Pere Bouhours observes, that the Spanish poets display an extravagant
imagination, which is by no means destitute of _esprit_--shall we say
_wit_? but which evinces little taste or judgment.
Their verses are much in the style of our Cowley--trivial points,
monstrous metaphors, and quaint conceits. It is evident that the Spanish
poets imported this taste from the time of Marino in Italy; but the
warmth of the Spanish climate appears to have redoubled it, and to have
blown the kindled sparks of chimerical fancy to the heat of a Vulcanian
forge.
Lopez de Vega, in describing an afflicted shepherdess, in one of his
pastorals, who is represented weeping near the sea-side, says, "That the
sea joyfully advances to gather her tears; and that, having enclosed
them in shells, it converts them into pearls."
"Y el mar como imbidioso
A tierra por las lagrimas salia,
Y alegre de cogerlas
Las guarda en conchas, y convierte en perlas."
Villegas addresses a stream--"Thou who runnest over sands of gold, with
feet of silver," more elegant than our Shakspeare's--"Thy silver skin
laced with thy golden blood," which possibly he may not have written.
Villegas monstrously exclaims, "Touch my breast, if you doubt the power
of Lydia's eyes--you will find it turned to ashes." Again--"Thou art so
great that thou canst only imitate thyself with thy own greatness;" much
like our "None but himself can be his parallel."
Gongora, whom the Spaniards once greatly admired, and distinguished by
the epithet of _The Wonderful_, abounds with these conceits.
He imagines that a nightingale, who enchantingly varied her notes, and
sang in different manners, had a hundred thousand other nightingales in
her breast, which alternately sang through her throat--
"Con diferancia tal, con gracia tanta,
A quel ruysenor llora, que sospecho
Que tiene otros cien mil dentro del pecho,
Que alterno su dolor por su garganta."
Of a young and beautiful lady he says, that she has but a few _years_ of
life, but many _ages_ of beauty.
"Muchos siglos de hermosura
En pocos anos de edad."
Many ages of beauty is a false thought, for beauty becomes not more
beautiful from its age; it would be only a superannuated beauty. A face
of two or three ages old could have but few charms.
In one of his odes he addresses the River of Madrid by the title of the
_Duke of Streams_, and the _Viscount of Rivers_--
"Mançanares, Mançanares,
Os que en todo el aguatismo,
Estois _Duque_ de Arroyos,
Y _Visconde_ de los Rios."
He did not venture to call it a _Spanish Grandee_, for, in fact, it is
but a shallow and dirty stream; and as Quevedo wittily informs us,
"_Mançanares_ is reduced, during the summer season, to the melancholy
condition of the wicked rich man, who asks for water in the depths of
hell." Though so small, this stream in the time of a flood spreads
itself over the neighbouring fields; for this reason Philip the Second
built a bridge eleven hundred feet long!--A Spaniard passing it one day,
when it was perfectly dry, observing this superb bridge, archly
remarked, "That it would be proper that the bridge should be sold to
purchase water."--_Es menester, vender la puente, par comprar agua._
The following elegant translation of a Spanish madrigal of the kind here
criticised I found in a newspaper, but it is evidently by a master-hand.
On the green margin of the land,
Where Guadalhorce winds his way,
My lady lay:
With golden key Sleep's gentle hand
Had closed her eyes so bright--
Her eyes, two suns of light--
And bade his balmy dews
Her rosy cheeks suffuse.
The River God in slumber saw her laid:
He raised his dripping head,
With weeds o'erspread,
Clad in his wat'ry robes approach'd the maid,
And with cold kiss, like death,
Drank the rich perfume of the maiden's breath.
The maiden felt that icy kiss:
_Her suns unclosed, their flame_
Full and unclouded on th' intruder came.
Amazed th' intruder felt
_His frothy body melt
And heard the radiance on his bosom hiss_;
And, forced in blind confusion to retire,
_Leapt in the water to escape the fire_.