2.

Let now thy pride and coyness end, since ended is the strength

Of him on whom they were discharged, be satisfied at length

That Love, since he desires that all his votaries should enjoy

Their life, and act as safety bids, is angry with the coy;

Time must pass on, remorse will come for treatment so severe,

Anguish and shame remain for thee, I know it and I fear;

For though I sorrow for myself, since thou must bear a part

For thy disdains, these sorrows pierce more sensibly my heart.

3.

Thus go my hours increasing still materials for regret,

Which, ev'n as though my bitter cup were not o'erflowing yet,

In nothing serves me, but to show as in a lucid glass,

The ruined state in which I stand--the perils that I pass.

Heaven grant that this may profit me to think of some remead,

As I behold thee ever bent to break the bruised reed;

Here am I pointing out to thee the symptoms of my death,

Whilst like the fatal bird thou sitt'st, and steal'st away my

breath!

4.

If paleness past, unconscious sighs breath'd forth for thy stern

sake,

And the long silence I have kept, have had no power to wake

In thee one touch of tenderness, not ev'n enough to raise

The recollected sense that I had ever met thy gaze,

Let my deep sufferings now at length from this time forth suffice,

Making me understand that 'twas my contrast in thine eyes,

My sickness rather than thy scorn that kept my suit at bay,

So will my grief become my good, and sickness prove my stay.

5.

ODE! thou hast nothing more to do with me in bale or bliss,

Treat me as one unknown, with her it will not be amiss;

If fearful of offending me, oh seek not to persuade

By citing more my griefs, by them was all this mischief made.

III. TO HIS LADY.

1.

Given up to my fate, shunning notice, I go

To the woods that first offer their glooms to my eye;

Scattering through them a thousand lamentings of woe

To the wind, on whose wings they but wander to die.

Though thine ear they deserve not, I cannot but sigh

To behold them go ruined the very same way

They would take if redressed, to me back they must fly,

Where, alas, they for ever and ever will stay!

2.

But what shall I do, Lady? where for relief

Can I turn, if thou fail'st my kind angel to be,

Or whose aid will avail me in seasons of grief,

If my mournful complaints find not pity in thee?

Thou alone hold'st my soul so enchanted--I know

From my plaints that thou always turn'st smiling away,

Yet still I adore and plain to thee, as though

Thou would'st really care aught if I perished to-day.

3.

I appeal to the trees that o'ershadow the dell;

They have heard what from thee I conceal, and their tongue,

If it can give account of distraction, will tell

What I murmured their green summer branches among.

But who can speak calmly my grief? let them then

Wrong me not, fear no longer my speech shall repress;

Who from year to year's end would consent to complain,

Without hope or expectance of any redress?

4.

But redress is refused with such cruel commands,

As were never imposed upon any before,

For if others have ceased setting forth their demands,

Weeping only in secret the evils they bore,

It will hardly have been without some slight relief

To their pangs, but with me pain so melts into pain,

That my fancy ev'n fails to set bounds to my grief,

So I still suffer that which I cannot explain.

5.

If e'er through my long brief of wrongs and defeats,

I at any time chance my regards to extend,

It is only by dealing in brilliant deceits,

That my still cherished cause I can hope to defend.

But thy quick expositions--one dim frown of pride,

One warm blush of resentment cuts short my defence,

And, outpleaded, I turn from thy beauty to chide,

If not curse both my want of perception and sense.

6.

Yet what harm have I done thee? what wrong? not a shade!

Save that--Anger herself might forgive me the sin--

I have wished myself ruined, if only, stern maid,

To take vengeance on thee, tyrannising within.

SONG of sorrow, go forth! I've already said more

Than they charged me, yet less than I trusted to say;

Let them ask me no further, lest further the store

Of my Lady's defects in my wrath I betray.

IV. WRITTEN IN EXILE.

1.

With the mild sound of clear swift waves the Danube's arms of foam

Circle a verdant isle which Peace has made her chosen home;

Where the fond poet might repair from weariness and strife,

And in the sunshine of sweet song consume his happy life.

Here evermore the smiling Spring goes scattering odorous flowers,

And nightingales and turtle-doves in depth of myrtle bowers,

Turn disappointment into hope, turn sadness to delight,

With magic of their fond laments, which cease not day nor night.

2.

Here am I placed, or sooth to say, alone, 'neath foreign skies

Forced in arrest, and easy 'tis in such a paradise

To force a meditative man, whose own desires would doom

Himself with pleasure to a world all redolence and bloom.

One thought alone distresses me, if I whilst banished sink

'Midst such misfortunes to the grave, lest haply they should think

It was my complicated ills that caused my death, when I

Know well that if I die 'twill be because I wish to die.

3.

My person's in the power and hands of him who can require,

And at his sovereign pleasure do what else he may desire,

But he shall ne'er have power to force my discontents to stay,

Whilst nothing more of me than this is subject to his sway.

When now the' inevitable doom shall come, my fatal hour,

And find me in the self-same place, the prisoner of his power,

Another thing more keen than death it is will deal the blow,

As whosoever has endured the like too well must know.

4.

Idle it were at greater length on such a theme to speak,

Since my necessity is strong, and hopeless all I seek,

Since in the course of one short hour was all this ruin sent,

Since upon that the tears and toils of my whole life were spent.

And at the finish of a course like this, shall they presume

To scare me? let them know that now I cannot face my doom

But without dread, that Fortune when she caused to disappear

In one day all my happiness, grudged ev'n to leave me fear.

5.

River divine, rich Danube! thou the bountiful and strong,

That through fierce nations roll'st thy waves rejoicingly along,

Since only but by rushing through thy drowning billows deep,

These scrolls can hence escape to tell the noble words I weep,

If wrecked in undeciphered loss on some far foreign land,

They should by any chance be found upon thy desert sand,

Since they upon thy willowed shore must drift, where'er they err,

Their relics let the kind blue waves with murmured hymns inter.

6.

Ode of my melancholy hours! last infant of my lyre!

Although in booming waves it be thy fortune to expire,

Grieve not, since I, howe'er myself from holy rites debarred,

Have seen to all that touches thee with catholic regard.

Less, less had been thy life if thou hadst been but ranked among

Those without record that have risen and died upon my tongue;

Whose utter want of sympathy and haughtiness austere

Has been the cause of this, from me thou very soon shalt hear!

V. THE PROGRESS OF PASSION FOR HIS LADY.

1.

Once more from the dark ivies my proud harp!

I wish the sharpness of my ills to be

Shown in thy sounds, as they have been shown sharp

In their effects; I must bewail to thee

The occasions of my grief, the world shall know

Wherefore I perish, I at least will die

Confessed, not without shrift:

For by the tresses I am dragged along

By an antagonist so wild and strong,

That o'er sharp rocks and brambles, staining so

The pathway with my blood, it rushes by,

Than the swift-footed winds themselves more swift;

And to torment me for a longer space,

It sometimes paces gently over flowers,

Sweet as the morning, where I lose all trace

Of former pain, and rest luxurious hours;

But brief the respite! in this blissful case

Soon as it sees me, with collected powers,

With a new wildness, with a fury new,

It turns its rugged road to repursue.

2.

Not by my own neglect into such harm

Fell I at first, 'twas destiny that bore,

And gave me up to the tormenting charm,

For both my reason and my judgment swore

To guard me as in bygone years they well

Had guarded me in seasons of alarm;

But when past perils they compared with those

They saw advancing, neither could they tell

Or what to make of such unusual foes,

How to engage with them, or how repel;

But stared to see the force with which they came,

Till, spurred on by pure shame,

With a slow pace and with a timid eye,

At length my Reason issued on the way,

And more and more as the fleet foe drew nigh,

The more did aggravating doubt display

My life in peril; dreading lest the die

Of that day's battle should be lost, dismay

Made the hot blood boll in my veins, until,

Reclaimed, it sank into as cold a chill.

3.

I stood spectator of their chivalry;

Fighting in my defence, my Reason tired

And faint from thousand wounds became, and I,

Unconscious what the insidious thought inspired,

Was wishing my mailed Advocate to quit

The hopeless quarrel,--never in my life

Was what I wished fulfilled with so much ease,

For, kneeling down, at once she closed the strife,

And to the Lady did her sword submit,

Consenting she should have me for her slave,

As Victory urged, to slaughter or to save,

Whichever most might please.

Then, then indeed I felt my spirit rise,

That such unreasonable conditions e'er

Had been agreed to; anger, shame, surprise,

At once possessed me, fruitless as they were;

Then followed grief to know the treaty done,

And see my kingdom in the hands of one

Who gives me life and death each day, and this

Is the most moderate of her tyrannies.

4.

Her eyes, whose lustre could irradiate well

The raven night, and dim the mid-day sun,

Changed me at once by some emphatic spell

From what I was--I gazed, and it was done.

Too finished fascination! glassed in mine,

The glory of her eyeballs did imprint

So bright a fire, that from its heat malign

My sickening soul acquired another tint.

The showers of tears I shed assisted more

This transformation; broken up, I found,

Was my past peace and freedom, in the core

Of my fond heart, an all-luxuriant ground,

The plant whereof I perish struck its root

Deep as its head extended high, and dense

As were its melancholy boughs; the fruit

Which it has been my wont to gather thence,

Sour is a thousand times for one time sweet,

But ever poisonous to the lips that eat.

5.

Now, flying from myself as from a curse,

In search of her who shuns me as a foe,

I speed, which to one error adds a worse;

And in the midst of toil, fatigue, and woe,

Whilst the forged irons on my bound limbs ring,

Find myself singing as of old, but oh

How soon are checked the causeless songs I sing,

If in myself I lock my thoughts! for there

I view a field where nought but brambles spring,

And the black nightshade, garlanding despair.

Hope in the distance shows me, as she flies,

Her fluttering garments and light step, but ne'er

Her angel face,--tears rush into my eyes

At the delusion, nor can I forbear

To call her false as the mirage that kills

The thirsty pilgrim of the sandy waste,

When he beholds far-off, 'twixt seeming hills,

The stream he dies to taste;

With eager eye he marks its lucid face,

And listens, fancying that he heard it roar,

But when arrived in torment at the place,

Weeps to perceive it distant as before.

6.

Of golden locks was the rich tissue wove

Framed by my sympathy, wherein with shame

My struggling Reason was entrapped like Love

In the strong arms of Appetite, the fame

Whereof drew all Olympus to regard

The Fire-God's capture; but 'twere out of place

For me this capture to go gaze, debarred

Of that whereby to contemplate the case.

So circumstanced I find myself! the field

Of tournament is cleared, the foe descried,

Alarmed I stand, without or spear or shield,

Closed are the barriers, and escape denied.

Who at my story is not terrified!

Who could believe that I am fallen so low,

That to the grief I hurry from, my pride

Is oft-times found so little of a foe,

That at the moment when I might regain

A life of freedom, I caress my chain,

And curse the hours and moments lately lent

To freer thoughts, as mournfully mis-spent.

7.

This fancy is not always paramount,

For of a brain so wild the phantasies

Sleep not a moment; Grief at times will mount

The throne of Slavery, and her sceptre seize,

So that my fancy shrinks as from its place,

To shun the torture of its frightful face.

There is no part in me but frenzied is,

And wailed by me in turn; on my wild track,

Afresh protesting at the blind abyss,

I turn affrighted back.

Not urged by reason, not by judgment, this

Discretion of the mind is wholly lost;

All is become a barrenness or blot,

But this one grief, and ev'n the rising ghost

Of dead joy, gliding by, is heeded not;

I keep no chronicle of by-gone bliss,

But feel alone, within my heart and brain,

The fury and the force of present pain.

8.

In midst of all this agony and woe

A shade of good descends my wounds to heal;

Surely, I fancy, my beloved foe

Must feel some little part of what I feel.

So insupportable a toil weighs down

My weary soul, that did I not create

Some strong deceit, of power to ease the weight,

I must at once die--die without my crown

Of martyrdom, a registered renown,

Untalked of by the world, unheard, unviewed!

And thus from my most miserable estate

I draw a gleam of good.

But soon my fate this train of things reverses,

For if I ever from the storm find peace,

Peace nurtures fear, and fear my peace disperses,

Swift as a rainbow arched o'er raging seas;

Thus from the flowers which for a space console,

Springs up the serpent that devours my soul.

9.

Ode! if men, seeing thee, be seized with fright

At the caprice, inconstancy, and shock

Of these conflicting fancies of my brain,

Say that the cause thereof--tormenting pain,

Is stable, fixt, and changeless as a rock.

Say thou, that its fierce might

So storms my heart that it must yield, ere long,

Ev'n to a foe more terrible and strong;

To him, from whom all cross themselves--to save;

The Power whose home is in the lonely grave!

SONNETS, ETC.

[Illustration]

I.

When I sit down to contemplate my case,

And to review the stages of the way,

I find from where my steps went first astray,

They might have lost me in a darker maze:

But when these memories pass, around I gaze,

And wonder whence could come a doom so dark;

I know I die, and suffer more to mark

My care conclude with my concluding race.

Yes, die I will, and so my spirit free

From her who well will know to' undo and slay me

If so she wishes,--such her wish will be,

For since my own will does to death betray me,

Hers, which is less my friend, must compass too

My death--if not, what is it she will do?

II.

At length into thy hands I come--to die;

For sure I am that ev'n the poor relief

Of lightening with laments my weight of grief,

Is a desire thy rigour will deny.

How my life has so long been borne, or why

So guardedly sustained, I cannot tell,

Unless for proof how willingly and well

The sword will act that cuts so firm a tie.

My tears have fallen where barrenness and drought

Small fruit have yielded, let what I have wept

For thee suffice--their wasted springs have kept

Pace with my pining; but if still you crave

Tears, cruel Lady, be they henceforth sought

Where the yew weeps o'er Garcilasso's grave!

III.

Awhile my hopes will tower aloft in air

On cheerful wings, till, weary with their flight,

They fall relaxed from their Icarian height,

And leave me on the surges of despair.

This change from bliss to ruin who could bear?

Oh wearied heart! in this thy dark estate

Of wretchedness be vigorous and elate,--

Calms follow storms, and frowning ends in fair.

By force of arm myself will undertake,

Though fraught with danger and alarming ill,

To break a barrier none beside would break;

Death--durance--nought shall countervail my will,

To come to thee, my Beauty, saved or lost,

Or as a living form, or naked ghost!

IV.

Lady, thy face is written in my soul,

And whensoe'er I wish to chant thy praise,

On that illumined manuscript I gaze,

Thou the sweet scribe art, I but read the scroll.

In this dear study all my days shall roll;

And though this book can ne'er the half receive

Of what in thee is charming, I believe

In that I see not, and thus see the whole

With faith's clear eye; I but received my breath

To love thee, my ill Genius shaped the rest;

'Tis now that soul's mechanic act to love thee,

I love thee, owe thee more than I confessed;

I gained life by thee, cruel though I prove thee;

In thee I live, through thee I bleed to death.

V.

By rugged ways I reach towards a bourn

Which awes me not, and if I strive to slack

My usual pace, or for a change draw back,

There am I dragged with cruel unconcern;

But still, with death at hand, for life I yearn,

And seek fresh means my footsteps to reverse;

I know the better, I approve the worse,

Either from evil custom, or the stern

Fatality of woe. Yet, my brief time--

The wandering process of my wayward years

Alike in manhood as in early prime,--

My will (with which I war not now) in fact,

Sure Death, whose peaceful slumber dries all tears,

Make me not care the harm to counteract.

VI.

He who has lost so much, stern Deity,

Can lose no more! oh Love, let what has past

Suffice thee--let it profit me at last

Ne'er to have shrunk from thy supreme decree.

On the white walls of thy pure sanctuary

My pictured tablets and dank robes I hung,

Ev'n as a shipwrecked solitary, flung

Safely ashore from thy tempestuous sea.

Then vowed I never more to trust the bliss,

At my command and option, to the guile

Of such another syren, but from this

How shall vows save me? in the risk I run

I break no vow, for neither is her smile

Like others' smiles, nor in my power to shun.

VII.

From that illumined face, pure, mild, and sweet,

A living spirit in keen lightning flies;

And by perception of my eager eyes,

I feel it stays not till their orbs repeat

Its ardour; blandly on the track they meet,

Which my charmed spirit, winged with warmth, pursues,

Undone, and clamouring for the good it views:

When absent, Memory in her holy heat

Paints its passed beauty, till my soul will glow,

Thinking it real, and divinely stirred,

On tiptoe fly to its embrace, but meeting

Nought but repulse from its angelic foe,

Whose aspect guards the gate, it dies with beating

Its heart against it, like a captive bird.

VIII.

If I live on, dear Lady, in the void

Caused by your absences, I seem to' offend

Him who adores you, and to discommend

The bliss that in your presence I enjoyed.

Soon by another thought am I annoyed--

If I of life despair, I forfeit too

The good I hope for in beholding you;

By ills so varying is my peace destroyed.

My feelings in this variance all take part

So fiercely, that I know not what decreed

Me to such grievances--I never look

On their dissensions without swift rebuke,

But night and day they war with nicest art.

And in my ruin are alone agreed.

IX.

Oh lovely gifts, by me too fatal found!

Lovely and dear indeed whilst Heaven was kind;

In mine immortal memory ye are joined,

And sworn with her to give my dying wound;

Who would have said, sweet seasons past, when crowned

With the ecstatic hope your emblems lent,

That one day you would have to represent

Despair so dark, affliction so profound?

Since in an hour ye made unpitying theft

Of those Elysian dreams, do not deny

To take as well the sorrow you have left;

Else, can I but suspect ye raised so high

My youthful joys, to wish that I should die

Midst mournful memories of the bliss bereft!

X.

In order to restrain this mad desire,

Impossible and rash, and thus to miss

The fall from danger's crag, ah, if for this

My proud thoughts, blind with what they most admire,

Still fail to see what safety would require,

Me as I am, too timid or too bold,

In such confusion that I dare not hold

The reins of that which sets my soul on fire;

What can it serve to see the pictured tale

Of him who, falling with scorched wings, gave name

And celebration to the Icarian seas;

Or that where (poplars now) seven maids bewail

Their Phaëton's past frenzy, and the flame

Whose rage the' Italian waves could scarce appease?

XI.

Strange icy throes the arms of Daphne bind,

Which shoot, and spread, and lengthen into boughs;

And into green leaves metamorphosed shows

The head whose locks, wooed by the summer wind,

Made the fine gold seem dim; the rigorous rind

Clothes the soft members that still pant; her feet,

Snowy as swift, in earth fast rooted meet,

By thousand tortuous fibres intertwined.

The author of an injury so great,

With virtue of his tears this laurel fed,

Which flourished thus, perpetual greenness keeping;

Oh fatal growth! oh miserable estate!

That from his weeping each fresh day should spread

The very cause and reason of his weeping.

XII.

As a fond mother, whose sick infant lies

Weeping, importunate for what she knows

If giv'n will double all his pangs and woes,

In tenderest mercy his desire denies;

Till, moved to pity by his streaming eyes,

She can withstand no longer, but in haste

Submits the flavourous mischief to his taste,

And seals his ruin, though she stills his cries;

So to my sick and frenzied thoughts that yearn

And plead to me for thee, I would deny

The fatal fruit with merciful concern;

But night and day they murmur, weep, and pine,

Till I, alas, consent to soothe their cry,

Forgetful of their death, and ev'n of mine!

XIII.

If lamentations and complaints could rein

The course of rivers as they rolled along,

And move on desert hills, attired in song,

The savage forests, if they could constrain

Fierce tigers and chill rocks to entertain

The sound, and with less urgency than mine,

Lead tyrant Pluto and stern Proserpine,

Sad and subdued with magic of their strain;

Why will not my vexatious being, spent

In misery and in tears, to softness soothe

A bosom steeled against me? with more ruth

An ear of rapt attention should be lent

The voice of him that mourns himself for lost,

Than that which sorrowed for a forfeit ghost!

XIV. EPITAPH ON HIS BROTHER, D. FERNANDO DE GUZMAN,

_Who died of the Pestilence at Naples, in the twentieth year of his age,

serving in the army of the Emperor against the French._

Neither the odious weapons of the Gaul,

In anger brandished at my breast, nor sleet

Of poisonous arrows, than the winds more fleet,

Shot by the warders of the mounted wall,

Nor skirmish, nor the roaring thunderball--

The dreadful counterpart of those above,

Forged by Vulcanian artifice, when Jove

In wrath would the rebellious world appal--

Could for a single moment haste my death,

Though much I braved the risks of cruel war;

But 'twas the fatal air bereaved my breath,

In one short day, and to thine urnless hand,

Parthenope, consigned my ashes--far,

Alas! so far from my dear native land!

XV.

Fate! in my griefs sole agent, how have I

Felt thy harsh rule! my vine, with hurtful hand,

Thou hast cut down, and scattered on the sand

Both flower and fruit; in little compass lie

My loves--the joys of summers far-flown by--

And every happier expectation turned

To scornful ashes, which, though scarce inurned,

Hear not the wrath and clamour of my cry.

The tears which thou to-day hast seen me shower

On this lone sepulchre, receive, receive!

Though there they may be fruitless, till the hour

When the brown shadows of an endless eve

Shall shroud these eyes, which saw on earth thy power,

Leaving me others which thou canst not grieve.

XVI.

Thinking the path I journeyed led me right,

I have fallen on such mishap, that not the pleas

Of fancy, nor the wildest images

Can for an instant minister delight.

The green field seems a desert,--starry night

Obscure--the sprightliest conversation dead--

Sweet music harsh, and my most favourite bed

Of odorous violets, the hard field of fight.

Of sleep--(if sleep I have) that part alone

Visits my weary soul, which surely is

The frightful synonym of death, and last,

I deem, whate'er may be my spirit's tone,--

Ere half run out its sands of weariness,

Each passing hour still heavier than the past.

XVII.

If I am wax to thy sweet will, and hence

Sun myself only in thy sight, (and he

Who views thy radiance uninflamed, must be

Void of all feeling) whence, Señora, whence

Rises a circumstance, whose strange offence

Against the laws of reason, had it been

Less seldom proved on me--less seldom seen,

Had led me to mistrust my very sense--

Whence comes it, that far-off I am inflamed

And kindled by thy aspect, even until

My melting heart its fervour scarce sustains,

Whilst if encountered near by thine untamed,

Untameably bright eye, an instant chill

Makes the blood curdle in my crimson veins?

XVIII. TO JULIO CÆSAR CARACCIOLA.

Julio! when weeping I have left the friend

That never leaves my thought, the better part

Of my cleft soul, that like another heart

Did life and strength to my existence lend,

After my sum of bliss I seem to send

An eye of strict inquiry, and so fast

Find it consuming, that I fear at last

Peace must depart, and ev'n existence end.

And in this fear my tongue strives to converse

With thee, dear friend, of that remembered day,

When I began, sad wanderer to thy shrine

Of beauty, from my own far, far away,

News of thy soul to send in plaintive verse,

And learn from thee intelligence of mine.

XIX.

So strongly are the cruel winds combined

My ruin to concert, that they disperse

My tender fancies soon as framed, and worse,

Leave all my keen anxieties behind,

That like tenacious ivies darkly twined

Round some old ruin, fix their vigorous root

Deep in my heart, and their wild branches shoot

O'er all the fond affections of my mind.

Yet on the other hand I murmur not,

Now that the winds in their tempestuous strife

Have stolen my bliss, that thus my sorrows stay;

I rather gather comfort from the thought;

For in the process of so hard a life,

They lessen the long toil and weary way.

XX. TO D. ALONSO DE AVALO, MARQUIS DEL VASTO.

Illustrious Marquis, on whom Heaven showers down

All the bliss this world knows! if to the light

Of thy resplendent valour--to the height

Whereto the voice of thy sublime renown

Calls me, I climb, as to the flaming crown

Of some stupendous mountain, thou shalt be

Eternal, peerless, sole, and I through thee

Scornful of winged Time's destructive frown.

All that we wish from heaven, and gain on earth,

Are in thy high perfections met; in short,

Thou art the unique wonder, at whose birth

Her world of bright conceptions Nature scanned,

Singled the best, and with Dædalian hand,

Thrice livelier than her cast the statue wrought.

XXI.

With keen desire to see what the fine swell

Of thy white bosom in its core keeps shrined,

If the interior graces of the mind

Its outward shape and loveliness excel,

I have my sight fixed on it; but the spell

Of its voluptuous beauty holds mine eyes

In such enchantment, that their curious spies

Pass not to mark the spirit in its cell,

And thus stay weeping at the portal, made

To grieve me by that hiding hand which even

Holds its own bosom's beauty unforgiven;

So I behold my hope to death betrayed,

And love's sharp lances, rarely known to fail,

Serve not to pierce beyond its muslin mail.

XXII.

As, love, the lily and purpureal rose

Show their sweet colours on thy chaste warm cheek,

Thy radiant looks, angelically meek,

Serene the tempest to divine repose,

And as thy hair, which for its birthright chose

The opal's dye, upon the whitest neck

Waved by the winds of heaven without a check,

In exquisite disorder falls and flows;

Gather the rich fruit of thy mirthful spring,

Ere angry Time around thy temples shed

The snows of hasting age; his icy wing

Will wither the fresh rose, however red;

And changing not his custom, quickly change

The glory of all objects in his range.

XXIII.

Prostrate on earth the lofty column lies,

That late sustained my life; oh how much joy,

How many hopes did one dark day destroy!

And on the wind each blest idea flies.

How sure to fail is Fancy, when she tries

To build aught durable for me! fresh woes

Come with the force of persecuting foes,

And like abandoned things my hopes chastise:

Oft times I yield, yet oft my tyrants face,

With a new fury that might break in twain

A mountain placed to bar my way--impell'd

By the desire some day to turn again--

Turn to behold her loveliness and grace,

Whom it were better ne'er to have beheld.

XXIV. FROM AUSIAS MARCH.[AS]

Love! I have dressed myself in robes of white,

Shaped by thy scissors; as I put them on,

I find them loose and easy, but anon

They grow uneasy, cumbersome, and tight.

After consenting with a child's delight

To wear them, such repentance has possessed

My soul, that oft, by pure impatience pressed,

I try to tear them off in thy despite.

But who can free himself from such a suit,

When his thwart nature has become thereto

Conformed? if of my reason any part

Remains unparalyzed, it has not heart

To abet my cause, for in this stern dispute

Of circumstance, it knows it would not do.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote AS: A Valencian troubadour of the fifteenth century.]

XXV. TO BOSCÁN.

Boscán, you are now revenged upon my play

Of past severe unkindness, who reproved

The tenderness of that soft heart which loved

With such excessive warmth; now, not a day

Passes, but for the things I used to say

With so much rudeness, I myself chastise;

Still, times there are when I at heart despise,

And blush for the abasement I betray.

Know that, full grown, and armed against desire,

With my eyes open I have vailed my plume

To the blind boy you know,--but soft, my lute,

Never, oh never did man's heart consume

In so divine and beautiful a fire;

If you her name solicit, I am mute.

XXVI.

Wild doubts, that floating in my brain delight

To war with my fond feelings, tempesting

In your suspicious flight with angry wing

My melancholy bosom, day and night!

Now is my force of mind extinguished quite,

And all resistance, vain is my lamenting,--

Vanquished, I yield myself at length, repenting,--

E'er to have striven in such a hopeless fight.

Bear me to that lone tower whose gate alarms

The quick,--my death I saw not graven there,

Blindness has sealed my eyes till now; my arms

I cast aside; since their misfortunes bar

Help from the unhappy--the proud pomp prepare,

And hang my spoils on your triumphal car!

XXVII.

Within my spirit was conceived in train

Of amiable esteem a love most sweet,

Whose birth, with all the joy with which men greet

Their first-born's birth, long wished for, but in vain,

I hailed,--but soon from it was born a bane

Which has entirely conquered that fond flight

Of feeling, and transformed my first delight

Into sharp rigour and tormenting pain.

O cruel grandson, that to thy meek sire

Giv'st life, yet strik'st thy mournful grandsire dead,

Why so unlike thy parent! what black scowl

Wear'st thou, stern Jealousy, beneath thy cowl,

When ev'n thine own fierce mother, Envy dire,

Shrieks to behold the monster which she bred!

XXVIII.

I am for ever bathed in tears, I rend

The air with sighs, and suffer more from dread

To tell thee 'tis through thee I have been led

To such a state that, seeing where I tend,

And the long distance I have come, sweet friend,

In following thee, if I desire to leave

The vain pursuit, my heart sinks to perceive

The way behind me lengthening without end.

And if I wish to reach the onward height,

Sad thoughts of those who in the wilderness

Have fallen, at every step awake my fear;

Now above all things then I need the light

Of hope, by which I have been wont to steer

Through the dim tract of thy forgetfulness.

XXIX.

Past now the countries of the Midland Main,

Wretched--I lose the bliss of former times,

Borne farther every day from Christian climes,

Realms, customs, tongues, and from my native Spain.

And now despairing to return again,

I muse on remedies of fancied power;

The most assured one is the fatal hour

That will conclude at once my life and pain.

I should be charmed from whate'er ills close o'er me,

With seeing you, Lady, or might hope to be,

If I could hope without the certainty

Of losing what I hope; but not seeing you,

Save death, I see no remedy before me,

And if death be one, it will fail me too.

XXX. TO BOSCÁN, FROM GOLETTA.

Boscán! the sword, the shout, and trumpet shrill

Of Mars, who, watering with his own red blood

The Lybian soil in this tremendous feud,

Makes our green Roman laurel flourish still,--

Have to my memory brought the ancient skill,

And old Italian valour, by whose force

All Africa was shook, from the coy source

Of Nile's young fountain to far Atlas' hill.

Here, where the steady Roman's conquering brand

And fiery torch tipt with licentious flame,

Have left poor Carthage nothing but a name,

Love with his whirling thoughts on every hand

Wounds and inflames me in his fearful sway,

And I in tears and ashes waste away.

XXXI.

I thank thee, Heaven, that I have snapt in twain

The heavy yoke that on my neck I wore,

And that at length I can behold from shore,

Void of all fear, the black tempestuous main;

Can see, suspended by a slender chain,

The life of lovers who enchanted rest

In error, slumbering upon Beauty's breast,

To warning deaf, and blinded to their bane.

So shall I smile when mortals are undone,

Nor yet be found so cruel to my kind

As may appear,--I shall but smile as one

To health restored, whom sickness long confined,

Not to see others suffering, but to see

Myself from similar afflictions free.

XXXII. TO MARIO GALEOTA.

WRITTEN FROM GOLETTA.

My friend, ungrateful Love, who well must know

With what pure constancy my faith I keep,

Exerting his base pride, which is to heap

Upon his dearest friend his heaviest woe,--

Fearing that if I write, and publish so

His deeds, his grandeur I abate, his force

Not equalling his spite, has had recourse

To the fierce intervention of my foe;

And in the noble part with which I wield

The sword, and that which gives intelligence

Of our conceptions, I have wounded been;

But I will take good care that the offence

Shall cost the offender dear, now I am healed,

Offended, free, and for repayment keen.

XXXIII.

My tongue goes as grief guides it, and I stray

Already in my grief without a guide;

We both must go, howe'er dissatisfied,

With hasty step in an unwished-for way.

I, but companioned by the dark array

Of images that frenzy does create,

And that, as forced along by grief to state

A thousand things it never wished to say.

The law to me is most severe--it knows

My innocence, yet makes not mine alone,

But others' faults, my torturers! why should I

Smart for the madness of my tongue, when woes

Beyond endurance lift the lash on high,

And Reason trembles on her tottering throne?

XXXIV.

Entering a valley in a sandy waste

Which none was journeying save myself alone,

A dog I noticed, which with piteous tone

In disconcerted grief the wild sands paced;

Now to the sky it howled, its way now traced

Snuffing the dew, now ran, now turned, now stayed,

And its concern by every mark betrayed

Of desolate delay or restless haste.

It was that it had missed its lord that morn,

And felt the separation; mark the pain

Of absence! Much did its distraction move

My pity, and 'have patience, poor forlorn,'

I cried--'I, thy superior, from my love

Am absent too, yet my regret restrain.'

XXXV.

Loud blew the winds in anger and disdain,

And raged the waves, when to his Sestian maid,

Leander, ardent of her charms, essayed

For the last time to swim the stormy main.

Conquered with toil, o'erwearied, and in pain,

More for the bliss which he should lose by death,

Than sorrowful to breathe out his sweet breath

On the vext surge he buffeted in vain,--

Feebly, 'twas all he could, the dying boy

Called to the waves, (but never word of woe

Was heard by them) "if me you must destroy,

This melancholy night, look not so stern;

Vent as you will your rage on my return,

But spare, kind waters, spare me as I go!"

XXXVI. TO THE LADY DONNA MARIA DE CARDONA, MARCHIONESS OF PADULA.

Lady, whose name to high Cardona brings

Fresh praise, whose talents and fair deeds require

Immortal accents from Minturno's lyre,

Tansillo's harp, and polished Tasso's strings;

If force, if fire, if spirit whilst he sings,

Fail not at need thy Lasso's Spanish lute,

Through thee I shall arrive, with daring foot,

At Helicon's steep crown and sky-born springs,

By dulcet sounds that might the waves command,

Accomplishing with ease the ambitious aim:

By ways a wilderness till now, the land

Of storied valour, of romantic fame,

And Tagus, rolling o'er a golden sand,

Pay happy tribute to thy noble name.

XXXVII.

Fair Naiads of the river, that reside

Happy in grottos of rock crystal veined

With shining gems, and loftily sustained

On columns of pure glass! if now ye glide

On duteous errands, or weave side by side

Webs of fine net-work, or in groups remove

To hear and tell romantic tales of love,

Of Genii, Fays, and Tritons of the tide,--

Awhile remit your labours, and upraise

Your rosy heads to look on me--not long

Will it detain you. Sweet'ners of my song!

For pity hear me, watering as I go

With tears your borders, and for such short space,

In heavenly notes sing solace to my woe!

TO HIS LADY, HAVING MARRIED ANOTHER.

1.

To love thee, after what thy vow,

Slighting my truth, has made thee now,

Must be a crime, but one, false fair,

Which thou wilt have to expiate, where

None will know thee for having known

So ill the heart thou leavest lone.

2.

Loving so passionately thy free

Seducing smile, I thought to be

Lost, but not guilty; but, alas,

By all I am, by all I was,

'Tis proved too surely, to my cost,

I guilty am, as well as lost!

3.

Oh that I loved not with the zeal

Thou'rt but too well assured I feel!

That I exultingly might say,

'Tis joy to think that thou wilt pay,

In unknown modes of future woe,

For what none save ourselves shall know.

TO THE SAME.

1.

I will now cease, nor ruffle more

Thy beauteous cheek with speech so free;

My silent dying shall restore

Its peace, and mutely speak for me.

2.

I have already deeply erred

In saying what were best unsaid,

Thy gentle heart I have but stirred,

Not staunched a single wound that bled.

3.

Henceforth I heave no fruitless sighs,

No tears but unseen tears I shed;

The injured heart that silent dies,

Has that which speaks in Injury's stead!

ON A DEPARTURE.

1.

Perhaps the youth who seemed so cold

In leaving thee so soon, to seek

Scenes where he will no more behold

Thy lustrous eye and smiling cheek,

Yet loved thee much,--the hope to meet

Once more, makes ev'n departure sweet.

2.

It is not possible that one

Like him considerate--Love forbid!

Thinking he knew thee, could have known,

Enchanted mortal, what he did,

When he empowered thee thus to weave

His joy and grief the self-same eve.

3.

He took perhaps the readiest way

He could have done thy worth to know;

From thy fine face and finer play

Of wit he could not, could not go,

And seeing thee but once, remain

Content to see thee ne'er again.

TO A LADY,

_Who threw to Garcilasso whilst walking with a friend, her spindle, and

the net she had begun to weave, saying it was all the work she had done

that day._

1.

Lady! from this net and coil

We must gather, that you cast

From you, in an hour, the toil

Of the four and twenty past.

2.

If at passers-by you send

The fair work your fingers do,

How think you to discommend

That which others weave for you!

FROM OVID.

1.

Since I have lost my bridal name,

Sichæan Dido, when the gloom

Of death has quenched my vital flame,

Be this the legend on my tomb:

2.

"The worst of Trojans gave, alas,

The cruel cause--the sword unjust;

Poor Dido, brought to life's last pass,

Could furnish nothing but the thrust!"

COMMENT ON THIS TEXT:

"_Why, what calumnious charge is this

That you against him would advance?

All that the good knight did amiss

Was, that he ever joined the dance._"

Count they then this a great offence?

I do not think it such; his sin

Is quite excused by the defence

That 'twas the woman drew him in.

She, she it was that caused his fall

More, much more than the having set

His mind upon surpassing all

In the fantastic pirouette.[12]

TO FERNANDO DE ACUÑA.

Whilst thou, Fernando, strikest from thy strings

The illustrious deeds of heroes and of kings,

Whilst men, whilst Gods stand spellbound at thy strain

Of barbarous nations tamed by sceptred Spain,--

From Pindus' sacred crown and tuneful falls,

Thee with sweet words Calliope thus calls:

"Hail, youth, whose temples, late alone entwined

By Mars' red hand, now bays Phoebean bind!

This grants Apollo, this the God of wine,

The lightfoot Nymphs, and whole harmonious Nine,

That with the kings that to thy lyric fire

Owe half their fame, thyself that smit'st the lyre,

Shall unborn nations join--admire, and praise,

And no dark night succeed thine endless days."[13]

APPENDIX.

I. _Page_ 15.

PRAISE OF LITTLE WOMEN.

I wish to make my preaching short, as all good things should be,

For I was always fond, I own, of a short homily;

Of little women, and in courts of law a most brief plea;

Little well said makes wise, as sap most fructifies the tree.

His head who laughs and chatters much, the moon I'm sure must

sway,

There's in a little woman love--nor little, let me say;

Some very tall there are, but I prefer the little,--nay,

Change them, they'd both repent the change, and quarrel night and

day.

Love prayed me to speak well of all the little ones--the zest

They give, their noble qualities, and charms:--I'll do my best;

I _will_ speak of the little ones, but don't think I'm in jest;

That they are cold as snow, and warm as fire, is manifest.

They're cold abroad, yet warm in love; shy creatures in the

street;

Good-natured, laughing, witty, gay, and in the house discreet,--

Well-doing, graceful, gentle, kind, and many things more sweet

You'll find where you direct your thoughts,--yes, many I repeat.

Within a little compass oft great splendour strikes the eyes,

In a small piece of sugar-cane a deal of sweetness lies;

So to a little woman's face a thousand graces rise,

And large and sweet's her love; a word's sufficient for the wise.

The pepper-corn is small, but yet, the more the grain you grind,

The more it warms and comforts; so, were I to speak my mind,

A little woman, if (all love) she studies to be kind,

There's not in all the world a bliss you'll fail in her to find.

As in a little rose resides great colour, as the bell

Of the small lily yields a great and most delightful smell,

As in a very little gold exists a precious spell,

Within a little woman so exceeding flavours dwell.

As the small ruby is a gem that clearly does outshine

For lustre, colour, virtues, price, most children of the mine,

In little women so worth, grace, bloom, radiancy divine,

Wit, beauty, loyalty, and love, transcendently combine.

Little's the lark, the nightingale is little, yet they sing

Sweeter than birds of greater size and more resplendent wing;

So little women better are, by the same rule,--they bring

A love more sweet than sugar-plums or primroses of spring.

The goldfinch and Canary-bird, all finches and all pies,

Sing, scream, or chatter passing well--there's quaintness in

their cries;

The brilliant little paroquet says things extremely wise;

Just such a little woman is, when she sweet love outsighs.

There's nothing that with her should be compared--'tis

profanation;--

She is a walking Paradise, a smiling consolation,

A blessing, pleasure, of all joys a sparkling constellation,

In fact--she's better in the proof than in the salutation!

Small women do no harm, kind things, though they _may_ sometimes

call

Us angry names, hard to digest; men wise as was Saint Paul

Say, of two evils choose the least,--by this rule it must fall,

The least dear woman you can find will be the best of all!

II. _Page_ 36.

THE PROPHECY OF TAGUS.

1.

As by Tagus' billowy bed

King Rodrigo, safe from sight,

With the Lady Cava fed

On the fruit of loose delight;

From the river's placid breast

Slow its ancient Genius broke;

Of the scrolls of Fate possessed,

Thus the frowning prophet spoke:

2.

"In an evil hour dost thou,

Ruthless spoiler, wanton here!

Shouts and clangours even now,

Even now assail mine ear;

Shout, and sound of clashing shield,

Shivered sword and rushing car,--

All the frenzy of the field!

All the anarchy of war!

3.

Oh what wail and weeping spring

Forth from this, thine hour of mirth,

From yon fair and smiling thing,

Who in evil day had birth!

In an evil day for Spain

Plighted is your guilty troth!

Fatal triumph! costly gain

To the sceptre of the Goth!

4.

Flames and furies, griefs and broils,

Slaughter, ravage, fierce alarms,

Anguish and immortal toils

Thou dost gather to thine arms,--

For thyself and vassals--those

Who the fertile furrow break,

Where the stately Ebro flows,

Who their thirst in Douro slake!

5.

For the throne--the hall--the bower--

Murcian lord and Lusian swain,

For the chivalry and flower

Of all sad and spacious Spain!

Prompt for vengeance, not for fame,

Even now from Cadiz' halls,

On the Moor, in Allah's name,

Hoarse the Count--the Injured calls.

6.

Hark, how frightfully forlorn

Sounds his trumpet to the stars,

Citing Afric's desert-born

To the gonfalon of Mars!

Lo, already loose in air

Floats the standard, peals the gong;

They shall not be slow to dare

Roderick's wrath for Julian's wrong.

7.

See, their spears the Arabs shake,

Smite the wind, and war demand;

Millions in a moment wake,

Join, and swarm o'er all the sand:

Underneath their sails the sea

Disappears, a hubbub runs

Through the sphere of heaven alee,

Clouds of dust obscure the sun's.

8.

Swift their mighty ships they climb,

Cut the cables, slip from shore;

How their sturdy arms keep time

To the dashing of the oar!

Bright the frothy billows burn

Round their cleaving keels, and gales

Breathed by Eolus astern,

Fill their deep and daring sails.

9.

Sheer across Alcides' strait

He whose voice the floods obey,

With the trident of his state,

Gives the grand Armada way.--

In her sweet, subduing arms,

Sinner! dost thou slumber still,

Dull and deaf to the alarms

Of this loud inrushing ill?

10.

In the hallowed Gadite bay

Mark them mooring from the main;

Rise, take horse, away! away!

Scale the mountain, scour the plain!

Give not pity to thy hand,

Give not pardon to thy spur,

Dart abroad thy flashing brand,

Bare thy fatal scimeter!

11.

Agony of toil and sweat

The sole recompense must be

Of each horse and horseman yet,

Plumeless serf and plumed grandee.

Sullied in thy silver flow,

Stream of proud Sevilla, weep!

Many a broken helm shalt thou

Hurry to the bordering deep.

12.

Many a turban and tiar,

Moor and Noble's slaughtered corse,

Whilst the Furies of the war

Gore your ranks with equal loss!

Five days you dispute the field;

When 'tis sunrise on the plains--

Oh loved land! thy doom is sealed,

Madden, madden in thy chains!"

III. _Page_ 101.

"The king fortified his camp according to the rules of art, and in a

single night a town was built, consisting of four streets in the form of

a cross, with as many gates; and from the centre, where the streets

crossed each other, all the town might be viewed at the same time. The

plan was undertaken and completed by four Grandees of Castile, every one

furnishing his share, and the whole was encircled with wooden bulwarks

covered with waxen cloth, which resembled a strong wall. Towers and

bastions were also fabricated, to appear as if built by regular

machinery. In the morning, the Moors were prodigiously astonished to see

a town so near Granada, fortified in so formidable a manner. When it was

finished, the king granted it the rights of a city, naming it Santa Fé,

and endowed it with many privileges, which it enjoys to the present day.

It is recorded in the next ballad:--

Built is Santa Fé; its bulwarks

With much waxen cloth o'erlaid,

And within shine tents unnumbered,

Tents of silk and gold brocade.

Dukes, and lords, and noble captains,

Famed for valour, heroes all,

Here are brought by King Fernando,

To effect Granada's fall.

When, behold, a Moor at daybreak,

Of tall stature meets their sight,

Mounted on a noble charger,

Spotted o'er with flakes of white.

On it comes with cleft lips chafing

High against the rider's rein,

Whilst the Moor at all the Christians

Grinds his teeth in fell disdain.

Underneath his robes of scarlet,

White, and blue, a shirt of mail

Fortifies his heart most strongly,

Should a thousand darts assail.

Two strong swords of tempered metal

Grace his thigh, his hands a spear

And tough target in Morocco

Made, and purchased passing dear.

This gruff dog, in dreadful mockery,

To his horse's tail had tied

The adored AVE MARIA,

As was but too soon descried.

At the camp arrived, he shouted,

"Who will so fool-hardy be

As to fight me? I defy you

All,--come one, come two, come three!"

Out the Alcayde of Los Doncelos,

Out the Count of Cabra stept,

Both brave men, whose active falchions

In the scabbard seldom slept.

Out came Gónzalo Fernandez,

Out Martin Galindo came,

With the bold Portocarrero,

Palma's lord of mickle fame.

Out he stept too who so frankly

Fetched the glove midst lions thrown,

Frankly fetched it forth, the gallant

Manuel Ponce de Leon.

With them ev'n King Don Fernando

Rides, exclaiming, "Forward, ho!

Soon we'll teach the ruffian whether

We dare fight with him or no!"

On they rode, rejoiced to hear him

Praise his vassals so, and each

Begged that he that useful lesson

To the infidel might teach.

Garcilasso too, a stripling

Brave and daring, with great glee

Rode with them, and begged the battle,

Begged it on his bended knee.

"You're too young, good Garcilasso,

You're yet much too young to die;

There are numbers in my kingdom

Fitter far the fight to try."

Deeply vexed at this refusal,

Much confused the youth withdrew,

But put on strange arms in secret,

So that none his person knew.

On a coal-black steed, with ventail

Down, he pricks to meet the Moor,

And says to him--"Level lances

Quickly; thou shalt see, be sure,

"If our noble king has gentles

Bold enough to tilt with thee;

I'm the least of all, yet beard thee,

Beard thee by that king's decree."

Soon as seen, the bluff Moor scorned him,

Saying, "Pray go back again;

I'm accustomed to do battle,

Not with boys, but bearded men:

"Pray go back, and let some other

Who has passed his teens, advance!"

Garcilasso, stung with fury,

Spurred his steed, and couched his lance.

He a glorious stroke has dealt him!

On his helm red sparkles burn;

Like a thunderbolt the Paynim

Wheels, the insult to return.

Striking, stricken; stricken, striking;

Thus the round of combat ran;

Garcilasso, though an infant,

Showed the metal of a man.

He at length beneath the armpit

Dealt the Moor a mortal wound:

From his saddle fell the giant,

Pale and groaning to the ground.

Garcilasso, quick alighting

From his horse, approached the foe,

Cut his head off, and in triumph

Hung it at his saddle-bow.

Tore away the sacred AVE

From its former place of shame,

On his knees devoutly kissed it,

Kissed the blessed Mary's name.

On his lance's point he bears it

For a pendant, mounts his steed,

With the Moor's in hand, returning,

All the court applaud the deed.

Lords, and dukes, and noble captains,

All were struck with great amaze,

Whilst the king and queen, with plaudits

Cheerly urged, repeat his praise.

Wonder some, and some amazement,

Kept quite dumb, to see a Childe

So exceeding young, triumphant

O'er that big-boned Paynim vilde.

GARCILASSO DE LA VEGA

They the youth thenceforward call,

For his duel in the Vega

Of Granada chanced to fall.

"The king, and the queen, and all the court, were, as the ballad says,

most astonished at this valiant deed of Garcilasso, and the king

commanded him to place on his arms the words AVE MARIA, with just

reason, for having quitted himself so well upon that ruffian Moor, and

for having cut off his head."--_Hist. de las Guerras Civiles de

Granada_, fol. 454-9.

A manuscript in the Bodleian Library--of _Rawlinson's Collection, No._

43,--says that Garcilasso, at the time this combat took place, was but

eighteen years of age. The manuscript bears this title, 'Armas de los

mas nobles Señores de Castilla, sus nombres, apellidos, casas y rentas;

con algunos puntos de sus hazañas; los Arcobispos, Obispos, Visoreyes y

Embaxadores, Consejos y Inquisiciones, y otras cosas curiosas de aquel

Reyno: en Paris, y compuesto por Ambrosio de Salazar, Secretario

Interprete del Rey Cristianissimo. 1623.' This writer, however, follows

the general error of imputing the action to the father of the poet. His

account of the family arms differs also from Imhof's: according to his

account, they bear, _or_, a castle on a field _vert_, with the words AVE

MARIA, GRACIA PLENA, in letters _azure_: but as this association of

tinct would be false heraldry, it has seemed preferable to follow the

authority of Imhof. It may not be amiss to mention in this place, that

although Garcilasso is said to have been dignified with the cross of the

Order of St. James, the badge represented in paintings of him is that of

the Order of Alcantara.

IV.--_Page_ 124.

The volume of Navagero's writings being but rarely met with, and his

poetical compositions exhibiting much delicacy of thought and elegance

of style, I shall perhaps be doing an acceptable thing in presenting to

the reader a few of his smaller verses. His longer pieces, the pastoral

entitled 'Iolas,' the sapphics 'In Auroram,' and the lines 'In Vancium

vicum Patavinum amænissimum,' are perhaps yet more beautiful in imagery

than those I have selected; but short as these are, they may serve to

show the grounds which his cotemporaries had for the praises they

bestowed upon him.

VOTA AD AURAS.

Auræ, quæ levibus percurritis aëra pennis,

Et strepitis blando per nemora alta sono:

Serta dat hæc vobis, vobis hæc rusticus Idmon

Spargit odorato plena canistra croco.

Vos lenite æstum, et paleas sejungite inanes,

Dum medio fruges ventilat ille die.

TO THE AIRS.

Gentle airs, that on light wing

Through the high woods softly sing

In low murmurs! these sweet wreaths,

Violets, blue-bells, woodbines, heaths,

Rustic Idmon loves to throw

To you thus in handfuls, so

Temper you the heat of day,

And the thin chaff blow away,

When at noon his van again

Winnows out the golden grain.

THYRSIDIS VOTA VENERI.

Quòd tulit optata tandem de Leucade Thyrsis

Fructum aliquem, has violas dat tibi, sancta Venus!

Post sepem hanc sensim obrepens, tria basia sumsi:

Nil ultra potui, nam propè mater erat.

Nunc violas; sed plena feram si vota, dicabo

Inscriptam hôc myrtum carmine, Diva, tibi:

'Hanc Veneri myrtum Thyrsis quòd amore potitus

Dedicat, atque unà seque suosque greges.'

THYRSIS' VOW TO VENUS.

These violets, holy Power, to thee

With grateful mind does Thyrsis cast,

For that from long-loved Leuca, he

Has gained some fruit of love at last.

Creeping behind the lilach trees,

I snatched three kisses, sweet and choice;

I could no more, for in the breeze

We surely heard her mother's voice.

Blue violets now; but, should'st thou grant

All my heart beats for, Power Divine,

Engraved with this rude rhyme, a plant

Of deathless myrtle shall be thine.

'This myrtle, faithful to his vow,

Thyrsis to Venus gives, and more,

Himself and flocks, as tasting now

Love's gracious sweets, but wished before.'

THYRSIDIS VOTA ET QUERCUI ET SYLVÆ.

Et quercum, et silvam hanc ante omnia Thyrsis amabit,

Et certo feret his annua vota die:

Dum potuit memor esse, quod hâc primum ille sub umbrâ

Ultima de carâ Leucade vota tulit.

THYRSIS TO THE OAK AND GROVE.

This green oak and sapling grove

Before all will Thyrsis love,

And to them, each May-day, rare

Tributes of sweet incense bear,

Long as memory lives to say,

'Twas upon that happy day

He first gained, beneath their boughs,

His dear Leuca's marriage vows.

QUUM EX HISPANICA LEGATIONE IN ITALIAM REVERTERETUR.

Salve, aura Deûm, mundi felicior ora,

Formosæ Veneris dulces salvete recessus;

Ut vos post tantos animi, mentisque labores

Aspicio, lustroque libens! ut munere vestro

Sollicitas toto depello e pectore curas!

Non aliis Charites perfundunt candida lymphis

Corpora; non alios contexunt serta per agros!

ON HIS RETURN TO ITALY FROM THE SPANISH EMBASSY.

Hail, dear region of my birth,

Care of Heaven and pride of earth,

Sweetest seats of Venus, vale,

Rock, wood, mountain, hail, all hail!

Oh with what deep joy I view,

Gaze at, traverse, talk to you,

After such laborious hours,

Mental toils and wasted powers!

How at sight of you each care

And vexation melts in air!

Never may the virgin Graces

Look in other shady places

For shy streams to bathe in, ne'er

Braid with other flowers their hair,

Than the ones so sweet and dear

Which I taste so freshly here!

INVITATIO AD AMÆNAM FONTEM.

Et gelidus fons est, et nulla salubrior unda,

Et molli circum gramine terra viret;

Et ramis arcent soles frondentibus alni,

Et levis in nullo gratior aura loco est;

Et medio Titan nunc ardentissimus axe est,

Exustusque gravi sidere fervet ager.

Siste, viator, iter: nimio jam torridus æstu,

Jam nequeunt lassi longius ire pedes.

Accubitu languorem, æstum aurâ, umbrâque virenti,

Perspicuo poteris fonte levare sitim.

INVITATION TO A PLEASANT FOUNTAIN.

Cold the fountain is, no wave

More salubrious, green herbs pave

All its margin; its thick roof--

Leaves and boughs--is sunshine proof;

No where does the Zephyr blow

Half so pleasantly, and now

Titan on his mid-day tower

Scorches forest, field, and flower;

Rest thee, Traveller, rest thy feet,

Thou art fainting with the heat,

And canst walk no farther! here,

In this babbling fountain clear,

Thou may'st slake thy thirst, beneath

These green branches; in the breath

Of the fresh breeze, dry the dews

Off thy throbbing brows, and lose

All thy languor on the bed

Gadding thyme and mosses spread.

DE CUPIDINE ET HYELLA.

Florentes dum fortè vagans mea Hyella per hortos

Texit odoratis lilia cana rosis,

Ecce rosas inter latitantem invenit Amorem,

Et simul annexis floribus implicuit.

Luctatur primò, et contrà nitentibus alis

Indomitus tentat solvere vincla puer;

Mox ubi lacteolas, et digna matre papillas

Vidit, et ora ipsos nata movere Deos,

Impositosque comæ ambrosios ut sensit odores,

Quosque legit diti messe beatus Arabs:

"I," dixit, "mea, quære novum tibi, mater, Amorem,

Imperio sedes hæc erit apta meo!"

CUPID AND HYELLA.[AT]

As my Hyella chanced to rove

Of late her garden grounds, and there,

Of roses and white lilies wove

Sweet wreaths to bind her flowing hair;

Amidst the roses clustering thick,

She spied young Cupid slumbering sound,

And with strong chains of woodbine, quick,

The rosy infant, laughing, bound.

At first his radiant wings he flapped

Rebelliously, and strove--in vain--

Indignant to be so entrapped,

To break the verdant bonds in twain.

But when within a little while

Breasts white as Venus's he saw,

And looked in her sweet face, whose smile

The Gods themselves might languish for:

And when from every braided tress

The' ambrosial odours he perceived,--

Rose-odours rich as those which bless

The Arab when his harvest's sheaved:

"Go, go," he cried, "Mamma, and seek

Another LOVE,--my only shrine

Henceforth shall be this lady's cheek

And laughing eyes: good b'ye to thine."

AL SONNO.

Sonno, che all' affannate, e stanche meuti

D'ogni fatica lor riposo sei,

Deh moviti a pietà de' dolor miei,

E porgi qualche pace a miei tormenti!

Lasso, le notti mie son sì dolenti,

Che quando più riposo aver devrei,

Allor più piango, e mi doglio di lei,

Che sprezza gli angosciosi miei lamenti.

Tu ch' acqueti ogni pena acerba e rea,

Vien, Sonno, ad acquetar i miei martiri;

E vinci quel ch' ogni altro vince, Amore,

Così sempre sian lieti i tuoi desiri;

E il sen della tua bella Pasitea

Sempre spiri d' ambrosia un dolce odore!

TO SLEEP.

Slumber, blest balm for all the cares that tease

Sad spirits weary and o'ertoiled, oh deign

To bring, in kind compassion of my pain,

A little interval of rest and ease!

My nights are such, that when I most should seize

On soft repose, then most I have to weep

That it disdains to lull my pangs asleep,

Deaf to my murmured prayers and earnest pleas.

Come thou who calm'st all agony and woe,

Come now, calm mine, and conquer him whose power

Oppresses all beside, fierce Cupid,--so

Happy be thy desires in bed and bower;

And wreaths of breathed ambrosia without end,

Thy beauteous Pasithea's steps attend!

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote AT: This elegant little piece has been already translated by

Mr. Moore, in the notes to his Anacreon; I should not have thought of

attempting it after him, had not the heroic measure which he has chosen

struck me as less fitted to convey the playfulness of the original than

a lighter, though more diffusive stanza.]

V.--_Page_ 130.

GARCILASSO DE LA VEGA TO THE VERY MAGNIFICENT LADY, THE LADY GERONYMA

PALOVA DE ALMOGAVAR.

If I had not already known the correctness of your ladyship's judgment,

the value which I see you set upon this work would suffice to assure me

of it. But you already stood so high in my opinion, that though I before

considered it excellent on many accounts, my principal reason now for

this consideration is, that you have set your stamp on it in such a

manner, that we might almost say it was your own work, as it is through

you we possess it in the language we best understand. For, so far from

thinking of being able to prevail on Boscán to translate it, I should

not even have dared to ask it of him, well knowing his constant dislike

to the writers of romances, (though this he could scarcely call a

romance) had I not assured myself that, being commanded by your

ladyship, he could not excuse himself. With myself I am extremely well

satisfied, as before the book reached your hands, I esteemed it as it

deserves; whereas had I only become acquainted with its merits, now that

I see you deem them great, I might imagine that I was influenced in my

judgment of it by your ladyship's opinion. But now, I not merely

suspect, but am convinced it is a book that deserves to be commended to

your hands, that it may afterwards without danger go forth into the

world. For it is a most necessary thing wherever there are gentlemen and

ladies of distinction, that they should not only consult whatsoever

serves to increase the point of honour, but guard against every thing

that has a tendency to lessen it: both the one and the other are treated

of in this performance with so much wisdom and address, that it seems to

me there is nothing more to be wished for than to see the whole realized

in some gentleman, and likewise in--I was going to say, some lady, but

I recollected that you were in the world to take me to account for the

idle words. We may moreover remark on this work of Castiglione, that as

highly successful performances always go beyond their promise, so the

Count has laid down the duties of a finished courtier with such absolute

completeness as not to leave one of any rank unacquainted with what he

ought to do and be. So that we may see how much we should have lost in

not possessing it. Nor must we pass over the very essential benefit

rendered to our language by having written in it things so deserving of

perusal; for I know not what misfortune has ever been ours, in scarcely

possessing an author that has written in Castilian any thing but what

might very well be dispensed with,--though this indeed would be

difficult to prove to the satisfaction of those who pore over the

volumes which instruct mankind in slaughter. And well did your ladyship

know what person to fix upon to be your medium in producing this benefit

to all. For notwithstanding it is as difficult a matter, in my judgment,

to translate a book well, as to write it in the first instance, so

admirably has Boscán performed his part, that every time I sit down to

read this work of his, or, to speak more accurately, of yours, it seems

to me to have been written in no other language. Or if at any time I

remember to have read the Italian, my thoughts immediately return to the

pages in my hands. One thing he has guarded against, which very few have

done; he has avoided affectation without incurring the sin of stiffness,

and with great purity of style has made use of expressions especially

polite and agreeable to refined ears, and of words neither novel in

appearance, nor disused amongst the people: he has proved himself also a

very faithful translator, and by not restricting himself to the rigour

of the letter, but to the truth and spirit of the thoughts, has

transfused in his version by a variety of ways, all the force and

ornament of the original. He has thus given every thing so much in the

manner of his author, and has found his author such, that the defenders

of the work may with little trouble answer those who wish in any respect

to carp at its contents. I do not address myself to men whose dainty

ears, amidst a thousand elegant things contained in the volume, are

offended with one or two that may not be quite so good as the rest,

being inclined to think that these one or two are the only points that

please them, whilst they are offended with all the rest; and this I

could prove, if I were inclined, by what they approve in other cases.

We are not, however, to lose time with these captious geniuses, but

referring them to him who himself answers them on these very points, let

us turn to those who with some show of reason might desire satisfaction

in what offends them, where the author treats of all the numerous

methods of saying genteel things, and smart repartees to excite mirth.

Some there are given as specimens, which do not appear to reach the

excellence of others, nor deserve perhaps to be considered as very good

for one who has so admirably treated of the rest; and hence they may

suspect that he has not the great judgment and penetration we ascribe to

him. To this we would answer, that the author's intention was to furnish

a variety of modes of saying graceful things, and hence, that we might

better know the difference between them, he gave an equal variety of

examples: in discoursing on all these many ways, there could not

possibly be so many clever flights in each; some of those therefore

which he gave for examples, of necessity fall short of the merit of

others, and such, I have good reason to believe, without deceiving

himself in the least as to their inferiority, an author of his good

sense considers them; so we see that in this respect also he is free

from blame. I only must plead guilty and deserving of censure, for

having been so tedious in my communication. But these impertinences

really make me angry, and compel me to write so long a letter to so

faultless a personage. I frankly confess that I so greatly envied you

the thanks that are your due in the production of this book, that I

wished, so far as I could, to have myself some concern in it, and for

fear any one should employ himself in translating, that is to say, in

spoiling the original, I earnestly entreated Boscán to print his own

version without delay, in order to stop the hurry which those who write

ill are accustomed to use in inflicting their performances on the

public. And although this translation would give me revenge sufficient

on any other that might be put forth, I am such a foe to contention,

that even this, though attended with no possible danger, would yet annoy

me. For this reason, almost by force, I made him put it to press with

all expedition, and he chose to have me with him at the final polish,

but rather as a mere man of sense than as his assistant in any

emendation. Of your ladyship, I beg that as his book is under your

protection, it may lose nothing for the little part I take in it, since

in return for this act of goodness, I now lay it at your feet, written

in a better character, wherein your name and accomplishments may be read

and admired of all.

VI.--_Page_ 145.

PETRUS BEMBUS GARCILASSO HISPANO, S. P. D.

_Neapolim._

Ex iis carminibus quæ ad me pridem scripsisti, et quantum me amares,

libentissimè perspexi, qui neque familiarem tibi hominem, neque de facie

cognitum tam honorificè appellavisses, tantisque ornares laudibus; et

quantus ipse esses in lyricis pangendis, quantúmque præstares ingenii

luminibus amabilítatéque scribendi, facilè cognovi. Quorum alterum

ejusmodi est, ut nihil mihi potuerit accidere jucundius. Quid est enim

quod possit cum præstantissimi poetæ amore atque benevolentiâ comparari?

Reliqua enim omnia, quæ et honesta et chara homines habent, unà cum iis

qui ea possident, brevi tempore intereunt: Poetæ uni vivunt, longævique

ac diuturni sunt, eandémque vitam ac diuturnitatem, quibus volunt,

impartiuntur. In altero illud perfecisti, ut non solùm Hispanos tuos

omneis, qui se Apollini Musisque dediderunt, longè numeris superes et

præcurras tuis, sed Italis etiam hominibus stimulum addas, quo magis

magisque se excitent, si modò volent in hoc abs te certamine atque his

in studiis ipsi quoque non præteriri. Quem quidem meum de te sensum

atque judicium, alia tua nonnulla ejusdem generis mihi Neapoli nuper

missa scripta confirmaverunt. Nihil enim legi ferè hâc ætate confectum

aut elegantius, aut omnino probius et purius, aut certè majori cum

dignitate. Itaque quod me amas, mihi verissimè justissimèque lætor; quod

egregius es vir atque magnus, cùm tibi in primis gratulor, tum verò

plurimum terræ Hispaniæ, patriæ atque altrici tuæ, cui quidem est hoc

nomine amplissimus bonæ laudis atque gloriæ cumulus accessurus. Tametsi

est etiam aliud, quod quidem auget magnopere lætitiam ex te conceptam

meam. Nam cùm nuper mecum Honoratus monachus, quem tibi famâ notum esse

video, in eum sermonem esset ingressus, ut quid de tuis carminibus

sentirem, me interrogavisset, ego verò illi meum judicium patefecissem,

quod quidem accidit ei par, atque simillimum suo, (est autem peracri vir

ingenio atque in poeticis studiis pererudito) ea mihi de tuis plurimis

maximisque virtutibus, de morum suavitate, de integritate vitæ, de

humanitate tuâ dixit, quæ amici ei sui per literas significavissent, ut

hoc adderet, omnium Neapolitanorum qui te novissent, sermonibus

attestationibusque confirmari, his temporibus, quibus maximè Italiam

vestræ nationes referserunt, quem omnes planè homines te uno ardentius

amaverint, cuique plus tribuerint, illam ad urbem ex Hispaniâ venisse

porrò nullum. Quamobrem magnum me fecisse lucrum statuo, qui nullo meo

labore in tuam benevolentiam pervenerim, tuque ita me complexus sis, ut

etiam ornes Musæ tuæ præconio tam illustri. Quibus quidem fit rebus, ut

nisi te contrà ipse quamplurimùm et amavero et coluero, hominem profectò

esse me nequaquam putem. Sed amoris erga te mei atque observantiæ

studium, testatum tibi facere hoc ab initio decrevi, ut eundem

Honoratum, de quo suprà commemoravi, qui te impensè diligit, ad teque in

præsentiâ proficiscitur, summâ tibi diligentiâ commendarem. Ut hinc

potissimùm cognosceres, quid de me tibi ipse polliceri possis, cùm me

videas id abs te audere petere, quod mihi esse maximum maximèque

expetendum statuissem. Illius fratrum, hominum innocentium et planè

bonorum patrimonium, quemadmodum nullâ ipsorum culpâ, in Gallici belli

præda fuerit, scire te arbitror; itaque de eo nihil dicam. Nunc autem

cùm hi ab Carolo Imperatore, omnium qui unquam nati sunt, regum atque

principum optimo, injustè amissa repetere statuerint, si te unum ejus

rei adjutorem habebunt, sperant se, quod honestè cupiunt, etiam facilè

consequi posse; ea tua est et apud Imperatorem ipsum gratia, et apud

illos, qui ei charissimi sunt, autoritas, familiaritas, necessitudo.

Quare magnopere te rogo, ut rem suscipias, fratresque illos atque

familiam in pristinum fortunæ statum tuâ curâ procurationeque restituas.

Homines honestissimos tuique studiosissimos tibi in perpetuum devincies;

mihi verò tam gratum feceris, ut illo ipso patrimonio me abs te iri

auctum et ornatum putem. Honoratum enim tam diligo, quàm si mens esset

frater; tanti facio, ut æquè perpaucos; tam illi cupio hâc in re tuo

beneficio et usui et voluptati esse, ut ipse, cujus fratrum interest,

magis idem cupere non possit, aut magis animo laborare, quàm ipse planè

laboro. Sed hunc laborem meum tu, qui me tuâ sponte diligis, dexteritate

illâ tuâ, quâ excellis, et ingenio, quo te charum et peramabilem apud

omnes homines reddis, mihi, ut spero, celeriter eripies. Quod ut facias,

naturæ bonitati ac lenitati confisus tuæ, non jam ut novus tibi amicus

pudenter atque subtimidè, sed quemadmodum veteres necessarii solent,

etiam atque etiam abs te peto. Vale. VII Calend. Septembres. M.D.XXXV.

PET. BEMB. EPIST. FAMIL. _Lib. Sex._

VII. _Page_ 244.

_He 'gainst a wise and potent king that held

His sire in bondage, gallantly rebelled._

During one of the many tumults that distracted Castile in the reign of

king D. Juan II. Fernando Alvarez de Toledo, earl of Alva, was seized by

the monarch, and kept close prisoner, under the charge of having

designed to bring in the king of Navarre, though this the people

regarded as a mere invention. Don Garcia, his son, who was afterwards

the first duke of Alva, took up arms to liberate his father, joined the

king of Arragon, and from the castle of Piedrahita, did much harm to the

king of Castile in laying waste the frontier country. Don Fernando

remained, however, in prison till the accession of king Henry, when he

was voluntarily set free by that prince.

D. Fadrique de Toledo, the second duke of Alva, a son of D. Garcia, was

in his youth general of the Christian forces on the frontiers of

Grenada. He greatly signalized himself in the war of Navarre, gathering

a considerable force to co-operate with the English, under the command

of the marquis of Dorset. To secure the pass into France, he crossed the

mountains and took St. John de Pie de Puerto, which commanded the pass

of Valderronças. The king of Navarre succeeded, however, in effecting a

passage with his army through that of Valderronçal, and J. Fernando

Valdez, and other commanders, amongst the mountains, hemmed in the duke

of Alva; but learning that the king of Navarre was marching to invest

Pampluna, the Duke resolved to fling some succour into its citadel, and

leaving the castle of St. John under the command of James de Vera,

sallied out upon Valdez, and killing that general, succeeded, with the

loss of 400 men, in carrying his camp, and relieving Pampluna.

His son, D. Garcia de Toledo, being employed in 1510, with count Pedro

Navarro, in a military expedition on the coast of Africa, passed to the

conquest of the Isle of Gelves, and disembarking his men, penetrated

into the interior of that desert country. It was a season of such

excessive heat, that some of the soldiers dropped dead from thirst, so

that the whole army fell into disorder. D. Garcia and the Count,

however, cheered them on with fond expressions, and such promises as the

necessity of the case required. They issued at length from the sands,

and entering thick groves of palm and olive trees, discovered

unexpectedly some wells of water, with many pitchers and buckets

attached to ropes. The eager desire of every one to drink doubled the

disorder, more particularly as there was no enemy in sight; for the

whole had been arranged by the Moors, who secretly waited in a corner of

the wood, till the appearance of 4,000 foot and 200 horse, when they

rushed upon them with loud outcries, and casting their darts, caused

them to fly in the greatest confusion, although many desired rather to

drink than to fly, or even live. Don Garcia seeing this, alighted, and

with his pike pricked forward many who had, betwixt despair and

faintness, cast themselves on the ground, and with every expression of

military endearment, endeavoured to animate them against the Moors. With

only fifteen around him, he attacked the foe with such brave

impetuosity, that they began to give way, and if at this juncture he had

been supported by the rest, he would assuredly have furnished triumph

instead of tribulation to his country. But whilst Navarro was attempting

to bring back the fugitive troops, the Moors made a fresh attack on his

little band, wounded several, and killed D. Garcia. His death doubled

the terror and distress of all, and notwithstanding that Navarro

implored them with tears to turn their faces, they fled with the utmost

precipitation to their vessels: and hence they still say in Castile,

'_Mother Gelves, the spell-word of misfortune!_'[AU]

The Emperor Charles the Fifth, on the taking of Tunis, discovered

amongst the booty the arms of Don Garcia, and presented them to his

youthful son, afterwards the celebrated duke of Alva. Pointing out to

him the marks of wounds received by his unfortunate parent, he exhorted

him to imitate his valour, but wished him a happier doom. The duke

received these arms with the most lively joy, and caused them to be

transported to Spain, and hung up in the arsenal of the dukes of

Alva.[AV]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote AU: Sandoval, l. i. cap. 40, p. 30.]

[Footnote AV: Histoire du Duc d'Albe, l. i. ch. 10. p. 32.]

VIII.--_Page_ 250.

_Threatening the' illustrious youth, a knight was seen,

Of a fierce spirit and insulting mien._

It happened that a gentleman of Burgos courted a lady to whom Fernando

of Alva also paid his addresses. It was in the year 1524, when

harquebusses were just coming into use, but they were considered as very

ungentlemanly weapons to do slaughter with, by those who had been

trained to the exercises of the sword. This gentleman boasted that he

was a most excellent firer of the harquebuss, when, being both in the

presence of the lady, Fernando took out his pocket handkerchief, and

putting it to his nose, exclaimed, "What an odious fume of powder there

is in the room!" at which the lady smiled greatly, and the gentleman's

face became overspread with blushes. Taking the duke afterwards aside,

he challenged him to meet him with sword and capa, at a certain hour of

the night, on the bridge San Pablo. The duke arriving, his rival asked

him what arms he brought. "Sword and dagger." "I have but a sword,"

rejoined the gentleman; whereupon the duke threw his dagger into the

river. They fought--were reconciled, and agreed to conceal the duel; but

it soon became the theme of conversation, for on taking up their mantles

from the ground, they chanced to make an exchange; and the duke, paying

no attention to it, appeared in the palace with his opponent's mantle,

upon which were emblazoned the arms of the Order of St. Jago, which led

to a discovery of the whole quarrel.

IX.--_Page_ 274.

The city of Toledo.

X.--_Page_ 302.

Mosen Dural, a distinguished gentleman of Barcelona, and Grand-Treasurer

of the city.

XI.--_Page_ 305.

_To the Flower of Gnido._

The title of this Ode is derived from a quarter of the city of Naples,

called Il Seggio de Gnido, the favourite abode then of people of

fashion, in which also the lady lived to whom the Ode was addressed.

This lady, Violante San Severino, a daughter of the duke of Soma, was

courted by Fabio Galeota, a friend of Garcilasso, in whose behalf the

poem was written. In the original, Garcilasso plays upon the names of

the parties, comparing the paleness of the lover, not to the lily, but

to the white _violet_, and representing him as a _galley_ slave in the

boat, or, to speak more poetically, the shell in which the Queen of

Beauty at her birth sailed along the ocean. If I have been guilty of

preserving any trace of this idle play upon words, it is only that it

has chimed in necessarily with the sense. Mention is made by Sanchez, of

an elegy addressed by Fabio to Violante, beginning

Andate senza me, chara Violante?

Wilt thou then go without me, in thy wrath,

Dear Violante?

the pathos of which has led me to look for it, but without success, in

various old collections of Tuscan verses.

XII.--_Page_ 369.

_In the fantastic pirouette._

As none of the commentators of Garcilasso offer a word in explanation of

these verses, it was difficult to conceive exactly either to what they

alluded, or what had given rise to them. I find, however, in Boscán who

has written on the same text, a complete elucidation. They were sported

on Don Luis de la Cueva, for dancing in the palace with a lady who was

called La Páxara--_the bird_, probably from the elegance with which she

flew down the dance;[AW] it would appear that D. Luis fell whilst

attempting a difficult step, and that in reply to the universal banter

of the assembly, he had unfortunately said, it was after all no great

crime in him to dance. This seems to have excited great amusement, and

to have set a number of gentlemen, and some titled heads to work, to

write bad verses to prove the contrary. As, however, these verses show

some wit, and at the same time best serve to clear up the obscurity of

my author, I subjoin translations.

THE DUKE OF ALVA.

Why, what a terrible affair

Is this! you were too bad by half;

You've really made it, I declare,

Your _business_ to make people laugh.

I'm one who feels it! to see you,

Of all men, to the Bird advance!

I counsel you, whate'er you do,

You take no farther care _to dance_.

GARCILASSO.

Count they then this a great offence, &c.

THE PRIOR OF SANTISTÉVAN.

It might not be a first-rate sin,

But all who dance like this good knight,

Must pay for it most surely in

The laugh of even the most polite.

Let those who wish to dance, not take

_Him_ for an omen! He advanced,

And practised--but, for mercy's sake,

Let not the gallant say _he danced_!

BOSCÁN.

He touched forbidden fruit--the debt

Must thus be paid--he danced! and now

'Tis clear he'll live but by the sweat,

Henceforth, of his laborious brow.

Himself he cruelly deceived,

And well he might, when, countenanced

By such assurance, he conceived

We laughed, because he _merely danced_.

D. FERNANDO ALVAREZ DE TOLEDO.

This gentleman would quite have lost

His credit in this curious case,

Had not the little Bird he crossed

So sweetly sang him into grace.

But if from this he turns away,

And shows at all discountenanced,

I'd wish to comfort him, and say,

As he says, that _he only danced_!

THE TREASURER OF ALCANTARA.

All were astonished that the king

So quickly freed you, but he freed

You, not to be in that bright ring

So very forward; no, indeed!

Right forward has he been, but yet

Why laugh with such extravagance?

He _only_ maims a pirouette,

He _only_ dislocates _a dance_.

D. LUIS OSORIO.

Know that the laws, to his disgrace,

Condemn Don Luis now to fall,

For (only think) he had the face

To dance in the king's palace-hall!

Dance with the Bird! oh fatal even!

And yet, as he seems circumstanced,

He ought perhaps to be forgiven,

Since, as he says, _he only danced_.

D. GARCIA DE TOLEDO.

The Emperor set you free, but not

Without a rigorous penance had,

Sentencing you upon the spot

To dance--it really was too bad!

All say it was a cruel thing,

Beyond all mortal sufferance,

For 'tis not just in any king

To' oblige his subjects _so to dance_!

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote AW: Páxaro, or Páxara, is also a cant word, expressing

sharpness or cunning. _Ese es paxaro_, is equivalent with the vulgar

expression, _he is a knowing one_: hence perhaps some of the allusions

that will be found in these jeux d'esprit.]

XIII.--_Page_ 370.

AD FERDINANDUM DE ACUÑA.

Dum reges, Fernande, canis, dum Cæsaris altam

Progeniem nostri, claraque facta Ducum,

Dum Hispanâ memoras fractas sub cuspide gentes,

Obstupuere homines, obstupuere Dii;

Extollensque caput sacri de vertice Pindi

Calliope blandis vocibus hæc retulit:

Macte puer, geminâ præcinctus tempora lauro

Qui nova nunc Martis gloria solus eras;

Hæc tibi dat Bacchusque pater, dat Phoebus Apollo,

Nympharumque leves, Castalidumque chori,

Ut, quos divino celebrâsti carmine Reges,

Teque simul curvâ qui canis alma lyrâ,

Sæpe legant, laudent, celebrent post fata nepotes,

Nullaque perpetuos nox fuget atra dies.

This is the only specimen extant of Garcilasso's Latin compositions,

which are spoken of by several writers of his day as marked by extreme

elegance, and amongst others by Tansillo: nor can I close my volume,

written in the hope of placing in the clear light it deserves the merit

of this amiable poet, with more propriety and grace, than by adopting

the words of one who loved him for his virtues, and admired him for his

genius.

Spirto gentil, che con la cetra al collo,

La spada al fianco, ogn'or la penna in mano,

Per sentier gite, che non pùr Hispano,

Ma Latin pie fra noi raro segnollo!

Felice voi, ch'or Marte, ed or Apollo,

Or Mercurio seguendo, fuor del piano,

V'andate a por del volgo si lontano,

Che man d'invidia non vi puo dar crollo,--

Tutte le chiuse vie, sassose, ed erte,

Che vanno al tempio, ove il morir si spregia,

Spianate innanzi a voi sono, ed aperte.

E perchè vadan per la strada egregia

Vostre virtù d'abito altier coverte,

Bellezza, e nobiltà l'adorna, e fregia.

THE END.

LONDON: PRINTED BY JAMES MOYES, GREVILLE STREET.

NEW TRANSLATION OF THE

"JERUSALEM DELIVERED."

PROPOSALS FOR PUBLISHING BY SUBSCRIPTION

A NEW TRANSLATION OF TASSO,

In English Spenserian Verse.

BY J. H. WIFFEN,

AUTHOR OF "AONIAN HOURS," "JULIA ALPINULA," "THE DEATH OF MUNGO PARK,"

ETC.

* * * * *

"You will, perhaps, be inclined to laugh at the warmth with

which I express myself; but I feel that the not having good

modern translations of ARIOSTO and TASSO is a disgrace to

our literature, and conceive that we are only debarred from

this by Mr. Hoole's lumbering vehicle having so long stopped

the way."--STEWART ROSE'S _Letters from the North of Italy_.

* * * * *

At a time rich beyond all former ages but that of ELIZABETH, and

scarcely less prodigal than that in works of imagination; at a period

when our Poetry, following in the steps of our refinement as a nation,

and becoming, from the industry and success with which it is cultivated,

no less the theme of the aged than the passion of the young,--whilst

some superior intellects of the day, in their thirst for distinction,

are spending their great powers on startling and vain experiments, it

were surprising if there were not some more willing to confine their

ambition within the boundaries of classical study, and, tracing the

improvements which English Poetry has undergone in its progress, to the

Tuscan Muses as their principal source, to explore, as their adventure,

the treasures confined under the golden key of Italian language. Never

has the inspiration of those Muses been invoked without the most signal

advantage, not only to our literature, but our language. It softened,

under CHAUCER, the Saxon roughness of our early tongue; it ruled and

regulated the cadences of SURREY and WYATT, till from an uncouth and

often arbitrary metre, our Poetry grew into proportion, harmony, and

grace; it gave to the lyres of SPENSER, MILTON, COLLINS, and GRAY, much

of their compass, richness, and luxury of sound. The advantages have

indeed been such, and of so permanent a nature, as to lead the

historians of our literature to assert, that all the grand renovations

which have been made from time to time in our Poetry, have either

originally sprung from the Italian school, or been promoted by it. Nor

can the increasing taste for Italian literature, spread by the excellent

productions of ROSCOE, FOSCOLO, and MATTHIAS, nor the farther

cultivation and extension of it by Commentators and Translators, lead to

less important results.

But little, however, has yet been accomplished in giving to England the

Poets of Italy; and our writers may with justice observe, that this

neglect is a disgrace to our national literature. If we except the

Amynta of TASSO, recently given in a good translation by Mr. HUNT; if we

except FANSHAW'S old version of GUARINI'S Pastor Fido, so justly

eulogised by Sir JOHN DENHAM, LLOYD'S Alfieri, and the Dante of Mr.

CAREY, where shall we look for adequate pictures of her thousand Spirits

of Song? This deficiency has arisen from neglect, from disdain, from any

thing but inability. What Italy has been in the possession of her

DANTES, her ARIOSTOS, her PETRARCAS, and her TASSOS, England is in her

BYRONS, her SCOTTS, her CAMPBELLS, and her MOORES; not omitting others

that have powers little less, if at all inferior, who might, if they

desired it, by Translations almost as original in composition as are

those glorious types themselves, become at once personifications of

their beauties, and inheritors of their fame. The severe simplicity and

wrathful grandeur of DANTE is already transfused with spirit and

condensity. There is perhaps but one living poet possessed of an equal

versatility of talent, of the same various powers of passionate

description, fancy, wit, and whim, to transfuse the Proteus-spirit of

ARIOSTO, the Prince of Romancers; and but one gifted with an equal

feeling, melody, and charm of language, who could, with a graceful hand,

pour out music and lamentation from the Urn of PETRARCH: but _they_

could do it to the life; nor may it be altogether a vain expectation

that some of their future hours will be consecrated to the service, and

that their names will thus become consociated in immortal brotherhood

with the names of these Patriarchs of Italian verse.

But if the writer does not calculate amiss, it is to a Translation of

TASSO,--of TASSO, who possesses much of the sublimity and fervour, with

nothing of the obscurity of DANTE,--the romance and the picture, the

fantasy and fire of ARIOSTO, without his eccentricity and caprice,--the

melody, tenderness, classical elegance, and transpicuousness of

PETRARCH, without his subtilty: of TASSO,--who, by the specific account

of SERASSI, his best biographer, had passed, at the time when he was

writing, through _one hundred and thirty_ editions, and had been

translated into _twenty_ languages and dialects of Europe, that the

liveliest sympathy is likely to be accorded, and the greatest favour

shown, by a People whose pride must be gratified by the celebrity which

he has given in his Poem to the exploits of their ancestors, with minds

sufficiently imaginative to abandon themselves at will to the spells of

his delightful genius, and with hearts that cannot avoid taking a warm

part in the generous heroism of his Rinaldo and Tancred, in the

enchanting beauty of Armida, and the yet more interesting fortunes of

his sensitive Erminia.

In speaking of the ten former attempts that have been made to give TASSO

an English dress, the writer has no desire to undervalue, or unjustly to

decry them,--they may all have been more or less serviceable: he is

admiringly alive to the harmonies and graces of our most masculine

FAIRFAX, as well as to the stoical fidelity of antique CAREW; but he

cannot be blind to their great defects, still less can he shut his eyes

upon those empiric pretensions and empty performances of the Usurper of

their honours, which have led "the ARIOSTO of the NORTH" (whom Britain

also tenaciously claims for her BOCCACCIO) to observe with his

characteristic truth and humour, that "to rescue this charming Poet from

the _frozen paws_ of poor Mr. HOOLE, would be to do our literature a

service at which he must rejoice." Stimulated by the approbation

accorded by his mighty mind, no less than by that of other literary

characters whom it would be ostentatious to mention, the task commenced

under favourable auspices, and in which great progress is made, will be

prosecuted with the care and devotedness which so exquisite a poet

demands, and the nature of the measure chosen as most true to his

genius, of necessity enforces. It has been observed that Translation is

but little popular in England: to render it so with the mass of readers

it may be requisite to aim at giving it the air and charm of original

composition; but with the very many to whom the Italian poem must be

familiar, it cannot be doubted that their pleasure must be doubled in

having added to their contemplation of the original their criticism of

the artist, more particularly if, as in the fine Translation of

COLERIDGE from SCHILLER,--that criticism should fortunately derive

gratification from his skill. Neither is the ILIAD of POPE unpopular,

nor SOTHEBY'S OBERON, nor any Translator who has trod with freedom and

spirit in the steps of the Master with whom he has endeavoured to

identify himself. But if the _name_ of TASSO should be insufficient to

bespeak attention to a project which cannot be perfected but with great

labour of thought, the Author will look for it in the story and the

subject, and believe it impossible but that those who view with interest

the present exertions of Christian Greece against the Mussulman

Ottomite, will still find emotion and amusement in a transcript, though

it may prove a too unworthy one, of the celebrated pages in which all

Europe stands in banner-array against the despotic Ottomite of the

Middle Ages, in a land full of the most sacred recollections.

* * * * *

_The Translator submits to the Public the following_

PROPOSALS:

The "JERUSALEM DELIVERED" to be translated stanza for stanza

from the original, in the measure of the "FAIRIE QUEENE:" to

be printed in the finest manner, with a beautiful new type

cast on purpose for the Work, in Two Volumes Royal Octavo,

accompanied with a BIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT of the LIFE and

WRITINGS of TASSO, with his PORTRAIT engraved in the first

style, and, if the number of Subscribers prove sufficient,

with other Embellishments.

PRICE TWO GUINEAS,

_To be paid on delivery of the Work._

As the object of the Translator is principally to place a work of some

value in the libraries of men of letters, no more copies of this Edition

will be struck off than are subscribed for: and as the Translation is

now near its completion, those Gentlemen who may be desirous of

possessing copies are requested to forward their names without delay.

* * * _Names of Subscribers are received by_ HURST,

ROBINSON, and Co. 90, _Cheapside_, and 8, _Pall Mall_; _Mr._

HOOKHAM, _Old Bond Street_; TREUTTEL, WURTZ, _and_ RICHTER,

_Soho Square_; _and by the_ AUTHOR, _Woburn Abbey_. _A List

of Subscribers will be printed collectively with the

Volumes, as well as individually after the Dedication leaf._

NAMES OF SUBSCRIBERS ALREADY RECEIVED.

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Miss Hanson.

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_In Octavo, price 5s. 6d._

JERUSALEM DELIVERED, BOOK FOURTH:

BEING THE SPECIMEN OF AN INTENDED NEW TRANSLATION,

In English Spenserian Verse,

WITH A PREFATORY DISSERTATION ON EXISTING TRANSLATIONS.

BY J. H. WIFFEN.

PUBLISHED BY HURST, ROBINSON, AND CO.

90, CHEAPSIDE, AND 8, PALL MALL.

* * * * *

"There are certain ages in the history of the world, on

which the heart dwells with interest and affection; but

there are none which excite our curiosity, our admiration,

and our love, more intensely than the days of

chivalry."--CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

"Il existe en Angleterre plusieurs traductions de la Jérusalem Délivrée;

mais elles ont presque toutes de grands défauts. Celle de HOOLE est

sans contredit la plus mauvaise. FAIRFAX en a publié une où l'on

rencontre de très-beaux passages, à côté de choses triviales; il

franchit souvent l'espace qui sépare le sublime du ridicule. M. HUNT a

publié une traduction du poème du TASSE, mais la mesure de vers qu'il a

adoptée ne convient point au poème héroique, et nuit à l'effet général:

on peut aussi lui reprocher d'être diffus, et de ne pas toujours choisir

le tour le plus neuf et le plus concis. M. WIFFEN, si l'on en juge

d'après l'essai qu'il offre au public, est appelé à faire enfin passer

les beautés du poète Italien dans la langue Anglaise. Sa traduction,

élégante et fidèle, a parfois le charme et la magie des vers du TASSE:

on voit qu'il s'est d'abord pénétré des pensées de son modèle, afin de

parvenir à les rendre sans les dénaturer, comme cela n'arrive que trop

souvent aux traducteurs vulgaires."--_La Revue Encyclopédique de Paris_,

Avril, 1822.

"In conclusion, we must state our opinion, that this Specimen is highly

creditable to the taste and talents of Mr. WIFFEN. He possesses strong

powers of versification, which are absolutely necessary to a translator

of TASSO, and he manifests a warm and vigorous imagination. His

acquaintance with poetical phraseology, also, is various and extensive.

A poet himself, he is delighted with his labour, and appears, like

Ariel, to do 'his spiriting gently.' The task which he has undertaken is

most difficult and arduous, on which the highest minds might enter with

diffidence and distrust: but Mr. W. certainly has the power of producing

a work which will be honourable to the literature of his country and to

his own fame; and we hope he may meet with the encouragement which the

attempt deserves."--_Monthly Review_, June, 1821.

"The present Specimen is prefaced by a sensible and liberal criticism on

the merits of those who have preceded the Translator in this great work.

The pretensions of HOOLE, which, to the astonishment of all who are

acquainted with the subject, have been so long suffered to pass

unquestioned, are ably and judiciously exposed; and the version of

FAIRFAX, so much talked of, and so little known, receives the tribute of

praise which is its due, unmixed, however, with any portion of that

slavish admiration which mistakes blemishes for beauties, and want of

taste for exuberance of genius. The result of Mr. WIFFEN'S inquiry is

inevitable--that a new Translation is necessary, and that at present we

possess none which gives any adequate idea of the original. * * * * *

But we must set limits to our extracts. Indeed, we should transcribe the

whole Pamphlet, if we were to show all that has pleased and delighted

us. The whole is splendidly and powerfully written, and the sense and

style of the original scrupulously preserved. Some of the extracts we

have given, beautifully as they are versified, are almost literal

transcripts from TASSO. Most sincerely do we congratulate Mr. WIFFEN on

the success of his labours, and we hope that it will not be long before

he fully realizes the hopes which so promising a specimen must

necessarily excite."--_Monthly Magazine_, April, 1821.

"Upon the whole, we have never met with a translation possessing more of

the spirit and interest of the original; and we can confidently

recommend it to our readers as a work abounding with merit, and likely

to add much to the already well-earned reputation of its author. Mr.

Wiffen possesses a genuine vein of his own, and has given to the present

work a life and intrinsic interest very seldom met with in productions

of this class. He displays a fervency, an enthusiasm, an instinct of

beauty, a seriousness of tone and manner, which accord admirably with

the spirit of his author. We have no hesitation in affirming, that very

many of his stanzas equal the originals in every thing but the language;

and we think we could point out more than one or two that are absolutely

superior."--_Investigator_, April, 1823.

_By the same Author_,

AONIAN HOURS and OTHER POEMS. Price 7s.

JULIA ALPINULA, with the CAPTIVE OF STAMBOUL, and OTHER POEMS. Price 7s.

6d.

Transcriber's Notes:

Words surrounded by _ are italicized.

Small capitals are presented as all capitals in this e-text.

Symbol inverted asterism (three asterisks arranged as inverted triangle)

is presented as * * * (dinkus) in this e-text.

In this book, there are Footnotes (marked with letters) and Endnotes

(marked with numbers). In the original book, the footnotes are located

at the bottom of the relevant pages and the endnotes are located in the

Appendix. In this e-book, the footnotes are relocated to the end of each

chapter.

Obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent

spellings have been kept, including inconsistent use of hyphen (e.g.

"by-gone" and "bygone") and diacritical marks (e.g. "Góngora,"

"Gongora," and "Gongóra).