1527-1591.
There is a variety in the physiognomy and character of the poets whose
biography is here traced, that renders each in himself highly
interesting; our misfortune is that we know so little of them. Sedano
bitterly laments the obscurity which wraps the history of the great
literary men of Spain, through the neglect of their contemporaries to
transmit the circumstances of their lives. We have but slight sketches;
yet their works, joined to these, individualise the man, and give
animation and interest to very slender details. We image Boscan in his
rural retirement, philosophising, book in hand;--revolving in his
thoughts the harmonies of verse, conversing with his friends, enjoying
with placid smile the calm content, or rather, may we not say, the
perfect home-felt, heart-reaching happiness of his married life, which
he felt so truly, and describes in such lively colours. Young still, his
affections ardent, but concentrated, he acknowledges that serenity,
confidence, and sweet future hopes; unreserved sympathy, and entire
community of the interests of life, is the real Paradise on earth.
Garcilaso, the gallant soldier, the tender poet, the admired and loved
of all, is of another character, more heroic, more soft, more romantic.
Mendoza, with his fiery eye, his vehement temper, his untamed
passions--and these mingled with respect for learning, friendship for
the worthy, and talents that exalted his nature to something noble and
immortal, despite his defects, contrasts with his friends: and the
fourth now coming, Luis de Leon--more earnest and enthusiastic than
Boscan--tender as Garcilaso, but with a soul whose tenderness was
engrossed by heavenly not earthly love--pure and high-hearted, with the
nobility of genius stamped on his brow, but with religious resignation
calming his heart,--he is different, but more complete--a man Spain only
could produce; for in Spain only had religion such sovereign sway as
wholly to reduce the rebel inclinations of man, and, by substituting
supernal for terrestrial love, not diminish the fulness and tenderness
of passion, but only give it another object. High poetic powers being
joined not only to the loftiest religious enthusiasm, to learning, but
also the works of this amiable and highly-gifted man are different from
all others, but exquisite in their class. We wish to learn more of his
mind: as it is, we know little, except that as his compositions were
characteristic of his virtues, so were the events of his life of his
country.
The family of Luis Ponce de Leon was the noblest in Andalusia. He was
born at Granada in the year 1527. It would appear that his childhood was
not happy, for in an ode to the Virgin, written when in the dungeons of
the inquisition, he touchingly speaks of his abandonment in infancy,
saying:--
My mother died as soon as I was born,[23]
And I was dedicate to thee, a child,
Bequeathed by my poor mother's dying prayer.
A second parent thou, O Virgin mild.
Father and mother to the babe forlorn;
For my own father made me not his care.
It was this neglect, probably, that led him to place his affections on
religious objects: and the enthusiasm he felt, he believed to be a
vocation for a monastic life. At the age of sixteen, he endued the habit
of the order of St. Augustin in the convent of Salamanca, and took the
vows during the following year. Enthusiastically pious, but without
fanaticism, his heart was warmed only by the softer emotions of
religion; love, and resignation, a taste for retirement, and pleasure in
fulfilling the duties of his order. His soul was purified, but not
narrowed by his piety. He loved learning, and was an elegant classical
scholar. Most of his poems were written when young. He translated a
great deal from Virgil and Horace, and became imbued by their elegance
and correctness. He was celebrated also as a theologian, and he pursued
his scholastic studies with an ardour that led him to adorn his
religious faith with the imaginative hues of poetry and the earnest
sentiments of his heart. He was admired for his learning by his
contemporaries, and rose high in the estimation of the scholars of
Salamanca, where he resided. At the age of thirty-three, he was made
doctor of theology by the university of that town. In the year 1561, he
was elected to the chair of St. Thomas, over the heads of seven
candidates, by a large majority.
Although his learning, his piety, and the austerity of his life, caused
him to be regarded with universal respect, yet he had enemies, the
result, probably, of his very excellencies. These took advantage of a
slight imprudence he had committed, to plunge him into the most
frightful misfortune. He greatly loved and admired Hebrew poetry; and,
to please a friend, who did not understand the learned languages, he
translated into Spanish, and commented upon, the Song of Solomon. His
friend was heedless enough to permit copies to be taken, and it thus
became spread abroad. Who was the machinator of the disaster that ensued
we are not told; but he was accused before the tribunal of the
inquisition of heresy, for disobeying the commands of the church, in
translating Scripture into the vulgar tongue. He was seized, and thrown
into the prison of the inquisition, at Valladolid, in the year 1572.
Here he remained five years, suffering all the hardships of a rigorous
and cruel confinement. Confined in a dungeon, without light or
space--cut off from communication with his friends--allowed no measures
of defence--hope seemed shut out from him, while all means of
occupation were denied him.
His pious mind found consolation in religion. He could turn to the
objects of his worship, implore their aid, and trust to the efficacy of
their intercession before God. Sometimes, however, his heart failed him,
and it was complaints rather than prayers that he preferred. His odes to
the Virgin were written during this disastrous period; and among them
that from which we have already quoted, in which he pathetically
describes and laments the extremity of adversity to which he was
reduced. The whole ode in Spanish is full of pathos, and gentle, yet
deep-felt lamentation, a few stanzas may give some idea of the
acuteness of his sufferings. Thus he speaks of the hopeless, lingering
evils of his imprisonment:--
If I look back, I feel a wild despair--[24]
I shrink with terror from the coming days,
For they will mirror but the hideous past;
While heavy and intolerable weighs
The evil load of all that now I bear;
Nor have I hope but it will ever last--
The arrows come so fast;
I feel a deadly wound,
And, shudd'ring, look around;
And as the blood, rushing all warm, doth flow,
Behold! another, and another blow!
While they who deal to me such fierce annoy.
Rejoice to see my woe--
Lamenting still they do not quite destroy!
To what poor wretch did heaven e'er deny
Leave to declare the misery he feels?
Laments can ease the weight of heaviest chain;
But cruel fate with me so harshly deals,
Stifling within my lips the gushing cry,
So that aloud I never may complain:
For, could I tell my pain,
What heart were hard enough,
Though made of sternest stuff,
Tiger or basilisk, or serpent dread,
That would not gentle tears of pity shed,
Symbols of tender sorrow for my woes?
The while by hatred fed,
Fate's hostile fury ever fiercer grows.
From living man no comfort reaches me:
From me the dearest and most faithful friend
Would fly beyond the earth's remotest end,
So not to share my hopeless misery!
And my sad eyes, where'er I turn my sight,
Are strangers to the light.
No man that comes anear,
My name did ever hear--
So I myself almost myself forget!
Nor know if what I was, so am I yet--
Nor why to me this misery befell:
Nor can I knowledge get;
For none to me the horrid tale will tell.
* * *
* * *
Wreck'd is my vessel on a shoreless sea,
Where there is none to help me in my fear,
Where none can stretch a friendly saving hand!
I call on men--but there are none to hear;
In the wide world there's no man thinks of me;
My failing voice can never reach the land!
But, while I fearful stand,
A blessed, heaven-sent thought,
By bitter suffering brought,
Bids me, O Virgin! trust to thee alone.
Thou never turn'st away from those who cry,
Nor wilt thou let thy son,
O piteous Mother! miserably die.
My mother died as soon as I was born;
And I was dedicate to thee, a little child,
Bequeath'd by my poor mother's dying prayer;
A second parent thou, O Virgin mild!--
Father and mother to the babe forlorn!
For my own father made me not his care:--
And, Lady, canst thou bear
A child of thine thus lost,
And in such danger tost?
To other sorrows art thou not so blind:
They waken pity in thy gentle mind,
Thou givest aid to every other,
To me be also kind;
Listen, and save thy son, O piteous Mother!
It could not be, however, but that a heart so truly pious would find
relief in prayer, and feel at intervals strong animating confidence in
heaven. Thus, in contrast with these laments, we have a description of
another mood of mind, which he gives in an epistle to a friend on his
liberation. "Cut off," he writes, "not only from the conversation and
society of men, but even from seeing them, I remained for five years
shut up in darkness and a dungeon. I then enjoyed a peace and joy of
mind that I often miss, now that I am restored to light, and the society
of my friends."
He was at length liberated. Sedano tells us, that "at last his trial
being over, in virtue of the proofs and exculpations which he was
enabled to bring in support of his innocence, he was set at liberty at
the end of the year 1576, and restored to all his honours and
employments." It is some consolation to find that his imprisonment
caused great scandal and outcry, and that his liberation was hailed with
exultation and delight. The university had, from respect, never filled
the professor's chair, vacated during his imprisonment; and, on his
return to Salamanca, the most distinguished persons of the town met him
on his way, and conducted him thither in triumph.
Few events after this are recorded of his life. He visited Madrid; and
the royal council confided to him the task of the revision and
correction of the works of St. Theresa de Jesu, which were much
mutilated, and of preparing them for the press. About the same time,
there was attempted the reform of his order in Portugal, a work of
importance and difficulty to the catholic church. The assistance of Luis
de Leon was required, and it is supposed that he even made a journey to
Portugal for that purpose. In 1591, he was named vicar-general of his
province, and soon afterward elected provincial; but he did not long
enjoy this honour: nine days after his election he was attacked by some
acute malady. The Spanish biographers take pains to assure us of the
edifying piety of his end; and we can easily believe that a man who in
youth was entirely dedicate to religion, should in the calmness of old
age and in the hour of death, reap from his belief the composure of
spirit that makes a happy end. He died on the 23d of August 1591; in the
sixty-fourth year of his age.
In person, Luis Ponce de Leon is described as of fair height,
well-proportioned in person, vigorous and robust. His countenance was
manly, and the expression, despite the vivaciousness of his eyes,
serious and calm. His mind was ever bent on religious objects: he seems
to have forgotten his high birth and the splendour of his name, and to
have aspired only to Christian humility. Love of poetry and classical
literature were the only objects that ever called his attention from
pious contemplations; and these he followed chiefly in his youth. "God
gifted him," says Sedano, "with a noble birth he adorned him with
understanding and extraordinary talents; he made him the son of a house
abounding in riches and prosperity, and bestowed on him religious and
literary honours; and it was necessary, for the sake of proving his
virtues and purifying his soul, to visit him with the misfortunes
belonging to the age in which he lived, proportionate to the greatness
of his gifts." Sad as it is to reflect on an age and country in which
virtues so exemplary, and talents so exalted, met with unmerited
persecution, we are almost glad to find that one of the pillars of the
very institutions that exercised such barbarous sway, was visited by its
cruelty and injustice, to prove that no obedience and no excellence
could shelter even the submissive slaves of despotism from its tyranny.
Luis de Leon had indeed a soul at once above submission and suffering.
He bowed before a higher than earthly power, and was exalted above
persecution through his very humility--a proud humility, mixed with a
consciousness of strength and worth. On his liberation from prison, and
restoration to his professor's chair, all Salamanca flocked to hear his
first lecture, drawn thither by reverence and curiosity. Luis de Leon
appeared serene and cheerful, and commenced as if nothing had happened;
nor alluded to the long interval, filled with such misery, that had
intervened since his last lecture, beginning thus:--"We said yesterday
that he had a willow for his symbol, and at its foot a hatchet, with
this inscription, 'Through injury and death.' Nobleness, virtue, and
generosity spring up under the very attacks of adversity and
persecution. A willow the more it is cut, so much the more vigorously
does it throw out its shoots; and for this cause has it its name
(_salix_) from the vigour with which it sprouts, and the swiftness of
its growth."[25] And thus he adopted for his emblem, a pruned tree with
the knife at its foot, and the motto "_Ab ipso ferro._"
As a theologian, his works are held in high repute. It is to his praise
that, though austere and regular as a monk, he yet studied the liberal
arts with assiduity and success. He was well versed in Hebrew, Greek,
and Latin, besides being entire master of his native Castilian. His
poetry is held in great estimation: the purity and elegance of his style
are unsurpassed. Those Spaniards, who are addicted to the tinsel of
versification, accuse him of want of loftiness; but nothing can exceed
the harmony and flow of his verse, the grace and propriety of his ideas,
and the truth and simplicity--the extreme ease and animation, of his
style. It is unornamented--but for that very reason, more purely poetic.
The most perfect of his compositions is his "Ode to Tranquil Life," in
which he dwells with brooding, earnest delight on all the objects, and
all the reveries that bless a man, content in solitude. His religious
poetry comes less home to our hearts: it is so entirely catholic, but
all is marked by enthusiasm and sincerity.
As a translator, he holds a high place; though he may be said rather to
paraphrase than translate his models. He thus rendered into Spanish many
of the odes of Horace, and various others selected from Pindar,
Tibullus, and Theocritus. He translated all the Eclogues of Virgil, and
the first book of his Georgies. He tells us, that he endeavoured to make
the ancient poets speak as they would have expressed themselves, had
they been born in his own age, in Castile, and had written in Castilian.
In an inferior poet this attempt had been indiscreet and rash, but Luis
de Leon was so much master of style and harmony, that it is impossible
to regret the new costume with which he invests our old favourites. He
is chiefly blamed because the beauty of his paraphrases is so great: and
they have taken such hold of Spanish readers, that they preclude all
future attempts at more literal translation. This is of slight import.
If the poems he gives us in Castilian are in themselves beautiful, the
Spanish reader must be satisfied. A vigorous desire to have a perfect
understanding of the originals ought to lead to the study of them in
their native language--the only way really to attain it, and, to a
Castilian, not a difficult one.