VII.

FRANCISCO MARTINEZ DE LA ROSA.

Throughout the civilized world, and even beyond it, this eminent statesman has long been heard of, as one who, while devoting his life faithfully to promote the welfare of his own country, had exerted himself no less assiduously for the general interests of mankind. As an orator, a statesman and a political writer, he has thus obtained a deservedly high European reputation, due to his services and merits. In Spain he is further known as one of the first literary characters of whom his country has to boast, and as a dramatist and lyric poet of a very superior order.

Martinez de la Rosa was born the 10th March, 1789, at Granada, where also he received his education, completing it at the University in that city. Before the age of twenty he had gone through the usual course of study in the ancient and some of the modern languages, in philosophy, mathematics, canon and civil law, with such success as to have been enabled to undertake a professorship of philosophy there, perfecting himself in the art of oratory, in which his natural talents already had become manifest, as they soon afterwards gave him the means of greater distinction. From those pursuits he was called away, in 1808, on the occurrence of the French invasion, to take an active part in the struggle for national independence, into which he entered with youthful ardour, by public declamations, and by writing in a periodical instituted to maintain it.

As the French arms advanced victoriously, Martinez de la Rosa, with others of the party who had been most conspicuous in their opposition to them, had to take refuge in Cadiz. He was first employed to proceed to Gibraltar, as his future colleague, the Conde de Toreno, had been sent to London, to obtain a cessation of hostilities, in the war then yet existing between England and Spain, and concert measures of alliance against the French. In this mission he had the desired success, having further obtained from the governor of Gibraltar arms and ammunition, which enabled the Spanish forces under Castanios to march and obtain, at Bailen, the memorable triumph of the 19th July, 1808. In consequence of this victory, the French had to evacuate Madrid, and the Central Junta was formed, superseding the first actors in the conflict. On this, Martinez de la Rosa took advantage of the circumstances to go to England, and observe there himself, says his biographer, the celebrated Pacheco, “in its birth-place, where it was natural, complete and necessary, that representative system, which the spirit of reform wished to bring over for the people of the Continent.” Wolf says he had there a diplomatic commission, adding, that he took advantage of it “to familiarize himself with the English constitution, for which he always had a great predilection.”

Whether he had public duties entrusted to him or not, Martinez de la Rosa seems then to have stayed some time in London, studying the workings of the parliamentary system, the good fruits of which he, as Mirabeau had before him, found in his legislative career. There he printed, in 1811, his poem, Zaragoza, written in competition for the prize offered by the Central Junta, in celebration of the defence of that city in 1809, and there also he wrote several other poems. The one of Zaragoza seems not to have been reprinted in Spain till the publication of his collected poems in Madrid in 1833, and no adjudication ever was made on the compositions prepared at the suggestion of the Junta, but it is stated that the judges had unanimously agreed to confer on him the premium offered in the name of the nation.

In 1811 the French armies had driven the assertors of national independence from all the other principal parts of Spain to Cadiz, and there the Cortes were convoked to meet. There then, Martinez de la Rosa returned, and though not yet of the age required by law to be chosen a Deputy, he took part in all the deliberations of the national councils, and was appointed Secretary to the commission on the freedom of the press. Meanwhile the siege of Cadiz was commenced by the French and pressed unremittingly; but the spirit of the defenders did not fail them. Martinez de la Rosa and Quintana continued their literary labours, and the former produced a comedy and a tragedy, both of which were received with much favour. The latter continues a favourite on the stage, on a subject well chosen from Spanish history, and entitled the ‘Widow of Padillia.’ To use his own words, “It was represented, for the first time, in July 1812, and in days so unfortunate, that it could not be produced even in the theatre at Cadiz, on account of the great danger from the bombs of the enemy, which had nearly caused, a little before, the destruction of the building, crowded at the time with a numerous audience. For this reason they had to erect a theatre of wood in another part of the city, at a distance from where the French artillery had directed their aim.”

Shortly after this the siege was raised, and the French having again evacuated Madrid, the Cortes were convoked to assemble there, when Martinez de la Rosa was elected Deputy for his native city. He had throughout the struggle joined the most active members of the liberal party, Arguelles, Quintana and others, who, all honourable and patriotic characters, had acted in perfect sincerity in forming the Constitution of 1812, as it was called, which they hoped would secure the future freedom of the country.

In this, however, they found themselves mistaken; the representative system had scarcely time to develope its advantages, when it was overthrown entirely on the return of Ferdinand to Spain, who, by his decree of the 4th of May, 1814, annulled the Constitution, and dissolved the Cortes. Had he been contented with this, as in re-assumption of the regal authority exercised by his predecessors, the liberal party might have had only to lament the abrupt termination of their hopes. But, unfortunately, proceedings still more arbitrary were commenced against their leaders individually, of a nature unknown, even in Spain, till then, and in comparison with which the rule of the Prince of the Peace was a pattern of toleration. As those leaders had not been guilty of any act which could make them amenable to any legal tribunal, Ferdinand VII. took on himself to pass the sentences he chose to inflict on them for the opinions they had held, and the conduct they had pursued, in the momentous struggle for national independence, resulting in his restoration. The partisans of the Absolute King wished to extort from Martinez de la Rosa a retractation of the opinions he had maintained; but they miscalculated his character. He refused to listen to their overtures, and he was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment in the penal settlement of Gomera in Africa.

In 1820 a reaction took place, and the constitutional party again obtained possession of the government. Martinez de la Rosa had then passed six years of unjust imprisonment, when he was recalled to Spain, and was received, in his native city, with triumphal arches erected to welcome him, and other tokens of public respect and rejoicing. At the first election of deputies afterwards for the Cortes, he was sent with that character from Granada, but his sentiments on public affairs had become considerably modified. Others of the liberal party had returned from exile or imprisonment with exasperated feelings; but Martinez de la Rosa had employed his time more philosophically, in considering the means that should be adopted, to use his own expression, “for resolving the problem, most important for the human race, how to unite order with liberty.” Avoiding all extreme opinions, he gave his support to the ministry he found existing and their successors, as the means of preserving order, until they fell under the combination of unworthy jealousies among their own party, and the constant attacks of those holding the extreme opinions of democracy and absolutism.

On the 1st March, 1821, Martinez de la Rosa was called on to form a ministry, which duty he finally undertook, though he had at first strenuously declined it. He had good reason to decline it, as the king himself was throughout that period plotting against his own ministers and government, to re-establish himself in absolute power. At the end of June, Martinez de la Rosa found himself under the necessity of tendering his resignation, and insisting upon its being accepted, though both the king and the council at first refused to do so. The moderate course which he wished to follow pleased neither party; and even he, who had suffered six years of unjust imprisonment in the popular cause, was now looked on as a traitor by the people, and ran great risk of being murdered in a public commotion raised in the city. Had he chosen to take a more decisive part, either on the one side or the other, the weight of his character would no doubt have given it the preponderance. As it was, the question was decided by the invasion of the French under the Duc d’Angoulême, who restored Ferdinand VII. to his former authority.

When the French entered Spain, the constitutionalist government had retired to Seville; but Martinez de la Rosa had been obliged, from illness, to remain at Madrid. There being called upon to give in his adhesion to the authority imposed by foreign arms on the nation, he declined to do so, and thought himself fortunate in having no severer penalty to suffer thereupon, than to have his passport given him to go from Spain, while others had to suffer so much more severely. He then retired to Paris, where he resided eight years, paying occasional visits to Italy, and though not proscribed directly as an exile, yet he was not allowed to return to his country.

During those eight years he devoted his leisure to literary pursuits, and composed most of those works on which his fame must permanently rest; such as his poem, ‘Arte Poetica;’ his very beautiful ‘Ode on the Death of the Duchess de Frias,’ and several plays; among them the ‘Tragedy of the Conspiracy of Venice,’ considered the best of all he had written. Thus occupied in endeavouring to make future generations wiser and better, Martinez de la Rosa gained increased respect at home with his increased reputation abroad; and on the moderating of the first angry party-feelings in Spain, was at the end of eight years allowed to return to Granada.

The events of 1830 had produced the effect in Spain of milder councils being adopted in the government, which prevailed still more on the Queen Christina assuming power, first on the illness of the king, and afterwards as Regent on his death in 1833. Martinez de la Rosa had then been permitted to return to Madrid, and in this latter year he published the first collection of his poems, dedicating himself to writing at the same time his ‘Life of Perez del Pulgar,’ one of the old warriors of Spain, and other works. From these labours he was then called to undertake again the duties of government. The existing ministry formed under a former line of policy, was not suitable to the exigences of the times, rendered still more pressing now by the pretensions of Don Carlos to the throne. It was necessary to oppose those pretensions, by obtaining the zealous aid of the constitutional party; and Martinez de la Rosa was chosen as the leader, embodying in himself the characteristics of moderation and just principles, to form a ministry.

It does not become a foreigner, least of all in a purely literary work, to enter in judgement on any questions of a political nature. The best-intentioned persons in the world may take different views of the same question, under the same emergences, and the wisdom of any

## particular measure is not always to be judged of by the result. In

the conflicts of contending parties, the most unscrupulous and daring may often succeed, where wiser and better men may fail. Of Martinez de la Rosa, his biographer has observed, that “he was one of those men who would not conspire even for good ends unlawfully; and that if he could not obtain what he wished by just means, he would cross his arms, and leave the rest to Providence.” The events of those years present much ground for regret for all parties, and it is a truly honourable consideration for such a one as Martinez de la Rosa, that,

## acting according to the best of his judgement on many very difficult

occasions, he might have been compelled to yield to force and violence, without any imputation on his probity or statesmanship.

But if it be beyond our consideration of duty to enter on questions of internal polity, there are two others, connected with his administration, to which we may venture to refer, as to be judged of by those great principles of right and justice, which are applicable to all times and all countries, and become thus fairly subject to commendation or censure, as affecting the general interests of mankind.

Though Martinez de la Rosa had been one of the principal actors among those who had established the Constitution of 1812, for which also he suffered as a prisoner and an exile, he learned soon to perceive that it required considerable modifications in a country like Spain, where the people were not fully prepared to receive it. One of his first measures then was to promulgate what might be termed a new Constitution, called the Estatuto Real, the general wisdom and propriety of which may be admitted, or at least not disputed, while one part of it may be pronounced indefensible. This was in the design to subvert the ancient rights of the Basque people, by amalgamating their provinces into the kingdom, without obtaining or asking their assent. This was a measure unjust in itself; and because unjust, also impolitic; leading to a long-protracted struggle, in which the whole force of Spain being employed, army after army was destroyed, and general after general disgraced, by a comparatively inconsiderable number of undisciplined peasantry. When England sought to incorporate the Parliaments of Scotland and Ireland into that of the United Kingdom, it was sought by what might be called legal, though not always honourable means. On the same principle, the consent of the Basques ought to have been obtained by the Spanish government, rather than the attempt made, furtively or forcibly, to deprive them of their ancient privileges.

On another great question affecting humanity, it is pleasing to consider Martinez de la Rosa among the foremost characters of the age, in attempting the suppression of the slave trade with Africa. In 1817 a treaty was made between England and Spain to suppress this traffic, which, after the experience of a few years, it was found necessary to make more stringent. Propositions to this effect were therefore made year after year to successive Spanish governments by the British, but in vain, until in 1835 Lord Palmerston was successful enough to find in him a minister of Spain, who had the courage to consent to those suggestions. The treaty of that year was then entered into, and signed on the part of the two countries, by Sir George Villiers, now Earl of Clarendon, and Martinez de la Rosa, which has had the desired effect of preventing the trade being protected by the Spanish flag. But this able statesman has done still more, to entitle him to the respect of all who look with interest on this important question. One of the stipulations of the treaty declared that a penal law should be passed in Spain, in accordance with it, to punish all Spanish subjects found infringing it. This stipulation no other Spanish minister could be found to fulfil; and after the lapse of ten years, having again come into power, it was left for him in good faith to accomplish the engagement he had previously undertaken. Accordingly in 1845, he passed a law, answering the purposes required, which received the approbation of the British government, and which seems to have been so far effective in its application.

Great, undoubtedly, is the praise due to those philanthropic statesmen, who, even at the Congress of Vienna, agreed to protect the liberty of Africa. But much greater must be acknowledged due to one who, unsupported almost in his own country, having to oppose himself to a strong colonial interest, and the cry they raised against him of acting in subservience to a foreign power, yet had the moral courage to follow the dictates of justice and humanity, on behalf of an injured race, notwithstanding all the enmity he had to encounter in so doing.

In 1836 Martinez de la Rosa had to yield his place in the government to other hands; and in 1840 he thought proper to retire again to Paris, engaging himself in those literary pursuits from which he had latterly been estranged. It is not our province to follow his political course, through the different public questions on which he had to act. During the four intermediate years various ministries were formed, to some of which he had to give an honourable support, to others as honourable an opposition; but the Regency of Espartero he avoided to acknowledge. When this fell under the attack of Narvaez, he came forward again into public life, and accepted office for a short time in the government; but seemed resolved to take the first opportunity of giving up the post of active exertion for one of more private character, though of no less public utility. Accordingly, on the accession of Pius IX. to the Papacy, he was appointed Ambassador to Rome, which important office he still continues to hold, for the advantage of the Roman Catholic church itself, as well as of his own country, in the several questions that have come since under discussion, subject to his intervention.

As a politician, Martinez de la Rosa has been conspicuous for constant rectitude and consistency of principles. “Not even in moments of the utmost defamation,” says his biographer, “has a word been ever raised against his purity of conduct, nor have his greatest enemies ever permitted themselves to impugn in the least his intentions.” As an orator, he has had few to equal him in his time, none to surpass him; but his eloquence has been modelled by his character to persuade and defend rather than attack; and thus, if not abounding in brilliant sallies, it has been found of more essential service to the cause of good government.

Beyond the ‘History of Perez del Pulgar,’ Martinez de la Rosa has written several other works in prose, one of which, the latest, entitled ‘Spirit of the Age,’ is in fact, so far as yet published, a History of the French Revolution, preceded by a few general observations on political questions. It has already advanced to six volumes, and becoming a political and philosophical history of contemporaneous events, may be extended to the utmost limits. A novel which he wrote earlier in life, ‘Donna de Solis,’ is acknowledged a failure, as showing “that no man, however eminent, can write successfully on all kinds of subjects.”

The principal literary success which Martinez de la Rosa has had, seems to have been as a dramatist; but into those works it would be impossible to enter, to treat them with justice, except by making them a prominent subject of consideration. His poems, published as before stated in 1833, contain compositions in various styles, from the light Anacreontic to the project of an Epic Poem on the Wars of Granada, of which, however, he has only published fragments. Besides a translation of Horace’s ‘Art of Poetry,’ he has also given the world an ‘Ars Poetica,’ for the benefit of his own countrymen, which he has enriched with many excellent notes and criticisms.

Some of the rules laid down in this ‘Ars Poetica’ are well worthy of study, as giving room for reflection, for carrying their suggestions even further than he has done. Thus, while insisting on the young poet depending on the excellency of his ear for the melody of verse, instead of having to count the syllables for the requisite purpose, he observes, that as the ancients regulated their metres by time, making so many long or short feet of equivalent measure, of which the judgement must depend on the cadence, so in the verses of the best Spanish poets, there are often some lines containing three or four more syllables than others, to which they form the counterpart, and which are read in the same measure, with increased pleasure for the variation.

The same observation may apply to English verse, though perhaps not so fully. Many of our syllables containing shortly sounded vowels, such as a Hebrew scholar might call Sheva and its compounds, pronounced distinctly, but two in the time of an ordinary syllable, may be found to give an elegance to the line, which would sound faulty with only one of them. But we may go further, and observe, that as in music the melody may be continued by the pause, instead of a note in the bar, so in a line, a pause with one or more long syllables may have the effect of a syllable, instead of the sound or foot to make up the measure. Readers of poetry will not require to be reminded of instances of this adaptation of sounds, and if they notice any such lines in these translations, they will perceive that they have been written in accordance with the precepts referred to.

It must be acknowledged, that in the generality of his poems, Martinez de la Rosa has not risen to any such height of sublimity or fancy as to give him a place in the superior class of poets. But one of the latest critical writers, Ferrer del Rio, who has given a more disparaging estimate of his poetical talents than justice might award, pronounces the ‘Epistle to the Duke de Frias’ as a composition for which “judges the most grave and least complaisant might place him on the top of Parnassus.” The ‘Remembrance of Spain,’ Del Rio declares to be poor in images, without feeling or depth, but with much of pastoral innocency. The ‘Return to Spain’ is, according to him, a mere itinerary of his travels, more than an expression of pleasure on escaping from past evil. But in the ‘Epistle to the Duke de Frias,’ he finds “true-felt inspiration, an appropriate expression, and a plan well traced out,”--“without vagueness or artificial labour, but with phrases that soften and ideas that satisfy the mind,” becoming the subject.

Another anonymous critic finds the writer dwelling too much on the remembrance of his own sorrows, instead of offering consolation to the mourner, and some incongruity in felicitating him on having witnessed the last pangs of mortality. But these topics, on such an occasion, are true to nature. Grief is apt to be egotistical, and the mind cannot but dwell on the subject in which it is absorbed. Nor is the other a less natural suggestion; and thus we may observe, that the great master of antiquity represents the sweetest of his characters lamenting that she had not been by the side of her lord at such a time, as the height of her misfortune, to receive his last embrace, and his last word to be remembered ever after:--

Ἕκτορ, ἐμοὶ δὲ μάλιστα λελείψεται ἄλγεα λυγρά. Οὐ γάρ μοι θνήσκων λεχέων ἐκ χεῖρας ὄρεξας Οὐ δὲ τί μοι εἶπες πυκινὸν ἔπος, οὖ τέ κεν αἰεὶ Μεμνῄμην νύκτας τε καὶ ἤματα δακρυχέουσα.

In this ‘Epistle to the Duke de Frias,’ Martinez de la Rosa has also introduced, as a fit consideration in his grief, the same topic of the instability of earthly things, which “the Roman friend of Rome’s least mortal mind” offered him on a similar occasion of sympathy. But it also seems a favourite subject of our poet’s thoughts at all times, as befitting the philosopher and the scholar, to dwell on the passing nature of worldly greatness, and so lead the mind to higher suggestions than those of the present moment. These ideas he has carried further in another work he has published, ‘Book for Children,’ in which, like many other eminent characters, who have given the aid of their talents to the development of juvenile minds, he has inculcated lessons of virtue, and the instinct of good taste, with the feelings of patriotism and religion, as the basis of moral well-being.

Martinez de la Rosa published his works in a collected form first, in five volumes, 1827-30, at Paris, where they have been again lately reprinted. Besides these, there have been two editions in Spain, one at Madrid and the other at Barcelona. From Her Catholic Majesty he has received the decoration of the Golden Fleece, the highest order of Spain, besides other similar honours. But the world at large will consider his greatest honour to consist in having raised himself from mediocrity of station, by his talents and exertions, to the high position he has attained “without stain or reproach,” while, by his literary works, he has enabled all mankind to become benefited by his genius, and interested in his fame.

FRANCISCO MARTINEZ DE LA ROSA.

REMEMBRANCE OF SPAIN, WRITTEN IN LONDON IN 1811.

I saw upon the shady Thames Unnumber’d ships with riches fraught; I saw the power the nation claims Immense, the greatness it has wrought, And arts that such renown have brought.

But the afflicted mind exhaled A thousand sighs; again to view The flowery banks the wish prevail’d, Where glides the Douro calmly through, Or Henil’s streams their course pursue.

I saw the proud Court’s ladies forth Their wealth and grandeur gaily show; I saw the beauties of the North, Their bright complexions white as snow, Commingling with the rose’s glow.

Their eyes appear’d of heavenly blue, Their tresses of the purest gold; Their stately forms arose to view, Beneath the veil’s transparent fold, As white and lovely to behold.

But what avail the gay brocade, The city’s silks, and jewels’ pride; Or charms in rosy smiles array’d, With brilliant gaiety supplied, That all to beauty are allied?

When but is seen my country girl, Clad in her robe of simple white, Shamed are the needless silk and pearl; And by her pure and blooming light Confused hides beauty at the sight.

Where shall I find in icy clime Her black and beaming eyes of fire? That whether scornfully the time, To look, or kindly they desire, To rob me of my peace conspire?

Where the black hair that may like hers In hue with ebony compare? Where the light foot that never stirs, When bounding o’er the meadows fair, The lowly flowers that blossom there?

Maids of the Henil! dark ye be; But ne’er would I exchanged resign Your charms for all that here I see, Proud Albion shows, of brows that fine Ev’n as the polish’d ivory shine.

O, father Douro! gentle stream, Whose sands a golden store supply, Deign of my heart the wish supreme To hear, thy sacred margins by, That it may be my lot to die!

RETURN TO GRANADA, OCTOBER 27, 1831.

My loved country! thee again I come at length returned to see; Thy beauteous soil, thy fields where reign Plenty and joy unceasingly! Thy radiant sun, thy peaceful skies, Yes! there extended o’er the plain, From hill to hill, I see arise The far-famed city! Noble towers, Midst groves of ever-blooming flowers; Kissing her walls are crystal streams, Her valley lofty heights surround, And the snow-topp’d Sierra gleams, Crowning the far horizon’s bound.

Not vain thy memory me pursued Where’er I stray’d; with that imbued, Troubling my hopes, my joys, my rest, The thoughts my heart and soul oppress’d. On the cold margin of the Thames, Or Seine, I thought of thee, and sigh’d Again to view the bank that gems Thy Henil’s or thy Douro’s tide. And if perchance my voice essay’d Some gayer song, for short relief, Soon for lament the attempts I made Were check’d, and doubled was my grief.

Vain the delicious Arno show’d, Offering to me her fruitful shore, Of peace and loves the soft abode, With flowers enamell’d o’er. “More blooming are the plains where flows The gentle Henil through, And lovelier still Granada shows Her pleasant site to view!” Murmuring such words in mournful thought, I oft with tearful eyes repined, Upraised to Heaven, as memory brought My fathers’ homes and hearths to mind. At times the solitary view Of rural scenes more seem’d to soothe; From cities terror-struck I flew, And breathless, anxious, o’er the uncouth Rough Alps I took my way. But not so pure, so vivid show’d Their snowy tops the sun’s bright ray, As from our snow Sierra glow’d The streams of light, the god of day O’er earth and heaven bestow’d.

My griefs Pompeii flatter’d more: Its fearful ruins, silent streets, Deserted porticos, retreats Of men with grass run o’er. And in my troubled mind began Grave thoughts to rise, how vain is all The power of miserable man. To abase his fame, his pride to gall, How fate delights! and works that vast He rears, and dares eternal call, Throws over with a blast! Today the traveller, as he roves Along the Tiber, has to trace Through ruins, where that was high Jove’s Triumphant city had its place! The plough breaks up the fruitful mould, The sacred relics now we see Of Herculaneum that enfold, As in a darksome tomb! If be Pompeii’s walls still standing, yet Are their foundations undermined By age, and as the rude winds threat, They tremble to their fall inclined.

Thus in my youth I saw the tower Of the superb Alhambra lower, Broken, and imminent appal The Douro threatening with its fall. Each rapid moment of my life Hasten’d the term with ruin rife; And of the Alcazar’s sovereign pride, Where once the Moorish power enchain’d Their fame as left to ages wide, Mine eyes may soon not find descried Its ruins ev’n remain’d. As that dark image o’er me glooms, My heart sinks heavy in my breast; I bow myself before the tombs, In tears with grief oppress’d.

What is thy magic? what may be The ineffable enchantment found, O, country! O, sweet name, in thee? Ever so dear to man the sound! The sunburnt African will sigh For his parch’d sands and burning sky, Perchance afar, and round the plains However blooming he disdains. Ev’n the rude Laplander, if fate In luckless hour him off has torn From his own soil, disconsolate Will to return there longing mourn; Envying the eternal night’s repose, His icebound shores and endless snows.

And I, to whom kind fate assign’d My birth within thy happy fold, Granada! and my growth as kind Within thy blissful bounds to mould, Far from my country, and beset With griefs, how could I thee forget? On Africa’s inhuman shore, To the wreck’d seaman rough and drear, Thy sacred name I o’er and o’er Repeated, which the waves to hear Back to the Spanish regions bore. On the far Pole’s dark furious sea, By the Batavian’s energy Bridled, again thy name was heard: Heard it the Rhone, the foamy Rhine, The Pyrenæan heights the word Repeated with the Apennine, And in Vesuvius’ burning cave Then first the sound the echos gave.

EPISTLE TO THE DUQUE DE FRIAS, ON THE DEATH OF THE DUQUESA.

From the dark gloomy borders of the Seine, Where with black clouds around the heaven extends, The earth o’erwhelm’d with snow, the heart with pain, Thee thy unhappy friend his greeting sends;

To thee still more unhappy! nor deters Him ev’n the fear to touch the wounds unheal’d, Yet bleeding sore, or see thee how it stirs Fresh tears to bathe thine eyes thy sorrows yield.

What would he be, if man were not to weep? A thousand times I’ve thank’d our God, who gave The heart to soothe its griefs in tears to steep; As rain we see subdue the raging wave.

Weep then, ay, weep! others, and abler friends As faithful, with success may in thine ears Make heard the voice that stoic virtue lends; But I, who in the world my cup of tears

Oft to the dregs have drain’d, no cure could find For grief, but what from grief I might derive; When with vain struggling tired, the powerless mind Submissive ceased beneath the weight to strive.

Dear friend! wilt thou believe me? time will come, When the sharp edge of sorrow worn away, That grief and anguish now so burdensome, At length a placid sadness will allay;

In which absorb’d, as yet o’erwhelm’d, the soul Folds itself up all silently to bear; Nor seeks nor envies, as around they roll, The world’s delights or pleasures more to share.

Thou doubt’st perchance; and once there was a time I also doubted it; and endless thought My deep affliction, and insulting crime To tell me to an end it could be brought.

And yet it was! for so from God to man That is another mercy, which alone, Amidst so many woes ’tis his to scan, Aids him this weary life to suffer on.

Hope then, believe my words, and trust in me: Who in this world the unhappy privilege Has bought so dear to speak of misery? These many years that saw it me assiege,

Saw me no day but as the plaything vile Of a dire fate, that like a shrub amain The hurricane tears up, and raised awhile It fiercely dashes to the earth again.

I know it true, against the blows of fate, When that against ourselves they only glance, The firm heart shielded can withstand its hate; But so it is not oft: and thou, perchance,

Mayst think I never one have lost I loved More than my life. If sorrow will give truce Thee for a moment, turn thine eyes disproved To an unhappy orphan, weak, recluse,

And sorrowing solitary in the world, Without scarce one to whom to weep his woe; For to the grave relentless death had hurl’d, One after one, all he was born to know.

In the same season, thou wilt see sufficed Thy loss to open forth the wounds I bear, I lost a mother kind, and idolized, My joy, and comforter in every care;

On her steps my reaved father to the grave Soon follow’d, and both sank o’erwhelm’d in tears, Calling my name afar; the cries they gave Fell on my heart, but not upon my ears.

I ran, I flew, I came, but all in vain: Both now beneath the fatal stone reposed, And I my height of anguish to attain, But found the covering earth yet newly closed.

Thou in thy grave affliction more hast found Thee to console, if possible; (how turn Rebels against me thy own woes around! From my rude voice perforce thou hast to learn

That he who fortune flatter’d not before, Will neither flatter grief) thou in thy loss Hast found a thousand comforts, which forbore My cruel fate to grant my path across;

Thou soothing saw’st thy wife in her last pains; Her last sigh couldst receive; couldst press her hands, Her arms raised to thee, and her pledge remains In thine, her daughter still thy love demands.

But I, not wishing it, am in thy breast A dagger striking, thus again to view That fatal night’s dark image to suggest, When life with death its fearful struggles drew.

Now ended are her pains, for ever o’er! Herself she pray’d for it, with pious eyes To heaven, and hope, amidst the pangs she bore, Shone on her brow serene in death to rise.

O! were it given us to penetrate The secrets of the tomb, how oft our grief Would it not soften down, however great! In this same moment who of the belief

Could not assure thee, while thou dost lament, Unhappy, thy lost wife’s untimely doom, That she is there enjoying permanent A lot more happy than this side the tomb?

Thou, silent, lowly bendest down thy head; But thou mayst not be silent; answer me; Sound, if thou darest it, the abyss to tread, That separates thy lost loved wife from thee.

Take through eternity thy course, and then Tell me of where she is, what is her state? Happy or miserable? or again, We should rejoice in, or lament her fate?

To thee I may repeat it, others gay Will laugh at my dark fancy; not long past The time I was by that enchanting bay Of the Tyrrhenian sea; the city vast,

Mother of pleasures, I forsook, and bent, Absorb’d, my feeble steps, where lowly lies Pompeii; palaces with gardens blent And fountains brilliant, shone before my eyes;

But deeper penetrates the mind, and sad, Slowly along I went with heavy heart: Flowers amid lava grew! and rich, and glad Today the scenes on every side impart

The towns and villages, which others hide That stood as happy there a former day; Those now that flourish built up by the side Of some forgotten that have pass’d away.

At length I came where we the walls descry Of the deserted city, which the abode Proclaim’d it was of men in times gone by; Their sepulchres stood bordering the road!

There for a resting-place the traveller stays, For shade and for repose: the gate now gain’d, Awhile the vacillating foot delays To enter, as if fearing it profaned

Too bold the mansions of the dead. No word, No sound, no murmur. It would seem that there Ev’n Echo’s self is mute, no answer heard! Slowly I through the narrow streets repair

Without a human footstep! Porticos And plazas by no living beings trod, Walls with deserted hearths, and temples rose And altars, without victims or a god.

How little, mean and miserable seem’d The world before mine eyes, when there I stood! A bitter smile upon my features gleam’d, To think of man’s ambition, schemes of blood,

And projects without end, when by a blast, Like smoke, their good and evil are represt; Ashes a mighty city overcast, As light dust covers o’er some poor ants’ nest!

Thus wrapp’d in mournful thoughts, I paced along That vast and silent precinct, as behind Roves some unbodied shade the tombs among; The ties me yet to this low earth that bind

I felt to loosen, and the soul set free Launch’d itself forth, ev’n into endless space, Leaving behind it ages.--Couldst thou see What is this wretched life, compared its trace

With that immensity, most surely, friend, In thine eyes would remain congeal’d those tears, Which now profuse thou shedd’st, and thou wouldst bend Down on the earth thy gaze, where soon appears,

Thyself must see, the end of all our toil; The rest that she enjoys beyond the sky, For whom thou weep’st, whilst o’er this care-worn soil Dragging life’s heavy burden, as do I.

Yet till ’tis granted thee to meet again Thy lost adored, the moments consecrate Of absence to her memory that remain: Thy heart let her remembrance animate;

Let thy lips ever her dear name repeat: Nor how forget that clear ingenuous mind, That heavenly beauty, generous soul, to meet So rare! the world admired such gifts combined.

But now I see thee to the dusky grove Of cypress and rose-bay trees take thy way; On thy right hand a crown is hanging, wove Of mournful everlastings; nor astray

Thine eyes scarce raising, fearing to behold The monument of thine eternal grief, That guards her ashes! Different she consoled, Hastening in charity, as for relief

The poor unhappy and the orphans knew! For whom she ever show’d a parent’s care: They who partook her gifts and kindness true, Now in long files and slow, thy griefs to share

Silent and mournful on thy steps attend, Around her tomb; dost thou not hear them? theirs, Theirs are the tearful sobbings that ascend, And cries that interrupt the funeral prayers.

Not ev’n a flower to deck her sepulchre, Have I to send thee! flowers may not be grown To bud in beds of ice; or if they were, They soon would wither at my touch alone.

ANACREONTIC.

Let the thunder burst, Pour out and drink the wine! Thou never saw’st a thunderbolt Strike the tender vine.

Vesuvius himself To Bacchus tribute pays, And spares the vineyard flourishing, Where his lava sways.

In Italy in vain I hero sought or sage; Mine eyes but dusty ruins found, Mouldering with age.

Of Rome the image scarce Remains to be portray’d; A tomb is Herculaneum, Pompeii is a shade.

But I found Falernum, His nectar rich remain’d, And in memory of Horace, A bottleful I drain’d.

BACCHANALIAN.

In chorus we sing, of wine, sweet wine, Its power benign, and its flavour divine.

Against power so sweet No guard is secure, Nor gate, nor yet wall, Nor will castle endure, Nor doubtings, nor watchings, How strict or demure.

Chorus.

With thee the fair maiden Shows herself fairer, With thee has the matron New beauty to glare her; Ev’n the sad widow Finds love an ensnarer.

Chorus.

With thee the poor captive, Though heavy his chains, Ne’er feels in his feasting Or torments or pains, But a place with his lord As an equal he gains.

Chorus.

With thee the worn seaman The south wind defies, While echoes the thunder He singing replies, And of winds and the waves Will the fury despise.

Chorus.

Thou hast power o’er the lip Of the fool and the sage, From the breast to root out Gall, venom and rage, What rancour and envy Would hide, to assuage.

Chorus.

With thee will the coward Of courage make show, The niggard so vile Learn bounteous to grow, And the feeble and old Fresh vigour to know.

Chorus.

Thy colour so pure Outrivals the flowers, Thy odorous essence The rich myrrh’s showers, The rosemary honey Thy taste overpowers.

Chorus.

Oblivion thou givest To troubles and sorrow, Joys fleeting a show Of eternal to borrow, And robb’st of its horrors The fate of tomorrow.

In chorus we sing, of wine, sweet wine, Its power benign, and its flavour divine.