and the public learned that he was the son of Don Josè Zorrilla, a
person well known as an eminent lawyer who had held several judicial
offices with credit in Spain. It was while holding one of those
offices, in Valladolid, that his son, the subject of this narrative,
was born there, the 21st of February, 1817. From Valladolid, the father
having been promoted to other duties in Burgos, Seville, and finally
at Madrid, the son followed him, and received his primary education in
the various cities they inhabited, under circumstances which must have
operated powerfully on his mind. On arriving at Madrid he was placed at
the Seminary of Nobles, where he remained six years, thus giving that
celebrated institution the just merit of claiming him, as well as so
many others of the ablest writers and public men of Spain, among those
they had educated. There he seems to have gone through his course of
studies without apparently other distinction than an early inclination
to write verses and attend the theatres, which predilection his tutors
disapproved, but in consideration of his father’s position passed over
more leniently than they otherwise would have done. This indulgence,
however, there is no doubt gave that decided turn to his mind which led
to his subsequent career.
On leaving the Seminary, Zorrilla had to go to his father at his estate
in the province of Castille, where he now lived in retirement, having
lost the favour of the government. There soon a discordance rose
between them as to his future course in life. The father wished him to
graduate in the profession of the law, in which he had acquired wealth
and fame, and sent him, notwithstanding his repugnance, to Toledo, to
study in the university of that city. He passed accordingly a year
there, but with only sufficient application to go through the ordinary
routine respectably. Other studies, more congenial to his taste,
engaged all his thoughts. Toledo is a city rich in historical and
poetical remembrances and legends. Its monuments and ruins are among
the most interesting that exist in Spain, and in the contemplation of
these Zorrilla was constantly absorbed. To Toledo he owed his poetical
education, as to it he has dedicated some of his sweetest poetry. He
shunned the society of his fellow-students, and seemed to pass an
eccentric and even mysterious life. Out no one knew where, at strange
hours, disregarding the university rules and dress and etiquette,
allowing his hair to grow long over his shoulders, and composing
songs, not to the taste of his tutors, he was considered half-mad, and
his father was informed of his strange conduct as not amenable to study
and discipline. On going home for the vacation, his father therefore
received him with coldness and displeasure, and made him read law with
him, notwithstanding his continued disinclination to it, though in
secret he made amends for the restraint by indulging in reading more
agreeable to himself. It is recorded more especially that he then
studied the Sacred Scriptures, in whose pages he found the truest
inspiration of poetry, as he certainly seems in his writings generally
to have imbibed the purest principles of morality and religion.
In the hope of his entering on a more diligent course of study at
another place than Toledo, Zorrilla was then sent to Valladolid, as if
by changing universities he could be expected to change the tendency
of mind which urged him to his destiny. There he was watched on all
sides by his father’s directions, and it was reported to him that his
son still continued his former course of conduct; that instead of
passing his hours in study, he was ever out on lonely walks, lying
under the shade of trees by the side of the river or the broken rock,
absorbed in his own meditations. There is a hint also given, of even
the discovery that he had found some dream of youthful love to indulge
in, as if it were something extraordinary for one of his age and
enthusiastic character. The father must have been one of the class
that Chateaubriand suffered under, or Mirabeau; and happy it was for
Zorrilla that he did not sink into the recklessness of the one or
the inanities of the other, while he had also to submit to similar
discouragements. As it was, the father came to the conclusion that
no hope was to be entertained of his son’s application to study, to
take that position in the world which he had planned out for him,
and in which were centred all his own ideas of honourable activity.
He therefore resolved to take him from Valladolid, and sent a trusty
messenger to bring him home.
On the way the messenger gave Zorrilla to understand that his father
had resolved to employ him on his estate, to dress the vines and
perform other labours of country occupation. It seems the father
had even talked about fitting him out in a labourer’s working garb,
as not being calculated for nobler employment, while he himself was
unconscious or careless of the wonderful power of mind which lay hid
from his observation in the son’s apparent inability to fulfil his
expectations. On this intimation, however, Zorrilla at once formed his
determination. Shortly before reaching home, he stayed at the house
of a relative, where he collected together the few valuable things he
could carry away, and appropriating to his necessity a horse belonging
to his cousin, he hastened back to Valladolid. There he was fortunate
enough to arrive and sell the horse before the messenger sent after
him again could arrest him on his flight. He then transferred himself
without loss of time to Madrid, where for a length of time he succeeded
in escaping the vigilant search made for him by his friends, who not
having seen him since he was a boy, were not able now to penetrate his
disguise.
At Madrid under these circumstances, a fugitive from his father’s
house, he had now passed almost a year, when he came forth before the
public, as we have narrated, on the occasion of Larra’s funeral. How
he had passed those months we are not informed further, than that
he had to submit to every kind of annoyances and privations, which
he surmounted by the firmness of his determination and the elevated
character of his hopes. He had in the interval sent several pieces of
poetry to the different periodicals, by which his name had already
become sufficiently known to a number of those who hailed him on the
14th February as supplying the place of the popular writer they had
lost.
On the following day, Zorrilla could say, like Lord Byron, that he
awoke and found himself famous. The verses on Larra were in every
one’s mouth, and all others that could be obtained of his writing
were eagerly collected. Editors and proprietors of periodicals were
anxious to obtain his cooperation for their works, and his period
of difficulties had passed away. Before the year closed, the first
volume of his poems appeared with an introduction by Pastor Diaz, and
that was so eagerly bought that he was induced to bring out others in
succession, with a prolificness unknown almost even in Spain. Seven
other closely printed volumes of his poems were published, including
several plays, within about three years afterwards, and eight or nine
other volumes have appeared since. His works have been reprinted in
Paris and in various parts of Spanish America, and received everywhere
with unbounded admiration, so as at once to prove him one of the most
favourite poets that Spain has produced.
While he was thus rising to fame and competence, his father, on the
other hand, had fallen into misfortune. A high prerogative lawyer,
he had maintained the doctrines of absolutism, and at length openly
espoused the cause of Don Carlos. On the failure of this prince’s
attempts to gain the throne, the elder Zorrilla, with other adherents,
was proscribed and had his property confiscated. His son had not heard
from him after this event for some years, when he received a letter
from his father from Bayonne, stating that he was in difficulties,
and requesting him to apply to a former friend, whom he named, for
a loan for his assistance. Zorrilla wrote back to say that there
was no occasion to incur an obligation from one not related to him,
and that he himself was happy to have it in his power to send him
the sum required, which he would repeat at stated intervals. This
he accordingly did, until he received his father’s directions to
discontinue it, as not requiring it any more.
Another instance of Zorrilla’s high-mindedness and true Castilian pride
has been recorded. On his father’s property having been sequestrated
by the government, it was intimated to him that if he applied he might
have the administration of it, which was tantamount to giving him
possession of it. But he replied that he would neither apply for it
nor accept it, for while his father lived, he could acknowledge no one
else as entitled to it. His father having since died, Zorrilla has
come by law into possession of his estates, and has thus had the rare
fortune, for a poet, to be possessed of considerable wealth. He has had
several offers of appointments from the government, but he has declined
them, contented to live according to his own fancies and occupied with
his own peculiar pursuits. His extraordinary facility for composing
verses is such as scarcely to allow his compositions to be termed
studies; but with them and his attendances at the theatre, and other
recreations, or at literary reunions, he is said to pass away his hours
in ease and contentment. The first volume of his poems, it has been
already intimated, was published before he was twenty-one years of age.
Within three years afterwards seven others were published; and in the
eighth, to the poem of ‘The Duke and the Sculptor,’ was appended the
following note to his wife:--“Dedicated to the Señora Matilda O’Reilly
de Zorrilla. I began the publication of my poems with our acquaintance,
and I conclude them with thy name. Madrid, 10 October, 1840.”
What were the circumstances attending this acquaintance or union,
we are not informed; but it is fortunate for the world that the
intimation it might convey of its being the conclusion of his literary
works has not been fulfilled. Since then he has published ‘Songs of
the Troubadour,’ in three volumes, and other minor poems and plays
separately. A larger work he meditated on the conquest of Granada, to
be entitled ‘The Cross and the Crescent,’ has not been completed; and
another he projected with the title ‘Maria,’ intending to celebrate the
different characters under which the Holy Virgin is venerated in Roman
Catholic countries, he has published, with the greater part supplied by
a friend, all very inferior to what might have been expected from him.
It is much to be regretted that Zorrilla has in all his works allowed
carelessnesses to prevail, which too often mar the effect of his
verses, and still more that he has often inserted some that were of
very inferior merit compared with the rest. It is not to be supposed
that an author can be equally sustained in all his productions, but it
is somewhat extraordinary in his volumes to find some poems of such
transcendent merit, and others so inferior. These, however, are very
few, and probably were hastily composed and hastily published, to
supply the demand arising for the day. He is probably the only author
in Spain who has profited by the sale of his writings to any extent,
and to do this he must have been often under the necessity of tasking
his mind severely, without regard to its spontaneous suggestions. Thus
then, when he found his inspiration failing, he has often had recourse
to memory, and repeated from himself, and even from others, verses
previously published. It is to be hoped that he may be induced soon to
give the world a revised edition of his works, in which the oversights
may be corrected, and the poems unworthy of his fame may be omitted.
On reading over dispassionately the ‘Lines to Larra,’ by which he
was first brought so prominently into notice, it may occasion some
surprise to learn they had produced so remarkable an effect. If they
had previously been read over alone to any one of the auditors, he
probably might not have considered them so ideal, so beautiful, or so
original as they seemed at the public recital. Some phrase might have
appeared incomprehensible, some sentiment exaggerated or not true; some
expression or line, hard or weak or forced. He might have observed a
want of order or connection in the ideas, or the whole to be vague
and leaving no fixed thought in the mind; or he might have pronounced
them, as they have been since pronounced, an imitation of Victor Hugo
or Lamartine. But to the auditors assembled, in the excited state of
their feelings, there was no time for reflection or criticism. It was
a composition of the hour for that particular scene,--for themselves,
in language and feelings with which they could sympathize. Thus the
verses seized on their minds and electrified them, so that they had no
time to dwell on any discussion or dispute of their merits, but yielded
at once to the fascination of the melodious verse they heard, and the
appropriate application of the homage they testified.
In the first volume of poems that Zorrilla published, containing his
earliest productions, are to be found all the selections made for
translation in this work. They may not be so highly finished as some
afterwards published, nor so marked by that distinctive character he
has made his own; but they show the first promises of the fruit that
was in store, to be afterwards brought to such maturity. As he had
scarcely emerged from boyhood when he began to tread the path to fame,
his first steps could scarcely fail to betray that sort of uncertainty
which attends on all who are going on an unknown road. Thus then
through the volume he appears to be seeking a ground whereon to fix
his energies and build the temple for his future fame, without being
able confidently to fix on any place in preference. His poetry from the
first, always sonorous and easy, often evidently spontaneous and true
to nature, at times is weak and deficient in the depth of thought that
at other times distinguishes it, especially in the compositions of a
philosophic cast, which require fuller age and reflection to give them
with perfectness. Subject to these remarks, independently of the poems
hereafter given in the translations, there are others, ‘To Toledo,’
‘The Statue of Cervantes,’ ‘The Winter Night,’ more clearly portraying
the peculiar character of his poetry as afterwards developed.
In the second volume published about six months afterwards, he seems
already to have taken his ground and to proceed with a more decided
step. The poem, ‘The Day without Sun,’ is full of poetic vigour and
richness of description, and several tales of greater length and
legendary character show the bent of his mind and the direction it
was in future to take. In the third volume it was reserved for his
genius to be fully developed. It opens with a magnificent composition,
‘To Rome,’ in which deep philosophy and reflection are combined with
exquisite description, all so clear and distinct as fully to captivate
the mind and leave an impression of complete satisfaction. But beyond
this it contains the poem ‘To the last Moorish King of Granada,
Boabdil the Little,’ which is generally considered his best. He was
already recognized as an admirable descriptive poet, but he now proved
his power of moving the inmost feelings to be as great as his power
of imagination. It is undoubtedly a splendid composition and highly
finished, so as to be well worthy of study for the Spanish reader,
though too long for translation for this work. The same volume contains
another poem, also worthy of mention, ‘To a Skull,’ as written with
much force and effect, but in the style of the French imitators of
Byron, whom Zorrilla has too much copied, though it must be stated
without their affectation and exaggerations.
In the following volumes he continues the course now so markedly his
own as a national poet. He avowedly chooses, as becoming him in that
character, subjects taken from the traditions and legends current in
Spain, and clothing them in glowing language reproduces them to his
delighted readers as the dreams and remembrances of their youth. He
is especially partial to the tales connected with the Moorish wars,
and in so doing, with great poetic effect, always represents the Moors
in the most favourable light. Thus he throughout makes them worthy
rivals of the Christians, and thereby renders greater the merit of the
conquerors. The richness of his diction is truly extraordinary, often
so as to make us lose sight of the paucity of ideas contained in his
poems, and that those again are too much the same repeated constantly
over.
If it was a wonderful and admirable triumph for one so young to achieve
by one bound the unqualified commendations of his countrymen, and to
sustain the success then acquired by subsequent efforts, we have still
to regret that there were evils attending that precocity to prevent his
attaining apparently the highest excellence. Perhaps there is no one
we can point out as so truly exemplifying the maxim “poeta nascitur.”
He was truly born a poet; and though he often writes showing that he
had been reading Calderon or some other of the elder writers of Spain,
or even some of the French poets, yet he always gives the colouring
of his own mind to those imitations so as to make them his own. This
often again leads him to a mannerism and repetition of himself; but
notwithstanding these faults or occasional errors of carelessness, his
compositions always remain uniformly and irresistibly captivating.
Besides his poems, Zorrilla has published upwards of twenty dramatic
pieces, some of which have been repeatedly produced on the stage
with the fullest success. They are all remarkable for the richness of
versification and high tone of poetry which distinguish his lyrical
compositions, and, like them, all tend to honour and promote the
chivalrous spirit for which the Spanish nation has ever been renowned.
The modern poetry of Spain shows that her nationality is still as
distinct, her genius as elevated, and her sense of honour as pure, as
in any former period of her history. It shows itself in unison with the
spirit that has always animated the people in their public conduct, in
their loyalty and devotion, the same now as a thousand years since,
making every hill a fortress and every plain a battle-field, to dispute
the ground at every foot with the enemy till they were driven from
their soil. The poets of Spain have still, as ever, the most stirring
tasks before them, to commemorate the glories of their romantic
country, and they are worthy of their task.
JOSÈ ZORRILLA.
THE CHRISTIAN LADY AND THE MOOR.
Hastening to Granada’s gates,
Came o’er the Vega’s land,
Some forty Gomel horsemen,
And the Captain of the band.
He, entering in the city,
Check’d his white steed’s career;
And to a lady on his arm,
Borne weeping many a tear,
Said, “Cease your tears, fair Christian,
That grief afflicting me,
I have a second Eden,
Sultana, here for thee.
“A palace in Granada,
With gardens and with flowers,
And a gilded fountain playing
More than a hundred showers.
“And in the Henil’s valley
I have a fortress gray,
To be among a thousand queen
Beneath thy beauty’s sway.
“For over all yon winding shore
Extends my wide domain,
Nor Cordova’s, nor Seville’s lands,
A park like mine contain.
“There towers the lofty palm-tree,
The pomegranate’s glowing there,
And the leafy fig-tree, spreading
O’er hill and valley fair.
“There grows the hardy walnut,
The yellow nopal tall,
And mulberry darkly shading
Beneath the castle wall;
“And elms I have in my arcades
That to the skies aspire,
And singing birds in cages
Of silk, and silver wire.
“And thou shalt my Sultana be,
My halls alone to cheer;
My harem without other fair,
Without sweet songs my ear.
“And velvets I will give thee,
And eastern rich perfumes,
From Greece I’ll bring thee choicest veils,
And shawls from Cashmere’s looms:
“And I will give thee feathers white,
To deck thy beauteous brow,
Whiter than ev’n the ocean foam
Our eastern waters know.
“And pearls to twine amid thy hair,
Cool baths when heat’s above,
And gold and jewels for thy neck,
And for thy lips be--love!”
“O! what avail those riches all,”
Replied the Christian fair,
“If from my father and my friends,
My ladies, me you tear?
“Restore me, O! restore me, Moor,
To my father’s land, my own;
To me more dear are Leon’s towers
Than thy Granada’s throne.”
Smoothing his beard, awhile the Moor
In silence heard her speak;
Then said as one who deeply thinks,
With a tear upon his cheek,
“If better seem thy castles there
Than here our gardens shine,
And thy flowers are more beautiful,
Because in Leon thine;
“And thou hast given thy youthful love
One of thy warriors there,
Houri of Eden! weep no more,
But to thy knights repair!”
Then giving her his chosen steed,
And half his lordly train,
The Moorish chieftain turn’d him back
In silence home again.
ROMANCE. THE WAKING.
No sound is in the midnight air,
No colour in its shade,
The old are resting free from care,
Duenna’s voice is stay’d;
But when all else in slumber meet,
We two are waking nigh,
She on the grated window’s seat,
And at its foot am I.
I cannot see her beaming eyes,
Nor her clear brow above,
Nor her face with its rosy dyes,
Nor yet her smile of love:
I cannot see the virgin flush
That heightens her cheek’s glow,
The enchantments of that maiden blush,
She is but fifteen now.
Nor can my searching eyes behold
Her form scarce wrapp’d about;
Nor from the flowing garment’s fold
Her white foot peeping out;
As on some gentle river’s spring,
To glide the foam between,
Spread forth her snowy floatsome wing,
The stately swan is seen.
Nor can I see her white neck shine,
Or shoulders as they part;
Nor from her face can I divine
Her restlessness of heart;
While like a guard, too watchful o’er,
The grated bars I find;
Audacious love is there before,
Poor virtue is behind.
But in despite of that thick grate,
And shades that round us twine,
I have, my dove, to compensate,
My soul embathed in thine:
My lips of fire I hold impress’d
On thine of roses free;
And well I feel there’s in that breast
A heart that beats for me.
But see along the East arise
The unwelcome god of day,
Enveloped in the humid skies,
The darkness drive away.
And when a maid has watch’d the night,
With gallant by her side,
The bright red dawn has too much light
Its coming to abide!
* * * * *
The smiling morn is shedding round
Its harmony and hues,
And fragrant odours o’er the ground
The breezes soft diffuse:
Robbing the rose, the lily fair,
And cherish’d pinks they fly,
And leave upon the laurels there
A murmur moaning by.
Murmurs the fountain’s freshening spring,
Beneath its crystal veil,
And the angelic turtles sing
Their tender mournful tale;
The love-sick dove the morning light
Drinks with enraptured throat,
Mixing the balmy air so bright
With her unequal note.
Paces the while the noble youth
The garden’s paths along,
And lowly sings, his soul to soothe,
His love-inspiring song;
“O! soundless midnight hour, again
Come with thy kindly shade,
When rest thy old from cares, and when
Duenna’s voice is stay’d;
For then, while they in slumber meet,
We two are waking nigh,
She on the grated window’s seat,
And at its foot am I.”
ORIENTAL ROMANCE,--BOABDIL.
Lady of the dark head-dress,
And monkish vest of purple hue,
Gladly would Boabdil give
Granada for a kiss of you.
He would give the best adventure
Of the bravest horseman tried,
And with all its verdant freshness
A whole bank of Darro’s tide.
He would give rich carpets, perfumes,
Armours of rare price and force,
And so much he values you,
A troop, ay, of his favourite horse.
“Because thine eyes are beautiful,
Because the morning’s blushing light
From them arises to the East,
And gilds the whole world bright.
“From thy lips smiles are flowing,
From thy tongue gentle peace,
Light and aërial as the course
Of the purple morning’s breeze.
“O! lovely Nazarene, how choice!
For an Eastern harem’s pride,
Those dark locks waving freely
Thy crystal neck beside.
“Upon a couch of velvet,
I n a cloud of perfumed air,
Wrapp’d in the white and flowing veil
Of Mahomet’s daughters fair.
“O, Lady! come to Cordova,
There Sultana thou shalt be,
And the Sultan there, Sultana,
Shall be but a slave for thee.
“Such riches he will give thee,
And such robes of Tunisine,
That thou wilt judge thy beauty,
To repay him for them, mean.”
* * * * *
O! Lady of the dark head-dress!
That him a kiss of thee might bless,
Resign a realm Boabdil would!
But I for that, fair Christian, fain
Would give of heavens, and think it gain,
A thousand if I only could.
THE CAPTIVE.
I go, fair Nazarene, tomorrow
To queenly Cordova again;
Then thou, my song of love and sorrow
To hear, no longer mayst complain,
Sung to the compass of my chain.
When home the Christians shall return,
In triumph o’er the Moorish foe,
My cruel destiny wouldst thou learn?
The history of my loves to know,
The blood upon their hands shall show.
Better it were at once to close,
In this dark tower a captive here,
The life I suffer now of woes,
Than that today thou sett’st me clear;
Alas! thou sell’st it very dear.
Adieu! tomorrow o’er, thy slave
May never vex thy soul again,
But vain is all the hope it gave:
Still must I bear the captive’s chain,
Thine eyes my prison still remain.
Fair Christian! baleful is my star;
What values it this life to me,
If I must bear it from thee far?
Nor in Granada’s bowers may be,
Nor, my fair Cordova, with thee?
Today’s bright sun to me will seem
A lamp unseasonably by:
Daughter of Spain, thy beauties gleam
Alone my sun and moon on high,
The dawn and brightness of my sky.
Since then I lose thy light today,
Without that light I cannot live!
To Cordova I take my way;
But in the doom my fortunes give,
Alas! ’tis death that I receive.
A paradise and houri fair
Has Mahomet promised we shall prove:
Aye, thou wilt be an angel there,
And in that blissful realm above
We meet again, and there to love.
THE TOWER OF MUNION.
Dark-shadow’d giant! shame of proud Castille,
Castle without bridge, battlements or towers,
In whose wide halls now loathsome reptiles steal,
Where nobles once and warriors held their bowers!
Tell me, where are they? where thy tapestries gay,
Thy hundred troubadours of lofty song?
Thy mouldering ruins in the vale decay,
Thou humbled warrior! time has quell’d the strong:
Thy name and history to oblivion thrown,
The world forgets that there thou standst, Munion.
To me thou art a spectre, shade of grief!
With black remembrances my soul’s o’ercast;
To me thou art a palm with wither’d leaf,
Burnt by the lightning, bow’d beneath the blast.
I, wandering bard, proscribed perchance my doom
In the bier’s dust nor name, nor glory know;
With useless toil my brow’s consumed in gloom;
Of her I loved, dark dwelling-place below,
Whom I was robb’d of, angel from above,
Cursed be thy name, thy soil, as was my love.
There rest, aye, in thy loftiness,
To shame the plain around,
Warderless castle, matron lone,
In whom no beauty’s found.
At thee time laughs, thy towers o’erthrown,
Scorn’d by thy vassals, by thy Lord
Deserted, rest, black skeleton!
Stain of the vale’s green sward.
Priestless hermitage of Castille,
On thee no banners wave;
Unblazon’d gate, thy pointed vaults
No more their weight can save:
Thou hast no soldier on thy heights,
No echo in thy halls,
And rank weeds festering grow uncheck’d
Beneath thy mouldering walls.
Chieftain dead in a foreign land,
Forgotten of thy race,
While storm-torn fragments from thy brow
Are scatter’d o’er thy place;
And men pass careless at thy feet,
Nor seek thy tale to find;
Because thy history is not read,
Thy name’s not in their mind.
But thou hast one, who in a luckless hour
Inscribed another’s name on thy worn stone:
’Twas I, and that my deep relentless shame
Remains with thee alone.
When my lips named that name, they play’d me false;
When my hands graved it, ’twas a like deceit;
Now it exists not; in time’s impious course
’Twas swept beneath his feet.
And that celestial name,
To time at length a prey,
A woman for my sin,
For a seraph snatch’d away;
The hurricane of life
Has left me, loved one, worse
For my eternal grief,
In pledge as of a curse,
Thy name ne’er from my thoughts to part,
Nor thy love ever from my heart.
THE WARNING.
Yesterday the morning’s light
Shone on thy window crystal bright,
And lightsome breezes floating there
Gave richest perfumes to the air,
Which the gay flowers had lent to them,
All scatter’d from the unequal stem.
The nightingale had bathed his wing
Beneath the neighbouring murmuring spring;
And birds, and flowers, and streamlets gay,
Seem’d to salute the new-born day;
And in requital of the light,
Their grateful harmony unite.
The sun was bright, the sky serene,
The garden fresh and pleasant seen;
Life was delight, and thou, sweet maid,
No blush of shame thy charms betray’d;
For innocence ruled o’er thy breast,
Alike thy waking and thy rest.
Maiden, or angel upon earth,
Thy laugh, and song of gentle mirth,
In heaven were surely heard; thine eyes
Were stars, and like sweet melodies
Thy wandering tones; thy breath perfume,
And dawn-like thy complexion’s bloom.
As phantoms then thou didst not find
The hours pass heavy on thy mind,
A poet, under Love’s decree,
Sang melancholy songs to thee;
And of his griefs the voice they lend
Thou didst not, maiden, comprehend.
Poor maiden, now what change has come
O’er that glad brow and youthful bloom?
Forgotten flower, thy leaves are sere,
Thy fruitless blossoms dried appear;
Thy powerless stem all broken, low,
May to the sun no colours show.
O! dark-eyed maid of ill-starr’d birth,
Why camest thou on this evil earth?
Rose amid tangled briars born,
What waits thee from the world but scorn?
A blasting breath around thee, see,
Thy bloom is gone, who’ll ask for thee?
Return, my angel, to thy sphere,
Before the world shall see thee here:
The joys of earth are cursed and brief,
Buy them not with eternal grief!
Heaven is alone, my soul, secure
The mansion for an angel pure.
MEDITATION.
Upon the obscure and lonely tomb,
Beneath the yellow evening’s gloom,
To offer up to Heaven I come,
For her I loved, my prayer!
Upon the marble bow’d my head,
Around my knees the moist herbs spread,
The wild flowers bend beneath my tread,
That deck the thicket there.
Far from the world, and pleasures vain,
From earth my frenzied thoughts to gain,
And read in characters yet plain
Names of the long since past;
There by the gilded lamp alone,
That waves above the altar stone,
As by the wandering breezes moan,
A light’s upon me cast.
Perchance some bird will pause its flight
Upon the funeral cypress height,
Warbling the absence of the light,
As sorrowing for its loss;
Or takes leave of the day’s bright power,
From the high window of the tower,
Or skims, where dark the cupolas lower,
On the gigantic cross.
With eyes immersed in tears, around
I watch it silent from the ground,
Until it startled flies the sound
The harsh bolts creaking gave;
A funeral smile salutes me dread,
The only dweller with the dead,
Lends me a hard and rough hand, led
To ope another grave.
* * * * *
Pardon, O God! the worldly thought,
Nor mark it midst my prayer;
Grant it to pass, with evil fraught,
As die the river’s murmurings brought
Upon the breezy air.
Why does a worldly image rise
As if my prayer to stain?
Perchance in evil shadow’s guise,
Which may when by the morrow flies
Sign of a curse remain.
Why has my mind been doom’d to dream
A phantom loveliness?
To see those charms transparent gleam,
That brow in tranquil light supreme,
And neck’s peculiar grace?
Not heighten’d its enchantments shine
By pomp or worldly glow;
I only see that form recline
In tears, before some sacred shrine,
Or castle walls below.
Like a forgotten offering lone,
In ruin’d temple laid;
Upon the carved and time-worn stone,
Where fell it by the rough wind thrown,
So bent beneath the shade.
With such a picture in my mind,
Such name upon my ear,
Before my God the place to find,
Where the forgotten are consign’d,
I come, and bow down here.
With eyes all vaguely motionless,
Perhaps my wanderings view
The dead, with horror and distress,
As, roused up in their resting-place,
They look their dark walls through.
’Twas not to muse I hither came
Of nothingness my part;
Nor of my God, but of a name,
That deep in characters of flame
Is written on my heart.
Pardon, O God! the worldly thought,
Nor mark it midst my prayer;
Grant it to pass, with evil fraught,
As die the river’s murmurings brought
Upon the breezy air.
NOTES.
1. Page 3. “Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos.”
This name (pronounced Hovellianos) was formerly written as two distinct
names, Jove Llanos, as it is still by several members of the family,
one, an Advocate, at present at Madrid, and another the Spanish Consul
at Jamaica.
2. Page 3. “An able and distinguished writer,” &c.
Antonio Alcalà Galiano, author also of the able article in the Foreign
Quarterly Review on Jovellanos, afterwards mentioned. He was born at
Cadiz, in 1789, the son of a distinguished officer in the Spanish navy,
who was killed at Trafalgar. In his youth, Alcalà Galiano studied
the English language so assiduously as to receive much benefit from
his knowledge of it when he had to take refuge in London, on the
various political changes that took place in Spain. He then wrote
much for the Westminster and Foreign Quarterly Reviews, as well as
other publications, and was subsequently named one of the Professors
of Languages in the London University. Having returned to Spain, on
the death of Ferdinand VII., he was appointed a Minister of State,
with the Señor Isturitz, and has held, at various times, several high
offices in the government. In the Cortes he was considered one of
the most able orators of his time, having been put on a rivalry with
Martinez de la Rosa and Argüelles. He has published a few poems, and
contributed several valuable papers for the different learned societies
of Madrid, besides having written much for the periodicals, according
to the continental system for public men seeking to disseminate their
opinions. His principal work as an author is a ‘History of Spain.’
Ferrer del Rio says of him, that “he writes Spanish with an English
idiom, and though he puts his name to a history of Spain, it seems
a translation from the language of Byron.” Few foreigners have ever
obtained so complete a knowledge of the English language; in fact his
writings in the several reviews might be pointed out as compositions
which would do credit to our own best writers. As an instance of his
knowledge of the state of literature in England, we may quote a few
observations from an article bearing his name in the first number of
the Madrid Review. He says, “The Bible and the Plays of Shakespeare,
if they may be named together without profanation, are the two works
which have most influence on the thoughts of the English;” adding,
that “classical literature is there better cultivated than in France,
or at least cultivated with more profound knowledge,” deducing the
conclusion, “that the English drama is consequently radically different
from the French.”
3. Page 11. “Bermudez, his biographer.”
This industrious writer was born at Gijon, in 1749, and died at Cadiz
in 1829. He may be termed the Vasari of Spain, as the historian of the
artists of his country. His two biographical works, the one on her
painters, the other on her architects, are a rich mine of materials.
The former was published in six volumes 8vo, in 1800: the latter, in
four volumes 4to, was almost the last work on which he was engaged,
and did not appear till 1829. Besides these, he was the author of
various other publications on the principal edifices in Seville, and
had completed a ‘History of the Roman Antiquities in Spain;’ a ‘General
History of Painting;’ a work on ‘Architecture,’ and other pieces,
which yet remain unedited. As a fellow-townsman, as well as an artist
of considerable genius, he was much assisted by Jovellanos, who, when
Minister of State, gave him a valuable appointment at Madrid under the
government. When that eminent individual fell, his friends had to
suffer also, and Cean Bermudez, deprived of his appointment, had to
return to Seville, where he instituted a school for drawing. It was no
doubt under the feelings of regret, occasioned by the reflection of
having his friends involved in his misfortunes, that Jovellanos wrote
to him the Epistle selected for translation in this work.
4. Page 16. “Merit of first bringing into favour.”
See Hermosilla, ‘Juicio Critico de los principales Poetas Españoles de
la ultima era,’ vol. i. p. 11.
5. Page 18. “Epistle to Cean Bermudez.”
From Works of Jovellanos, Mellado’s edition, vol. iv. p. 226.
6. Page 30. “To Galatea’s Bird.”
From the same, p. 369.
7. Page 32. “To Enarda.--I.”
From the same, p. 368. In submission to the recommendations of several
friends to give the original of at least part or the whole of some one
poem of each author, from whose works the translations have been made,
selections of such as the English students of Spanish literature would
probably most desire, are offered for their comparison.
Riñen me bella Enarda
Los mozos y los viejos,
Por que tal vez jugando
Te escribo dulces versos.
Debiera un magistrado
(Susurran) mas severo,
De las livianas Musas
Huir el vil comercio.
Que mal el tiempo gastas!
Predican otros,--pero
Por mas que todos riñan
Tengo de escribir versos.
Quiero loar de Enarda
El peregrino ingenio
Al son de mi zampoña
Y en bien medidos metros.
Quiero de su hermosura
Encaramar al cielo
Las altas perfecciones;
De su semblante quiero
Cantar el dulce hechizo
Y con pincel maestro
Pintar su frente hermosa
Sus traviesos ojuelos,
El carmin de sus labios,
La nieve de su cuello;
Y vàyanse à la … al rollo
Los Catonianos ceños
Las frentes arrugadas
Y adustos sobrecejos,
Que Enarda serà siempre
Celebrada en mis versos.
8. Page 33. “To Enarda.--II.”
From Works of Jovellanos, vol. iv. p. 364.
9. Page 46. “Epistle to Domingo de Iriarte.”
From Works of Tomas Iriarte, 1805, vol. ii. p. 56.
Domingo Iriarte was subsequently much engaged in the diplomatic service
of Spain, and signed the treaty of peace with France of 1795, as
Plenipotentiary, along with the celebrated M. Barthélemy.
10. Page 50. “But now the confines of,” &c.
The following is the original of this passage:--
Mas ya dexar te miro
Los confines Germanos,
Y el polìtico giro
Seguir hasta los ùltimos Britanos.
Desde luego la corte populosa
Cuyas murallas baña
La corriente anchurosa
Del Tàmesis, la imàgen te presenta
De una nacion en todo bien extraña:
Nacion en otros siglos no opulenta,
Hoi feliz por su industria, y siempre esenta:
Nacion tan liberal como ambiciosa;
Flemàtica y activa;
Ingenua, pero adusta;
Humana, pero altiva;
Y en la causa que abraza, iniqua ó justa
Violenta defensora,
Del riesgo y del temor despreciadora.
Alli serà preciso que te asombres
De ver (qual no habràs visto en parte alguna)
Obrar y hablar con libertad los hombres.
Admiraràs la rapida fortuna
Que alli logra el valor y la eloqüencia,
Sin que ni el oro, ni la ilustre cuna
Roben el premio al mèrito y la ciencia.
Adverteràs el numeroso enxambre
De diligentes y habiles Isleños
Que han procurado, del comercio Dueños
No conocer la ociosidad ni el hambre;
Ocupados en ùtiles inventos
En fàbricas, caminos, arsenales,
Escuelas, academias, hospitales,
Libros, experimentos,
Y estudios de las Artes liberales.
Alli sabràs, en fin, à quanto alcanza
La sabia educacion, y el acertado
Mètodo de patriòtica enseñanza,
La privada ambicion bien dirigida
Al pùblico provecho del Estado;
La justa recompensa y acogida
En que fundan las Letras su esperanza,
Y el desvelo de un pròvido Gobierno
Que al bien aspira, y à un renombre eterno.
This Epistle is addressed to his brother, as the reader may observe,
in the second person singular, which, in Spanish, has a tone of more
familiarity than in English, and understanding it so intended, I have
altered it, in the translation, into our colloquial form of the second
person plural.
The above extract is the same in his printed works of both editions;
but I have in my possession a collection of his manuscripts, among
which is a copy of this Epistle, with several variations, less
flattering to England. Had he lived to superintend the second edition,
these variations might probably have been adopted in it. They are not,
however, of any material variance, but they seem to me to show that his
eulogium had not been favourably received in some quarters, and that he
had therefore thought it prudent to soften it in preparing for another
edition. The publisher of the edition of 1805 does not seem to have
been aware of these manuscripts, nor indeed to have taken the trouble
of doing more for Iriarte’s memory than merely to reprint the first
edition, without even any biographical or critical notice of him or his
writings, as he might well have done, Iriarte having been then deceased
fourteen years.
For another eloquent and encomiastic description of English usages and
institutions, the student of Spanish literature would do well to read
a work, published in London in 1834, by the Marques de Miraflores,
‘Apuntes historico-criticos para escribir la Historia de la Revolucion
de España.’ This distinguished nobleman was born the 23rd December,
1792, at Madrid, and succeeded to the honours and vast property of his
ancient house in 1809, on the death of his elder brother, during the
campaign of that year. He has been much engaged in public affairs,
having held various offices in the state. He has been twice Ambassador
to England; the last time, Ambassador Extraordinary on the coronation
of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. The Marques has written several works on
political subjects, of which the one above-mentioned is particularly
deserving of study.
11. Page 52. “Saying as Seneca has said of yore.”
Stet quicumque volet potens
Aulæ culmine lubrico:
Me dulcis saturet quies.
Obscuro positus loco
Leni perfruar otio.
Nullis notus Quiritibus
Ætas per tacitum fluat.
Sic cum transierint mei
Nullo cum strepitu dies,
Plebeius moriar senex.
Illi mors gravis incubat
Qui notus nimis omnibus
Ignotus moritur sibi.
Thyestes, Act II. The critical reader will observe, that the
translation into English has been made from the Spanish rather than the
Latin.
12. Page 53. “Fables.”
The Fables translated are numbered respectively III., VIII., XI., LIII.
and LIV., in the original collection. The two first, III. and VIII.,
having been given by Bouterwek as specimens of Iriarte’s style, without
any translation, I took them for my first essays, and had already
versified them, before finding Roscoe had done the same also in his
translation of Sismondi, and it was subsequently to that I became aware
of other similar versions. Having, however, made those translations, I
have, notwithstanding the others, allowed them to remain in this work.
The fable of the Two Rabbits has been selected as particularly noticed
by Martinez de la Rosa, and the others almost without cause of peculiar
preference. The last one contains an old but good lesson, which cannot
be too frequently and earnestly repeated:--
Ego nec studium sine divite venâ
Nec rude quid prosit video ingenium, alterius sic
Altera poscit opem res et conjurat amicè.
13. Page 64. “Iglesias and Gonzalez.”
Diego Gonzalez was born at Ciudad Rodrigo in 1733, and died at Madrid,
1794. Josè Iglesias de la Casa was born at Salamanca in 1753, and died
there in 1791. His poems were first published seven years after his
death, and have been several times reprinted. The best edition is that
of Barcelona, 1820, from which the one of Paris, 1821, was taken. The
poems of Gonzalez also were first published after his death, and have
been several times reprinted. Both wrote very pleasing verses, and are
deservedly popular in Spain.
14. Page 69. “It was for his detractors,” &c.
Hermosilla, author of a work, ‘Juicio Critico de los principales
Poetas Españoles de la ultima era,’ published after his death, Paris
1840, gives in it, as Mr. Ticknor pithily observes, “a criticism of
the poems of Melendez so severe that I find it difficult to explain
its motive;” at the same time that he gives “an unreasonably laudatory
criticism of L. Moratin’s works.” Hermosilla appears to have been a
man of considerable learning, but little judgement. His criticisms are
generally worthless, and the only excuse for him, with regard to his
book, is, that he did not publish it. With regard to Melendez, taking
every opportunity to depreciate his merits, he is constantly found
constrained to acknowledge them, and sometimes even in contradiction
to himself. Thus, having several times intimated, as at p. 31, that
the erotic effusions of Melendez only were praiseworthy, he says,
at p. 297, when speaking of his Epistles, that they are “his best
compositions; thoughts, language, style, tone and versification, all in
general are good.” In another part he censures Melendez for his poems
addressed to different ladies, especially some to ‘Fanny,’ who appears
to have been an Englishwoman; and yet those epistles, addressed to her,
on the death of her husband, are among the purest and most elegant
specimens that can be pointed out of consolation to a mourner. It is
but justice to his editor, Salva, to say, that he has expressed his
dissent from these criticisms, though he thought proper to publish the
work.
15. Page 73. “The Duke de Frias.”
This estimable nobleman, who died in 1850, was descended from the
Counts of Haro, one of the three great families of Spain. He was the
munificent friend of literary men, and in the case of Melendez extended
his protection to the dead, having taken much personal trouble to
have his remains removed from the common burying-ground to a vault,
where they might not afterwards be disturbed. He also wrote verses
occasionally, of which have been preserved, by Del Rio, a ‘Sonnet
to the Duke of Wellington,’ and by Ochoa, an ‘Elegy on the Death of
his Duchess,’ whose virtues will be found hereafter commemorated by
Martinez de la Rosa.
16. Page 76. “Best edition, that by Salvà.”
In taking the edition of 1820 for the text, Salvà, in his edition,
has exercised much judgement in giving some of the poems as they were
originally published, rather than as Melendez afterwards had left them,
weakened by over-correction.
Salvà was in early life distinguished for learning and study, having
been, when only twenty years of age, named Professor of Greek in the
University of Alcalà de Henares. On the French invasion he returned
to his native city Valencia, and engaged in trade as a bookseller,
in which occupation he continued in London, when obliged to emigrate
hither in 1823, in consequence of his having joined in the political
events of the times. He had been, during those events, Deputy from
Valencia, and Secretary to the Cortes. In 1830 he transferred his house
to Paris, where he continued his pursuits, publishing many valuable
works of his own compilation, as a Grammar and Dictionary of the
Spanish language, as well as editing and superintending the publication
of many other standard works. He closed his useful life, in his native
city, in 1850.
17. Page 77. “Juvenilities.”
Works of Melendez, Salvà’s Edition, vol. i. p. 39.
This piece was also taken for translation from Bouterwek, when first
entering on a study of Spanish literature. From Bouterwek it was copied
by Sismondi, when borrowing, as he did largely, from that compiler; but
Mr. Roscoe has not given a translation of this, as he probably found it
difficult to do so satisfactorily. It is in fact almost as difficult
to translate Melendez as it is to translate Anacreon, their peculiar
simplicity and grace being so nearly allied.
18. Page 79. “The Timid Lover.”
Works of Melendez, _ibid._, p. 263.
This poem having been particularly mentioned by Martinez de la Rosa as
favourably characteristic of the style of the author, may be considered
best to be selected as an exemplification of it. It is what is termed a
Letrillia.
EL AMANTE TIMIDO.
En la pena aguda
Que me hace sufrir
El Amor tirano
Desde que te vi
Mil veces su alivio
Te voy à pedir,
Y luego, aldeana,
Que llego ante ti,
Si quiero atreverme
No sè que decir.
Las voces me faltan
Y mi frenesí
Con mìseros ayes
Las cuida suplir
Pero el dios que aleve
Se burla de mi
Cuanto ansio mas tierno
Mis labios abrir
Se quiero atreverme
No sè que decir.
Sus fuegos entonces
Empieza à sentir
Tan vivos el alma
Que pienso morir,
Mis làgrimas corren,
Mi agudo gemir
Tu pecho sensible
Conmueve, y al fin
Si quiero atreverme
No sè que decir.
No lo sè, temblando
Si por descubrir
Con loca esperanza
Mi amor infeliz,
Tu lado por siempre
Tendrè ya que huir:
Sellàndome el miedo
La boca: y asì
Si quiero atreverme
No sè que decir.
Ay! si tu, adorada,
Pudieras oir
Mis hondos suspiros
Yo fuera feliz.
Yo, Filis, lo fuera
Mas, triste de mi!
Que tìmido al verte
Burlarme y reir,
Si quiero atreverme
No sè que decir.
19. Page 81. “My Village Life.”
This and the two following poems are taken from those at pages 94,
110 and 64 of the first volume of the Works of Melendez Valdes; the
Disdainful Shepherdess from the one at p. 62 of vol. ii.
20. Page 95. “Merits of their national dramas.”
For an excellent criticism on the Spanish drama, see the article in the
twenty-fifth volume of the Quarterly Review.
21. Page 104. “There, says his biographer,” &c.
In the sketch prefixed to the edition by Rivadeneyra, from which
the two poems following are taken, at pages 581 and 582. The one to
Jovellanos has been justly praised by Mr. Ticknor as one of his best,
and from it we may in preference extract the commencement, as an
exemplification of his style.
Si, la pura amistad, que en dulce nudo
Nuestras almas uniò, durable existe
Jovino ilustre, y ni la ausencia larga
Ni la distancia, ni interpuestos montes
Y proceloso mar que suena roco,
De mi memoria apartaràn tu idea.
Duro silencio à mi cariño impuso
El son de Marte, que suspende ahora
La paz, la dulce paz. Sè que en obscura
Deliciosa quietud, contento vives,
Siempre animado de incansable celo
Por el pùblico bien; de las virtudes
Y del talento protector y amigo.
Estos que formo de primor desnudos,
No castigados de tu docta lima,
Fàciles versos, la verdad te anuncien
De mi constante fe; y el cielo en tanto
Vuèlvame presto la ocasion de verte
Y renovar en familiar discurso
Cuanto à mi vista presentò del orbe
La varia escena. De mi patria orilla
A las que el Sena turbulento baña,
Teñido en sangre, del audaz Britano
Dueño del mar, al aterido Belga,
Del Rin profundo à las nevades cumbres
Del Apenino, y la que en humo ardiente
Cubre y ceniza à Nàpoles canora,
Pueblos, naciones, visitè distintas
Util sciencia adquirì, que nunca enseña
Docta leccion en retirada estancia,
Que alli no ves la diferencia suma
Que el clima, el culto, la opinion, las artes,
Las leyes causan. Hallaràsla solo
Si al hombre estudias en el hombre mismo.
22. Page 113. “Juan Bautista de Arriaza.”
This poet’s name is pronounced Arriatha; the two poems selected for
translation are taken, the first from p. 60 of Book III. of his works,
edition of 1829. ‘The Parting, or the Young Sailor’s Farewell,’ from
_ibid._, Book I. p. 77.
The eighth stanza, beginning in the translation, ‘With venal aid of
hate assists,’ is in the original--
Què de ministros vendes a su encono,
Anglia infecunda! de las nieblas trono,
Campos que el sol no mira,
Que en sonrisa falsa, Flora reviste
De esteril verde, en que la flor es triste,
Y Amor sin gloria espira.
Which stanza is thus translated by Maury:--
Combien te sied le mal, Angleterre inféconde,
Amante de vapeurs, jeteé où l’œil du monde
Te regarde si peu!
Champs où la brume arrose une oiseuse verdure,
Où Flore est sans gaieté, l’automne sans parure,
L’Amour sans traits de feu!
Of thirty-three stanzas in the original, Maury has only taken fifteen
for his translation, and of ‘The Parting’ he has only taken eighteen
out of twenty-five. The four concluding stanzas are in the original--
Crisol de adversidad claro y seguro
Vuestro valor probò sublime y puro,
O Marinos Hispanos!
Broquel fue de la patria vuestra vida
Que al fin vengada y siempre defendida
Serà por vuestras manos.
Rinda al Leon y al Aguila Neptuno
El brazo tutelar, con que importuno
Y esclavo al Anglia cierra:
Y ella os verà desde las altas popas
Lanzar torrentes de invencibles tropas
Sobre su infausta tierra.
Bàsteos, en tanto, el lùgubre tributo
De su muerte Adalid doblando el luto
Del Tàmesis umbrio,
Que, si, llenos de honrosas cicatrices
Se os ve, para ocasiones mas felices
Reservar vuestro brio.
Sois cual leon, que en Libico desierto
Con garra atroz, del cazador experto
Rompiò asechanza astuta;
Que no inglorioso, aunque sangriento y laso
Temido si, se vuelve paso à paso
A su arenosa gruta.
23. Page 145. “Described by Humboldt.”
Political Essay on New Spain, Book II. chapter 5.
24. Page 145. “So popular a writer as Larra.”
Mariano Josè de Larra was born at Madrid, 24th March, 1809. His father
had joined the French army as a medical officer, and after the peace
went to France, taking his son with him, where he forgot his native
language, so that he had to learn it as a novice on his return to
Spain. It is not improbable that his education in that country, where
also he passed some time subsequently, gave Larra’s mind that tendency
for scepticism and perverted feeling which led to his miserable
end. From his earliest years he showed great aptitude for learning,
and had studied the Greek, English and Italian languages, before he
went to Valladolid to prepare for the profession of the law. After a
short residence there, he went to Valencia on some disappointment he
suffered, which, to one of his temperament, seemed a greater misfortune
than what perhaps any other person would have considered it. At
Valencia he obtained employment in a public office, which, however,
did not suit his taste, and having then married, he returned to Madrid
and determined to write for the public. His first efforts were not
successful, and have not been subsequently reprinted with his works,
but after a short time he began writing a series of essays on passing
events, under the signature of Figaro, which at once attained great
popularity. He also wrote several plays and a few poems, which, as
written by Figaro, were favourably received. But the essays, under that
title, were the foundation of his popularity. They were in the style of
our essayists of the reign of Queen Anne, containing criticisms, and
sketches of manners and characters, written in a style of great ease
and elegance, marked with much wit and humour, as well as vigour. These
works have been very many times reprinted in Spain, and also in France
and South America. The student who wishes to form a correct style in
learning Spanish, cannot do better than take Larra for a model. By his
writings he had attained a respectable place in literary society, and
it was understood that his fortunes were thereby also in a state of
competence. He was, however, possessed of an ill-regulated mind and
headstrong passions, so that, as it seems intimated, baffled in some
object of unlawful desire, he put an end to his existence by a pistol
shot the 13th February, 1837.
In his review of Quintana’s Life of Las Casas, he unreservedly
subscribes to all the sentiments therein expressed.
25. Page 160. “From the proud castled poop,” &c.
Se alzò el Breton en el soberbio alcazar
Que corona su indòmito navio;
Y ufano con su gloria y poderio
Alli estan, exclamò.
26. Page 161. “Conquerors of winds and waves.”
… sus nadantes proras
Del viento y de las ondas vencedoras.
27. Page 163. “And Alcalà, Churruca, also ye!”
Of those who fell at Trafalgar, the names of Alcalà and Churruca seem
to be remembered with peculiar affection. The latter is referred to
by Arriaza also, and seems to have been an officer of great skill and
bravery in his profession, as well as of most amiable qualities in
private life. Alcalà was an officer of very superior attainments. He
was author of a learned Treatise on taking Observations of Longitude
and Latitude at Sea, published at Madrid, 1796. With the copy of this
work in my possession, there is bound up an unedited treatise of his
original manuscript, ‘On the Trigonometrical Calculation of the Height
of Mountains.’ He has already been referred to in Note 2.
The Spanish navy is at the present day much distinguished for the
superior attainments and character of the officers, as well as in
former years. In addition to the poet Arriaza, they have to boast of
the late learned Navarrete, one of the most eminent and industrious
writers of our times, principally on scientific subjects connected with
his profession, geography, hydrography, and voyages, though in various
biographical works he has extended his labours to the memory of poets
and others, as well as the naval heroes of his country: see his memoir
in Ochoa, vol. ii. p. 586, copied from one by the Bishop of Astorga.
28. Page 164. “Yet fell ye not, ye generous squadrons.”
No empero sin venganza y sin estrago,
Generoso escuadron alli caiste:
Tambien brotando à rios
La sangre Inglesa inunda sus navios.
Tambien Albion pasmada
Los montes de cadàveres contempla
Horrendo peso à su soberbia armada.
Tambien Nelson alli, Terrible sombra,
No esperes, no, cuando mi voz te nombra
Que vil insulte à tu postrer suspiro;
Inglès te aborrecì, y hèroe te admiro.
Oh, golpe! oh, suerte! El Tàmesis aguarda
De las naves cautivas
El confuso tropel, y ya en idea
Goza el aplauso y los sonoros vivas
Que al vencedor se dan. Oh suerte! El puerto
Solo le verà entrar pàlido y yerto:
Ejemplo grande à la arrogancia humana,
Digno holocausto à la afliccion Hispana.
The two poems from Quintana are at pages 16 and 93 respectively of the
fourth edition of his works, published in 1825.
29. Page 170. “The Conde de Toreno.”
This able and enlightened statesman was born at Oviedo in 1786, and
died at Paris in 1845. His work, on the ‘Rising, War, and Revolution of
Spain,’ is one well deserving of the fame it has attained, having been
translated into all the principal languages of Europe.
30. Page 170. “The celebrated Pacheco.”
Born at Ecija, near Seville, in 1808, he came to Madrid in 1833, and
was admitted an Advocate in the courts of law, but has been since
engaged actively in conducting various publications, principally of
a political character. He has been several times chosen member of the
legislature, and had to undertake his share of public duties, but he
has declined office, and in his whole public life shown a freedom
from ambition, remarkable, as Del Rio intimates, from the contrast
it presents with the conduct of other men of far inferior abilities.
He has announced ‘A History of the Regency of Queen Christina,’ of
which he has published a preliminary volume, comprising a detail of
antecedent events. He has also written various plays and poems, but not
of such a character as to be worthy of his fame as a public speaker and
journalist. His life of Martinez de la Rosa, given in a publication
entitled ‘Galeria de Españoles celebres contemporaneos, 1842,’ (which
work has now extended to many volumes, including persons of distinction
in all ranks of life,) is very pleasingly written, and has been taken
as the principal authority in this compilation.
31. Page 176. “Rights of the Basque people.”
For a just statement of these rights, see the late Earl of Carnarvon’s
‘Portugal and Galicia,’ vol. ii.
32. Page 180. “Observation may apply to English verse.”
Our best poets, and Milton especially, afford many exemplifications of
this practice.
O’er many a frozen, many a fiery alp,
Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens and shades of death
…
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things
Abominable, inutterable and worse.
Many of our syllables also are in effect double syllables, as in the
words _brave_, _grave_, _clave_, &c., as singers often have to regret,
causing them, on that account, to slur over them. But these rules are
only a continuation of Quinctilian’s maxim, “Optime de illa judicant
aures. Quædam arte tradi non possunt.”
33. Page 181. “The Roman friend,” &c.
See note 23 to the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold.
34. Page 183. “I saw upon the shady Thames.”
Vi en el Tàmesis umbrio
Cien y cien naves cargadas
De riqueza;
Vi su inmenso poderio
Sus artes tan celebradas
Su grandeza.
Mas el ànima afligida
Mil suspiros exhalaba
Y ayes mil;
Y ver la orilla florida
Del manso Dauro anhelaba
Y del Genil.
Vi de la soberbia corte
Las damas engalanadas
Muy vistosas;
Vi las bellezas del norte
De blanca nieve formadas
Y de rosas.
Sus ojos de azul del cielo,
De oro puro parecia
Su cabello;
Bajo transparente velo
Turgente el seno se via
Blanco y bello.
Mas que valen los brocados
Las sedas y pedreria
De la ciudad?
Que los rostros sonrosados
La blancura y gallardia
Ni la beldad?
Con mostrarse mi zagala,
De blanco lino vestida,
Fresca y pura,
Condena la inutil gala
Y se esconde confundida
La hermosura.
Dò hallar en climas helados
Sus negros ojos graciosos,
Que son fuego?
Ora me miren airados
Ora roben cariñosos
Mi sosiego.
Dò la negra caballera
Que al èbano se aventaja?
Y el pie leve
Que al triscar por la pradera
Ni las tiernas flores aja,
Ni aun las mueve?
Doncellas las del Genil
Vuestra tez escurecida
No trocara
Por los rostros de marfil
Que Albion envanecida
Me mostrara.
Padre Dauro! manso rio,
De las arenas doradas,
Dìgnate oir
Los votos del pecho mio,
Y en tus màrgenes sagradas
Logre morir!
Works of Martinez de la Rosa, edition of Barcelona, 1838, vol. iv. p.
1. The other translations are taken from the same, pages 113, 104, 48
and 34 respectively.
In the prologue, he enters on the discussion, so common a few years
since, as to the relative merits of what were called the Classical and
Romantic schools of poetry, which discussion, it is to be hoped, may
now be considered at an end. The pretensions of different writers, who
affected to range themselves under one or other of these denominations,
were in fact generally only the devices of mediocrity to shelter their
deficiencies. Those who write spontaneously from the true inspiration
of genius, will never submit to the shackles of any system, and for all
writers the wisest aim is to seek the clearest style of expressing
those thoughts which they have to convey. As Martinez de la Rosa has
well observed in this prologue, “I do not remember any one sublime
passage, in whatever language it may be, that is not expressed with the
utmost simplicity; and without this most essential quality, they cannot
excite in the mind that lively and instantaneous impression which
distinguishes them.”
35. Page 184. “The light foot that never stirs,” &c.
An Andalusian poet may be excused entering into hyperbolical praise
of his countrywomen, but we find an English traveller almost as
hyperbolical in praise of them also. “It is beyond the power of
language to describe those slow and surpassingly graceful movements
which accompany every step of the Andalusa; her every attitude is so
flowing, at the same time so unforced, that she seems upborne by some
invisible power that renders her independent of the classically moulded
foot she presses so lightly on the ground.”--_Murray’s Cities and Wilds
of Andalusia._
36. Page 216. “His biographer, Pastor Diaz,” &c.
In the work already mentioned, ‘Galeria de Españoles contemporaneos,’
under his own superintendence, and from which the notices in this
compilation are principally taken. Pastor Diaz was born at Vivero in
Galicia, in the year 1811, and was educated at Alcalà de Henares.
Having been admitted an Advocate in the courts of law, he engaged, in
1833, in the public service, and has held various offices under the
government in the provinces. In 1847 he published a volume of poems,
of which two,--one, ‘The Black Butterfly,’ and the other, an ‘Ode to
the Moon,’--Ochoa declares, in his opinion, “two of the most beautiful
pieces that have been written for many years in Spain.” Disagreeing
very much with this opinion, it is only quoted in token of the
estimation in which Pastor Diaz is held among his countrymen. (Ochoa,
vol. ii. p. 628.)
37. Page 216. “The advantages he enjoyed there.”
In his poem of the ‘Moro Esposito,’ the Duke has inserted an
interesting episode referring to his residence in Malta, “whose good
and honest inhabitants he found under the dominion of the most wealthy,
free, enlightened, noble and powerful nation that the sun admires from
the zodiac.” (Book VI.) In the notes he details the particulars under
which he arrived there, acknowledging gratefully the hospitality he had
received.
38. Page 222. “Pedro, surnamed the Cruel.”
This name is pronounced Ped-ro. The true character of the monarch
is yet a disputed question, and has only within the last year been
offered as a subject for inquiry by the Spanish Academy. The learned
Llorente, in his ‘Historical Notices,’ vol. v., has, I think, clearly
shown that Pedro was no more deserving of the epithet peculiarly than
others of his age, including his half-brother and successor, by whose
hand he fell, in retributive justice for the death of their other
brother Fadrique. The legend of this prince’s death has been variously
given, and thus Salvador Bermudez de Castro, who has also a poem on the
subject, takes some different details to those repeated by the Duke de
Rivas. The traditions of the people have handed down Don Pedro’s memory
more favourably, and, perhaps, more justly, than the historians of the
time, whose accounts no doubt were tinctured as darkly as they could
be, partly to please the reigning monarch, and partly because Don Pedro
had not been so submissive to priestly rule as they had desired.
39. Page 227. “Yet, ah! those lovely bowers along,” &c.
Mas, ay! aquellos pensiles
No he pisado un solo dia
Sin ver (sueños de mi mente!)
La sombra de la Padilla,
Lanzando un hondo gemido
Cruzar leve ante mi vista,
Como un vapor, como un humo
Que entre los àrboles gira:
Ni entrè en aquellos salones
Sin figuràrseme erguida
Del fundador la fantasma
En helada sangre tinta;
Ni en vestibulo oscuro
El que tiene en la cornisa
De los reyes los retratos,
El que en colunas estriba,
Al que adornan azulejos
Abajo, y esmalte arriba
El que muestra en cada muro
Un rico balcon, y encima
El hondo arteson dorado
Que lo corona y atrista,
Sin ver en tierra un cadaver.
Aun en las losas se mira
Una tenaz mancha oscura
Ni las edades limpian!
Sangre! sangre! oh, cielos, cuantos
Sin saber que lo es, la pisan!
This romance was originally printed with the ‘Moro Esposito,’ Paris
1834, vol. ii. p. 451. It was subsequently included among the ‘Romances
Historicos,’ Madrid 1841, p. 19. The Alcazar of Seville has been
described by so many travellers that it is unnecessary to add to their
accounts of it, or to the graphic details of the romance. The stain
on the floor may remind the reader of the legends of Holyrood and the
Alhambra, as well as of other places.
40. Page 233. “Darting round fierce looks,” &c.
This description of anger, as again at p. 241, seems a favourite one
with the Duke, as well as other poets; thus Virgil--
Totoque ardentis ab ore
Scintillæ absistunt, oculis micat acribus ignis.
41. Page 234. “The crackling of his arms and knees.”
From the peculiarity of this formation, the king was recognized by an
old woman who had witnessed his killing a man he had met in a night
rencontre in the street opposite her house, and she having given
evidence to that effect, he ordered his statue to be beheaded, and so
placed in the street in memorial of the sentence against himself.
42. Page 236.
“And more than Tello madly hates,
And more than Henry too.”
The two brothers of Fadrique, of whom Henry was his successor on the
throne, after he had killed Don Pedro in fight by his own hand. In
another romance, the Duke de Rivas describes this “fratricide,” and
represents that Don Pedro had the advantage at first, but that the
page of the other came to his master’s assistance, and attacking Don
Pedro from behind, diverted his attention so as to enable him to give
the King the death-wound. From the accounts handed down to us, it is
clear that Don Pedro had sufficient grounds for suspecting treason from
the brothers, which occasioned his animosity against them and their
adherents, for which they afterwards blackened his memory.
43. Page 259. “Meagre soup bouillie.”
In the original, Gazpacho, “the name of a dish universal in and
peculiar to Spain. It is a sort of cold soup, made of bread, pot-herbs,
oil and water. Its materials are easily come by, and its concoction
requires no skill.” Mr. W. G. Clark has taken this name for the title
of his lively ‘Sketches of Spain,’ London 1850.
44. Page 260. “Whene’er Don Juan,” &c.
Siempre que tiene una broma
El señor don Juan me olvida
Como si estuviera en Roma;
Y à un entierro me convida
Para matarme de pena!
Sea enhorabuena.
Despues de melindres mil
Canta Celestina el duo
Que le han puesto en atril,
Y aunque canta como un buho
Todos la llaman Sirena.
Sea enhorabuena.
Cien abejas sin reposo
Labrando à porfia estàn
El dulce panal sabroso.
Ay! que un zàngano holgazàn
Se ha de tragar la colmena!
Sea enhorabuena.
El hombre à su semejante
Mueve guerra furibundo,
Cual si no fuera bastante
Para despoblar el mundo
El escuadron de Avicena.
Sea enhorabuena.
Hay en España usureros
Hay esbirros à montones,
Y chalanes y venteros,
Y dicen que los ladrones
Estan en Sierra Morena!
Sea enhorabuena.
En vano à tu puerta, Conde,
Llegan los pobres desnudos,
Que el perro solo responde,
Y gastas dos mil escudos
En un baile y una cena!
Sea enhorabuena.
Basta por hoy de sermon.
Aqui mi pluma suspendo
Hasta mejor ocasion.
Si el vicio en vano reprendo
Y escribo sobre la arena,
Sea enhorabuena.
The selections from Breton de los Herreros are taken from the edition
of 1831, at pages 61, 63 and 71 respectively.
45. Page 269. “The celebrated Lista.”
This celebrated writer was born at Seville in 1775, and in early life
adopted the ecclesiastical profession, having therein principally
dedicated himself to the education of youth, in which he has been
eminently successful. He has written a continuation of Mariana’s
‘History of Spain,’ and translated from the French Segur’s ‘Universal
History,’ besides several mathematical and other elementary works. In
1822 he published a volume of poems, of which a second edition has
been since published, highly praised by the different writers who have
treated of modern Spanish literature. They are however avowedly of the
classical school, and their greatest merit must be supposed to consist
in their elegance of expression. His critical writings are numerous and
valuable.
46. Page 271. “Twelve out of the nineteen stanzas.”
The stanzas 6, 9, 10, 11, 16 and 17 seem to be of his addition, and
it must be acknowledged that they are in no respect inferior to the
others. One stanza in Pindemonte he has not taken into his version.
47. Page 272. “Part of his first volume is taken up with imitations.”
Before observing that this part had been so expressed at the beginning,
I made a translation of one small piece, which may give an idea of the
others.
EN EL ALBUM DE UNA SENORITA.
Cual suele en màrmol sepulcral escrito
Un nombre detener al pasagero,
Pueda en aquesta pàgina mi nombre
Fijar tus ojos, ay! por los que muero.
Miralo, cuando ya de ti apartado,
No te pide mi amor mas recompensa;
De mi te acuerda como muerte y piensa
Que aqui mi corazon queda enterrado.
IN A LADY’S ALBUM.
As on sepulchral marble writ
A name to stay the passer-by,
So let my name on this page meet
Thine eyes, for which, alas! I die.
Look on it when I am far from thee;
My love asks no return more dear;
As of one dead remember me,
And think my heart is buried here.
It was only on translating the last line that I recognized them as Lord
Byron’s.
WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
As o’er the cold sepulchral stone
Some name arrests the passer-by,
Thus when thou view’st this page alone
May mine attract thy pensive eye.
And when by thee that name is read
Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.
48. Page 275. “Sonnet, Dedication,” &c.
A MI ESPOSA.
Cuando en mis venas fèrvidas ardia
La fiera juventud, en mis canciones
El tormentoso afan de mis pasiones
Con dolorosas làgrimas vertia.
Hoy à ti las dedico, Esposa mia,
Cuando el amor mas libre de ilusiones
Inflama nuestros puros corazones,
Y sereno y de paz me luce el dia.
Asi perdido en turbulentos mares
Mìsero navegante al cielo implora,
Cuando le aqueja la tormenta grave;
Y del naufragio libre, en los altares
Consagra fiel à la Deidad que adora
Las hùmedas reliquias de su nave.
This sonnet, and the two following translations, are taken respectively
from pages 8, 18 and 46 of the first volume of the Toluca edition. The
imitation of Lord Byron is at page 83 of the same. The Odes to ‘Poesy’
and to ‘Night’ are at pages 13 and 72 of the second volume.
49. Page 282. “Milton elevated all beyond.”
Y Milton mas que todos elevado
A su angel fiero de diamante armado.
50. Page 305. “Josè de Espronceda.”
This name is to be pronounced Esprontheda. The translations, taken from
the original poems, may be found in the Paris edition of 1848, at pages
49, 58, 73 and 79 respectively. The one translated, ‘The Condemned
to Die,’ El Reo de Muerte, literally, ‘The Guilty of Death,’ has the
signification given to this phrase by our translators of the New
Testament, and it may be necessary to explain that the refrain “Your
alms for prayers,” &c., is in the original merely “To do good for the
soul of him who is about to be executed.”
Para hacer bien al alma
Del que van à ajusticiar!
In Spain, when a criminal is about to be executed, it is the custom
for the Brothers of the religious order De la Humanidad, to go about
the public ways, in their peculiar garb, with salvers for receiving
alms for masses to be said for him, repeating words to the effect above
given.
51. Page 315. “Sail on, my swift one, never fear.”
Navega, velero mio,
Sin temor,
Que ni enemigo navio,
Ni tormenta, ni bonanza,
Tu rumbo à torcer alcanza
Ni à sujetar tu valor.
Veinte presos
Hemos hecho
A despecho
Del Ingles,
Y han rendido
Sus pendones
Cien naciones
A mis piès.
Que es mi barco mi tesoro,
Que es mi Dios la libertad,
Mi ley la fuerza y el viento,
Mi ùnica patria la mar.
Allà muevan feroz guerra
Ciegos reyes
Por un palmo mas de tierra;
Que yo tengo aqui por mio
Cuanto abarca el mar bravio
A quien nadie impuso leyes.
Y no hay playa
Sea cual quiera
Ni bandera
De esplendor
Que no sienta
Mi derecho
Y dè pecho
A mi valor.
Que es mi barco mi tesoro.…
A la voz de ‘barco viene!’
Es de ver
Como vira, y se previene
A todo trapo à escapar;
Que yo soy el rey del mar
Y mi furia es de temer.
En las presas
Yo divido
Lo cogido
Por igual:
Solo quiero
Por riqueza
La belleza
Sin rival
Que es mi barco mi tesoro.…
Sentenciado estoy à muerte!
Yo me rio;
No me abandone la suerte,
Y al mismo que me condena
Colgarè de alguna entena
Quizà en su proprio navio.
Y si caigo
Que es la vida?
Por perdida
Ya la di,
Cuando el yugo
Del esclavo
Como un bravo
Sacudì.
Que es mi barco mi tesoro.…
Son mi música mejor
Aquilones;
El estrépito y temblor
De los cables sacudidos,
Del negro mar los bramidos,
Y el rugir de mis cañones;
Y del trueno
Al son violento,
Y del viento
Al rebramàr,
Yo me duermo
Sosegado,
Arrullado
Por el mar.
Que es mi barco mi tesoro,
Que es mi Dios la libertad,
Mi ley la fuerza y el viento,
Mi ùnica patria la mar.
52. Page 323. “Josè Zorrilla.”
The name of this eminently great poet is to be pronounced as
Thorrillia; the translations made from his works are of the poems
at pages 62, 99, 34, 97, 102, 28 and 65, respectively, of the first
volume, as stated in the memoir, published at Madrid in 1837. The
headings, for the sake of distinction, have been given somewhat
differently from the originals, where they are generally only entitled
‘Oriental,’ or ‘A Romance;’ and the piece named ‘The Warning’ is but
part of a longer poem, the conclusion of which is not in the same good
taste as the beginning. All the other selections translated in this
work, of the different authors, have been given fully.
53. Page 347. “The Tower of Munion.”
This tower is a shapeless ruin, the remains of an ancient castle in the
plain of Arlanza near Burgos. The history of the castle is unknown,
further than that Don Fernan Gonzalez assembled there, on one occasion,
the Grandees of Castille, during his wars with the Moors.
54. Page 352. “Meditation.”
LA MEDITACION.
Sobre ignorada tumba solitaria,
A la luz amarilla de la tarde,
Vengo à ofrecer al cielo mi plegaria
Por la muger que amè.
Apoyada en el màrmol mi cabeza,
Sobre la hùmeda yerba la rodilla,
La parda flor que esmalta la maleza
Humillo con mi piè.
Aquì, lejos del mundo y sus placeres,
Levanto mis delirios de la tierra,
Y leo en agrupados caractères
Nombres que ya no son;
Y la dorada làmpara que brilla
Y al soplo oscila de la brisa errante,
Colgada ante el altar en la capilla
Alumbra mi oracion.
Acaso un ave su volar detiene
Del fùnebre ciprès entre las ramas
Que a lamentar con sus gorjeos viene
La ausencia de la luz:
Y se despide del albor del dia
Desde una alta ventana de la torre
O trepa de la cùpula sombria
A la gigante cruz.
Anegados en làgrimas los ojos
Yo la contemplo inmòvil desde el suelo
Hasta que el rechinar de los cerrojos
La hace aturdida huir.
La funeral sonrisa me saluda
Del solo ser que con los muertos vive,
Y me presta su mano àspera y ruda
Que un fèretro va a abrir.
* * * * *
Perdon! no escuches Dios mio
Mi terrenal pensamiento!
Deja que se pierda impio
Como el murmullo de un rio
Entre los pliegues del viento.
Por que una imàgen mundana
Viene à manchar mi oracion?
Es una sombra profana
Que tal vez serà mañana
Signo de mi maldicion.
Por que ha soñada mi mente
Ese fantasma tan bello?
Con esa tez transparente
Sobre la tranquila frente
Y sobre el desnudo cuello.
Que en vez de aumentar su encanto
Con pompa y mundano brillo,
Se muestra anegada en llanto
Al piè de altar sacrosanto
O al piè de pardo castillo.
Como una ofrenda olvidada
En templo que se arruinò
Y en la piedra cincelada
Que en su caida encontrò
La mece el viento colgada.
Con su retrato en la mente,
Con su nombre en el oido,
Vengo à prosternar mi frente
Ante el Dios omnipotente
En la mansion del olvido.
Mi crimen acaso ven
Con turbios ojos inciertos,
Y me abominan los muertos,
Alzando la hedionda sien
De los sepulcros abiertos.
Cuando estas tumbas visito,
No es la nada en que naci,
No es un Dios lo que medito,
Es un nombre que està escrito
Con fuego dentro de mi.
Perdon! no escuches Dios mio
Mi terrenal pensamiento!
Deja que se pierda impio
Como el murmullo de un rio,
Entre los pliegues del viento.
THE END.
PRINTED BY RICHARD TAYLOR,
RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.
End of Project Gutenberg's Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain, by James Kennedy