace me, not thine,

I would marry thee.

Go, get another in thy chain,

And Heaven for you decree

A thousand joys, for me ’tis vain;

I know thee cheat, and tell thee plain,

I will not marry thee.

SATIRICAL LETRILLIAS.--IV.

Whene’er Don Juan has a feast at home,

I am forgotten as if at Rome;

But he will for funerals me invite,

To kill me with the annoyance quite:

Well, so be it!

Celeste, with thousand coy excuses,

Will sing the song that set she chooses,

And all about that her environ,

Though like an owl, call her a Siren:

Well, so be it!

A hundred bees, without reposing,

Work their sweet combs, with skill enclosing;

Alas! for an idle drone they strive,

Who soon will come to devour the hive:

Well, so be it!

Man to his like moves furious war,

As if were not too numerous far

Alone the medical squadrons straight

The world itself to depopulate!

Well, so be it!

There are of usurers heaps in Spain,

Of catchpoles, hucksterers, heaps again,

And of vintners too, yet people still

Are talking of robbers on the hill:

Well, so be it!

In vain may the poor, O Conde! try

Thy door, for the dog makes sole reply;

And yet to spend thou hast extollers,

Over a ball two thousand dollars:

Well, so be it!

Enough today, my pen, this preaching;

A better time we wait for teaching:

If vices in vain I try to brand,

And find I only write upon sand,

Well, so be it!

SATIRICAL LETRILLIAS.--VII.

O! what a blockhead is Don Andres,

So spending his gold without measure,

Who ruins, perhaps, to be a Marquess,

His house by the waste of his treasure!

A cross on his breast to wear so prim,

Much be the good it will do to him!

Louis is passing the whole long night,

In the dance, what a fancy to take!

So foolish too, when he easier might

On his warm soft bed his comfort make;

To stretch as he pleased each weary limb:

Much be the good it will do to him!

O, how short-sighted is Avarice!

Cenon exposes himself to shame,

For the few pounds more he gains amiss,

To lose his office and his good name;

For a paltry bribe his fame to dim,

Much be the good it will do to him.

And Clara! what of thee shall I say?

When slowly along I see thee go,

As if quite lame on the public way,

And on thy long broad foot bestow

A short narrow shoe for us to see?

Much be the good it will do to thee!

Can it be possibly true, Jerome,

Though yearly he sees his rents decrease,

When his fat steward shall bring him home

His bills, will sign them as he may please?

Without any search to scarcely skim?

Much be the good it will do to him!

Fabio wedded with Jane, when above

A sixpence they neither had, but then

“He loved her so!” Long life to that love,

Bravo! tomorrow if he seem fain

To hang himself with vexation grim,

Much be the good it will do to him.

Wouldst thou engage with the bulls in fight,

My friend! thy wish to be gratified,

When to the best champion known will light

Some luckless thrust give through the right side?

To try thy skill thou art surely free:

Much be the good it will do to thee!

Martin goes a poor rabbit to chase,

When he could buy for a trifle one

Fully as good in the market-place;

And he gets fever-struck by the sun!

Well, at the least he has had his whim:

Much be the good it will do to him!

If when such a thing he least expects,

His house should tumble upon his head,

Because a doubloon Anton neglects

To give for mending the roof instead,

The hole some rat had made in the rim,

Much be the good it will do to him!

If should some crusty reader exclaim

Over these lines,--What a wretched style!

What a bad taste to make it his aim!

My pen more gracefully could the while

Have made the verse go easy and trim,

Much be the good it will do to him!

X.

JOSÈ MARIA HEREDIA.

The people of Cuba have good cause to be proud of a poet born in their

island, whose genius seems always to have found its highest inspiration

in expatiating on the charms of the place of his birth.

Heredia was born the 31st December, 1803, at Santiago de Cuba, in which

city his family had taken refuge when driven away by the revolution

from the island of Santo Domingo, where they had been previously

settled. His father, whose profession was that of the law, was shortly

afterwards appointed a Judge in Mexico, where he accordingly went

with his family, taking his son there for his education under his

special superintendence. This duty he had the privilege allowed him

to accomplish, when he died in 1820, leaving a reputation for ability

and uprightness so eminent as to prove highly advantageous to his son

in his subsequent necessities. On his father’s death, Heredia returned

with his mother and three sisters to Cuba, where he had an uncle and

other relations residing, and there he engaged in a course of study

for the profession of the law, at the termination of which he was, in

1823, admitted an Advocate in the Supreme Court of the island. From his

earliest years he had always shown himself possessed of a very studious

disposition, and some of his poems seem to have been written when only

eighteen years of age.

In the pursuit of the profession he had adopted, with his talent and

energy, Heredia might have hoped soon to acquire a very honourable

position; but unfortunately for his future comfort in life, he had

imbibed too strongly the principles then prevailing to consider the

domination of Spain as an evil which ought to be removed. It is

stated, that there was a conspiracy even then formed to declare the

independence of the island, in which he was implicated; and that on his

being denounced to the government in consequence, he was obliged to fly

from the island. Proceedings under this charge were notwithstanding

instituted against him, under which he was formally declared banished.

He thereupon went, in November 1823, to New York, where he passed the

following three years, appearing, from the accounts that reached his

friends, to have lived there during that time in great privations.

These, and the variableness of the climate, operating severely on his

constitution, as a native of the tropics, were no doubt the causes

of his becoming a victim to that fatal disease which terminated his

existence a few years afterwards.

In New York he acquired soon an accurate knowledge of the English

language, which enabled him also to become familiarly acquainted with

English literature. Of this he showed no inconsiderable tokens, in

a volume of poems which he published there in 1825, having included

among them several translations from the English, though he has not

acknowledged them generally as such. He continued the same neglect in

the edition of his works published subsequently in Mexico in 1832,

which was a much superior edition to the former, being more than

doubled in regard to its contents, and having the poems formerly

published now much corrected and improved.

Not finding his residence in New York offering him any hopes of

advancement in life, and despairing of being able to return to his

family in Cuba, he determined to go thence to Mexico and seek the

assistance of his father’s friends in that city. He accordingly went

there in 1826, and had scarcely arrived when he was at once appointed

to a situation in the office of the Secretary of State. From this minor

post he was soon afterwards promoted to discharge various important

offices in the provinces, and finally to be named one of the Judges of

the Supreme Court of Mexico and a Senator of the Republic. It was while

holding one of those appointments as a local judge at Toluca that he

published there the second edition of his works just mentioned.

After the death of Ferdinand VII., in 1833, the Regent, Queen

Christina, wisely accorded a general amnesty to all expatriated

Spaniards, when Heredia, notwithstanding the favourable position he

held in Mexico, where also he had married in 1827, wished to take

advantage of it to return to his family. On making application,

however, for permission to do so, he was refused it by the

Captain-General of Cuba, and all he could obtain was permission to go

there for two months to visit his aged mother and other relatives,

subject to the observation of the police. He went there accordingly in

1836, when, by a singular coincidence, he joined his family again on

the same day of the month that thirteen years before he had parted from

them.

On his arrival in Cuba, he was subjected to some of those petty

annoyances which military governments too often impose on people under

their sway. A friend of his who had gone to meet him, found him,

notwithstanding his rank in the Mexican republic, or his reputation

as a literary character, or his evident state of ill-health, seated

on a bench in the court of the government office, to wait his turn at

the pleasure of the official, who thought he was showing his dignity

by exposing to unnecessary delay those whom he had to note under his

inspection. Heredia was so altered that his friend could scarcely

recognize him, and his relatives soon had to become apprehensive that

his health was seriously endangered. He had given the most solemn

assurance to the authorities that he would not in any way during his

visit interfere in the public questions of the day, and he fulfilled

his promise. If he really had entered in his youth into any plot

against the government, the most dangerous conspirator in it could

scarcely have been a young man of nineteen, who seems to have been the

principal sufferer. But in any case, he had by time and reflection

become very altered in sentiment, and his failing strength would not

admit of any extraordinary exertion, even if he had remained the same

enthusiast for political liberty as he was in his youth. He would have

wished to stay the remainder of his life with his family, but it was

his duty to return to Mexico after the expiration of the period allowed

him, and there he died of consumption on his return, the 6th May, 1839.

After his death, his widow and her children came to Cuba, where she

died the 16th June, 1844, leaving a son and two daughters in the kindly

charge of his relatives.

The Toluca edition of Heredia’s poems in two volumes, 1832, does great

credit to the Mexican press, being one of the best printed Spanish

works to be found. But it is extremely scarce, and therefore deserves

a more detailed account of it than might be requisite with works

better known. In addition to those contained in the first edition,

which is yet comparatively frequently to be met with, it contains his

philosophic and patriotic poems, some of which are very spirited, and

one, the ‘Hymn of the Banished,’ an extremely fine one. The copies

of the work sent to Havana had these patriotic poems taken out, as

otherwise they would have been seized by the authorities; so that

most of the copies of the work existing are deficient with regard

to them. In the place of the odes thus taken out, another poem, ‘On

Immortality,’ was inserted, which, however, is principally taken from

the Seventh Book of Young’s Night Thoughts, though not so stated. The

other principal poems, in respect of length, are, ‘On the Worth of

Women,’ and ‘the Pleasures of Melancholy.’ Of another very fine ode,

‘To Niagara,’ a very excellent translation into English blank verse has

appeared in the United States Review.

In the preface to the second edition, he states that he had been

induced to undertake it, upon finding that several of the poems in the

first had been reprinted in Paris, London, Hamburg and Philadelphia,

and had been received with much favour in his own country, where

the celebrated Lista had pronounced him “a great poet.” There can

be no doubt that other editions would have met with very favourable

reception, had it not been for the circumstance of his being

considered an author obnoxious to the Spanish government. As it is,

the Creoles of Cuba have manuscript copies of his poems circulating

amongst themselves, generally faulty as dependent on the taste of the

individuals who had copied them. The effect of this is apparent in the

only edition I am aware of, that has been published in Spain, that of

Barcelona, in 1840, acknowledged to be taken from a manuscript copy,

in which not only are some of his best compositions omitted, such

as the ‘Lines to his Horse,’ and the poem entitled, ‘The Season of

the Northers,’ but some others, for instance, the ‘Ode to the Sun,’

are given imperfectly. In return, it gives a poem on receiving the

portrait of his mother, which had not appeared in the former editions,

and which is not unworthy of being compared with Cowper’s on the same

subject, though treated differently.

In the prologue to this edition the editor observes, that “in all his

productions is seen an excellency of heart and an imagination truly

poetical, enabling us to assert with Lista that he is a great poet, and

one of the best of our day.” He adds, “the poems of Heredia have, in

our judgement, the merit of a purity of language, which unfortunately

begins to be unknown in Spain. They are of a kind equally apart from

the monotony and servileness, ascribed perhaps with reason to the

classicists, and from the extravagant aberration of those who affect to

be called Romanticists, and believe they are so, because they despise

all rules in their compositions, substituting words and phrases unknown

to our better writers and poets.”

The language of Heredia in his poems is by the concurrent opinion

of all Spanish critics very pure, and even strangers can feel its

simplicity and nature in connexion with the truly poetical thoughts

they contain, free from all conceits or affectations. In his best

original compositions, the sentiments expressed are generally of a

tender and melancholy character, as might be expected from his history,

of one banished from his country and family, while suffering from

privations and ill-health, and at length sinking under a fatal disease.

Like many other poets, he thus also writes most affectingly when

dwelling on his own personal feelings, as if to verify the declaration

of Shelley, that

… most men

Are cradled into poetry by wrong;

They learn in suffering what they teach in song.

The ‘Lines to his Horse’ and ‘The Season of the Northers’ bear

intrinsic evidence of their origin, and also the Ode entitled ‘Poesy.’

This one bears a strong resemblance in its general tone to the ‘Epistle

to His Brother’ and the poem of ‘Sleep and Poetry’ by Keats, whose

character and fate also were in some degree the same as his. They have

the same sentiment, as conscious of fame awaiting them, common to all

poets, but peculiarly to those of more sensitive temperament, the ‘non

omnis moriar,’ the hope of immortality,--

Ἐλπίδ’ ἔχω κλέος εὑρέσθαι

κεν ὑψηλὸν πρόσω.

If the extravagant eulogiums bestowed on the merit of the Sonnet, as

a form of verse, by some Italian writers, and echoed by Boileau and

others, be at all deserved, Heredia’s claims to superiority may be

put forward very confidently, in respect of that to ‘His Wife’ in

dedication of the second edition of his works. It contains all the

conditions required for a perfect composition of this kind, in the

poetical statement of the subject, the application of it, the beautiful

simile given as a counterpart, and the strikingly appropriate idea

with which it closes. Of this idea, the classical reader will at once

perceive the elegance and force; but he cannot do so fully, unless he

have also seen in the churches of seaport towns on the continent, as

for instance, that of Santa Maria del Socorro, at Cadiz, the votive

offerings of gratitude for deliverances from danger.

The ‘Ode to Night’ might have been considered worthy of equally

unqualified commendation, were it not for the circumstance that twelve

out of the nineteen stanzas it contains are almost a paraphrase

from the Italian of Ippolito Pindemonte. At the time of making the

translation hereafter given, I had not read that very pleasing writer,

but have since found the source of the poem in his ‘Poesie Campestri,

Le quattro parti del giorno,’ to which, therefore, justice requires

the acknowledgement to be given. It is much to be regretted that

Heredia did not distinguish his original compositions in all cases from

imitations, as there is no statement with regard to this one, of its

having been taken from another author. There are other instances of

the same neglect, as in a close translation from Campbell of ‘The Ode

to the Rainbow,’ equally unacknowledged. The interests of literature

require that such acknowledgements should be uniformly made, that we

should know gold from imitations, and give every one his right and

place. As the same Italian poet remarked in his ‘Opinioni Politiche,’

Conosco anch’io negli ordini civili

L’oro dal fango, ed anch’io veggio che altra

Cosa è il nascere Inglese, ed altra Turco.

Heredia’s original poems, many of them written to, or respecting his

near relatives or other friends, betoken so much true poetic feeling,

as well as flow of poetical ideas, that we cannot suppose the neglect

of which we have complained to have been more than an oversight. He

might even in some cases have lost remembrance of his obligations, and

repeated from memory when he thought he was writing from inspiration.

The latter part of his first volume is entirely taken up with

“Imitations;” but those we have noticed above are in the second volume,

without any distinction from the original poems.

He had, however, in early life so many privations to endure, and so

many daily necessities for which to make a daily provision, that we may

not be surprised at his inexactness in minor matters. In the preface

to the second edition, he says, that “the revolutionary whirlwind

had made him traverse over a vast course in a short time, and that

with better or worse fortune he had been an advocate, a soldier, a

traveller, a teacher of languages, a diplomatist, a journalist, a

judge, a writer of history, and a poet at twenty-five years of age. All

my writings,” he observes, “must partake of the variableness of my lot.

The new generation will enjoy serener days, and those who then dedicate

themselves to the Muses will be much more happy.” On his first going to

Mexico, it is to be supposed that he had to enter on military duties

in the unsettled state of the country, and that he had some diplomatic

commissions entrusted to him by the government, of which, however,

we have no other account. This, in fact, may be said to be the first

biographical notice of him published, obtained from information given

by his relatives, who, having been long separated from him, could not

explain the particular references more fully.

As a writer of history, he had published, also in Mexico, a work in

four volumes, 8vo. which was chiefly a compilation from Tytler, but

with additions in Spanish and Mexican history, suited to the community,

for whose benefit it was intended. In this respect, as in so many other

parts of his career, the knowledge he had acquired of the English

language was of essential assistance to him, while it was no less

evident that his knowledge of English literature had improved his taste

and strengthened his powers of mind also in his own compositions.

In private life Heredia appears to have been a most amiable character:

courteous, generous, and possessed of the most lively sensibility, he

made himself beloved by all who had to enter into communication with

him. He was also remarkable for the exceeding great ingenuousness of

his disposition, which, while it rendered him incapable of vanity

in himself, made him at the same time as incapable of dwelling on

the faults of others. Several of his poems show further a religious

feeling, which no doubt enabled him to bear with becoming equanimity

the various trials to which he had been subjected.

Those trials it seemed were appointed to attend him further, even if

it had pleased the Almighty to prolong his existence. Shortly before

his death, the Mexican legislature passed a law declaring that no one

should hold any office under the republic who was not a natural born

citizen; and thus he was, among others, deprived of the offices he had

held with credit to himself and advantage to the state. If the measure

were directed against him personally, it was of short operation, and

political intrigues could not avail to deprive him of the consciousness

of having fulfilled his duties honourably, or of the claim he had to

leave on the remembrance of future ages.

JOSÈ MARIA HEREDIA.

SONNET. DEDICATION OF THE SECOND EDITION OF HIS POEMS, TO HIS WIFE.

When yet was burning in my fervid veins

The fieriness of youth, with many a tear

Of grief, ’twas mine of all my feelings drear,

To pour in song the passion and the pains;

And now to Thee I dedicate the strains,

My Wife! when Love, from youth’s illusions freer,

In our pure hearts is glowing deep and clear,

And calm serene for me the daylight gains.

Thus lost on raging seas, for aid implores

Of Heaven the unhappy mariner, the mark

Of tempests bearing on him wild and dark;

And on the altars, when are gain’d the shores,

Faithful to the Deity he adores,

He consecrates the relics of his bark.

TO HIS HORSE.

Friend of my hours of melancholy gloom,

To soothe me now, come, scouring o’er the plain;

Bear me that I forgetfulness may gain,

Lost in thy speed from my unhappy doom.

The fond illusions of my love are gone,

Fled never to return! and with them borne

Peace, happiness and hope: the veil is drawn,

And the bared cheat shows frenzy’s end alone.

O! how the memory of pleasures past

Now wearies me! horrible that soul’s state,

Of flowers of hope, or freshness desolate!

What then remains it? Bitterness o’ercast.

This south wind kills me: O! that I could rest

In sweet oblivion, temporary death!

Kind sleep might moderate my feverish breath,

And my worn soul again with strength be blest.

My Horse, my friend, I do implore thee, fly!

Though with the effort break my frame so weak:

Grant for thy master’s brows he thus may seek

Sleep’s balmy wings spread forth benignantly.

Let him from thee gain such refreshment kind;

Though much another day it caused me shame,

In my mad cruelty and frenzy’s blame,

My crimson’d heels, and thy torn flanks to find.

Pardon my fury! beats upon my eye

The sorrowing tear. Friend, when my shouts declare

Impatience, then the biting spur to spare

Wait not, but toss thy mane, thy head, and fly.

THE SEASON OF THE NORTHERS.

The wearying summer’s burning heat

Is now assuaged; for from the North

The winds from frost come shaken forth,

’Midst clouds o’er Cuba rushing fleet,

And free us from the fever’s wrath.

Deep roars the sea, with breast swell’d high,

And beats the beach with lashing waves;

Zephyr his wings in freshness laves,

And o’er the sun and shining sky,

Veil-like, transparent vapours fly.

Hail, happy days! by you o’erthrown

We see the altar, which ’mong flowers

May rear’d to Death: attendant lowers,

With pallid face, vile Fever lone,

And with sad brilliancy it shone.

Both saw the sons, with anxious brow,

Of milder realms approaching nigh,

Beneath this all-consuming sky:

With their pale sceptres touched, they bow,

And in the fatal grave are now.

But their reign o’er, on outspread wing,

To purify the poison’d air,

The north winds cold and moisture bear;

Across our fields they sounding spring,

And rest from August’s rigours bring.

O’er Europe’s gloomy climates wide,

Now from the North fierce sweeps the blast;

Verdure and life from earth are past:

With snow man sees it whelm’d betide,

And in closed dwellings must abide.

There all is death and grief! but here,

All life and joy! see, Phœbus smile

More sooth through lucid clouds, the while

Our woods and plains new lustres cheer,

And double spring inspires the year.

O, happy land! his tenderest care

Thee, favour’d! the Creator yields,

And kindest smile: ne’er from thy fields

Again may fate me fiercely tear!

O, let my last sun light me there!

How sweet it is to hear the rain,

My love! so softly falling thus

On the low roof that shelters us!

And the winds whistling o’er the plain

And bellowings of the distant main.

Fill high my cup with golden wine;

Let cares and griefs be driven away;

That proved by thee, my thirst to stay,

Will, my adored! more precious shine,

So touch’d by those sweet lips of thine.

By thee on easy seat reclined,

My lyre how happy will I string;

My love and country’s praise to sing;

My blissful lot, thy face and mind,

And love ineffable and kind!

POESY, AN ODE.

Soul of the universe, bright Poesy!

Thy spirit vivifies, and, like the blast

That’s burning in the desert swiftly free,

In its course all inflames where it has past.

Happy the man who feels within his breast

The fire celestial purely is possess’d!

For that to worth, to virtue elevates,

And to his view makes smile the shadowy forms

Confused of joys to come, and future fates:

Of cruel fortune ’gainst the gathering storms

It shields him, causing him to dwell among

The beings of his own creation bright:

It arms him daringly with wings of light,

And to the world invisible along

Bears him, to wondering mortals to unseal

The mysteries which the horrid depths reveal.

High inspiration! O, what hours of joy,

Deep and ineffable, without alloy,

Hast thou benign conceded to my breast!

On summer nights, with brilliant hues impress’d,

’Tis sweet to break with sounding prow the wave

Of the dark surging sea, which shows behind

A lengthen’d streak of light the current gave.

’Tis sweet to bound where lofty mountains wind,

Or on thy steed to scour along the plain;

But sweeter to my fiery soul ’tis far

To feel myself whirl’d forward in the train

Of thy wild torrent, and as with a star

The brow deck’d proudly, hear thy oracles

Divine; and to repeat them, as of old

Greece listen’d mute to those from Delphic cells

The favour’d priestess of Apollo told;

While she with sacred horror would unfold

The words prophetic, trembling to refer

To the consuming god that frenzied her.

There is of life a spirit that pervades

The universe divine: ’tis he who shades

All Nature’s loveliest scenes with majesty,

And glory greater: beauty’s self ’tis he,

Who robes with radiant mantle, and endows

Her eye with language eloquent, while flows

Soft music from her voice; ’tis he who lends

To her the magic irresistible,

And fatal, which her smile and look attends,

Making men mad and drunk beneath her spell.

If on the marble’s sleeping forms he breathe,

To life they start the chisel’s touch beneath:

In Phædra, Tancred, Zorayde he wrings

The heart within us deep; or softly brings

Love-fraught delight, as do their strains inspire

Anacreon, or Tibullus, or the lyre

Of our Melendez, sweetest languishings.

Or wrapt in thunder snatches us away

With Pindar, or Herrera, or thy lay,

Illustrious Quintana! to the heights,

Where virtue, and where glory too invites.

By him compels us Tasso to admire

Clorinda; Homer fierce Achilles’ ire;

And Milton, elevated all beyond,

His direful angel, arm’d of diamond.

O’er all, though invisible, this spirit dwells;

But from ethereal mansions he descends

To show himself to men, and thus portends

His steps the night rain, and the thunder tells.

There have I seen him: or perhaps serene

In the sun’s beam, he wanders to o’erflow

Heaven, earth and sea, in waves of golden glow.

On music’s accent trembles he unseen;

And solitude he loves, he lists attent

The waters’ rush in headlong fury sent:

The wandering Arabs o’er their sands he leads,

And through their agitated breasts inspires

A feeling undefined, but great to deeds

Of desperate and wild liberty that fires.

With joy he sits upon the mountain heights,

Or thence descends, to mirror in the deep,

In crystal fixedness, or animates

The tempest with his cries along to sweep:

Or if its clear and sparkling veil extend

The night, upon the lofty poop reclined,

With ecstasy delights to inspire his mind,

Who raptured views the skies with ocean blend.

Noble and lovely is the ardour felt

For glory! for its laurel pants my heart;

And I would fain, this world when I depart,

Of my steps leave deep traces where I dwelt.

This of thy favour, spirit most divine!

I well may hope, for that eternal lives

Thy glowing flame, and life eternal gives.

Mortals, whom fate gave genius forth to shine,

Haste anxious to the sacred fount, where flows

Thy fiery inspiration; but bestows

The world unworthy guerdon on their pains:

While them a mortal covering enshrouds,

Obscure they wander through the listless crowds;

Contempt and indigence their lot remains,

Perchance ev’n impious mockery all their gains:

At length they die, and their souls take the road

Of the great fount of light whence first they flow’d;

And then, in spite of envy, o’er their tomb

A sterile laurel buds, ay, buds and grows,

And thus protects the ashes in the gloom,

’Neath its immortal shade; but vainly shows

To teach men justice. Ages onward fleet

The lamentable drama to repeat,

Without regret or shame. Homer! thou divine,

Milton sublime, unhappy Tasso thine,

The fate to tell it. Genius yet the while

Faces misfortune undismayed; his ears

Dwell only on the applauses to beguile,

His songs will happy gain in future years;

His glory, his misfortunes will excite

Sweet sympathy; posterity will requite

Justice against their sires, who thus condemn

Him now to grief and misery, shame on them!

From his tomb he will reign; his cherish’d name

Will beauty with respect and sighs proclaim.

On her eye gleams the bright and precious tear

His burning pages then will draw from her,

Kind-hearted loveliness! he sees it near;

His heart beats, he is moved; and strong to incur

The cruelty and injustice, is consoled;

And waiting thus his triumph to obtain,

Enjoying it, though but in death to hold,

Flies his Creator’s bosom to regain.

O, sweet illusion! who has had the power

To save himself from thee, who was not born

Than the cold marble, or the rough trunk lower?

With ardour I embrace, and wait thee lorn.

Yet of my Muse perchance some happier strains

Will me survive, and my sepulchral stone

Will not be left to tell of me alone!

Perhaps my name, which rancour now detains

Proscribed, will yet resound o’er Cuba’s plains,

On the swift trumpet of enduring fame!

Correggio, when he saw his canvas flame

With life, “a painter,” it was his to cry,

“I also am!”--A poet too am I.

ODE TO NIGHT.

Night reigns; in silence deep around

Dreams whirl through empty space;

Clothing with her pure light the ground,

The moon shows bright her face:

Soft hour of peace; without a trace

Of Man, where rise these heights uphurl’d,

I sit abandon’d of the world.

How Nature’s quietude august

Delights the feeling mind,

That heeds her voice, and learns to trust

Its joys with her to find!

Sweet silence! here I rest reclined,

With but the river’s murmurings heard,

Or leaves by gentle breezes stirr’d.

Now its repose on languid wings,

Its freshness Night supplies;

To shaded heaven which faithful clings,

And blaze of daylight flies:

Unseen by that, mysterious lies

On mount and plain, to please though sad,

Still beauteous ev’n in horrors clad.

How is the ecstatic soul impress’d

With melancholy thought!

The lovely picture here possess’d

Sublime with sadness fraught!

How more its music to be sought,

And peace, than all that may entrance

The echoes of the noisy dance.

Around the proud saloon reflect

Each face the mirrors there;

With diamonds, pearls, and gold bedeck’d,

Light dance the gentle fair;

And with their witching grace and air,

O’er thousand lovers holding sway,

Their vows and plaudits bear away.

Lovely is that! I one day too,

When childhood scarce above,

Through balls and banquets would pursue

The object of my love.

And from the young beloved I strove,

As magic treasure, to obtain

A passing look, or smile to gain.

But now by cares subdued, and bound

By languor and disease,

Than gilded halls, these plains around

Me more the night hours please:

To the gay dance preferring these,

The calm asylum they supply,

To meditate beneath this sky.

O! ever shine on me the stars,

In a clear heaven as now!

And as my Maker that avers,

There let me turn my brow.

O! God of heaven, to Thee I bow!

And raise by night my humble strain,

The voice of my consuming pain.

Thee, also, friendly Moon! I hail;

I always loved thee dear:

Thou, Queen of heaven! me ne’er didst fail,

In fortunes fair or drear,

To guide, to counsel, and to cheer:

Thou know’st how oft, to enjoy thy ray,

I chide the blaze and heat of day.

Oft seated on the wide sea-shore,

Whose waves reflected thee,

To muse alone, thou smiling o’er,

I pass’d the night hours free;

And ’midst my clouded hopes to see

Thy face serene, I found relief,

In sweet complaint to pour my grief.

For throbs, alas! my breast with pain,

Consumption’s wounds to bear;

And pales my cheek, as thou must wane

Beneath the morning’s glare.

When I shall sink, grant this my prayer,

That thy light ne’er to shine defer,

On thy friend’s humble sepulchre.

But, hark! what dulcet notes arise

The neighbouring woods among?

Causing these tender thoughts and sighs

My lonely breast to throng.

Sweet Nightingale, it is thy song!

I always loved thy wood-notes wild,

Like me from sorrow ne’er beguiled.

Perish whoe’er for thy soft note

Seeks thee to oppress or take.

Why rather not like me remote,

Thee follow through the brake,

Where these thick woods our shelter make?

Fly free and happy round thy nest;

Enslaved I wish none, none oppress’d.

Night, ancient goddess! Chaos thee

Produced before the sun;

And the last sun ’tis thine to see

When the world’s course is run;

And the Lord wills his work undone!

Hear me, while this life’s breath is raised,

By me thou shalt be loved and praised.

Before time was, in Chaos vast

Thou laid perhaps mightst view

Thy coming beauties, as forecast

Thy destined glories grew:

Looking thy veil of shadows through

With face obscured, to meditate

Calm on thy future power and state.

Thou camest, O Queen! from Ocean’s bars

At the Creator’s voice,

With sceptre raised, and crown’d with stars,

And mantle glittering choice;

And bade the silent world rejoice,

To see through space thy brow severe

Shine with the kind moon’s silvery sphere.

How many high truths have I learn’d

Beneath thy solemn shade!

What inspirations in me burn’d

’Mid the wood’s silence laid!

In thee I saw sublime display’d

The Almighty’s power, and seized my lyre,

And fervid dared to Heaven aspire.

Great Goddess, hail! in thy calm breast

Let me soothe every care!

Thy peaceful balm may give me rest

From ills my heart that tear.

Sweet pitying friend! to whom repair

Poets and mourners for repose,

O, Night! in soft peace end my woes.

XI.

JOSÈ DE ESPRONCEDA.

In the introductory part of this work, while acknowledging the merits

of the earlier poets of Spain, it may be remembered that a claim was

made in favour of the still superior excellences of their successors

in the present day. If the reader, who has followed us so far through

these notices, has not already come to the same conclusion, his assent

may be confidently expected to the assertion, in consideration of the

surpassingly poetical genius of the two writers who have now to come

under his review.

In considering the merits of their earlier poets, the best critics of

Spain have not been so blinded by national partiality as to be led into

awarding them unqualified commendations. In the very able prologue to

the ‘Moro Esposito’ of the Duke de Rivas, said to have been written

by the celebrated Alcalà Galiano, we find an estimation of them which

we can adopt, as correct in judgement as it is unexceptionable for an

authority. He says, “Though the tenderness of Garcilasso, the warmth

of Herrera, the fancy, at once lively and thoughtful, of Rioja, and,

above all, those strong feelings of devotion which give to Fray Luis de

Leon a character so original, even when he is most an imitator, are

sources of great perfections, and most glorious crowns of the Spanish

Parnassus, yet we are obliged to confess, that in the Spanish poets,

lyric and pastoral, we see too great a sameness, that their stock of

ideas and images is limited and common to them all, and that if varied

and choice in expression, they are uniform in their arguments and

plans, founding their merit more in the gala and pomp of language,

in the floridness and sonorousness of verse, and in the ingenious

dexterity of making variations on one theme, than in the vigour and

originality of their thoughts, or in the strength and profoundness of

the emotions which they felt, or which their works excite in the minds

of their readers.”

Entirely coinciding in the opinions thus expressed, we feel, on the

other hand, with regard to the modern Spanish poets, that while they

have fully maintained the grace and beauty that distinguished their

predecessors in former ages, their genius has expanded over far wider

fields, and embraced subjects of as varied and powerful interest as

the contemporary poetry of any other country can present to delight

or captivate. As instances in support of this opinion, we have, in

particular, to refer to the comparatively few but exceedingly brilliant

compositions of Espronceda, whose early loss, at only thirty-two years

of age, the whole literary world has to deplore.

We have great cause to be thankful to Ferrer del Rio that we have any

account at all of this very eminent lyric poet, though the one he has

given is far from being so full as the admirers of his genius might

have desired. From that account, we learn that it was in the spring

of 1810, during the most momentous period of the war of independence,

a colonel of cavalry, after some long and harassing marches, was

obliged to halt at the small town of Almendralejo, in the province of

Estremadura, in the face of the enemy, on account of his wife, who had

followed him through the campaigns, having there had a son born, the

subject of this narrative. We have no other particulars of his earlier

years, than that on the conclusion of the war his parents settled at

Madrid, where he was placed at an early age under the tuition of Lista,

a writer who enjoyed considerable reputation at the time as a poet,

but whose chief merit consisted in his critical and elementary works.

Under such a preceptor, his natural genius found a congenial course

of tuition, and verse-making seems to have been a part of his usual

studies. It was remarked, that though he was by no means inclined to

steady application, yet, that by the force of his quick comprehension,

he shone as prominently as others of greater industry, and when a mere

boy produced verses which gave tokens of future eminence.

When only fourteen years of age he joined a society of youths who

called themselves Numantines, and was elected one of their tribunes.

In their meetings, no doubt, there was much intended treason debated,

for which, whether deservedly or not, the government of the day thought

proper to proceed against them at law, and Espronceda, with others, was

sentenced to three months’ imprisonment in the convent of Guadalajera,

in which town his father then resided. There, in the solitude of his

imprisonment, his active mind found employment in poetry, and he was

bold enough to begin an epic poem on the subject of the national

hero, Pelayo. Of this poem there are fragments given among his works,

from which we may judge favourably of what it might have proved

when completed, containing as it does many striking passages. The

representation of Hunger, and the Dream of the King, Don Roderic, are

bold conceptions, and if they were not the additions of after-years,

were truly remarkable as the productions of any one at so early an age.

On his release from the convent he returned to Madrid, but feeling

himself under restraint as subject to the observation of the police,

and desirous also of visiting other countries, he shortly afterwards

went to Gibraltar and thence to Lisbon. There he seems to have been

subjected to great privations, which, however, did not prevent his

being involved in romantic adventures, characteristic of one of his

temperament, such as he subsequently described with all the warmth

of poetic feeling. But the ministers of the king, now restored to

absolute power by French intervention, could not allow Spanish

emigrants to be congregated so near to Spain, and at their instance

Espronceda and others were obliged to go from Lisbon to London. How

he maintained himself, during these wanderings, we are not informed,

but his relatives probably had the means to afford him sufficient for

his pressing necessities, and the love of adventure would lead him,

oftentimes willingly, into situations from which most others would have

recoiled.

In London, we are informed, that he enjoyed the happiest period of

his life, though not abounding in resources; passing his time between

his studies and gaieties, which resulted in confirmed dissipation.

He learned to read Shakespeare and Milton, as well as Byron, and

considering his inclinations, his habits and his writings, we need

not be surprised to find him supposed to have taken the last for his

model. There he began the series of compositions which place him in

the first rank of lyric poets, though we have to lament that they are

tinctured with a spirit of such evil character. His ‘Elegy to Spain,’

dated London, 1829, is in the original written with peculiar sweetness

of expression, which Del Rio finds in the style of the Prophet of the

Lamentations, and which, though not so well suited for translation

as most of his other poems, has been chosen as the effusion of the

patriotic muse of Spain, no less worthy of note than others of more

general application.

From London he passed over to Paris, and happening to be there during

the three memorable days of July 1830, he took part in the fearful

scenes which then took place with all the ardour of his character as

well as of youth. He joined afterwards the small band of emigrants who

crossed the Pyrenees in the hopeless attempt of subverting the despotic

sway that then prevailed, resulting in the death of Don Joaquin de

Pablo, whom his friends regarded as falling heroically, and to whose

memory Espronceda has left a poem of great beauty. Returning to Paris,

he entered himself in the rank of the bold spirits who volunteered to

lend their aid in the regeneration of Poland, from which, and other

similar schemes, he was rescued by the promulgation of the first

amnesty, of which he took advantage immediately to return to Spain.

On his arrival in Madrid, he entered himself in the Royal Guard, where

he soon won the goodwill and affections of his officers and comrades,

and might have risen to distinction, but for an unfortunate though

characteristic occurrence. He had written some verses on passing events

connected with the service, which were recited at a banquet, and having

been much applauded and passed from hand to hand, came to the knowledge

of the ministry, who thereupon, notwithstanding the efforts of his

colonel to the contrary, dismissed Espronceda from the corps, and

banished him to the town of Cuellar. There he composed a work, which he

called a novel, under the title of the ‘Sancho of Saldania,’ but which,

though containing some good sketches and descriptions, is only worthy

of notice as having been one of his compositions.

“On the dawning of liberty in Spain with the promulgation of the

Estatuto,” by Martinez de la Rosa, he came forward as a journalist,

connected with the paper published as ‘The Age.’ His proud spirit

could not submit to the censorship previously existing, but even now

he had to feel its influence. The fourteenth number of his paper, the

most violent of the time, was found to contain some articles which

were forbidden by the censor, and as the time pressed, the editors did

not know how to supply the deficiency. The ready genius of Espronceda

suggested a scheme, which, after a little hesitation, was adopted: this

was to publish the sheet in blank, with merely the headings, which

had not been struck out of the manuscript by the censor. Accordingly,

the usual sheet appeared with the titles only of the subjects it had

originally to bear, namely--“The Amnesty;” “Domestic Policy;” “Letter

from Don Miguel and Don Manuel Bravedeed in defence of their honour

and patriotism;” “On the Cortes;” “Song on the Death of Don Joaquin

de Pablo.” The effect was startling, and perhaps more powerful than

the forbidden articles would have proved. The people supplied the

deficiencies according to their individual feelings, and the ingenuity

of the device had its fullest success. As the result, the publication

of the paper was forbidden, and the managers had to hide themselves for

a time to escape further prosecution.

In the years 1835 and 1836, there were several serious commotions in

Madrid in which he joined, erecting barricades in the principal square,

and making violent harangues to the people. On both occasions the

disturbances were soon put down by the military, and he had to hide

himself in the provinces, until, in the year 1840, Espartero having

put himself at the head of the liberal party, the public principles

prevailed for which Espronceda had so exerted himself. He then

came forth again from his retirement, and made himself conspicuous

by appearing as an advocate in a case in which a paper named the

‘Hurricane’ had been denounced at law for a seditious article it

contained. Espronceda’s speech in defence, from some passages of

it given by Del Rio, appears to have been very energetic, and as

inflammatory as the article accused, but he was successful, and the

proprietor of the paper was acquitted.

In the same year, 1840, he published the volume of poems on which

his fame rests, as perhaps the first lyric poet that Spain has

produced. Most of the contents had been previously given in the

periodical publications of Madrid, but it was a great service to

literature to have them collected. They contained the fragment of

the epic poem, ‘Pelayo,’ and a short dramatic piece, entitled, ‘The

Student of Salamanca,’ in which his own character is supposed to have

been depicted; as well as the lyric odes and other poems. They are

comparatively few in number, not exceeding fifteen altogether, but of

such rare excellence as to make us regret that so gifted a writer was

to be so soon cut off, depriving the literary world of the hopes of

still further excellence they gave reason to expect. In the following

year, 1841, he published his poem, ‘The Devil World, El Diablo Mundo,’

in four cantos, to which three others were afterwards added, found

among his papers after his death. His friends had long feared that he

was not destined to attain a prolonged period of life, but their fears

were unhappily realized much sooner than they had imagined.

In December 1841, Espronceda was sent to the Hague as Secretary of

Legation, but the coldness of the climate affecting too severely his

enfeebled constitution, he was obliged, almost immediately, to return

to Spain. He had meanwhile been elected Deputy to the Cortes for

Almeria, and he attempted to take accordingly his share of public

duties. But his health and strength had been undermined by the life of

hazard, of privations and excesses he had undergone, and the journey to

the Hague in the depth of winter seemed to give the final shock to his

frame, from which it could not recover. On the 23rd of May, 1842, his

friends and admirers were thrown into unexpected grief by hearing that

he had died that morning, after what was termed a four days’ illness.

The immediate cause was said to have been some disorder affecting the

throat, and his sufferings have been described by an intimate friend

and schoolfellow, who was with him at the time, as very painful. The

loss to Spain and the whole literary world was as great as it was

irreparable; and so the people seemed to feel it, by the general

expression of regret over his fate, such as it seldom falls to the lot

of any one to excite.

The moralist might dilate on the evil courses which probably hastened

his death, and all must lament that a man of such extraordinary genius

should have sunk under them; but before we judge any one severely, we

should be certain of being able to form a right judgement. The utmost

remark, therefore, we permit ourselves to make, may be to consider his

history as a lesson to all under similar circumstances of life, that if

they will not take heed to a moral in others, they may become a warning

themselves. Every man’s character may be taken as a whole, in which his

good and evil qualities are often so blended together as to make them

inseparable. The excesses of youth are often “the flash and outbreak

of a fiery mind,” which shows itself in its true characters in other

respects, though often with the alloy of lower passions to lead them

to a fatal end. Thus Byron and Espronceda, two kindred geniuses in our

days, have sunk prematurely into the grave, most unhappily, when new

fields of glory seemed to be opened before them to retrieve the past

errors of life, and make it in future as honourable as they had already

rendered it renowned.

The genius of Espronceda was kindred to Byron’s, of whom he has been

accused of having been an imitator. But this seems to me unquestionably

a mistake. During his residence in England he had certainly acquired

a good knowledge of the English language and literature, much to his

advantage; but he could scarcely have acquired such a knowledge of

either as to put him in the position of an imitator. The utmost that

can be alleged of him in this respect is, that the style of Byron’s

writing was so congenial to his own taste and talent, as to make him

imbibe it intuitively, and so obtain a more decided character for his

own than perhaps it would have otherwise attained.

It is certain that Spanish poetry never before presented such depth

of thought and feeling, and such fulness and vigour of expression, as

he gave to it; and it is apparent, in every page of his works, that

he had studied in a higher school and become imbued with a brighter

inspiration than he could have done on the Continent. But what ordinary

imitators would have considered the characteristics of Byron as models

to follow, he had the good sense entirely to discard. He has none of

the egotism and affectation which distinguish that school; and if he

indulged in some of its propensities, it is clear that they were the

natural results of the circumstances in which he was placed, and not

the wilful perversions of misdirected abilities. His poem to Harifa is

written with an earnestness of feeling that must be felt, even through

the haze of translation, giving tokens of its origin too distinct to

admit any supposition of its being a suggestion from any other source

than his own experience of life. Neither in this poem nor in any

other of his works is there any of those mysterious suggestions of

dark histories, or of those morbid denunciations of imaginary wrongs

which abound in the productions of the Byronian school. His complaints

are the evident effusions of a mind maddened at finding itself in a

state unworthy of its powers, and thus, instead of venting his rage

on others, he turned it against his own misdeeds, in giving way to

excesses that he scorned, and which he felt degraded him. But even in

his aspirations for higher thoughts, he had the same leaven of earth

to keep him from attaining them. He had not learned the lessons which

Jovellanos inculcated in the Epistle to Bermudez, to seek wisdom where

only it ought to be sought; as he might have done even from the heathen

poet, that the hidden things of God could not be found out, though he

were to traverse over all space in search of them.

Ἀλλ’ οὐ γὰρ ἆν τὰ θεία, κρύπτοντος Θεοῦ,

Μάθεις ἆν, οὐδ’ εἰ πάντ’ ἐπεξελθοις σκότων.

In somewhat of the same strain with these lines is the second canto of

his poem, the ‘Diablo Mundo,’ addressed to Theresa, which, however, has

no connexion with the rest of the poem to which it is attached. The

verses ‘To a Star,’ contain also poetical thoughts no less exquisite,

though perhaps not of so decided a character; and they are all valuable

at least in this, that instead of gilding over vices and follies,

they show the confession of one so highly gifted by nature, that the

indulgences of sensual gratifications are in reality only sources of

unhappiness.

Two other of his poems, ‘The Mendicant’ and ‘The Executioner,’ are

no less distinguishable for the power of thought and expression they

display; but they also unfortunately indicate such objectionable

tendencies, as to make us regret that his extraordinary talents had

not been directed to nobler subjects. Not so the two poems selected

for translation, ‘The Song of the Pirate,’ and that of the ‘Criminal

Condemned to Die,’ in addition to those previously mentioned. Of these,

the latter is one of such peculiarly energetic character, as to need

no comment. The other is one of the most favourite poems known in

Spain, and having been set to music, is therefore heard repeated more

frequently. It has been said to have been taken from the French, but

I believe erroneously. It bears strongly the impress of Espronceda’s

genius; and if the poem intended be either of those by Floran or Victor

Hugo, any one who will take the trouble of comparing them will observe

that they are essentially different, as each also is from the song of

Lord Byron’s ‘Corsair.’

At the first view of it, the ‘Diablo Mundo’ appears to be an imitation

of ‘Don Juan;’ but it would be as unjust to declare it so, as to say

the latter had been copied from the various Italian poems written in

the same style. Espronceda might have had the idea suggested by reading

Lord Byron’s poem, or Goëthe’s ‘Faust,’ or both, but he has carried it

much higher, and given the outlines of a nobler conception than either.

He begins by supposing that, absorbed in meditation, during the silence

of the night, he hears an extraordinary noise, which calls back his

feelings and arouses them. That confused noise, with sublime music and

solemn sound, are all the passions of the world, all the interests

found in life,--the affections and hatreds, love, glory, wealth, the

vices and the virtues; they are, in fine, the complaint of the whole

universe that comes like a revolving whirlwind, and displays before the

fancy a thousand allegorical monsters, traced with inimitable facility

and astonishing vigour.

The visions pass away, the noise goes gradually off, losing itself in

the distance, until it ceases, where begins the introduction of the

poem. The first canto is the exposition of the great drama proposed to

be developed.

A man bowed down with age and embittered by sorrowful and useless

experience, shuts in despair a book he was reading, and mournfully

convinced of the barrenness of learning, falls asleep. Death then

presents itself, and intones a hymn inviting him to the peace of the

grave. With pleasure he feels his benumbed limbs growing stiff with

cold, and is enjoying himself in the enervation of his spirit, when

Immortality suddenly rises up before him and sings another hymn in

opposition to that of Death, and like that also offering herself to the

man about to die.

The election is immediate; he chooses Immortality, and is re-endowed

with youth. The song of this deity, however, does not lead to the

immortality of the spirit, but of the material part of man, and it

is that he receives. The image of death is invested with melancholy

beauty; it is soft and gentle; that which is desired when, free from

prejudices, we feel the heart worn and the soul discontented. The

immortality that rises over the pale front of death, effaces it with

a magnificent lustre. “It is impossible,” says Ros de Olano, who has

written the prologue to this beautiful poem, “to approach, by any words

of ours whatever, to the luxuriousness of thought, of expression, and

of knowledge displayed in this sublime description, the most happy

perhaps yet presented in the Spanish language.” Grand, extended and

immense is the field which the poet has displayed to trace out a course

for his hero, and the variety of tones he employs are like the face of

the world, over which he has to range. As the character is developed,

the hero, with the body of a man and the soul of a child, is placed in

situations equally original and interesting, and the whole scheme is

one which gave full scope to the writer for an unlimited work, even if

he had been permitted to live to the utmost period of human existence.

Del Rio states, that Espronceda was in his public discourses an

ineffective speaker, and ascribes it to the physical weakness of his

frame; he describes him as having been distinguished for sarcasms,

and only at intervals powerful in declamation. “In conversation he

made an affectation of laughing at the restraints and virtues which

are necessary for the order of society, and yet in private life no

one was more remarkable for kindness and generosity. When the cholera

was raging in Madrid, he was one of the most active in disregarding

its attacks, and in attending to the wants of those near him who were

suffering from it.” “All who knew him loved him, and even to his

faults he knew how to give a certain impression of greatness.” Del

Rio proceeds to describe him as having been graceful in his bearing,

endowed with manly beauty, and his countenance marked with a melancholy

cast that rendered it more interesting. He concludes by observing,

that notwithstanding the years that have passed since his friends had

to lament his loss, a garland of everlastings never fails to be found

renewed over his grave.

In 1848 Baudry published another edition of Espronceda’s works, at

Paris, but, with the exception of the fifth and sixth cantos of the

‘Diablo Mundo,’ there is no additional poem given, though Del Rio

points out six other pieces published in different periodicals. This

omission is much to be regretted, as undoubtedly every line that

proceeded from his pen was worthy of being gathered together as a rare

treasure. It is to be hoped that some admirer of his genius may soon

collect those scattered relics, and give them in an edition worthy of

their character in Spanish literature. Another Life of him also would

be most desirable, as in the Paris edition there is only repeated

the account given by Ferrer del Rio, which, though ably written as a

sketch, is still on the same scale with a number of other writers in

the same work of far inferior merits, and utterly unworthy of so great

a genius as Espronceda. Spanish versification under his influence has

become “revolutionized.” He has extended the powers apparently even of

the language itself, and by the force of his style as well as by the

varied character of his poems, has certainly shown its capabilities

more decidedly than any poet who preceded him.

JOSÈ DE ESPRONCEDA.

TO SPAIN, AN ELEGY. LONDON, 1829.

How solitary is the nation now

That peopled countries vast a former day!

That all beneath her sovereignty to bow,

From East to West extended once her sway!

Tears now profuse to shed, unhappy one,

Queen of the world! ’tis thine; and from thy face,

Enchanting yet in sorrow, there is none

Its overwhelming traces to erase.

How fatally o’er thee has death pour’d forth

Darkness and mourning, horrible and great!

And the stern despot in his madden’d wrath

Exulted wildly o’er thy low estate.

Nothing or great or beautiful he spared,

My country! the young warrior by him fell,

The veteran fell, and vile his war-axe glared,

Pleased all its fury o’er thee to impel.

Ev’n the pure maiden fell beneath the rage

Of the unpitying despot, as the rose

Condemn’d the summer’s burning sun to engage

Her bloom and beauty withering soon must close.

Come, O! ye inhabiters of the earth,

And contemplate my misery! can there,

Tell me, be any found of mortal birth

Bearing the sorrows I am doom’d to bear?

I wretched, banish’d from my native land,

Behold, far from the country I adore,

Her former glories lost and high command,

And only left her sufferings to deplore.

Her children have been fatally betray’d

By treacherous brethren, and a tyrant’s power;

And these her lovely fertile plains have made

Fields o’er which lamentations only lower.

Her arms extended wide unhappy Spain,

Her sons imploring in her deep distress:

Her sons they were, but her command was vain,

Unheard the traitor madness to repress.

Whate’er could then avail thee, tower or wall,

My country! still amid thy woes adored?

Where were the heroes that could once appal

The fiercest foe? where thy unconquer’d sword?

Alas! now on thy children’s humbled brow

Deeply is shame engraved, and on their eyes,

Cast down and sorrowfully beating now,

The tears alone of grief and mourning rise.

Once was a time for Spain, when she possess’d

A hundred heroes in her hour of pride;

And trembling nations saw her manifest

Her power and beauty, dazzling by their side.

As lofty shows itself in Lebanon

The cedar, so her brow she raised on high;

And fell her voice the nations round upon,

As terrifies a girl the thunders nigh.

But as a stone now in the desert’s wild

Thou liest abandon’d, and an unknown way

Through strangers’ lands, uncertain where, exiled

The patriot’s doom’d unfortunate to stray.

Her ancient pomp and power are cover’d o’er

With sand and weeds contemptuous; and the foe,

That trembled at her puissance before,

Now mocks exulting and enjoys her woe.

Maidens! your flowing locks dishevell’d tear,

To give them to the wandering winds; and bring

Your harps in mournful company to share

With me the sorrowful laments I sing.

Thus banish’d from our homes afar away

Still let us weep our miseries. O! Spain,

Who shall have power thy torments to allay?

Who shall have power to dry thy tears again!

THE CONDEMNED TO DIE.

I.

His form upon the ground reclined,

With bitter anguish inward drawn,

Full of the coming day his mind,

That soon will sadly dawn,

The culprit waits, in silence laid,

The fatal moments hastening now,

In which his last sun’s light display’d

Will shine upon his brow.

O’er crucifix and altar there,

The chapel cell in mourning hung,

From the dim candle’s yellow glare

A funeral light is flung;

And by the wretched culprit’s side,

His face with hood half cover’d o’er,

The friar, with trembling voice to guide,

Is heard his prayers implore.

His brow then raises he again,

And slowly lifts to heaven his eyes;

Perhaps a prayer for mercy fain

May in his grief arise.

A tear flows: whence had that release?

Was it from bitterness or fear?

Perhaps his sorrows to increase

Some thought to memory dear?

So young! and life, that he had dream’d

Was full of golden days to glide,

Is pass’d, when childhood’s tears it seem’d

As scarcely yet were dried.

Then on him of his childhood burst

The thought, and of his mother’s woe,

That he whom she so fondly nursed

Was doom’d that death to know.

And while that hopelessly he sees

His course already death arrest,

He feels his life’s best energies

Beat strongly in his breast;

And sees that friar, who calmly now

Is laid, with sleep no more to strive,

With age so feebly doom’d to bow,

Tomorrow will survive.

But hark! what noise the silence breaks

This hour unseasonably by?

Some one a gay guitar awakes

And mirthful songs reply;

And shouts are raised, and sounds are heard

Of bottles rattling, and perchance

Others, remember’d well, concurr’d

Of lovers in the dance.

And then he hears funereal roll,

Between each pause in accents high,

“Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul

Of him condemn’d to die.”

And so combined the drunkard’s shout,

The toast, the strifes, and fancies wild

Of all that Bacchanalian rout,

With wanton’s songs defiled,

And bursts of idle laughter, reach

Distinct into the gloomy cell,

And seem far off ejected each

The very sounds of hell.

And then he hears, funereal roll

Between each pause, those accents high,

“Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul

Of him condemn’d to die.”

He cursed them all, as one by one

The impious echos each express’d;

He cursed the mother as a son

Who nursed him at her breast:

The whole world round alike he cursed,

His evil destiny forlorn,

And the dark day and hour when first

That wretched he was born.

II.

The moon serene illumes the skies,

And earth in deepest stillness lies;

No sound is heard, the watchdog’s mute,

And ev’n the lover’s plaintive lute.

Madrid enveloped lies in sleep;

Repose o’er all its shade has cast,

And men of him no memory keep

Who soon will breathe his last.

Or if perchance one thinks to wake

At early dawn, no thoughts whate’er

Rise for the wretched being’s sake,

Who death is waiting there.

Unmoved by pity’s kind control,

Men hear around the funeral cry,

“Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul

Of him condemn’d to die.”

Sleeps in his bed the judge in peace;

And sleeps and dreams of how his store,

The executioner, to increase;

And pleased he counts it o’er.

Only the city’s silence breaks,

And destined place of death portrays,

The harden’d workman who awakes

The scaffolding to raise.

III.

Confused and mad his heated mind,

With raving feverish dreams combined,

The culprit’s soul exhaustion press’d,

His head sunk heavy on his breast.

And in his dreams he life and death

Confounds, remembers, and forgets;

And fearful struggling every breath,

And sigh he gives besets.

And in a world of darkness seems

As now to stray; feels fear and cold,

And in his horrid madness deems

The cord his neck infold:

And so much more, in desperate fight,

In anguish to escape his lot,

He strives, with so much more the might

He binds the fatal knot:

And voices hears, confused the whole,

Of people round, and then that cry,

“Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul

Of him condemn’d to die!”

Or fancies now that he is free;

And breathes the fresh pure air, and hears

Her sigh of love, the maid whom he

Had loved in happier years:

Beauteous and kind as e’er of old,

Sweet flower of spring-time’s gay resort,

As could for love the meads behold,

Or gallant April court.

And joyful he to see her flies,

And seeks to reach her, but in vain;

For as with anxious hands he tries

His hoped-for bliss to gain,

The illusion suddenly to break,

He finds the dream deceitful fled!

A cold stiff corpse the shape to take,

And scaffold in its stead.

And hears the mournful funeral knoll,

And hollow voice resounding nigh,

“Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul

Of him condemn’d to die!”

THE SONG OF THE PIRATE.

The breeze fair aft, all sails on high,

Ten guns on each side mounted seen,

She does not cut the sea, but fly,

A swiftly sailing brigantine;

A pirate bark, the ‘Dreaded’ named,

For her surpassing boldness famed,

On every sea well known and shore,

From side to side their boundaries o’er.

The moon in streaks the waves illumes;

Hoarse groans the wind the rigging through;

In gentle motion raised assumes

The sea a silvery shade with blue;

While singing gaily on the poop,

The pirate Captain, in a group,

Sees Europe here, there Asia lies,

And Stamboul in the front arise.

Sail on, my swift one! nothing fear;

Nor calm, nor storm, nor foeman’s force

Shall make thee yield in thy career,

Or turn thee from thy course.

Despite the English cruisers fleet

We have full twenty prizes made;

And see their flags beneath my feet

A hundred nations laid.

My treasure is my gallant bark,

My only god is liberty;

My law is might, the wind my mark,

My country is the sea.

There blindly kings fierce wars maintain,

For palms of land, when here I hold

As mine, whose power no laws restrain,

Whate’er the seas infold.

Nor is there shore around whate’er,

Or banner proud, but of my might

Is taught the valorous proofs to bear,

And made to feel my right.

My treasure is my gallant bark,

My only god is liberty;

My law is might, the wind my mark,

My country is the sea.

Look when a ship our signals ring,

Full sail to fly how quick she’s veer’d!

For of the sea I am the king,

My fury’s to be fear’d;

But equally with all I share

Whate’er the wealth we take supplies;

I only seek the matchless fair

My portion of the prize.

My treasure is my gallant bark,

My only god is liberty;

My law is might, the wind my mark,

My country is the sea.

I am condemn’d to die! I laugh;

For, if my fates are kindly sped,

My doomer from his own ship’s staff

Perhaps I’ll hang instead.

And if I fall, why what is life?

For lost I gave it then as due,

When from slavery’s yoke in strife

A rover I withdrew.

My treasure is my gallant bark,

My only god is liberty;

My law is might, the wind my mark,

My country is the sea.

My music is the north wind’s roar,

The noise when round the cable runs,

The bellowings of the Black Sea’s shore,

And rolling of my guns.

And as the thunders loudly sound,

And furious as the tempests rave,

I calmly rest in sleep profound,

So rock’d upon the wave.

My treasure is my gallant bark,

My only god is liberty;

My law is might, the wind my mark,

My country is the sea.

TO HARIFA, IN AN ORGY.

Thy hand, Harifa! bring it me;

Come near, and place it on my brow;

As on some lava’s boiling sea

I feel my head is burning now.

Come, bring with mine thy lips to meet,

Though they but madden me astray,

Where yet I find the kisses beat,

There left thy loves of yesterday.

What is virtue, what is joy,

Or love, or purity, or truth?

The false illusions of a boy,

The cherish’d flatteries of my youth.

Then bring me wine; there let me try

Remembrance drown’d to hold repress’d,

Without a pang from life to fly;

In frenzy death may give me rest.

O’erspreads my face a burning flood,

And red and glaring wildly start

My eyes forth out in heated blood,

And forth leaps restlessly my heart.

Woman! I hate thee; fly thee--go:

I feel thy hands my hands infold,

And feel them freezing, cold as snow,

As snow thy kisses are as cold.

Ever the same, try, tempters weak!

Other endearments to enthral;

Another world, new pleasures seek,

For such your joys I curse them all.

Your kisses are a lie; a cheat

Is all the tenderness you feign;

Your beauty ugly in deceit,

The enjoyment suffering and pain.

I wish for love, ethereal, high,

For some diviner joy my lot;

For such my heart will imaged sigh,

For such as in the world is not.

And ’tis that meteor light afar,

The phantom that deceived my mind,

The treacherous guide, the vapour star,

That leads me wandering and blind.

* * * * *

Why is my soul for pleasure dead,

And yet alive to grief and care?

Why doom’d in listless stupor laid

This arid loathing still to bear?

Why this consuming wild desire,

This restless passion vague and strange?

That well I know I rave, ’tis fire,

Yet plunge in its deceitful range.

Why do I dream of love and joy,

That I am sure a lie will prove?

Why where fantastic charms decoy,

Will thus my heart delirious move,

If soon it finds for meads and flowers,

But arid wastes and tangled thorns,

And soon a loathing rage o’erpowers

The mad or mournful love it scorns?

Flung as a rapid comet wide,

On ardent fancy’s wings I flew,

Where’er my wayward mind espied

Or joys or triumphs to pursue.

I launch’d myself, in daring flight,

Beyond the world through heavenward space,

And found but doubt, and all so bright

That seem’d, illusive proved the chase.

Then on the earth I anxious sought

For virtue, glory, love sublime;

And my worn spirit found there nought

But fetid dust and loathsome slime.

Mid clouds with heavenly hues o’ercast

Women of virgin lustre shone;

I saw, I touched them, and they pass’d,

And smoke and ashes left alone.

I found the illusion fled; but rife,

Unquench’d desires their longings crave;

I felt the real, I hated life,

And peace believed but in the grave.

And yet I seek, and anxious seek,

For pleasures still I ask and sigh,

And hear dread accents answering speak,

“Unhappy one! despair, and die.

“Die: Life is torment, joy a cheat,

Hope not for good on earth for thee,

But fruitless struggles look to meet

In thy vain longings endlessly!

For so God punishes the soul

That in its madness dares espy

The unfathom’d secrets of the scroll

Of truth, denied to mortal eye!”

* * * * *

O! cease: no more I ask to know,

No more to see: my soul oppress’d

Is humbly bow’d, and prostrate low,

Now only asks, and longs for rest.

In me let feeling then lie dead,

Since died my hopes of happiness,

Nor joys nor griefs be o’er me spread

My soul returning to depress.

Pass, as in magic optic glass,

And other youthful hearts deceive,

Bright images of glory! pass,

That crowns of gold and laurel weave.

Pass, ye voluptuous fair ones, on!

With dance and mirthful songs attuned,

Like vaporous visions, pass, begone!

No more my heart to move or wound.

And let the dance, and festal din,

O’er my revolted fancy reign,

And fled the night, see morn begin,

Surprised in senseless stupor’s chain.

Harifa, come! Like me this woe

Thou too hast borne! Thou ne’er dost weep!

But, ah! how wretched ’tis to know

Feelings so bitter and so deep!

The same our sufferings and care;

In vain thou hold’st thy tears apart;

Like me thou also hast to bear

A wounded and an aching heart!

XII.

JOSÈ ZORRILLA.

It has been said that “the life of a poet is ever a romance.” Perhaps

this observation may apply equally well to the history of every man

of ardent genius who enters with characteristic enthusiasm into the

affairs of life, so as to invest even ordinary circumstances with

the glow and hue of his own excited imagination. But this is more

especially the case with poets who make us participate in their

feelings, their joys or their sorrows, so as to give a character of

romance to incidents that with other persons would have passed away as

unnoticed. In the course of the preceding narratives, no doubt, many

instances may be remembered to verify this remark, and the life of

the eminent and deservedly popular poet with which we have to close

the series, even in his yet youthful career, may be found to afford a

further exemplification of it.

On the 14th February, 1837, a funeral car, over which was placed a

crown of laurel, had to traverse the streets of Madrid, bearing to

their resting-place in the cemetery, the remains of the talented but

wrong-minded Larra. The car was followed by an immense concourse of

mourners, principally young men of the first classes of Madrid, who

were so testifying their regret for the loss they had sustained. The

whole scene presented a spectacle of homage paid to genius, such as

had seldom been witnessed. It was such as power might have envied, and

as worth scarcely ever attained. Melancholy as had been the end of

the unhappy being they mourned, envy and hatred had become silenced,

morality and charity joined in regret, and no one disputed the

propriety of the funeral honours paid to the dead.

It was already late when the ceremonies were concluded, and the

darkening shadows of the night, in such a place and on such an

occasion, gave the countenances of all assembled an extraordinary

character. The shock they had felt, to lose so suddenly from among them

one so well-known to them all, in the fulness of youth and intellect,

in the height of fame and popularity, without any apparent motive and

enveloped in mystery, was of itself sufficient to penetrate their minds

with sorrow. They felt that a bright light had been extinguished,

and they feared there was no hope of another arising to shine in its

place. A strange spell seemed to have come over the bystanders, and

they lingered round the vault with an unaccountable disinclination to

separate.

The eloquent Señor Roca de Togares, distinguished both as an orator and

a poet, pronounced a discourse he had hastily prepared, in which he

portrayed the general sensation of sorrow, as he eulogized the talents

and the principal literary successes of the deceased. But his eloquence

had only the effect of exciting still further the prevalent feeling,

which was that of something still more appropriate being required to

give expression to their grief, and they instinctively looked round

for some one to give utterance to it in the language of mournful

inspiration with which to take their final farewell.

At that moment, in the midst of, it may be supposed, almost painful

silence, a young man, unknown to them, of a slight figure and boyish

appearance, stood forward, and with a tremulous voice began reading

some verses in unison with their feelings, which at the first accents

seemed to seize irresistibly on the minds of the listeners. He was

himself so much affected by the scene, and perhaps under the sense

of his own temerity, that he could not finish his task, and Roca de

Togares took the paper out of his hands and read the verses again

audibly. Had they been possessed of only ordinary merit, they would

no doubt, on such an occasion, have been favourably received; but

expressed as they were in highly poetical language, with appropriate

sentiments, the effect was to excite the utmost astonishment and

admiration. The author’s name, Josè Zorrilla, was eagerly called

for and repeated on all sides with loud applauses, and they who had

followed sorrowfully shortly before the remains of the man of genius

they had lost, now returned to the city attending in triumph another

poet they had found, with all the tokens of enthusiastic rejoicing. The

young poet, on his part, had found an audience ready to welcome him,

and he was at once launched forth into that “tide in the affairs of men

which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.”