There was crying in Granada as the sun was going down,
Some calling on the Trinity, some calling on Mahoun;
Here passed away the Koran, there in the Cross was borne,
And here was heard the Christian bell, and there the Moorish horn.
In this vivid verse, the first two lines of which seem to me especially
successful, Lockhart, with a stroke or two of his pen, provides us
with a moving sketch of the confusion and turmoil attending the Moorish
flight from Granada, the last stronghold of the Moors in Spain, which
fell to the victorious arms of Ferdinand and Isabella on the 6th of
January, 1492, the year of the discovery of America. The remainder of
the ballad is no better than Lorenzo de Sepúlveda's rather unmusical
original. It is pity that a ballad beginning with such a spirited
couplet should be lost in the shallows and the miseries of such
stuff as:
"Unhappy King, whose craven soul can brook" (she 'gan reply)
"To leave behind Granada--who hast not heart to die--
Now for the love I bore thy youth thee gladly could I slay,
For what is life to leave when such a crown is cast away?"
Here the spirit of the metre has deserted the body of the verse,
which is now merely galvanized into life by an artificial current
of pedantry. The striking inequalities in the work of Lockhart are
surely eloquent of the tragedy of the half-talent.
Don Alonzo de Aguilar
Upon the fall of Granada the Catholic zeal of Ferdinand and Isabella
insisted upon the conversion of the Moors of that province. Most of the
defeated pagans concurred, outwardly at least, with the royal decree,
but in the Sierra of Alpuxarra there remained a leaven of the infidel
blood who refused baptism at the hands of the priests who were sent
to seal them of the faith. A royal order at length went forth to carry
out the ceremony by force of arms. For a season the Moors resisted with
the stubborn courage of their race, but at length they were subdued and
almost extirpated. But their ruin was not accomplished without severe
losses on the side of their would-be proselytizers, one of the most
notable of whom was Don Alonzo de Aguilar, brother of that Gonzalvo
Hernández de Cordova of Aguilar who gained widespread renown as 'the
Great Captain.' But the ballad does not seem to square with the facts
of history. Indeed it places Aguilar's death before the surrender
of Granada, whereas in reality it took place as late as 1501. Mr
Fitzmaurice Kelly thinks that "this points to the conclusion that
the romance was not written till long after the event, when the exact
details had been forgotten." But why blame an entire people for what
may have been a lapsus memoriæ on the part of a single balladeer? On
the other hand, Mr Kelly might justly ask one to indicate any ballad
springing from folk-sources the details of which square with the
circumstances as known to history or ascertained by research.
Lockhart, as usual upon first mounting his destrier, dashes the spurs
in its sides with a flourish:
Fernando, King of Arragon, before Granada lies,
With dukes and barons many a one, and champions of emprise;
With all the captains of Castile that serve his lady's crown,
He drives Boabdil from his gates, and plucks the crescent down.
So far good. Now for the conclusion:
The Moorish maidens, while she spoke, around her silence kept,
But her master dragged the dame away--then loud and long they wept:
They wash'd the blood, with many a tear, from dint of dart
and arrow,
And buried him near the waters clear of the bank of Alpuxarra.
It will not serve to point out that this is just what one might
expect in a ballad, for it bears not the shadow of resemblance to
the original.
Que de chiquito en la cuna
A sus pechos le criara.
A las palabras que dice,
Cualquiera Mora lloraba:
"Don Alonso, Don Alonso,
Dios perdone la tu alma,
Pues te mataron los Moros,
Los Moros de el Alpujarra."
I am sometimes tempted to think that the weary giant at Abbotsford
wrote all Lockhart's first verses, as one heads a copy-book for
a child!
Lockhart omits from his collection the very fine ballad beginning:
Río verde, Río verde,
Tinto vas en sangre viva;
Entre tí y Sierra Bermeja
Murió gran caballería
Murieron duques y condes,
Señores de gran valía;
Allí muriera Urdiales,
Hombre de valor y estima,
which was rather inaccurately rendered by Bishop Percy as follows:
Gentle river, gentle river,
Lo, thy streams are stained with gore;
Many a brave and noble captain
Floats along thy willow'd shore.
All beside thy limpid waters,
All beside thy sands so bright,
Moorish chiefs and Christian warriors
Joined in fierce and mortal fight.
Perhaps a more accurate though less finished rendering of these
opening verses might be:
Emerald river, emerald river,
Stained with slaughter's evil cheer,
'Twixt Bermeja and thy meadows
Perished many a cavalier.
Duke and count and valiant esquire
Fell upon thy fatal shore;
There died noble Urdiales
Who the stainless title bore.
I have translated these two verses chiefly for the purpose of showing
how very freely those English authors who have attempted to render
verse from the Castilian have dealt with the originals. And, as I have
said before, I suspect that the principal reason for this looseness
is a lack of idiomatic grasp. Indeed, it is obvious from most English
translations that the sense of the original has been gathered rather
than fully apprehended.
We can pass over "The Departure of King Sebastian," with its daring
rhythm of
It was a Lusitanian lady, and she was lofty in degree,
recalling in some measure the irregular lilt of the old Scots ballads,
and enter the division entitled by Lockhart "Moorish Ballads."
Moorish Ballads
We have already discussed the question of the 'Moorishness' (or
otherwise) of these ballads. Let us now discuss them as ballads
and as nothing more. The first, "The Bull-fight of Ganzul," is not
only a famous piece, but in translating it Lockhart has risen to the
occasion. It describes the dexterity of Ganzul, a noble Moor, in the
bull-ring, and is certainly not without its quota of Moresque colour.
King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound,
He hath summoned all the Moorish lords, from the hills and
plains around,
From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil,
They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel.
..............................................................
Eight Moorish lords of valour tried, with stalwart arm and true
The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through.
The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill all with
hope and trust--
Yet ere high in heaven appears the sun they all have bit the dust.
Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour;
Make room, make room for Ganzul, throw wide, throw wide the door--
Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still, more loudly strike the drum,
The Alcaydé of Agalva to fight the bull has come.
He defeats the bulls sent against him with the exception of one
Harpado, a furious yet sagacious beast. The quatrain which describes
him is well forged:
Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil,
And the dim hide glows as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil.
His eyes are jet and they are set in crystal rings of snow;
But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe.
But it is not surpassingly like the original:
Vayo en color encendido,
Y los ojos como brasa,
Arrugada frente y cuello,
La frente vellosa y ancha.
But proud as is Harpado, he must give way to the knightly Moor,
regarding whom many other tales are told, especially with reference
to his love affairs with a fair lady of his own race.
The Zegris' Bride
"The Zegris' Bride" tells in ballad form of the fierce feud between
the two Moorish parties in Granada, the Zegris and the Abencerrages,
the Montagues and Capulets of the last of the Moorish strongholds,
when factious strife certainly accelerated the fall of their city. The
ballad is well turned, and attractive in rhythm:
Of all the blood of Zegri, the chief is Lisaro,
To wield rejon like him is none, or javelin to throw;
From the place of his dominion, he ere the dawn doth go,
From Alcala de Henares, he rides in weeds of woe.
Such a phrase as "the place of his dominion" is not suited to ballad
composition, nor is the four-line rhyming grateful to the ear,
although the measure is all that could be desired. Once more I think
I see the hand of Scott in this translation, his 'equestrian' rhythm,
his fondness for introducing words intended to assist local colour, as
Of gold-wrought robe or turban--nor jewelled tahali,
which he must, perforce, explain in a note as 'scimitar.' The young
Zegri, we are told, is attired for action, not for the cavalcade or
procession. Indeed, his armour and even his horse are camouflaged to
assist his passage through an enemy's country without observation.
The belt is black, the hilt is dim, but the sheathed blade
is bright;
They have housen'd his barb in a murky garb, but yet her hoofs
are light.
And again:
In darkness and in swiftness rides every armed knight,
The foam on the rein ye may see it plain, but nothing else is white.
Lisaro wears on his bonnet a sprig of bay given him by Zayda, his lady.
And ever as they rode, he looked upon his lady's boon.
"God knows," quoth he, "what fate may be--I may be slaughtered
soon."
But he lives to win his bride, as we are told in the curt final verse:
Young Lisaro was musing so, when onwards on the path
He well could see them riding slow; then prick'd he in his wrath.
The raging sire, the kinsmen of Zayda's hateful house,
Fought well that day, yet in the fray the Zegri won his spouse.
The Bridal of Andella
"The Bridal of Andella" is brilliant with Oriental colouring:
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.
From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing,
And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly
blowing,
And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere,
And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly
in the air:
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.
Skilful weaving this. The lady would not look, however, because
Andella, who was about to wed another, had been false to her. Ballad
literature is scarcely a record of human constancy. In Ballad-land the
percentage of faithless swains, black or white, clown or knight, is
a high one. Was the law regarding breach of promise first formulated
by a student of ballad lore, I wonder? Whatever else it may have
effected, it seems to have put an end to ballad-writing, perhaps
because it ended the conditions and circumstances which went to the
making of balladeering.
Zara's Earrings
The intriguing ballad of "Zara's Earrings" bears upon it the stamp of
natural folk-song. It may come from a Moorish original, but appearances
are often deceptive. In any case it is worth quoting in part.
"My earrings, my earrings, they've dropt into the well,
And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell."
'Twas thus Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter.
"The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold, blue water.
To me did Muça give them when he spake his sad farewell,
And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell."
The lady resolves in the end to do the best thing she can--that is,
to tell the truth. There is a sequence of romances about this Muça,
who seems to have been a Saracen of worth, and the same must be
remarked about Celin or Selim, his successor in the collections of
Lockhart and Depping. Had Lockhart been well advised, he would have
substituted the ringing and patriotic "Las soberbias torres mira,"
which is certainly difficult of translation, for the very sombre
"Lamentation for the Death of Celin," fine though it is. Anything in
the nature of a ceremony or a procession seems to have attracted him
like a child. But let us have a verse of the first poem. Even should
we not know Spanish its music could not fail to haunt and hold us.
Las soberbias torres mira
Y los lejos las almenas
De su patria dulce y cara
Celin, que el rey le destierra;
Y perdida la esperanza
De jamás volver a vella
Con suspiros tristes dice:
"Del cielo luciente estrella,
Granada bella,
Mi llanto escucha, y duélate mi pena!"
Romantic Ballads
We now come to consider the romantic ballads, the third and last
section of Lockhart's collection. "The Moor Calaynos" we have already
described, and the same applies to "Gayferos" and "Melisendra,"
its sequel. The ballad which follows these, "Lady Alda's Dream,"
is alluded to by Lockhart as "one of the most admired of all the
Spanish ballads." It is no favourite of mine. I may judge it wrongly,
but it seems to me inferior, and I much prefer the stirring "Admiral
Guarinos," which treads upon its halting heels with all the impatience
of a warlike rhythm to spur it on.
Guarinos was admiral to King Charlemagne. In my boyhood days the
condition of the British Navy was a newspaper topic of almost constant
recurrence, and I was wont to speculate upon the awful inefficiency
which must have crept into the Frankish fleet during the enforced
absence of its chief in the country of the Moors, for Guarinos was
captured by the Saracens at Roncesvalles. His captor, King Marlotes,
treated him in a princely manner, but pressed him to become a convert
to Islam, promising to give him his two daughters in marriage did
he consent to the proposal. But the Admiral was adamant and refused
to be bribed or coaxed into the acceptance of the faith of Mohammed
and Termagaunt. Working himself up into one of those passions which
seem to be the especial privilege of Oriental potentates, Marlotes
commanded that Guarinos should be incarcerated in the lowest dungeon
in his castle keep.
It was the Moorish custom to hale captives to the light of day three
times in every year for the popular edification and amusement. On
one of these occasions, the Feast of St John, the King raised a
high target beneath which the Moorish knights rode in an attempt to
pierce it with their spears. But so lofty was it that none of them
might succeed in the task, and the King, annoyed at their want of
skill, refused to permit the banquet to commence until the target was
transfixed. Guarinos boasted that he could accomplish the feat. The
royal permission was accorded him to try, and his grey charger and
the armour he had not worn for seven long years were brought to him.
They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuisses well they've
clasp'd,
And they've barred the helm on his visage pale, and his hand the
lance hath grasped,
And they have caught the old grey horse, the horse he loved of yore,
And he stands pawing at the gate--caparisoned once more.
Guarinos whispered in the old horse's ear, and it recalled the voice
of its master.
Oh! lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle-tree,
And slowly riding down made halt before Marlotes' knee;
Again the heathen laughed aloud--"All hail, sir knight," quoth he,
"Now do thy best, thou champion proud. Thy blood I look to see."
With that Guarinos, lance in rest, against the scoffer rode,
Pierced at one thrust his envious breast, and down his turban trode.
Now ride, now ride, Guarinos--nor lance nor rowel spare--
Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life--the land of France lies there!
There would seem to be some connexion between this ballad and the
French romance of "Ogier the Dane," and Erman tells us that it was
sung in Russian in Siberia as late as 1828.
"The Lady of the Tree" tells how a princess was stolen by the fairies,
and how a knight to whom she appealed for rescue turned a deaf ear
to her request and was afterward scorned by her when she returned
to her rightful station. "The False Queen" is a mere fragment, but
"The Avenging Childe" is both complete and vivid. Mr Fitzmaurice
Kelly declares that Gibson's version of this ballad is superior to
that of Lockhart. Let us compare a verse of both.
Avoid that knife in battle strife, that weapon short and thin;
The dragon's gore hath bath'd it o'er, seven times 'twas steeped
therein;
Seven times the smith hath proved its pith, it cuts a coulter
through--
In France the blade was fashioned, from Spain the shaft it drew.
Gibson renders this:
'Tis a right good spear with a point so sharp, the toughest
plough-share might pierce.
For seven times o'er it was tempered fine in the blood of a
dragon fierce,
And seven times o'er it was whetted keen, till it shone with a
deadly glance,
For its steel was wrought in the finest forge, in the realm of
mighty France.
My preference is for Lockhart's rendering. Gibson's first line is
extraordinarily clumsy and cacophonous, and the ugly inversions in
the second line could scarcely be tolerated outside the boundaries of
the nursery. The remaining lines are well enough, but no improvement,
I think, upon those of Lockhart, only the whole has a better swing,
a livelier lilt, even if in the first line this is roughened by the
crudity occasioned by the juxtaposition of so many sibilants and
explosives. The Avenging Childe duly accounts for his enemy.
Right soon that knife hath quenched his life--the head is
sundered sheer,
Then gladsome smiled the Avenging Childe, and fix'd it on his
spear.
Pity it is that a sense of humour seldom chimes with a sense of the
romantic. An 'avenging childe' who could smile gladly when fixing the
head of a foe on his spear seems more fitted for a Borstal institution
than for the silken atmosphere of Courts. Yet he married the Infanta,
and was knighted and honoured by the King. Possibly they found in
him a kindred soul, if all we read in romance regarding kings and
infantas be true.
Count Arnaldos
This very beautiful ballad, which is given in the Cancionero of
Antwerp (1555), tells how Count Arnaldos, wandering by the seashore
one morning, hears the mystic song of a sailor in a passing galley.
Heart may beat and eye may glisten,
Faith is strong and Hope is free,
But mortal ear no more may listen
To the song that rules the sea.
When the grey-hair'd sailor chaunted,
Every wind was hushed to sleep--
Like a virgin's bosom panted
All the wide reposing deep.
Bright in beauty rose the star-fish
From her green cave down below,
Right above the eagle poised him--
Holy music charmed them so.
"For the sake of God, our Maker"
(Count Arnaldos' cry was strong),
"Old man, let me be partaker
In the secret of thy song."
"Count Arnaldos! Count Arnaldos!
Hearts I read and thoughts I know--
Wouldst thou learn the ocean secret
In our galley thou must go."
Longfellow wrote a rather anæmic ballad, "The Seaside and the
Fireside," on the Arnaldos episode, incorporating several of the
lines. Some years ago I published an adaptation of it, altering the
environment and changing the metre, and this the reader may perhaps be
complacent enough to accept as an illustration of the manner in which
"this sort of thing is done."
When the fleet ships stand inward to the shore
As a white tempest, 'tis then I implore
The gods not treasure of red spice to spill
Upon the marble quays beneath the hill,
Nor scintillant dust from far Arabian streams,
Nor weaves more brilliant than the hue of dreams,
Nor feathers, pearls, or such things as belong
To Eastern waters, but a wondrous song
To send perchance upon a seaman's lips
That once I heard when the departing ships
Swept from the arms of sea-bound Syracuse.
I know my evening vigil is in vain,
That never shall I hear that song again.
Some splendid sea-spell in the sailor's soul,
Swelling his heart, and bursting all control,
Some white sea-spirit chanting from his mouth
Sang the strange colours of a distant south.
Music deep-drowned within the siren sea
Art thou beyond the call of ecstasy?
The "Song for the Morning of the Day of St John the Baptist" has little
to do with ballad, so we may pass it by, as we may do the "Julian"
fragment, one of the Gayferos group. "The Song of the Galley," which
Mr Kelly regards as "too dulcet," seems to me poorly rendered:
Ye galleys fairly built,
Like castles on the sea,
Oh, great will be your guilt
If ye bring him not to me!
This seems to me facility run mad, and great would be my guilt did I
quote more. To the very fine "Wandering Knight's Song" I have already
made allusion. "Minguillo" enshrines a motif of almost world-wide
usage:
Since for kissing thee, Minguillo,
My mother scolds me all the day,
Let me have it quickly, darling;
Give me back my kiss, I pray.
A conceit current from Caithness to Capo d'Istria. "Serenade," from
the Romancero General of 1604, is certainly not peasant work. For
his translation of this Lockhart deserves high praise. Its music is
reminiscent of Shelley's "Skylark," though of course it lacks the
almost intolerable keenness of that song most magical.
All the stars are glowing
In the gorgeous sky,
In the stream scarce flowing
Mimic lustres lie:
Blow, gentle, gentle breeze,
But bring no cloud to hide
Their dear resplendencies;
Nor chase from Zara's side
Dreams bright and pure as these.
It is inspired by a chaste and natural music all its own, beyond
the conscious artistry of the material man. To do Lockhart justice,
he loved the art of letters for itself alone. His was that natural
modesty which is content to sing in the shadow; nor can one recall the
memory of that fine and upright spirit, his labour and his sacrifice,
without praise and gratitude gladly bestowed. In this poem I seem to
see the real Lockhart--a man with the heart of a child.
"Minguela's Chiding" tells of the woe of a rustic maid who loved to
her destruction. "The Captive Knight and the Blackbird" is the prison
plaint of a warrior who knows not how the seasons pass, or the moons
wax and wane:
Woe dwells with me in spite of thee, thou gladsome month of May;
I cannot see what stars there be, I know not night from day.
There was a bird whose voice I heard, oh, sweet my small bird sung,
I heard its tune when night was gone, and up the morning sprung.
Some cruel hand had slain the blackbird which was wont to delight the
poor prisoner's heart. But the King heard his plaint while passing
beneath his dungeon window, and set him free.
We may pass over the rather sepulchral "Valladolid," which tells of
the visit of a knight to the tomb of his lady-love in that city. "The
Ill-Married Lady" recounts the grief of a dame whose husband is
faithless to her, and who consoles herself with another cavalier. They
are surprised by her lord, and she artlessly asks: "Must I, must I die
to-day?" and requests to be buried in the orange garden. The romance
does not tell us if her last wishes were complied with, or even if her
life was forfeited, but to a Spanish public of the seventeenth century
it was probably a supererogation even to allude to such a sequel.
"Dragut" tells the story of a famous corsair whose ship was sunk by
a vessel belonging to the Knights of Malta. Dragut saved himself by
swimming ashore, but the Christian captives with whom his barque was
laden were all drowned save one, to whom the Maltese threw a rope.
It was a Spanish knight, who had long been in Algiers,
From ladies high descended and noble cavaliers,
But forced for a season a false Moor's slave to be,
Upon the shore his gardener, and his galley-slave at sea.
We have already recounted the tale of the Count Alarcos, and with it
Lockhart's collection comes to an end.
But it is not in the pages of Lockhart alone that we should look
for good translations of the Spanish romanceros. John Bowring in
his Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain (1824) has undoubtedly done
much to render some of the lesser lyrics of Castilian balladeers into
successful English verse. His translation of the celebrated "Fonte
Frida" is, perhaps, the best version of that much-discussed poem to
be met with in our language. It is clear that Ticknor's rendition
of this piece is practically a paraphrase of Bowring's translation,
of which I give the first two verses:
Fount of freshness, fount of freshness,
Fount of freshness and of love,
Where the little birds of spring-time
Seek for comfort as they rove;
All except the widow'd turtle,
Widow'd, sorrowing turtle-dove.
There the nightingale, the traitor,
Lingered on his giddy way;
And these words of hidden treachery
To the dove I heard him say:
"I will be thy servant, lady,
I will ne'er thy love betray."
But no English translation, however fine, can possibly do justice to
this beautiful lyric:
Fonte frida, fonte frida,
Fonte frida, y con amor,
Do todas las avezicas
Van tomar consolacion,
Sino es la tortolica
Que esta viuda y con dolor,
Por ay fue a passar
El traydor del ruyseñor
Las palabras que el dezia
Llenas son de traicion:
"Si tu quisiesses, Señora,
Yo seria tu servidor."
Ticknor speaks truly when he says of the Spanish ballads: "To feel
their true value and power we must read large numbers of them, and read
them, too, in their native language; for there is a winning freshness
in the originals, as they lie embedded in the old romanceros, that
escapes in translations, however free, or however strict."
The romancero entitled "Sale la estrella de Venus" recounts a tragic
story. A Moorish warrior, flying from the city of Sidonia because
of the cruelty of his lady, who had taunted him with poverty and had
bestowed her hand upon another, makes the rocks and hills re-echo with
his plaints. He pronounces a terrible and bitter curse upon the proud
and wanton maiden who has spurned him. Maddened, he seeks the palace
of the Alcalde to whom his faithless fair one is to be espoused that
night. The building is bright with torches and gay with song.
And the crowds make way before him
While he pays his courtesies.
Ha! his bloody lance has traversed
The Alcalde's fluttering breast,
And his life-blood now is flowing,
Flowing through his purple vest.
O what horror! What confusion,
Desolation and dismay!
While the stern, unnoticed murderer,
To Medina takes his way.
We have examined every type of Spanish ballad poetry. The general
note struck, we will observe, is a grave and romantic one, the fruit
of the thoughts of a proud and imaginative people. Nor can we fail
to notice the national note which rings through these poems, the
racial individuality which informs them. "Poor Spain!" How often do
we hear the expression employed by men of Anglo-Saxon race! Let these
undeceive themselves. What can material poverty signify to a people
dowered with such treasures of the imagination? Poor Spain! Nay,
opulent Spain; treasure-house of the minted coin of story, of the
priceless jewels of romance, of drama, and of song!