XII.

JOSÈ ZORRILLA.

It has been said that “the life of a poet is ever a romance.” Perhaps this observation may apply equally well to the history of every man of ardent genius who enters with characteristic enthusiasm into the affairs of life, so as to invest even ordinary circumstances with the glow and hue of his own excited imagination. But this is more especially the case with poets who make us participate in their feelings, their joys or their sorrows, so as to give a character of romance to incidents that with other persons would have passed away as unnoticed. In the course of the preceding narratives, no doubt, many instances may be remembered to verify this remark, and the life of the eminent and deservedly popular poet with which we have to close the series, even in his yet youthful career, may be found to afford a further exemplification of it.

On the 14th February, 1837, a funeral car, over which was placed a crown of laurel, had to traverse the streets of Madrid, bearing to their resting-place in the cemetery, the remains of the talented but wrong-minded Larra. The car was followed by an immense concourse of mourners, principally young men of the first classes of Madrid, who were so testifying their regret for the loss they had sustained. The whole scene presented a spectacle of homage paid to genius, such as had seldom been witnessed. It was such as power might have envied, and as worth scarcely ever attained. Melancholy as had been the end of the unhappy being they mourned, envy and hatred had become silenced, morality and charity joined in regret, and no one disputed the propriety of the funeral honours paid to the dead.

It was already late when the ceremonies were concluded, and the darkening shadows of the night, in such a place and on such an occasion, gave the countenances of all assembled an extraordinary character. The shock they had felt, to lose so suddenly from among them one so well-known to them all, in the fulness of youth and intellect, in the height of fame and popularity, without any apparent motive and enveloped in mystery, was of itself sufficient to penetrate their minds with sorrow. They felt that a bright light had been extinguished, and they feared there was no hope of another arising to shine in its place. A strange spell seemed to have come over the bystanders, and they lingered round the vault with an unaccountable disinclination to separate.

The eloquent Señor Roca de Togares, distinguished both as an orator and a poet, pronounced a discourse he had hastily prepared, in which he portrayed the general sensation of sorrow, as he eulogized the talents and the principal literary successes of the deceased. But his eloquence had only the effect of exciting still further the prevalent feeling, which was that of something still more appropriate being required to give expression to their grief, and they instinctively looked round for some one to give utterance to it in the language of mournful inspiration with which to take their final farewell.

At that moment, in the midst of, it may be supposed, almost painful silence, a young man, unknown to them, of a slight figure and boyish appearance, stood forward, and with a tremulous voice began reading some verses in unison with their feelings, which at the first accents seemed to seize irresistibly on the minds of the listeners. He was himself so much affected by the scene, and perhaps under the sense of his own temerity, that he could not finish his task, and Roca de Togares took the paper out of his hands and read the verses again audibly. Had they been possessed of only ordinary merit, they would no doubt, on such an occasion, have been favourably received; but expressed as they were in highly poetical language, with appropriate sentiments, the effect was to excite the utmost astonishment and admiration. The author’s name, Josè Zorrilla, was eagerly called for and repeated on all sides with loud applauses, and they who had followed sorrowfully shortly before the remains of the man of genius they had lost, now returned to the city attending in triumph another poet they had found, with all the tokens of enthusiastic rejoicing. The young poet, on his part, had found an audience ready to welcome him, and he was at once launched forth into that “tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.”

The history of the new aspirant for fame was now an object of interest, and the public learned that he was the son of Don Josè Zorrilla, a person well known as an eminent lawyer who had held several judicial offices with credit in Spain. It was while holding one of those offices, in Valladolid, that his son, the subject of this narrative, was born there, the 21st of February, 1817. From Valladolid, the father having been promoted to other duties in Burgos, Seville, and finally at Madrid, the son followed him, and received his primary education in the various cities they inhabited, under circumstances which must have operated powerfully on his mind. On arriving at Madrid he was placed at the Seminary of Nobles, where he remained six years, thus giving that celebrated institution the just merit of claiming him, as well as so many others of the ablest writers and public men of Spain, among those they had educated. There he seems to have gone through his course of studies without apparently other distinction than an early inclination to write verses and attend the theatres, which predilection his tutors disapproved, but in consideration of his father’s position passed over more leniently than they otherwise would have done. This indulgence, however, there is no doubt gave that decided turn to his mind which led to his subsequent career.

On leaving the Seminary, Zorrilla had to go to his father at his estate in the province of Castille, where he now lived in retirement, having lost the favour of the government. There soon a discordance rose between them as to his future course in life. The father wished him to graduate in the profession of the law, in which he had acquired wealth and fame, and sent him, notwithstanding his repugnance, to Toledo, to study in the university of that city. He passed accordingly a year there, but with only sufficient application to go through the ordinary routine respectably. Other studies, more congenial to his taste, engaged all his thoughts. Toledo is a city rich in historical and poetical remembrances and legends. Its monuments and ruins are among the most interesting that exist in Spain, and in the contemplation of these Zorrilla was constantly absorbed. To Toledo he owed his poetical education, as to it he has dedicated some of his sweetest poetry. He shunned the society of his fellow-students, and seemed to pass an eccentric and even mysterious life. Out no one knew where, at strange hours, disregarding the university rules and dress and etiquette, allowing his hair to grow long over his shoulders, and composing songs, not to the taste of his tutors, he was considered half-mad, and his father was informed of his strange conduct as not amenable to study and discipline. On going home for the vacation, his father therefore received him with coldness and displeasure, and made him read law with him, notwithstanding his continued disinclination to it, though in secret he made amends for the restraint by indulging in reading more agreeable to himself. It is recorded more especially that he then studied the Sacred Scriptures, in whose pages he found the truest inspiration of poetry, as he certainly seems in his writings generally to have imbibed the purest principles of morality and religion.

In the hope of his entering on a more diligent course of study at another place than Toledo, Zorrilla was then sent to Valladolid, as if by changing universities he could be expected to change the tendency of mind which urged him to his destiny. There he was watched on all sides by his father’s directions, and it was reported to him that his son still continued his former course of conduct; that instead of passing his hours in study, he was ever out on lonely walks, lying under the shade of trees by the side of the river or the broken rock, absorbed in his own meditations. There is a hint also given, of even the discovery that he had found some dream of youthful love to indulge in, as if it were something extraordinary for one of his age and enthusiastic character. The father must have been one of the class that Chateaubriand suffered under, or Mirabeau; and happy it was for Zorrilla that he did not sink into the recklessness of the one or the inanities of the other, while he had also to submit to similar discouragements. As it was, the father came to the conclusion that no hope was to be entertained of his son’s application to study, to take that position in the world which he had planned out for him, and in which were centred all his own ideas of honourable activity. He therefore resolved to take him from Valladolid, and sent a trusty messenger to bring him home.

On the way the messenger gave Zorrilla to understand that his father had resolved to employ him on his estate, to dress the vines and perform other labours of country occupation. It seems the father had even talked about fitting him out in a labourer’s working garb, as not being calculated for nobler employment, while he himself was unconscious or careless of the wonderful power of mind which lay hid from his observation in the son’s apparent inability to fulfil his expectations. On this intimation, however, Zorrilla at once formed his determination. Shortly before reaching home, he stayed at the house of a relative, where he collected together the few valuable things he could carry away, and appropriating to his necessity a horse belonging to his cousin, he hastened back to Valladolid. There he was fortunate enough to arrive and sell the horse before the messenger sent after him again could arrest him on his flight. He then transferred himself without loss of time to Madrid, where for a length of time he succeeded in escaping the vigilant search made for him by his friends, who not having seen him since he was a boy, were not able now to penetrate his disguise.

At Madrid under these circumstances, a fugitive from his father’s house, he had now passed almost a year, when he came forth before the public, as we have narrated, on the occasion of Larra’s funeral. How he had passed those months we are not informed further, than that he had to submit to every kind of annoyances and privations, which he surmounted by the firmness of his determination and the elevated character of his hopes. He had in the interval sent several pieces of poetry to the different periodicals, by which his name had already become sufficiently known to a number of those who hailed him on the 14th February as supplying the place of the popular writer they had lost.

On the following day, Zorrilla could say, like Lord Byron, that he awoke and found himself famous. The verses on Larra were in every one’s mouth, and all others that could be obtained of his writing were eagerly collected. Editors and proprietors of periodicals were anxious to obtain his cooperation for their works, and his period of difficulties had passed away. Before the year closed, the first volume of his poems appeared with an introduction by Pastor Diaz, and that was so eagerly bought that he was induced to bring out others in succession, with a prolificness unknown almost even in Spain. Seven other closely printed volumes of his poems were published, including several plays, within about three years afterwards, and eight or nine other volumes have appeared since. His works have been reprinted in Paris and in various parts of Spanish America, and received everywhere with unbounded admiration, so as at once to prove him one of the most favourite poets that Spain has produced.

While he was thus rising to fame and competence, his father, on the other hand, had fallen into misfortune. A high prerogative lawyer, he had maintained the doctrines of absolutism, and at length openly espoused the cause of Don Carlos. On the failure of this prince’s attempts to gain the throne, the elder Zorrilla, with other adherents, was proscribed and had his property confiscated. His son had not heard from him after this event for some years, when he received a letter from his father from Bayonne, stating that he was in difficulties, and requesting him to apply to a former friend, whom he named, for a loan for his assistance. Zorrilla wrote back to say that there was no occasion to incur an obligation from one not related to him, and that he himself was happy to have it in his power to send him the sum required, which he would repeat at stated intervals. This he accordingly did, until he received his father’s directions to discontinue it, as not requiring it any more.

Another instance of Zorrilla’s high-mindedness and true Castilian pride has been recorded. On his father’s property having been sequestrated by the government, it was intimated to him that if he applied he might have the administration of it, which was tantamount to giving him possession of it. But he replied that he would neither apply for it nor accept it, for while his father lived, he could acknowledge no one else as entitled to it. His father having since died, Zorrilla has come by law into possession of his estates, and has thus had the rare fortune, for a poet, to be possessed of considerable wealth. He has had several offers of appointments from the government, but he has declined them, contented to live according to his own fancies and occupied with his own peculiar pursuits. His extraordinary facility for composing verses is such as scarcely to allow his compositions to be termed studies; but with them and his attendances at the theatre, and other recreations, or at literary reunions, he is said to pass away his hours in ease and contentment. The first volume of his poems, it has been already intimated, was published before he was twenty-one years of age. Within three years afterwards seven others were published; and in the eighth, to the poem of ‘The Duke and the Sculptor,’ was appended the following note to his wife:--“Dedicated to the Señora Matilda O’Reilly de Zorrilla. I began the publication of my poems with our acquaintance, and I conclude them with thy name. Madrid, 10 October, 1840.”

What were the circumstances attending this acquaintance or union, we are not informed; but it is fortunate for the world that the intimation it might convey of its being the conclusion of his literary works has not been fulfilled. Since then he has published ‘Songs of the Troubadour,’ in three volumes, and other minor poems and plays separately. A larger work he meditated on the conquest of Granada, to be entitled ‘The Cross and the Crescent,’ has not been completed; and another he projected with the title ‘Maria,’ intending to celebrate the different characters under which the Holy Virgin is venerated in Roman Catholic countries, he has published, with the greater part supplied by a friend, all very inferior to what might have been expected from him.

It is much to be regretted that Zorrilla has in all his works allowed carelessnesses to prevail, which too often mar the effect of his verses, and still more that he has often inserted some that were of very inferior merit compared with the rest. It is not to be supposed that an author can be equally sustained in all his productions, but it is somewhat extraordinary in his volumes to find some poems of such transcendent merit, and others so inferior. These, however, are very few, and probably were hastily composed and hastily published, to supply the demand arising for the day. He is probably the only author in Spain who has profited by the sale of his writings to any extent, and to do this he must have been often under the necessity of tasking his mind severely, without regard to its spontaneous suggestions. Thus then, when he found his inspiration failing, he has often had recourse to memory, and repeated from himself, and even from others, verses previously published. It is to be hoped that he may be induced soon to give the world a revised edition of his works, in which the oversights may be corrected, and the poems unworthy of his fame may be omitted.

On reading over dispassionately the ‘Lines to Larra,’ by which he was first brought so prominently into notice, it may occasion some surprise to learn they had produced so remarkable an effect. If they had previously been read over alone to any one of the auditors, he probably might not have considered them so ideal, so beautiful, or so original as they seemed at the public recital. Some phrase might have appeared incomprehensible, some sentiment exaggerated or not true; some expression or line, hard or weak or forced. He might have observed a want of order or connection in the ideas, or the whole to be vague and leaving no fixed thought in the mind; or he might have pronounced them, as they have been since pronounced, an imitation of Victor Hugo or Lamartine. But to the auditors assembled, in the excited state of their feelings, there was no time for reflection or criticism. It was a composition of the hour for that particular scene,--for themselves, in language and feelings with which they could sympathize. Thus the verses seized on their minds and electrified them, so that they had no time to dwell on any discussion or dispute of their merits, but yielded at once to the fascination of the melodious verse they heard, and the appropriate application of the homage they testified.

In the first volume of poems that Zorrilla published, containing his earliest productions, are to be found all the selections made for translation in this work. They may not be so highly finished as some afterwards published, nor so marked by that distinctive character he has made his own; but they show the first promises of the fruit that was in store, to be afterwards brought to such maturity. As he had scarcely emerged from boyhood when he began to tread the path to fame, his first steps could scarcely fail to betray that sort of uncertainty which attends on all who are going on an unknown road. Thus then through the volume he appears to be seeking a ground whereon to fix his energies and build the temple for his future fame, without being able confidently to fix on any place in preference. His poetry from the first, always sonorous and easy, often evidently spontaneous and true to nature, at times is weak and deficient in the depth of thought that at other times distinguishes it, especially in the compositions of a philosophic cast, which require fuller age and reflection to give them with perfectness. Subject to these remarks, independently of the poems hereafter given in the translations, there are others, ‘To Toledo,’ ‘The Statue of Cervantes,’ ‘The Winter Night,’ more clearly portraying the peculiar character of his poetry as afterwards developed.

In the second volume published about six months afterwards, he seems already to have taken his ground and to proceed with a more decided step. The poem, ‘The Day without Sun,’ is full of poetic vigour and richness of description, and several tales of greater length and legendary character show the bent of his mind and the direction it was in future to take. In the third volume it was reserved for his genius to be fully developed. It opens with a magnificent composition, ‘To Rome,’ in which deep philosophy and reflection are combined with exquisite description, all so clear and distinct as fully to captivate the mind and leave an impression of complete satisfaction. But beyond this it contains the poem ‘To the last Moorish King of Granada, Boabdil the Little,’ which is generally considered his best. He was already recognized as an admirable descriptive poet, but he now proved his power of moving the inmost feelings to be as great as his power of imagination. It is undoubtedly a splendid composition and highly finished, so as to be well worthy of study for the Spanish reader, though too long for translation for this work. The same volume contains another poem, also worthy of mention, ‘To a Skull,’ as written with much force and effect, but in the style of the French imitators of Byron, whom Zorrilla has too much copied, though it must be stated without their affectation and exaggerations.

In the following volumes he continues the course now so markedly his own as a national poet. He avowedly chooses, as becoming him in that character, subjects taken from the traditions and legends current in Spain, and clothing them in glowing language reproduces them to his delighted readers as the dreams and remembrances of their youth. He is especially partial to the tales connected with the Moorish wars, and in so doing, with great poetic effect, always represents the Moors in the most favourable light. Thus he throughout makes them worthy rivals of the Christians, and thereby renders greater the merit of the conquerors. The richness of his diction is truly extraordinary, often so as to make us lose sight of the paucity of ideas contained in his poems, and that those again are too much the same repeated constantly over.

If it was a wonderful and admirable triumph for one so young to achieve by one bound the unqualified commendations of his countrymen, and to sustain the success then acquired by subsequent efforts, we have still to regret that there were evils attending that precocity to prevent his attaining apparently the highest excellence. Perhaps there is no one we can point out as so truly exemplifying the maxim “poeta nascitur.” He was truly born a poet; and though he often writes showing that he had been reading Calderon or some other of the elder writers of Spain, or even some of the French poets, yet he always gives the colouring of his own mind to those imitations so as to make them his own. This often again leads him to a mannerism and repetition of himself; but notwithstanding these faults or occasional errors of carelessness, his compositions always remain uniformly and irresistibly captivating.

Besides his poems, Zorrilla has published upwards of twenty dramatic pieces, some of which have been repeatedly produced on the stage with the fullest success. They are all remarkable for the richness of versification and high tone of poetry which distinguish his lyrical compositions, and, like them, all tend to honour and promote the chivalrous spirit for which the Spanish nation has ever been renowned.

The modern poetry of Spain shows that her nationality is still as distinct, her genius as elevated, and her sense of honour as pure, as in any former period of her history. It shows itself in unison with the spirit that has always animated the people in their public conduct, in their loyalty and devotion, the same now as a thousand years since, making every hill a fortress and every plain a battle-field, to dispute the ground at every foot with the enemy till they were driven from their soil. The poets of Spain have still, as ever, the most stirring tasks before them, to commemorate the glories of their romantic country, and they are worthy of their task.

JOSÈ ZORRILLA.

THE CHRISTIAN LADY AND THE MOOR.

Hastening to Granada’s gates, Came o’er the Vega’s land, Some forty Gomel horsemen, And the Captain of the band.

He, entering in the city, Check’d his white steed’s career; And to a lady on his arm, Borne weeping many a tear,

Said, “Cease your tears, fair Christian, That grief afflicting me, I have a second Eden, Sultana, here for thee.

“A palace in Granada, With gardens and with flowers, And a gilded fountain playing More than a hundred showers.

“And in the Henil’s valley I have a fortress gray, To be among a thousand queen Beneath thy beauty’s sway.

“For over all yon winding shore Extends my wide domain, Nor Cordova’s, nor Seville’s lands, A park like mine contain.

“There towers the lofty palm-tree, The pomegranate’s glowing there, And the leafy fig-tree, spreading O’er hill and valley fair.

“There grows the hardy walnut, The yellow nopal tall, And mulberry darkly shading Beneath the castle wall;

“And elms I have in my arcades That to the skies aspire, And singing birds in cages Of silk, and silver wire.

“And thou shalt my Sultana be, My halls alone to cheer; My harem without other fair, Without sweet songs my ear.

“And velvets I will give thee, And eastern rich perfumes, From Greece I’ll bring thee choicest veils, And shawls from Cashmere’s looms:

“And I will give thee feathers white, To deck thy beauteous brow, Whiter than ev’n the ocean foam Our eastern waters know.

“And pearls to twine amid thy hair, Cool baths when heat’s above, And gold and jewels for thy neck, And for thy lips be--love!”

“O! what avail those riches all,” Replied the Christian fair, “If from my father and my friends, My ladies, me you tear?

“Restore me, O! restore me, Moor, To my father’s land, my own; To me more dear are Leon’s towers Than thy Granada’s throne.”

Smoothing his beard, awhile the Moor In silence heard her speak; Then said as one who deeply thinks, With a tear upon his cheek,

“If better seem thy castles there Than here our gardens shine, And thy flowers are more beautiful, Because in Leon thine;

“And thou hast given thy youthful love One of thy warriors there, Houri of Eden! weep no more, But to thy knights repair!”

Then giving her his chosen steed, And half his lordly train, The Moorish chieftain turn’d him back In silence home again.

ROMANCE. THE WAKING.

No sound is in the midnight air, No colour in its shade, The old are resting free from care, Duenna’s voice is stay’d; But when all else in slumber meet, We two are waking nigh, She on the grated window’s seat, And at its foot am I.

I cannot see her beaming eyes, Nor her clear brow above, Nor her face with its rosy dyes, Nor yet her smile of love: I cannot see the virgin flush That heightens her cheek’s glow, The enchantments of that maiden blush, She is but fifteen now.

Nor can my searching eyes behold Her form scarce wrapp’d about; Nor from the flowing garment’s fold Her white foot peeping out; As on some gentle river’s spring, To glide the foam between, Spread forth her snowy floatsome wing, The stately swan is seen.

Nor can I see her white neck shine, Or shoulders as they part; Nor from her face can I divine Her restlessness of heart; While like a guard, too watchful o’er, The grated bars I find; Audacious love is there before, Poor virtue is behind.

But in despite of that thick grate, And shades that round us twine, I have, my dove, to compensate, My soul embathed in thine: My lips of fire I hold impress’d On thine of roses free; And well I feel there’s in that breast A heart that beats for me.

But see along the East arise The unwelcome god of day, Enveloped in the humid skies, The darkness drive away. And when a maid has watch’d the night, With gallant by her side, The bright red dawn has too much light Its coming to abide!

* * * * *

The smiling morn is shedding round Its harmony and hues, And fragrant odours o’er the ground The breezes soft diffuse: Robbing the rose, the lily fair, And cherish’d pinks they fly, And leave upon the laurels there A murmur moaning by.

Murmurs the fountain’s freshening spring, Beneath its crystal veil, And the angelic turtles sing Their tender mournful tale; The love-sick dove the morning light Drinks with enraptured throat, Mixing the balmy air so bright With her unequal note.

Paces the while the noble youth The garden’s paths along, And lowly sings, his soul to soothe, His love-inspiring song;

“O! soundless midnight hour, again Come with thy kindly shade, When rest thy old from cares, and when Duenna’s voice is stay’d; For then, while they in slumber meet, We two are waking nigh, She on the grated window’s seat, And at its foot am I.”

ORIENTAL ROMANCE,--BOABDIL.

Lady of the dark head-dress, And monkish vest of purple hue, Gladly would Boabdil give Granada for a kiss of you.

He would give the best adventure Of the bravest horseman tried, And with all its verdant freshness A whole bank of Darro’s tide.

He would give rich carpets, perfumes, Armours of rare price and force, And so much he values you, A troop, ay, of his favourite horse.

“Because thine eyes are beautiful, Because the morning’s blushing light From them arises to the East, And gilds the whole world bright.

“From thy lips smiles are flowing, From thy tongue gentle peace, Light and aërial as the course Of the purple morning’s breeze.

“O! lovely Nazarene, how choice! For an Eastern harem’s pride, Those dark locks waving freely Thy crystal neck beside.

“Upon a couch of velvet, I n a cloud of perfumed air, Wrapp’d in the white and flowing veil Of Mahomet’s daughters fair.

“O, Lady! come to Cordova, There Sultana thou shalt be, And the Sultan there, Sultana, Shall be but a slave for thee.

“Such riches he will give thee, And such robes of Tunisine, That thou wilt judge thy beauty, To repay him for them, mean.”

* * * * *

O! Lady of the dark head-dress! That him a kiss of thee might bless, Resign a realm Boabdil would! But I for that, fair Christian, fain Would give of heavens, and think it gain, A thousand if I only could.

THE CAPTIVE.

I go, fair Nazarene, tomorrow To queenly Cordova again; Then thou, my song of love and sorrow To hear, no longer mayst complain, Sung to the compass of my chain.

When home the Christians shall return, In triumph o’er the Moorish foe, My cruel destiny wouldst thou learn? The history of my loves to know, The blood upon their hands shall show.

Better it were at once to close, In this dark tower a captive here, The life I suffer now of woes, Than that today thou sett’st me clear; Alas! thou sell’st it very dear.

Adieu! tomorrow o’er, thy slave May never vex thy soul again, But vain is all the hope it gave: Still must I bear the captive’s chain, Thine eyes my prison still remain.

Fair Christian! baleful is my star; What values it this life to me, If I must bear it from thee far? Nor in Granada’s bowers may be, Nor, my fair Cordova, with thee?

Today’s bright sun to me will seem A lamp unseasonably by: Daughter of Spain, thy beauties gleam Alone my sun and moon on high, The dawn and brightness of my sky.

Since then I lose thy light today, Without that light I cannot live! To Cordova I take my way; But in the doom my fortunes give, Alas! ’tis death that I receive.

A paradise and houri fair Has Mahomet promised we shall prove: Aye, thou wilt be an angel there, And in that blissful realm above We meet again, and there to love.

THE TOWER OF MUNION.

Dark-shadow’d giant! shame of proud Castille, Castle without bridge, battlements or towers, In whose wide halls now loathsome reptiles steal, Where nobles once and warriors held their bowers! Tell me, where are they? where thy tapestries gay, Thy hundred troubadours of lofty song? Thy mouldering ruins in the vale decay, Thou humbled warrior! time has quell’d the strong: Thy name and history to oblivion thrown, The world forgets that there thou standst, Munion.

To me thou art a spectre, shade of grief! With black remembrances my soul’s o’ercast; To me thou art a palm with wither’d leaf, Burnt by the lightning, bow’d beneath the blast. I, wandering bard, proscribed perchance my doom In the bier’s dust nor name, nor glory know; With useless toil my brow’s consumed in gloom; Of her I loved, dark dwelling-place below, Whom I was robb’d of, angel from above, Cursed be thy name, thy soil, as was my love.

There rest, aye, in thy loftiness, To shame the plain around, Warderless castle, matron lone, In whom no beauty’s found. At thee time laughs, thy towers o’erthrown, Scorn’d by thy vassals, by thy Lord Deserted, rest, black skeleton! Stain of the vale’s green sward.

Priestless hermitage of Castille, On thee no banners wave; Unblazon’d gate, thy pointed vaults No more their weight can save: Thou hast no soldier on thy heights, No echo in thy halls, And rank weeds festering grow uncheck’d Beneath thy mouldering walls.

Chieftain dead in a foreign land, Forgotten of thy race, While storm-torn fragments from thy brow Are scatter’d o’er thy place; And men pass careless at thy feet, Nor seek thy tale to find; Because thy history is not read, Thy name’s not in their mind.

But thou hast one, who in a luckless hour Inscribed another’s name on thy worn stone: ’Twas I, and that my deep relentless shame Remains with thee alone. When my lips named that name, they play’d me false; When my hands graved it, ’twas a like deceit; Now it exists not; in time’s impious course ’Twas swept beneath his feet.

And that celestial name, To time at length a prey, A woman for my sin, For a seraph snatch’d away; The hurricane of life Has left me, loved one, worse For my eternal grief, In pledge as of a curse, Thy name ne’er from my thoughts to part, Nor thy love ever from my heart.

THE WARNING.

Yesterday the morning’s light Shone on thy window crystal bright, And lightsome breezes floating there Gave richest perfumes to the air, Which the gay flowers had lent to them, All scatter’d from the unequal stem.

The nightingale had bathed his wing Beneath the neighbouring murmuring spring; And birds, and flowers, and streamlets gay, Seem’d to salute the new-born day; And in requital of the light, Their grateful harmony unite.

The sun was bright, the sky serene, The garden fresh and pleasant seen; Life was delight, and thou, sweet maid, No blush of shame thy charms betray’d; For innocence ruled o’er thy breast, Alike thy waking and thy rest.

Maiden, or angel upon earth, Thy laugh, and song of gentle mirth, In heaven were surely heard; thine eyes Were stars, and like sweet melodies Thy wandering tones; thy breath perfume, And dawn-like thy complexion’s bloom.

As phantoms then thou didst not find The hours pass heavy on thy mind, A poet, under Love’s decree, Sang melancholy songs to thee; And of his griefs the voice they lend Thou didst not, maiden, comprehend.

Poor maiden, now what change has come O’er that glad brow and youthful bloom? Forgotten flower, thy leaves are sere, Thy fruitless blossoms dried appear; Thy powerless stem all broken, low, May to the sun no colours show.

O! dark-eyed maid of ill-starr’d birth, Why camest thou on this evil earth? Rose amid tangled briars born, What waits thee from the world but scorn? A blasting breath around thee, see, Thy bloom is gone, who’ll ask for thee?

Return, my angel, to thy sphere, Before the world shall see thee here: The joys of earth are cursed and brief, Buy them not with eternal grief! Heaven is alone, my soul, secure The mansion for an angel pure.

MEDITATION.

Upon the obscure and lonely tomb, Beneath the yellow evening’s gloom, To offer up to Heaven I come, For her I loved, my prayer! Upon the marble bow’d my head, Around my knees the moist herbs spread, The wild flowers bend beneath my tread, That deck the thicket there.

Far from the world, and pleasures vain, From earth my frenzied thoughts to gain, And read in characters yet plain Names of the long since past; There by the gilded lamp alone, That waves above the altar stone, As by the wandering breezes moan, A light’s upon me cast.

Perchance some bird will pause its flight Upon the funeral cypress height, Warbling the absence of the light, As sorrowing for its loss; Or takes leave of the day’s bright power, From the high window of the tower, Or skims, where dark the cupolas lower, On the gigantic cross.

With eyes immersed in tears, around I watch it silent from the ground, Until it startled flies the sound The harsh bolts creaking gave; A funeral smile salutes me dread, The only dweller with the dead, Lends me a hard and rough hand, led To ope another grave.

* * * * *

Pardon, O God! the worldly thought, Nor mark it midst my prayer; Grant it to pass, with evil fraught, As die the river’s murmurings brought Upon the breezy air.

Why does a worldly image rise As if my prayer to stain? Perchance in evil shadow’s guise, Which may when by the morrow flies Sign of a curse remain.

Why has my mind been doom’d to dream A phantom loveliness? To see those charms transparent gleam, That brow in tranquil light supreme, And neck’s peculiar grace?

Not heighten’d its enchantments shine By pomp or worldly glow; I only see that form recline In tears, before some sacred shrine, Or castle walls below.

Like a forgotten offering lone, In ruin’d temple laid; Upon the carved and time-worn stone, Where fell it by the rough wind thrown, So bent beneath the shade.

With such a picture in my mind, Such name upon my ear, Before my God the place to find, Where the forgotten are consign’d, I come, and bow down here.

With eyes all vaguely motionless, Perhaps my wanderings view The dead, with horror and distress, As, roused up in their resting-place, They look their dark walls through.

’Twas not to muse I hither came Of nothingness my part; Nor of my God, but of a name, That deep in characters of flame Is written on my heart.

Pardon, O God! the worldly thought, Nor mark it midst my prayer; Grant it to pass, with evil fraught, As die the river’s murmurings brought Upon the breezy air.

NOTES.

1. Page 3. “Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos.”

This name (pronounced Hovellianos) was formerly written as two distinct names, Jove Llanos, as it is still by several members of the family, one, an Advocate, at present at Madrid, and another the Spanish Consul at Jamaica.

2. Page 3. “An able and distinguished writer,” &c.

Antonio Alcalà Galiano, author also of the able article in the Foreign Quarterly Review on Jovellanos, afterwards mentioned. He was born at Cadiz, in 1789, the son of a distinguished officer in the Spanish navy, who was killed at Trafalgar. In his youth, Alcalà Galiano studied the English language so assiduously as to receive much benefit from his knowledge of it when he had to take refuge in London, on the various political changes that took place in Spain. He then wrote much for the Westminster and Foreign Quarterly Reviews, as well as other publications, and was subsequently named one of the Professors of Languages in the London University. Having returned to Spain, on the death of Ferdinand VII., he was appointed a Minister of State, with the Señor Isturitz, and has held, at various times, several high offices in the government. In the Cortes he was considered one of the most able orators of his time, having been put on a rivalry with Martinez de la Rosa and Argüelles. He has published a few poems, and contributed several valuable papers for the different learned societies of Madrid, besides having written much for the periodicals, according to the continental system for public men seeking to disseminate their opinions. His principal work as an author is a ‘History of Spain.’ Ferrer del Rio says of him, that “he writes Spanish with an English idiom, and though he puts his name to a history of Spain, it seems a translation from the language of Byron.” Few foreigners have ever obtained so complete a knowledge of the English language; in fact his writings in the several reviews might be pointed out as compositions which would do credit to our own best writers. As an instance of his knowledge of the state of literature in England, we may quote a few observations from an article bearing his name in the first number of the Madrid Review. He says, “The Bible and the Plays of Shakespeare, if they may be named together without profanation, are the two works which have most influence on the thoughts of the English;” adding, that “classical literature is there better cultivated than in France, or at least cultivated with more profound knowledge,” deducing the conclusion, “that the English drama is consequently radically different from the French.”

3. Page 11. “Bermudez, his biographer.”

This industrious writer was born at Gijon, in 1749, and died at Cadiz in 1829. He may be termed the Vasari of Spain, as the historian of the artists of his country. His two biographical works, the one on her painters, the other on her architects, are a rich mine of materials. The former was published in six volumes 8vo, in 1800: the latter, in four volumes 4to, was almost the last work on which he was engaged, and did not appear till 1829. Besides these, he was the author of various other publications on the principal edifices in Seville, and had completed a ‘History of the Roman Antiquities in Spain;’ a ‘General History of Painting;’ a work on ‘Architecture,’ and other pieces, which yet remain unedited. As a fellow-townsman, as well as an artist of considerable genius, he was much assisted by Jovellanos, who, when Minister of State, gave him a valuable appointment at Madrid under the government. When that eminent individual fell, his friends had to suffer also, and Cean Bermudez, deprived of his appointment, had to return to Seville, where he instituted a school for drawing. It was no doubt under the feelings of regret, occasioned by the reflection of having his friends involved in his misfortunes, that Jovellanos wrote to him the Epistle selected for translation in this work.

4. Page 16. “Merit of first bringing into favour.”

See Hermosilla, ‘Juicio Critico de los principales Poetas Españoles de la ultima era,’ vol. i. p. 11.

5. Page 18. “Epistle to Cean Bermudez.”

From Works of Jovellanos, Mellado’s edition, vol. iv. p. 226.

6. Page 30. “To Galatea’s Bird.”

From the same, p. 369.

7. Page 32. “To Enarda.--I.”

From the same, p. 368. In submission to the recommendations of several friends to give the original of at least part or the whole of some one poem of each author, from whose works the translations have been made, selections of such as the English students of Spanish literature would probably most desire, are offered for their comparison.

Riñen me bella Enarda Los mozos y los viejos, Por que tal vez jugando Te escribo dulces versos. Debiera un magistrado (Susurran) mas severo, De las livianas Musas Huir el vil comercio. Que mal el tiempo gastas! Predican otros,--pero Por mas que todos riñan Tengo de escribir versos.

Quiero loar de Enarda El peregrino ingenio Al son de mi zampoña Y en bien medidos metros. Quiero de su hermosura Encaramar al cielo Las altas perfecciones; De su semblante quiero Cantar el dulce hechizo Y con pincel maestro Pintar su frente hermosa Sus traviesos ojuelos, El carmin de sus labios, La nieve de su cuello; Y vàyanse à la … al rollo Los Catonianos ceños Las frentes arrugadas Y adustos sobrecejos, Que Enarda serà siempre Celebrada en mis versos.

8. Page 33. “To Enarda.--II.”

From Works of Jovellanos, vol. iv. p. 364.

9. Page 46. “Epistle to Domingo de Iriarte.”

From Works of Tomas Iriarte, 1805, vol. ii. p. 56.

Domingo Iriarte was subsequently much engaged in the diplomatic service of Spain, and signed the treaty of peace with France of 1795, as Plenipotentiary, along with the celebrated M. Barthélemy.

10. Page 50. “But now the confines of,” &c.

The following is the original of this passage:--

Mas ya dexar te miro Los confines Germanos, Y el polìtico giro Seguir hasta los ùltimos Britanos. Desde luego la corte populosa Cuyas murallas baña La corriente anchurosa Del Tàmesis, la imàgen te presenta De una nacion en todo bien extraña: Nacion en otros siglos no opulenta, Hoi feliz por su industria, y siempre esenta: Nacion tan liberal como ambiciosa; Flemàtica y activa; Ingenua, pero adusta; Humana, pero altiva; Y en la causa que abraza, iniqua ó justa Violenta defensora, Del riesgo y del temor despreciadora. Alli serà preciso que te asombres De ver (qual no habràs visto en parte alguna) Obrar y hablar con libertad los hombres. Admiraràs la rapida fortuna Que alli logra el valor y la eloqüencia, Sin que ni el oro, ni la ilustre cuna Roben el premio al mèrito y la ciencia. Adverteràs el numeroso enxambre De diligentes y habiles Isleños Que han procurado, del comercio Dueños No conocer la ociosidad ni el hambre; Ocupados en ùtiles inventos En fàbricas, caminos, arsenales, Escuelas, academias, hospitales, Libros, experimentos, Y estudios de las Artes liberales. Alli sabràs, en fin, à quanto alcanza La sabia educacion, y el acertado Mètodo de patriòtica enseñanza, La privada ambicion bien dirigida Al pùblico provecho del Estado; La justa recompensa y acogida En que fundan las Letras su esperanza, Y el desvelo de un pròvido Gobierno Que al bien aspira, y à un renombre eterno.

This Epistle is addressed to his brother, as the reader may observe, in the second person singular, which, in Spanish, has a tone of more familiarity than in English, and understanding it so intended, I have altered it, in the translation, into our colloquial form of the second person plural.

The above extract is the same in his printed works of both editions; but I have in my possession a collection of his manuscripts, among which is a copy of this Epistle, with several variations, less flattering to England. Had he lived to superintend the second edition, these variations might probably have been adopted in it. They are not, however, of any material variance, but they seem to me to show that his eulogium had not been favourably received in some quarters, and that he had therefore thought it prudent to soften it in preparing for another edition. The publisher of the edition of 1805 does not seem to have been aware of these manuscripts, nor indeed to have taken the trouble of doing more for Iriarte’s memory than merely to reprint the first edition, without even any biographical or critical notice of him or his writings, as he might well have done, Iriarte having been then deceased fourteen years.

For another eloquent and encomiastic description of English usages and institutions, the student of Spanish literature would do well to read a work, published in London in 1834, by the Marques de Miraflores, ‘Apuntes historico-criticos para escribir la Historia de la Revolucion de España.’ This distinguished nobleman was born the 23rd December, 1792, at Madrid, and succeeded to the honours and vast property of his ancient house in 1809, on the death of his elder brother, during the campaign of that year. He has been much engaged in public affairs, having held various offices in the state. He has been twice Ambassador to England; the last time, Ambassador Extraordinary on the coronation of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. The Marques has written several works on political subjects, of which the one above-mentioned is particularly deserving of study.

11. Page 52. “Saying as Seneca has said of yore.”

Stet quicumque volet potens Aulæ culmine lubrico: Me dulcis saturet quies. Obscuro positus loco Leni perfruar otio. Nullis notus Quiritibus Ætas per tacitum fluat. Sic cum transierint mei Nullo cum strepitu dies, Plebeius moriar senex. Illi mors gravis incubat Qui notus nimis omnibus Ignotus moritur sibi.

Thyestes, Act II. The critical reader will observe, that the translation into English has been made from the Spanish rather than the Latin.

12. Page 53. “Fables.”

The Fables translated are numbered respectively III., VIII., XI., LIII. and LIV., in the original collection. The two first, III. and VIII., having been given by Bouterwek as specimens of Iriarte’s style, without any translation, I took them for my first essays, and had already versified them, before finding Roscoe had done the same also in his translation of Sismondi, and it was subsequently to that I became aware of other similar versions. Having, however, made those translations, I have, notwithstanding the others, allowed them to remain in this work. The fable of the Two Rabbits has been selected as particularly noticed by Martinez de la Rosa, and the others almost without cause of peculiar preference. The last one contains an old but good lesson, which cannot be too frequently and earnestly repeated:--

Ego nec studium sine divite venâ Nec rude quid prosit video ingenium, alterius sic Altera poscit opem res et conjurat amicè.

13. Page 64. “Iglesias and Gonzalez.”

Diego Gonzalez was born at Ciudad Rodrigo in 1733, and died at Madrid, 1794. Josè Iglesias de la Casa was born at Salamanca in 1753, and died there in 1791. His poems were first published seven years after his death, and have been several times reprinted. The best edition is that of Barcelona, 1820, from which the one of Paris, 1821, was taken. The poems of Gonzalez also were first published after his death, and have been several times reprinted. Both wrote very pleasing verses, and are deservedly popular in Spain.

14. Page 69. “It was for his detractors,” &c.

Hermosilla, author of a work, ‘Juicio Critico de los principales Poetas Españoles de la ultima era,’ published after his death, Paris 1840, gives in it, as Mr. Ticknor pithily observes, “a criticism of the poems of Melendez so severe that I find it difficult to explain its motive;” at the same time that he gives “an unreasonably laudatory criticism of L. Moratin’s works.” Hermosilla appears to have been a man of considerable learning, but little judgement. His criticisms are generally worthless, and the only excuse for him, with regard to his book, is, that he did not publish it. With regard to Melendez, taking every opportunity to depreciate his merits, he is constantly found constrained to acknowledge them, and sometimes even in contradiction to himself. Thus, having several times intimated, as at p. 31, that the erotic effusions of Melendez only were praiseworthy, he says, at p. 297, when speaking of his Epistles, that they are “his best compositions; thoughts, language, style, tone and versification, all in general are good.” In another part he censures Melendez for his poems addressed to different ladies, especially some to ‘Fanny,’ who appears to have been an Englishwoman; and yet those epistles, addressed to her, on the death of her husband, are among the purest and most elegant specimens that can be pointed out of consolation to a mourner. It is but justice to his editor, Salva, to say, that he has expressed his dissent from these criticisms, though he thought proper to publish the work.

15. Page 73. “The Duke de Frias.”

This estimable nobleman, who died in 1850, was descended from the Counts of Haro, one of the three great families of Spain. He was the munificent friend of literary men, and in the case of Melendez extended his protection to the dead, having taken much personal trouble to have his remains removed from the common burying-ground to a vault, where they might not afterwards be disturbed. He also wrote verses occasionally, of which have been preserved, by Del Rio, a ‘Sonnet to the Duke of Wellington,’ and by Ochoa, an ‘Elegy on the Death of his Duchess,’ whose virtues will be found hereafter commemorated by Martinez de la Rosa.

16. Page 76. “Best edition, that by Salvà.”

In taking the edition of 1820 for the text, Salvà, in his edition, has exercised much judgement in giving some of the poems as they were originally published, rather than as Melendez afterwards had left them, weakened by over-correction.

Salvà was in early life distinguished for learning and study, having been, when only twenty years of age, named Professor of Greek in the University of Alcalà de Henares. On the French invasion he returned to his native city Valencia, and engaged in trade as a bookseller, in which occupation he continued in London, when obliged to emigrate hither in 1823, in consequence of his having joined in the political events of the times. He had been, during those events, Deputy from Valencia, and Secretary to the Cortes. In 1830 he transferred his house to Paris, where he continued his pursuits, publishing many valuable works of his own compilation, as a Grammar and Dictionary of the Spanish language, as well as editing and superintending the publication of many other standard works. He closed his useful life, in his native city, in 1850.

17. Page 77. “Juvenilities.”

Works of Melendez, Salvà’s Edition, vol. i. p. 39.

This piece was also taken for translation from Bouterwek, when first entering on a study of Spanish literature. From Bouterwek it was copied by Sismondi, when borrowing, as he did largely, from that compiler; but Mr. Roscoe has not given a translation of this, as he probably found it difficult to do so satisfactorily. It is in fact almost as difficult to translate Melendez as it is to translate Anacreon, their peculiar simplicity and grace being so nearly allied.

18. Page 79. “The Timid Lover.”

Works of Melendez, _ibid._, p. 263.

This poem having been particularly mentioned by Martinez de la Rosa as favourably characteristic of the style of the author, may be considered best to be selected as an exemplification of it. It is what is termed a Letrillia.

EL AMANTE TIMIDO.

En la pena aguda Que me hace sufrir El Amor tirano Desde que te vi Mil veces su alivio Te voy à pedir, Y luego, aldeana, Que llego ante ti, Si quiero atreverme No sè que decir.

Las voces me faltan Y mi frenesí Con mìseros ayes Las cuida suplir Pero el dios que aleve Se burla de mi Cuanto ansio mas tierno Mis labios abrir Se quiero atreverme No sè que decir.

Sus fuegos entonces Empieza à sentir Tan vivos el alma Que pienso morir, Mis làgrimas corren, Mi agudo gemir Tu pecho sensible Conmueve, y al fin Si quiero atreverme No sè que decir.

No lo sè, temblando Si por descubrir Con loca esperanza Mi amor infeliz, Tu lado por siempre Tendrè ya que huir: Sellàndome el miedo La boca: y asì Si quiero atreverme No sè que decir.

Ay! si tu, adorada, Pudieras oir Mis hondos suspiros Yo fuera feliz. Yo, Filis, lo fuera Mas, triste de mi! Que tìmido al verte Burlarme y reir, Si quiero atreverme No sè que decir.

19. Page 81. “My Village Life.”

This and the two following poems are taken from those at pages 94, 110 and 64 of the first volume of the Works of Melendez Valdes; the Disdainful Shepherdess from the one at p. 62 of vol. ii.

20. Page 95. “Merits of their national dramas.”

For an excellent criticism on the Spanish drama, see the article in the twenty-fifth volume of the Quarterly Review.

21. Page 104. “There, says his biographer,” &c.

In the sketch prefixed to the edition by Rivadeneyra, from which the two poems following are taken, at pages 581 and 582. The one to Jovellanos has been justly praised by Mr. Ticknor as one of his best, and from it we may in preference extract the commencement, as an exemplification of his style.

Si, la pura amistad, que en dulce nudo Nuestras almas uniò, durable existe Jovino ilustre, y ni la ausencia larga Ni la distancia, ni interpuestos montes Y proceloso mar que suena roco, De mi memoria apartaràn tu idea.

Duro silencio à mi cariño impuso El son de Marte, que suspende ahora La paz, la dulce paz. Sè que en obscura Deliciosa quietud, contento vives, Siempre animado de incansable celo Por el pùblico bien; de las virtudes Y del talento protector y amigo. Estos que formo de primor desnudos, No castigados de tu docta lima, Fàciles versos, la verdad te anuncien De mi constante fe; y el cielo en tanto Vuèlvame presto la ocasion de verte Y renovar en familiar discurso Cuanto à mi vista presentò del orbe La varia escena. De mi patria orilla A las que el Sena turbulento baña, Teñido en sangre, del audaz Britano Dueño del mar, al aterido Belga, Del Rin profundo à las nevades cumbres Del Apenino, y la que en humo ardiente Cubre y ceniza à Nàpoles canora, Pueblos, naciones, visitè distintas Util sciencia adquirì, que nunca enseña Docta leccion en retirada estancia, Que alli no ves la diferencia suma Que el clima, el culto, la opinion, las artes, Las leyes causan. Hallaràsla solo Si al hombre estudias en el hombre mismo.

22. Page 113. “Juan Bautista de Arriaza.”

This poet’s name is pronounced Arriatha; the two poems selected for translation are taken, the first from p. 60 of Book III. of his works, edition of 1829. ‘The Parting, or the Young Sailor’s Farewell,’ from _ibid._, Book I. p. 77.

The eighth stanza, beginning in the translation, ‘With venal aid of hate assists,’ is in the original--

Què de ministros vendes a su encono, Anglia infecunda! de las nieblas trono, Campos que el sol no mira, Que en sonrisa falsa, Flora reviste De esteril verde, en que la flor es triste, Y Amor sin gloria espira.

Which stanza is thus translated by Maury:--

Combien te sied le mal, Angleterre inféconde, Amante de vapeurs, jeteé où l’œil du monde Te regarde si peu! Champs où la brume arrose une oiseuse verdure, Où Flore est sans gaieté, l’automne sans parure, L’Amour sans traits de feu!

Of thirty-three stanzas in the original, Maury has only taken fifteen for his translation, and of ‘The Parting’ he has only taken eighteen out of twenty-five. The four concluding stanzas are in the original--

Crisol de adversidad claro y seguro Vuestro valor probò sublime y puro, O Marinos Hispanos! Broquel fue de la patria vuestra vida Que al fin vengada y siempre defendida Serà por vuestras manos.

Rinda al Leon y al Aguila Neptuno El brazo tutelar, con que importuno Y esclavo al Anglia cierra: Y ella os verà desde las altas popas Lanzar torrentes de invencibles tropas Sobre su infausta tierra.

Bàsteos, en tanto, el lùgubre tributo De su muerte Adalid doblando el luto Del Tàmesis umbrio, Que, si, llenos de honrosas cicatrices Se os ve, para ocasiones mas felices Reservar vuestro brio.

Sois cual leon, que en Libico desierto Con garra atroz, del cazador experto Rompiò asechanza astuta; Que no inglorioso, aunque sangriento y laso Temido si, se vuelve paso à paso A su arenosa gruta.

23. Page 145. “Described by Humboldt.”

Political Essay on New Spain, Book II. chapter 5.

24. Page 145. “So popular a writer as Larra.”

Mariano Josè de Larra was born at Madrid, 24th March, 1809. His father had joined the French army as a medical officer, and after the peace went to France, taking his son with him, where he forgot his native language, so that he had to learn it as a novice on his return to Spain. It is not improbable that his education in that country, where also he passed some time subsequently, gave Larra’s mind that tendency for scepticism and perverted feeling which led to his miserable end. From his earliest years he showed great aptitude for learning, and had studied the Greek, English and Italian languages, before he went to Valladolid to prepare for the profession of the law. After a short residence there, he went to Valencia on some disappointment he suffered, which, to one of his temperament, seemed a greater misfortune than what perhaps any other person would have considered it. At Valencia he obtained employment in a public office, which, however, did not suit his taste, and having then married, he returned to Madrid and determined to write for the public. His first efforts were not successful, and have not been subsequently reprinted with his works, but after a short time he began writing a series of essays on passing events, under the signature of Figaro, which at once attained great popularity. He also wrote several plays and a few poems, which, as written by Figaro, were favourably received. But the essays, under that title, were the foundation of his popularity. They were in the style of our essayists of the reign of Queen Anne, containing criticisms, and sketches of manners and characters, written in a style of great ease and elegance, marked with much wit and humour, as well as vigour. These works have been very many times reprinted in Spain, and also in France and South America. The student who wishes to form a correct style in learning Spanish, cannot do better than take Larra for a model. By his writings he had attained a respectable place in literary society, and it was understood that his fortunes were thereby also in a state of competence. He was, however, possessed of an ill-regulated mind and headstrong passions, so that, as it seems intimated, baffled in some object of unlawful desire, he put an end to his existence by a pistol shot the 13th February, 1837.

In his review of Quintana’s Life of Las Casas, he unreservedly subscribes to all the sentiments therein expressed.

25. Page 160. “From the proud castled poop,” &c.

Se alzò el Breton en el soberbio alcazar Que corona su indòmito navio; Y ufano con su gloria y poderio Alli estan, exclamò.

26. Page 161. “Conquerors of winds and waves.”

… sus nadantes proras Del viento y de las ondas vencedoras.

27. Page 163. “And Alcalà, Churruca, also ye!”

Of those who fell at Trafalgar, the names of Alcalà and Churruca seem to be remembered with peculiar affection. The latter is referred to by Arriaza also, and seems to have been an officer of great skill and bravery in his profession, as well as of most amiable qualities in private life. Alcalà was an officer of very superior attainments. He was author of a learned Treatise on taking Observations of Longitude and Latitude at Sea, published at Madrid, 1796. With the copy of this work in my possession, there is bound up an unedited treatise of his original manuscript, ‘On the Trigonometrical Calculation of the Height of Mountains.’ He has already been referred to in Note 2.

The Spanish navy is at the present day much distinguished for the superior attainments and character of the officers, as well as in former years. In addition to the poet Arriaza, they have to boast of the late learned Navarrete, one of the most eminent and industrious writers of our times, principally on scientific subjects connected with his profession, geography, hydrography, and voyages, though in various biographical works he has extended his labours to the memory of poets and others, as well as the naval heroes of his country: see his memoir in Ochoa, vol. ii. p. 586, copied from one by the Bishop of Astorga.

28. Page 164. “Yet fell ye not, ye generous squadrons.”

No empero sin venganza y sin estrago, Generoso escuadron alli caiste: Tambien brotando à rios La sangre Inglesa inunda sus navios. Tambien Albion pasmada Los montes de cadàveres contempla Horrendo peso à su soberbia armada. Tambien Nelson alli, Terrible sombra, No esperes, no, cuando mi voz te nombra Que vil insulte à tu postrer suspiro; Inglès te aborrecì, y hèroe te admiro. Oh, golpe! oh, suerte! El Tàmesis aguarda De las naves cautivas El confuso tropel, y ya en idea Goza el aplauso y los sonoros vivas Que al vencedor se dan. Oh suerte! El puerto Solo le verà entrar pàlido y yerto: Ejemplo grande à la arrogancia humana, Digno holocausto à la afliccion Hispana.

The two poems from Quintana are at pages 16 and 93 respectively of the fourth edition of his works, published in 1825.

29. Page 170. “The Conde de Toreno.”

This able and enlightened statesman was born at Oviedo in 1786, and died at Paris in 1845. His work, on the ‘Rising, War, and Revolution of Spain,’ is one well deserving of the fame it has attained, having been translated into all the principal languages of Europe.

30. Page 170. “The celebrated Pacheco.”

Born at Ecija, near Seville, in 1808, he came to Madrid in 1833, and was admitted an Advocate in the courts of law, but has been since engaged actively in conducting various publications, principally of a political character. He has been several times chosen member of the legislature, and had to undertake his share of public duties, but he has declined office, and in his whole public life shown a freedom from ambition, remarkable, as Del Rio intimates, from the contrast it presents with the conduct of other men of far inferior abilities. He has announced ‘A History of the Regency of Queen Christina,’ of which he has published a preliminary volume, comprising a detail of antecedent events. He has also written various plays and poems, but not of such a character as to be worthy of his fame as a public speaker and journalist. His life of Martinez de la Rosa, given in a publication entitled ‘Galeria de Españoles celebres contemporaneos, 1842,’ (which work has now extended to many volumes, including persons of distinction in all ranks of life,) is very pleasingly written, and has been taken as the principal authority in this compilation.

31. Page 176. “Rights of the Basque people.”

For a just statement of these rights, see the late Earl of Carnarvon’s ‘Portugal and Galicia,’ vol. ii.

32. Page 180. “Observation may apply to English verse.”

Our best poets, and Milton especially, afford many exemplifications of this practice.

O’er many a frozen, many a fiery alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens and shades of death … Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things Abominable, inutterable and worse.

Many of our syllables also are in effect double syllables, as in the words _brave_, _grave_, _clave_, &c., as singers often have to regret, causing them, on that account, to slur over them. But these rules are only a continuation of Quinctilian’s maxim, “Optime de illa judicant aures. Quædam arte tradi non possunt.”

33. Page 181. “The Roman friend,” &c.

See note 23 to the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold.

34. Page 183. “I saw upon the shady Thames.”

Vi en el Tàmesis umbrio Cien y cien naves cargadas De riqueza; Vi su inmenso poderio Sus artes tan celebradas Su grandeza.

Mas el ànima afligida Mil suspiros exhalaba Y ayes mil; Y ver la orilla florida Del manso Dauro anhelaba Y del Genil.

Vi de la soberbia corte Las damas engalanadas Muy vistosas; Vi las bellezas del norte De blanca nieve formadas Y de rosas.

Sus ojos de azul del cielo, De oro puro parecia Su cabello; Bajo transparente velo Turgente el seno se via Blanco y bello.

Mas que valen los brocados Las sedas y pedreria De la ciudad? Que los rostros sonrosados La blancura y gallardia Ni la beldad?

Con mostrarse mi zagala, De blanco lino vestida, Fresca y pura, Condena la inutil gala Y se esconde confundida La hermosura.

Dò hallar en climas helados Sus negros ojos graciosos, Que son fuego? Ora me miren airados Ora roben cariñosos Mi sosiego.

Dò la negra caballera Que al èbano se aventaja? Y el pie leve Que al triscar por la pradera Ni las tiernas flores aja, Ni aun las mueve?

Doncellas las del Genil Vuestra tez escurecida No trocara Por los rostros de marfil Que Albion envanecida Me mostrara.

Padre Dauro! manso rio, De las arenas doradas, Dìgnate oir Los votos del pecho mio, Y en tus màrgenes sagradas Logre morir!

Works of Martinez de la Rosa, edition of Barcelona, 1838, vol. iv. p. 1. The other translations are taken from the same, pages 113, 104, 48 and 34 respectively.

In the prologue, he enters on the discussion, so common a few years since, as to the relative merits of what were called the Classical and Romantic schools of poetry, which discussion, it is to be hoped, may now be considered at an end. The pretensions of different writers, who affected to range themselves under one or other of these denominations, were in fact generally only the devices of mediocrity to shelter their deficiencies. Those who write spontaneously from the true inspiration of genius, will never submit to the shackles of any system, and for all writers the wisest aim is to seek the clearest style of expressing those thoughts which they have to convey. As Martinez de la Rosa has well observed in this prologue, “I do not remember any one sublime passage, in whatever language it may be, that is not expressed with the utmost simplicity; and without this most essential quality, they cannot excite in the mind that lively and instantaneous impression which distinguishes them.”

35. Page 184. “The light foot that never stirs,” &c.

An Andalusian poet may be excused entering into hyperbolical praise of his countrywomen, but we find an English traveller almost as hyperbolical in praise of them also. “It is beyond the power of language to describe those slow and surpassingly graceful movements which accompany every step of the Andalusa; her every attitude is so flowing, at the same time so unforced, that she seems upborne by some invisible power that renders her independent of the classically moulded foot she presses so lightly on the ground.”--_Murray’s Cities and Wilds of Andalusia._

36. Page 216. “His biographer, Pastor Diaz,” &c.

In the work already mentioned, ‘Galeria de Españoles contemporaneos,’ under his own superintendence, and from which the notices in this compilation are principally taken. Pastor Diaz was born at Vivero in Galicia, in the year 1811, and was educated at Alcalà de Henares. Having been admitted an Advocate in the courts of law, he engaged, in 1833, in the public service, and has held various offices under the government in the provinces. In 1847 he published a volume of poems, of which two,--one, ‘The Black Butterfly,’ and the other, an ‘Ode to the Moon,’--Ochoa declares, in his opinion, “two of the most beautiful pieces that have been written for many years in Spain.” Disagreeing very much with this opinion, it is only quoted in token of the estimation in which Pastor Diaz is held among his countrymen. (Ochoa, vol. ii. p. 628.)

37. Page 216. “The advantages he enjoyed there.”

In his poem of the ‘Moro Esposito,’ the Duke has inserted an interesting episode referring to his residence in Malta, “whose good and honest inhabitants he found under the dominion of the most wealthy, free, enlightened, noble and powerful nation that the sun admires from the zodiac.” (Book VI.) In the notes he details the particulars under which he arrived there, acknowledging gratefully the hospitality he had received.

38. Page 222. “Pedro, surnamed the Cruel.”

This name is pronounced Ped-ro. The true character of the monarch is yet a disputed question, and has only within the last year been offered as a subject for inquiry by the Spanish Academy. The learned Llorente, in his ‘Historical Notices,’ vol. v., has, I think, clearly shown that Pedro was no more deserving of the epithet peculiarly than others of his age, including his half-brother and successor, by whose hand he fell, in retributive justice for the death of their other brother Fadrique. The legend of this prince’s death has been variously given, and thus Salvador Bermudez de Castro, who has also a poem on the subject, takes some different details to those repeated by the Duke de Rivas. The traditions of the people have handed down Don Pedro’s memory more favourably, and, perhaps, more justly, than the historians of the time, whose accounts no doubt were tinctured as darkly as they could be, partly to please the reigning monarch, and partly because Don Pedro had not been so submissive to priestly rule as they had desired.

39. Page 227. “Yet, ah! those lovely bowers along,” &c.

Mas, ay! aquellos pensiles No he pisado un solo dia Sin ver (sueños de mi mente!) La sombra de la Padilla, Lanzando un hondo gemido Cruzar leve ante mi vista, Como un vapor, como un humo Que entre los àrboles gira: Ni entrè en aquellos salones Sin figuràrseme erguida Del fundador la fantasma En helada sangre tinta; Ni en vestibulo oscuro El que tiene en la cornisa De los reyes los retratos, El que en colunas estriba, Al que adornan azulejos Abajo, y esmalte arriba El que muestra en cada muro Un rico balcon, y encima El hondo arteson dorado Que lo corona y atrista, Sin ver en tierra un cadaver. Aun en las losas se mira Una tenaz mancha oscura Ni las edades limpian! Sangre! sangre! oh, cielos, cuantos Sin saber que lo es, la pisan!

This romance was originally printed with the ‘Moro Esposito,’ Paris 1834, vol. ii. p. 451. It was subsequently included among the ‘Romances Historicos,’ Madrid 1841, p. 19. The Alcazar of Seville has been described by so many travellers that it is unnecessary to add to their accounts of it, or to the graphic details of the romance. The stain on the floor may remind the reader of the legends of Holyrood and the Alhambra, as well as of other places.

40. Page 233. “Darting round fierce looks,” &c.

This description of anger, as again at p. 241, seems a favourite one with the Duke, as well as other poets; thus Virgil--

Totoque ardentis ab ore Scintillæ absistunt, oculis micat acribus ignis.

41. Page 234. “The crackling of his arms and knees.”

From the peculiarity of this formation, the king was recognized by an old woman who had witnessed his killing a man he had met in a night rencontre in the street opposite her house, and she having given evidence to that effect, he ordered his statue to be beheaded, and so placed in the street in memorial of the sentence against himself.

42. Page 236.

“And more than Tello madly hates, And more than Henry too.”

The two brothers of Fadrique, of whom Henry was his successor on the throne, after he had killed Don Pedro in fight by his own hand. In another romance, the Duke de Rivas describes this “fratricide,” and represents that Don Pedro had the advantage at first, but that the page of the other came to his master’s assistance, and attacking Don Pedro from behind, diverted his attention so as to enable him to give the King the death-wound. From the accounts handed down to us, it is clear that Don Pedro had sufficient grounds for suspecting treason from the brothers, which occasioned his animosity against them and their adherents, for which they afterwards blackened his memory.

43. Page 259. “Meagre soup bouillie.”

In the original, Gazpacho, “the name of a dish universal in and peculiar to Spain. It is a sort of cold soup, made of bread, pot-herbs, oil and water. Its materials are easily come by, and its concoction requires no skill.” Mr. W. G. Clark has taken this name for the title of his lively ‘Sketches of Spain,’ London 1850.

44. Page 260. “Whene’er Don Juan,” &c.

Siempre que tiene una broma El señor don Juan me olvida Como si estuviera en Roma; Y à un entierro me convida Para matarme de pena! Sea enhorabuena.

Despues de melindres mil Canta Celestina el duo Que le han puesto en atril, Y aunque canta como un buho Todos la llaman Sirena. Sea enhorabuena.

Cien abejas sin reposo Labrando à porfia estàn El dulce panal sabroso. Ay! que un zàngano holgazàn Se ha de tragar la colmena! Sea enhorabuena.

El hombre à su semejante Mueve guerra furibundo, Cual si no fuera bastante Para despoblar el mundo El escuadron de Avicena. Sea enhorabuena.

Hay en España usureros Hay esbirros à montones, Y chalanes y venteros, Y dicen que los ladrones Estan en Sierra Morena! Sea enhorabuena.

En vano à tu puerta, Conde, Llegan los pobres desnudos, Que el perro solo responde, Y gastas dos mil escudos En un baile y una cena! Sea enhorabuena.

Basta por hoy de sermon. Aqui mi pluma suspendo Hasta mejor ocasion. Si el vicio en vano reprendo Y escribo sobre la arena, Sea enhorabuena.

The selections from Breton de los Herreros are taken from the edition of 1831, at pages 61, 63 and 71 respectively.

45. Page 269. “The celebrated Lista.”

This celebrated writer was born at Seville in 1775, and in early life adopted the ecclesiastical profession, having therein principally dedicated himself to the education of youth, in which he has been eminently successful. He has written a continuation of Mariana’s ‘History of Spain,’ and translated from the French Segur’s ‘Universal History,’ besides several mathematical and other elementary works. In 1822 he published a volume of poems, of which a second edition has been since published, highly praised by the different writers who have treated of modern Spanish literature. They are however avowedly of the classical school, and their greatest merit must be supposed to consist in their elegance of expression. His critical writings are numerous and valuable.

46. Page 271. “Twelve out of the nineteen stanzas.”

The stanzas 6, 9, 10, 11, 16 and 17 seem to be of his addition, and it must be acknowledged that they are in no respect inferior to the others. One stanza in Pindemonte he has not taken into his version.

47. Page 272. “Part of his first volume is taken up with imitations.”

Before observing that this part had been so expressed at the beginning, I made a translation of one small piece, which may give an idea of the others.

EN EL ALBUM DE UNA SENORITA.

Cual suele en màrmol sepulcral escrito Un nombre detener al pasagero, Pueda en aquesta pàgina mi nombre Fijar tus ojos, ay! por los que muero. Miralo, cuando ya de ti apartado, No te pide mi amor mas recompensa; De mi te acuerda como muerte y piensa Que aqui mi corazon queda enterrado.

IN A LADY’S ALBUM.

As on sepulchral marble writ A name to stay the passer-by, So let my name on this page meet Thine eyes, for which, alas! I die. Look on it when I am far from thee; My love asks no return more dear; As of one dead remember me, And think my heart is buried here.

It was only on translating the last line that I recognized them as Lord Byron’s.

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

As o’er the cold sepulchral stone Some name arrests the passer-by, Thus when thou view’st this page alone May mine attract thy pensive eye. And when by thee that name is read Perchance in some succeeding year, Reflect on me as on the dead, And think my heart is buried here.

48. Page 275. “Sonnet, Dedication,” &c.

A MI ESPOSA.

Cuando en mis venas fèrvidas ardia La fiera juventud, en mis canciones El tormentoso afan de mis pasiones Con dolorosas làgrimas vertia. Hoy à ti las dedico, Esposa mia, Cuando el amor mas libre de ilusiones Inflama nuestros puros corazones, Y sereno y de paz me luce el dia. Asi perdido en turbulentos mares Mìsero navegante al cielo implora, Cuando le aqueja la tormenta grave; Y del naufragio libre, en los altares Consagra fiel à la Deidad que adora Las hùmedas reliquias de su nave.

This sonnet, and the two following translations, are taken respectively from pages 8, 18 and 46 of the first volume of the Toluca edition. The imitation of Lord Byron is at page 83 of the same. The Odes to ‘Poesy’ and to ‘Night’ are at pages 13 and 72 of the second volume.

49. Page 282. “Milton elevated all beyond.”

Y Milton mas que todos elevado A su angel fiero de diamante armado.

50. Page 305. “Josè de Espronceda.”

This name is to be pronounced Esprontheda. The translations, taken from the original poems, may be found in the Paris edition of 1848, at pages 49, 58, 73 and 79 respectively. The one translated, ‘The Condemned to Die,’ El Reo de Muerte, literally, ‘The Guilty of Death,’ has the signification given to this phrase by our translators of the New Testament, and it may be necessary to explain that the refrain “Your alms for prayers,” &c., is in the original merely “To do good for the soul of him who is about to be executed.”

Para hacer bien al alma Del que van à ajusticiar!

In Spain, when a criminal is about to be executed, it is the custom for the Brothers of the religious order De la Humanidad, to go about the public ways, in their peculiar garb, with salvers for receiving alms for masses to be said for him, repeating words to the effect above given.

51. Page 315. “Sail on, my swift one, never fear.”

Navega, velero mio, Sin temor, Que ni enemigo navio, Ni tormenta, ni bonanza, Tu rumbo à torcer alcanza Ni à sujetar tu valor. Veinte presos Hemos hecho A despecho Del Ingles, Y han rendido Sus pendones Cien naciones A mis piès. Que es mi barco mi tesoro, Que es mi Dios la libertad, Mi ley la fuerza y el viento, Mi ùnica patria la mar.

Allà muevan feroz guerra Ciegos reyes Por un palmo mas de tierra; Que yo tengo aqui por mio Cuanto abarca el mar bravio A quien nadie impuso leyes. Y no hay playa Sea cual quiera Ni bandera De esplendor Que no sienta Mi derecho Y dè pecho A mi valor. Que es mi barco mi tesoro.…

A la voz de ‘barco viene!’ Es de ver Como vira, y se previene A todo trapo à escapar; Que yo soy el rey del mar Y mi furia es de temer. En las presas Yo divido Lo cogido Por igual: Solo quiero Por riqueza La belleza Sin rival Que es mi barco mi tesoro.…

Sentenciado estoy à muerte! Yo me rio; No me abandone la suerte, Y al mismo que me condena

Colgarè de alguna entena Quizà en su proprio navio. Y si caigo Que es la vida? Por perdida Ya la di, Cuando el yugo Del esclavo Como un bravo Sacudì. Que es mi barco mi tesoro.…

Son mi música mejor Aquilones; El estrépito y temblor De los cables sacudidos, Del negro mar los bramidos, Y el rugir de mis cañones; Y del trueno Al son violento, Y del viento Al rebramàr, Yo me duermo Sosegado, Arrullado Por el mar. Que es mi barco mi tesoro, Que es mi Dios la libertad, Mi ley la fuerza y el viento, Mi ùnica patria la mar.

52. Page 323. “Josè Zorrilla.”

The name of this eminently great poet is to be pronounced as Thorrillia; the translations made from his works are of the poems at pages 62, 99, 34, 97, 102, 28 and 65, respectively, of the first volume, as stated in the memoir, published at Madrid in 1837. The headings, for the sake of distinction, have been given somewhat differently from the originals, where they are generally only entitled ‘Oriental,’ or ‘A Romance;’ and the piece named ‘The Warning’ is but part of a longer poem, the conclusion of which is not in the same good taste as the beginning. All the other selections translated in this work, of the different authors, have been given fully.

53. Page 347. “The Tower of Munion.”

This tower is a shapeless ruin, the remains of an ancient castle in the plain of Arlanza near Burgos. The history of the castle is unknown, further than that Don Fernan Gonzalez assembled there, on one occasion, the Grandees of Castille, during his wars with the Moors.

54. Page 352. “Meditation.”

LA MEDITACION.

Sobre ignorada tumba solitaria, A la luz amarilla de la tarde, Vengo à ofrecer al cielo mi plegaria Por la muger que amè. Apoyada en el màrmol mi cabeza, Sobre la hùmeda yerba la rodilla, La parda flor que esmalta la maleza Humillo con mi piè.

Aquì, lejos del mundo y sus placeres, Levanto mis delirios de la tierra, Y leo en agrupados caractères Nombres que ya no son; Y la dorada làmpara que brilla Y al soplo oscila de la brisa errante, Colgada ante el altar en la capilla Alumbra mi oracion.

Acaso un ave su volar detiene Del fùnebre ciprès entre las ramas Que a lamentar con sus gorjeos viene La ausencia de la luz: Y se despide del albor del dia Desde una alta ventana de la torre O trepa de la cùpula sombria A la gigante cruz.

Anegados en làgrimas los ojos Yo la contemplo inmòvil desde el suelo Hasta que el rechinar de los cerrojos La hace aturdida huir. La funeral sonrisa me saluda Del solo ser que con los muertos vive, Y me presta su mano àspera y ruda Que un fèretro va a abrir.

* * * * *

Perdon! no escuches Dios mio Mi terrenal pensamiento! Deja que se pierda impio Como el murmullo de un rio Entre los pliegues del viento.

Por que una imàgen mundana Viene à manchar mi oracion? Es una sombra profana Que tal vez serà mañana Signo de mi maldicion.

Por que ha soñada mi mente Ese fantasma tan bello? Con esa tez transparente Sobre la tranquila frente Y sobre el desnudo cuello.

Que en vez de aumentar su encanto Con pompa y mundano brillo, Se muestra anegada en llanto Al piè de altar sacrosanto O al piè de pardo castillo.

Como una ofrenda olvidada En templo que se arruinò Y en la piedra cincelada Que en su caida encontrò La mece el viento colgada.

Con su retrato en la mente, Con su nombre en el oido, Vengo à prosternar mi frente Ante el Dios omnipotente En la mansion del olvido.

Mi crimen acaso ven Con turbios ojos inciertos, Y me abominan los muertos, Alzando la hedionda sien De los sepulcros abiertos.

Cuando estas tumbas visito, No es la nada en que naci, No es un Dios lo que medito, Es un nombre que està escrito Con fuego dentro de mi.

Perdon! no escuches Dios mio Mi terrenal pensamiento! Deja que se pierda impio Como el murmullo de un rio, Entre los pliegues del viento.

THE END.

PRINTED BY RICHARD TAYLOR, RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.

End of Project Gutenberg's Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain, by James Kennedy