Title: The Works of Garcilaso de la Vega - With a Critical and Historical Essay on Spanish Poetry and - a Life of the Author
Author: Vega, Garcilaso de la
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Works of Garcilaso de la Vega - With a Critical and Historical Essay on Spanish Poetry and - a Life of the Author" ***


(This file was produced from images generously made


THE WORKS OF GARCILASSO DE LA VEGA,

ETC. ETC.



LONDON: PRINTED BY JAMES MOYES, GREVILLE STREET.



[Illustration: _Louis Parez ddin.   Rob^t. Cooper Sculp_

_Garcilasso de la Vega._

Nat. 1503. Ob. 1536.

_Published March 1^{st}. 1823. by Mess^{rs}. Hurst & Robinson._]



THE WORKS OF GARCILASSO DE LA VEGA,

SURNAMED THE PRINCE OF CASTILIAN POETS,

Translated into English Verse;

WITH A CRITICAL AND HISTORICAL ESSAY ON SPANISH POETRY,

AND LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.


By J. H. WIFFEN.

       *       *       *       *       *

      "Sometimes he turned to gaze upon his book,
        Boscán or GARCILASSO; by the wind
      Even as the page is rustled whilst we look,
        So by the poesy of his own mind
      Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook."
                                      LORD BYRON.

       *       *       *       *       *

LONDON: PRINTED FOR HURST, ROBINSON, AND CO.

90, CHEAPSIDE, AND 8, PALL MALL.


1823.



TO

JOHN, DUKE OF BEDFORD,

IN PUBLIC LIFE

THE STEADY FRIEND AND ASSERTOR OF OUR LIBERTIES;

IN PRIVATE LIFE

ALL THAT IS GENEROUS, DIGNIFIED, AND GOOD;

This Translation,

IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE LITERARY EASE

THAT HAS LED TO ITS PRODUCTION,

_IS, WITH DEEP RESPECT AND ADMIRATION,_

Inscribed

BY THE AUTHOR.



PREFACE.


Till within the last few years but little attention appears to have been
paid in England to Castilian verse. Our earliest poets of eminence,
Chaucer and Lord Surrey, struck at once into the rich field of Italian
song, and by their imitations of Petrarch and Boccaccio, most probably
set the fashion to their successors, of the exclusive study which they
gave to the same models, to the neglect of the cotemporary writers of
other nations, to those at least of Spain. Nor is this partiality to the
one and neglect of the other to be at all wondered at; for neither could
they have gone to more suitable sources than the Tuscans for the harmony
and grace which the language in its first aspirations after refinement
wanted, nor did the Spanish poetry of that period offer more to
recompense the researches of the student than dry legends, historical
ballads, or rude imitations of the Vision of Dante. But it is a little
singular that this inattention should have continued when the influence
of the Emperor Charles the Fifth became great in the courts of Europe,
and the Spanish language, chastised into purity and elegance by Boscán,
Garcilasso, and their immediate successors, obtained a currency amongst
the nations correspondent with the extent of his conquests. The hostile
attitude in which England stood to Spain under Elizabeth, may be
regarded as perhaps the principal cause why we meet in the constellation
of writers that gave lustre to her reign, with so few traces of their
acquaintance with the literature of that country; whilst the strong
jealousy of the nation to Spanish influence, catholicism, and jesuitical
intrigue, no less than the purely controversial spirit of the times,
had, I doubt not, their full effect under the Stuarts, in deterring the
scholars of that period from any close communion with her poets.
Meanwhile the corruption of style which had so baneful an effect on her
literature, was silently going forward under Gongora, Quevedo, and
their numerous imitators. Before the reign of Philip the Fifth, this
corruption had reached its height; his accession to the crown of Spain,
and the encouragement he gave to letters, might have re-established the
national literature in its first lustre, if the evil had not struck root
so deeply, and if another cast of corrupters had not opposed themselves
to the views of this monarch, viz. the numerous translators of French
works, who disfigured the idiom by forming a French construction with
native words. Thus the curiosity of the poets of Queen Anne's time, if
it was ever excited, must have been speedily laid asleep; and (though we
may notice in Dryden, and perhaps in Donne, a study of Castilian,) it
was scarcely before the middle of the last century that this study began
permanently to tinge our literature. To Mr. Hayley, who first directed
public attention to the great merits of Dante, must be ascribed the
praise also of first calling our notice in any great degree to the
Spanish poets. Southey followed, and by his "Chronicle of the Cid" and
"Letters from Spain," quickened the curiosity excited by Mr. Hayley's
analysis and translated specimens of the Araucana of Ercilla. Lord
Holland's admirable dissertation on the genius and writings of Lope de
Vega, gave us a clearer insight into the literature of Spain, whilst the
French invasion brought us into a more intimate connexion and
acquaintance with her chivalrous people; nor could the many English
visitants which this drew to her shores view the remains which she keeps
of Arabian and Moorish magnificence, or even listen to her language,
which preserves such striking vestiges of oriental majesty, without
having their imagination led back to her days of literary illumination,
and without deriving some taste for the productions of her poets. The
struggle which she then made, and that which she is now making, first
against the unhallowed grasp of foreign coercion, and next of that
priestly tyranny which has so long cramped her political and
intellectual energies, have excited in every British bosom the most
cordial sympathy; and it is evident that from these causes, there is a
growing attention amongst us to her language and literature. Since the
present volume was begun, a translation has appeared of the excellent
work of Bouterewek, on Spanish and Portuguese poetry; another is going
through the press of Sismondi "Sur la Littérature du Midi de l'Europe;"
and Mr. Lockhart has just given us a choice selection of those beautiful
old Spanish ballads, which, as Mr. Rogers observes of the narratives of
the old Spanish chroniclers, 'have a spirit like the freshness of waters
at the fountain head, and are so many moving pictures of the actions,
manners, and thoughts of their cotemporaries;' like rough gems redeemed
from an oriental mine, they have assumed under his hand a polish and a
price that must render them indispensable to the cabinets of our men of
taste. Nor, in speaking of those whose labours have tended to spread a
knowledge of Hesperian treasure, must we pass over without due praise
the masterly notices on Spanish poetry, which Mr. Frere and Mr. Bowring
are understood to have given forth in the Quarterly and Restrospective
Reviews.

In this situation of things, it may not be wholly unacceptable to the
public to receive, though from an inferior hand, a translation of
Garcilasso de la Vega, the chastest and perhaps the most celebrated of
the poets of Castile. A desire to vary the nature of my pursuits, with
other reasons not necessary to mention, first led me to his pages; but
the pleasure I derived at the outset from his pastoral pictures and
harmony of language, soon settled into the more serious wish to make his
merits more generally known, and thus to multiply his admirers amongst a
people ever inclined, sooner or later, to do justice to foreign talent.
I would, however, deprecate any undue expectations that may be raised by
the high title bestowed on Garcilasso by his countrymen--a title
conferred in their enthusiastic admiration of his success in giving
suddenly so new and beautiful an aspect to the art, and in elevating
their language to a point of perfection, truly surprising, if we
consider all the circumstances connected with that revolution; but this
peculiar merit, so far at least as relates to the language, must
necessarily from its nature be wholly untranslateable, and he is thus
compelled to lose much of the consideration with the merely English
reader that is his real due. But it would be unjust in an English
reader, who glances over the subjects of his fancy, to conclude that
because Garcilasso has written little but Eclogues and Sonnets,
compositions, he may say, at best but of inferior order, he is therefore
worthy of but little regard in this age of poetical wonders. I will be
bold to assert, that the poets, and readers of the poets of the day,
will be no way degraded by coming in contact with his simplicity: our
taste for the wilder flights of imagination has reached a height from
which the sooner we descend to imitate the nature and unassuming ease of
simpler lyrists--the Goldsmiths and Garcilassos of past ages, the better
it may chance to be both for our poetry and language. Nor let the name
of Eclogues affright the sensitive reader that has in his recollection
the Colins and Pastoras that sickened his taste some thirty or forty
years ago. The pastorals, as they were called, of that period, are no
more to be compared with the _rime boschereccie_ of Garcilasso, than the
hideous distortion of the leaden Satyr that squirts water from its
nostrils in some city tea-garden, and that is pelted at irresistibly by
every boy that passes,--with the marble repose and inviolable beauty of
the Piping Faun in a gallery of antique sculptures.

Whilst employed on this translation, I was struck with the lucid view
which Quintana gives, in the Essay prefixed to his "Poesias selectas
Castellanas," of the History of Spanish Poetry, and I thought that it
might be made yet more serviceable to the end which its author had in
view, by a translation that would disclose to the English reader what he
might expect from a cultivation of the Spanish language. The only fault
perhaps of this Essay is, that Quintana has judged his native poets too
strictly and exclusively by the rules of French criticism and French
taste, which ought not I think to be applied as tests to a literature
so wholly national as the Spanish is, so especially coloured by the
revolutions that have taken place upon the Spanish soil, and so utterly
unlike that of any other European nation. Still the Essay will be found,
if I mistake not, as interesting and instructive to others as it has
proved to me: from it a more compact and complete view of the art in
Spain may be gathered, than from more extensive histories of the kind;
nor was I uninfluenced in my purpose by the advantage which the judgment
of a native, himself one of the most distinguished of the living poets
and lettered men of Spain, would have over any original Essay derived
from the writings of foreigners, who, whatever may be their critical
sagacity and literary repute, can neither be supposed to be so
intimately acquainted with the compositions of which they treat, nor
such good judges of Castilian versification.

It is time to conclude these prefatory observations; yet I cannot forego
the pleasure of first acknowledging the great advantage I have derived
from the kind revision of my MSS. by the Rev. Blanco White. That
gentleman's desire to aid in any thing that might seem to serve the
reputation of his country--the country, whose customs and institutions
he has pourtrayed with such vivid interest, originality, and talent,
joined to his native goodness of heart, could alone have led him to
volunteer his services, in a season of sickness, to one nearly a
stranger; and if I submit the following pages to the public with any
degree of confidence in its favour, it is from the many improvements to
which his friendly and judicious criticisms have led.

To Mr. Heber also, who, with the spirit of a nobleman, throws open so
widely the vast stores of his invaluable library, I feel bound to
express my obligations for the use of Herrera's rare edition of the
works of Garcilasso, which I had in vain sought for in other collections
of Spanish books, both public and private: his voluntary offer of this,
on a momentary acquaintance, enhances in my mind the value of the
favour.

The astonishing number of authors which the Bibliotheca Hispanica of Don
Nicolás Antonio displays, is a sufficient proof of the great intellect
that Spain would be capable of putting forth, if her mind had a play
proportioned to its activity. No nation has given to the light so many
and such weighty volumes upon Aristotle, so many eminent writers in
scholastic theology, so many and such subtle moral casuists, or so many
profound commentators on the Codices and Pandects. And if she has
produced these works in ages when the withering influence of political
and religious despotism, like the plant which kills the sylvan it
embraces, searched into every coigne of her literary fabric, what may
not be expected from her, when the present distractions, fomented by the
accursed gold of France, are composed into tranquillity, and the
inquiries of her talented men embrace under free institutions a wider
range of science than they have yet dared to follow, except by stealth!
There is not one lettered Englishman but will rejoice with his whole
heart when the winged Genius that is seen in Quintana's poems, chained
to the gloomy threshold of a Gothic building, looking up with
despondency to the Temple of the Muses, may be represented soaring away
for ever from the irons that have eaten into its soul.--

The present work will be shortly followed by a Spanish Anthology,
containing translations of the choicest Specimens of the Castilian
Poets, with short biographical notices, and a selection of the Morisco
ballads.

    WOBURN ABBEY,
  _4th Month 8th, 1823_.



CONTENTS.

                                                                  PAGE

  ESSAY ON SPANISH POETRY                                            1

  LIFE OF GARCILASSO                                                93

  VERSES ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASSO                                169


  ECLOGUES.

  I. TO DON PEDRO DE TOLEDO, VICEROY OF NAPLES                     181

  II.                                                              196

  III. TO THE LADY MARIA DE LA CUEVA, COUNTESS OF UREÑA            266


  ELEGIES.

  I. TO THE DUKE OF ALVA                                           283

  II. TO BOSCA'N                                                   293

  EPISTLE TO BOSCA'N                                               300


  ODES, &c.

  I. TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO                                        305

  II. TO HIS LADY                                                  309

  III. TO THE SAME                                                 312

  IV. WRITTEN IN EXILE                                             315

  V. THE PROGRESS OF PASSION FOR HIS LADY                          319


  SONNETS.

  I. "WHEN I SIT DOWN TO CONTEMPLATE MY CASE."                     327

  II. "AT LENGTH INTO THY HANDS I COME--TO DIE."                   328

  III. "AWHILE MY HOPES WILL TOWER ALOFT IN AIR."                  329

  IV. "LADY, THY FACE IS WRITTEN IN MY SOUL."                      330

  V. "BY RUGGED WAYS I REACH TOWARDS A BOURN."                     331

  VI. "HE WHO HAS LOST SO MUCH, STERN DEITY."                      332

  VII. "FROM THAT ILLUMINED FACE, PURE, MILD, AND SWEET."          333

  VIII. "IF I LIVE ON, DEAR LADY, IN THE VOID."                    334

  IX. "OH LOVELY GIFTS, BY ME TOO FATAL FOUND!"                    335

  X. "IN ORDER TO RESTRAIN THIS MAD DESIRE."                       336

  XI. "STRANGE ICY THROES THE ARMS OF DAPHNE BIND."                337

  XII. "AS A FOND MOTHER, WHOSE SICK INFANT LIES."                 338

  XIII. "IF LAMENTATIONS AND COMPLAINTS COULD REIN."               339

  XIV. EPITAPH ON HIS BROTHER, D. FERNANDO DE GUZMAN.              340

  XV. "FATE! IN MY GRIEFS SOLE AGENT, HOW HAVE I."                 341

  XVI. "THINKING THE PATH I JOURNEYED LED ME RIGHT."               342

  XVII. "IF I AM WAX TO THY SWEET WILL, AND HENCE."                343

  XVIII. TO JULIO CÆSAR CARACCIOLA                                 344

  XIX. "SO STRONGLY ARE THE CRUEL WINDS COMBINED."                 345

  XX. TO D. ALONSO DE AVALO, MARQUIS DEL VASTO.                    346

  XXI. "WITH KEEN DESIRE TO SEE WHAT THE FINE SWELL."              347

  XXII. "AS, LOVE, THE LILY AND PURPUREAL ROSE."                   348

  XXIII. "PROSTRATE ON EARTH THE LOFTY COLUMN LIES."               349

  XXIV. FROM AUSIAS MARCH                                          350

  XXV. TO BOSCA'N                                                  351

  XXVI. "WILD DOUBTS, THAT FLOATING IN MY BRAIN DELIGHT."          352

  XXVII. "WITHIN MY SPIRIT WAS CONCEIVED IN TRAIN."                353

  XXVIII. "I AM FOR EVER BATHED IN TEARS, I REND."                 354

  XXIX. "PAST NOW THE COUNTRIES OF THE MIDLAND MAIN."              355

  XXX. TO BOSCA'N, FROM GOLETTA                                    356

  XXXI. "I THANK THEE, HEAVEN, THAT I HAVE SNAPT IN TWAIN."        357

  XXXII. TO MARIO GALEOTA                                          358

  XXXIII. "MY TONGUE GOES AS GRIEF GUIDES IT, AND I STRAY."        359

  XXXIV. "ENTERING A VALLEY IN A SANDY WASTE."                     360

  XXXV. "LOUD BLEW THE WINDS IN ANGER AND DISDAIN."                361

  XXXVI. TO THE MARCHIONESS OF PADULA                              362

  XXXVII. "FAIR NAIADS OF THE RIVER| THAT RESIDE."                 363

  TO HIS LADY, HAVING MARRIED ANOTHER                              364

  TO THE SAME                                                      365

  ON A DEPARTURE                                                   366

  IMPROMPTU TO A LADY                                              367

  TRANSLATION FROM OVID                                            368

  COMMENT ON A TEXT                                                369

  TO FERNANDO DE ACUÑA                                             370

  APPENDIX      371


* * * _The Drawing of_ GARCILASSO _is by Mr._ LOUIS PAREZ; _the Designs
and Engravings of the Wood-cuts by Mr._ S. WILLIAMS.



ESSAY ON SPANISH POETRY.


CHAPTER I.

OF THE ORIGIN OF SPANISH POETRY, AND ITS PROGRESS TO JUAN DE MENA.

To poetry is given by general assent the first place amongst the
imitative arts. Whether we regard the antiquity of its origin, the range
of objects which it embraces, the duration and pleasure of its
impressions, or the good it produces, we must be struck alike with its
dignity and importance; and the history of its advances must ever go
hand in hand with that of the other branches of human improvement. It is
said that poetry and music civilized the nations; and this proposition,
which, rigorously examined, is exaggerated, and even false, shows at
least the influence that both have had in the formation of society. The
lessons given by the first philosophers to men, the first laws, the most
ancient systems, all were written in verse; whilst the fancy of the
poets, the flattering pictures and pomp of rites, which they invented,
interrupted, with a pleasing and necessary relaxation, the fatigue of
rural labours.

It is true that poetry does not afterwards present itself with the
dignity attendant upon the absolute and exclusive exercise of these
various services; yet it preserves an influence so great in our
instruction, in our moral perfection, and our pleasures, that we may
consider it as a dispenser of the same benefits, though under different
forms. It serves as an attraction to make truth amiable, or as a veil to
screen her; it instructs infancy in the schools, awakens and directs the
sensibilities of youth, ennobles the spirit with its maxims, sublimes it
with its pictures, strews with flowers the path of virtue, and unbars to
heroism the gates of glory. So many advantages, united with charms so
fascinating, have excited in mankind an admiration and a gratitude
eternal.

Its primary and essential business is to paint nature for our delight,
as that of philosophy is to explain her phenomena for our instruction.
Thus, whilst the philosopher, observing the stars, inquires into their
proportions, their distances, and the laws of their motion, the poet
contemplates and transfers to his verses the impression they make upon
his fancy and feelings, the lustre with which they shine, the harmony
that reigns amongst them, and the benefits which they dispense to the
earth. The difficulty of fulfilling worthily and well the object of
poetry is extreme, even though, considering the rapid progress which it
sometimes makes, it might appear easy. From the vague maxim or insipid
tale, rendered vigorous by the charm of an uncertain rhyme or rude
measure, to the harmony and sustained elegance of the Iliad or Eneid;
from the waggon and winelees of Thespis to the grand spectacle offered
by the _Iphigénie_ or _Tancrède_, the distance is immense, and can only
be overcome by the greatest efforts of application and genius.

Some nations, the favourites of Heaven, accomplish it with more
promptitude, and pass quickly from the feebleness of first essays to the
vigour of thoughts more grand, and combinations more perfect. Such was
the case with Greece, where the genius of poetry, scarcely numbering a
few moments of infancy, grew and raised itself to the height of
producing the immortal poesies of Homer. Such, though with less
brilliancy and perfection, was the case with modern Italy, where in the
midnight of the barbarous ages that succeeded Roman refinement, appeared
on the sudden Dante and Petrarch, bringing with them the dawn of the
arts and of good taste. Other nations, less fortunate, wrestle entire
centuries with rudeness and ignorance, and become more slowly sensible
to the blandishments of elegance and harmony; and perfection, in the
degree that men can attain it, is conquered by them solely by force of
time and toil. This is found to be the case with the greater number of
modern nations, and amongst them, we must of necessity mention Spain.

In Spain, as in almost all countries, written verse was anterior to
prose; the _Poem of the Cid_ having appeared, being the first known book
in Castilian, as well as the first work of poetry. In the midst of the
confusion of languages caused by the invasion of the northern
barbarians, the Romance, which was afterwards to be presented with so
much splendour and majesty in the writings of Garcilasso, Herrera,
Rioja, Cervantes, and Mariana, was assuming a definite form. Considering
the work for the argument alone, few would have the advantage over it,
at the same time that few warriors might dispute with Rodrigo de Bivar
the palm of prowess and heroism. His glory, which eclipsed that of all
the kings of his time, has been transmitted from age to age down to the
present, by means of the infinite variety of fables which ignorant
admiration has accumulated in his history. Consigned to poems, to
tragedies, to comedies, to popular songs, his memory, like that of
Achilles, has had the fortune to strike forcibly and occupy the fancy;
but the Castilian hero, superior without doubt to the Greek in strength
and in virtue, has not had the advantage of meeting with a Homer.

It was not possible to meet with one at the period when the rude writer
of that poem sat down to compose it. With a language altogether uncouth,
harsh in its terminations, vicious in its construction, naked of all
culture and harmony; with a versification devoid of any certain measure
and marked rhymes, and a style full of vicious pleonasms and ridiculous
puerilities, destitute of the graces with which imagination and elegance
adorn it; how was it possible to produce a work of genuine poetry, that
should sweetly occupy the mind and ear? The writer is not however so
wanting in talent, as not to manifest from time to time some poetic
design, now in invention, now in sentiment, and now in expression. If,
as Don Tomas Sanchez, the editor of this and other poems previous to the
fifteenth century, suspects, there be wanting to that of the Cid merely
a few verses at the beginning, it is surely a mark of judgment in the
author that he disencumbered his work of all the particulars of his
hero's life anterior to his banishment by Alfonso the Sixth. There the
true glory of Rodrigo begins, and there the poem commences; relating
afterwards his wars with the Moors and with the Count of Barcelona, his
conquests, the taking of Valencia, his reconciliation with the king, the
affront offered to his daughters by the Infantes of Carrion, the solemn
reparation and vengeance which the Cid took for it, and his union with
the royal houses of Arragon and Navarre, with which the work finishes,
slightly indicating the epoch of the hero's death. In the course of his
story, the writer is not wanting in vivacity and interest, great use of
the dialogue, which is a point most to the purpose in animating the
narration, and in occasional pictures that are not without merit in
their art and composition. Such, amongst others, is the farewell of
Rodrigo and Ximena, in the church of San Pedro de Cardeña, when he
departs to fulfil the royal mandate. Ximena, prostrate on the steps of
the altar where divine service is celebrated, makes a prayer to the
Eternal in behalf of her husband, which concludes thus:

      'Oh God, thou art the King of kings, and Sire of all mankind!
      Thee I adore, in thee I trust with all my heart and mind;
      And to divine San Pedro pray to help me in praying still,
      That thou wilt shield my noble Cid the Campeador from ill,
      And since we now must part, again to my embrace restore!'
      Her orison thus made, high mass is offered, and is o'er;
      They leave the church, they mount their barbs--with sad and
          solemn pace,
      The Cid to Donna Ximena went to take a last embrace;
      Donna Ximena, she bent down to kiss the hand of the Cid,
      Sore weeping with her bright black eyes, she knew not what she
          did;
      He turned, and kissed his little girls with all a father's love,
      'Bless you, my girls,' he said, 'I you commend to God above,
      To your sweet mother and ghostly sire! When we shall meet again
      God only knows, but now we part.' Not one could say Amen.
      Thus, weeping in a way that none e'er saw the like, at length
      They part like nail from finger torn with agonizing strength.
      My Cid with his vassals thought to ride, and took the onward
          track;
      Waiting for all, his plumed head he evermore turned back.
      Out then, with gallant unconcern, Don Alvar Fanez spake:
      'Come, come, my Cid, what means all this? cheer up for goodness'
          sake;
      In happy hour of woman born! fast wears the morn away;
      Since we must go, let us begone, nor dally with delay;
      A happier time shall turn to joy the very ills we rue;
      God, who has given us souls to feel, shall give us counsel too.'

There is doubtless a great distance between this parting and that of
Hector and Andromache in the Iliad, but the picture of a hero's
sensibility at the time of separation from his family is always
pleasing; beautiful is that turning of his head when at a distance, and
fine the idea that those same warriors to whom he gives in battle an
example of fortitude and constancy, should then fortify and cheer him.
Superior, in my opinion, for art and dramatic effect, is the act of
accusation which the Cid makes against his traitor sons-in-law before
the Cortes assembled to receive it. The first shock of the Infantes and
the champions of Rodrigo in the lists has much animation and even style.

      They grasp their shields before their hearts; down, down their
          lances go;
      Bowed are their crested helms until they touch the saddle-bow;
      Fiercely they strike their horses' sides with streaming rowels
          red,
      And onward to the encounter run: earth trembles to their tread.
             *       *       *       *       *
      Don Martin Antolinez, with the drawing of his sword,
      Illumined all the field.----

No record is left for us to ascertain who was the author of this first
faint breath of Spanish poetry. Two writers flourished in the following
age, in whom we trace the improvement and progress which the
versification and language had now made. In the sacred poems of Don
Gonzalo de Bercéo, and in the _Alexandro_ of Juan Lorenzo, are
discovered more fluency, more connexion, and forms more determinate. The
march of these authors, although difficult, is not so trailing and
jejune as that of the preceding poet. The difference that subsists
between the two later poets is, that Bercéo, if we except his narrative
and some of his moral counsels, shows neither copiousness of erudition,
variety of knowledge, nor fancy for invention; a deficiency arising from
the nature of his subjects, which for the most part turn upon legends of
the saints. Juan Lorenzo, on the contrary, is more rapt with his
subject, and manifests an information so extensive in history,
mythology, and moral philosophy, as to make his work the most important
of all that were written in that age. The following verses on the same
subject may serve to show the style of both.

      "I, hight Gonzalo de Bercéo, going
        On pilgrimage, came one day to a mead,
      Green, and well-peopled with fair plants, which blowing
        Made it a place desirable indeed
      To a tired traveller; the sweet-scented flowers
        Gave forth a smell that freshened not alone
      Men's faces, but their fancies, whilst in showers
        Clear flowing fountains to the sky were thrown,
      Each singing to itself as on it rolled,
      Warm in midwinter, and in summer cold."
                                              BERCÉO.

      "It was the month of May, a glorious tide,
        When merry music make the birds in boughs,
      Dressed are the meads with beauty far and wide,
        And sighs the ladye that has not a spouse:
      Tide sweet for marriages; flowers and fresh winds
        Temper the clime; in every village near
      Young girls in bevies sing, and with blythe minds
        Make each to each good-wishes of the year.
      Young maids and old maids, all are out of doors,
        Melting with love, to gather flowers at rest
      Of noon--they whisper each to each, amours
        Are good--and the most tender deem the best."
                                                 LORENZO.

Alfonso the Tenth was then reigning in Castile; a prince, to whom, to
render his glory complete, fortune ought to have given better sons, and
vassals less ferocious. Posterity has given him the surname of The Wise;
and beyond all doubt it was merited by the extraordinary man, who in an
age of darkness could unite in himself the paternal and beneficent
regards of the legislator, the profound combinations of the
mathematician and astronomer, the talent and knowledge of the historian,
and the laurels of the poet. He it was who raised his native language to
its due honours, when he gave command that the public instruments, which
before were engrossed in Latin, should be written in Spanish. Mariana,
less favourable to his merits, asserts that this measure was the cause
of the profound ignorance that afterwards ensued. But what was known
before? The Latin then in use was as barbarous, was yet more barbarous
than the Romance. The new uses to which the Romance was applied by that
decree, the dignity and authority it acquired, influenced its culture,
its polish, and its progress. Can it by any chance be believed that
these advantages of the language had no literary influence, or that
there can be diffused knowledge and a national literature, whilst the
native language remains uncultivated? The assertion of Mariana then
must be considered as a result of the somewhat pedantic prejudices of
the age in which he lived; but, even leaving out of consideration the
political convenience of the law, let us regard it as one of the causes,
which having had an influence on the improvement of the language, must
necessarily have influenced also the advancement of Spanish poetry.

There is an entire book of _Cantigas_ or _Letras_ to be sung, composed
in the Galician dialect by this king, specimens of which are to be seen
in the _Anales de Sevilla_ of Ortiz de Zuñiga; another entitled _El
Tesoro_, which is a treatise on the philosopher's stone, as far as can
be judged, for to the present day a great part remains undeciphered; and
to him likewise is attributed that of _Las Querellas_, of which two
stanzas only are preserved. Both are written in verses of twelve
syllables, with rhymes crossed like those of the sonnet, to which is
given the name of _coplas de arte mayor_, and which was a real
improvement in Spanish poetry; as the rhythm of the Alexandrine verse,
the measure used both by Bercéo and Lorenzo, was insufferable from its
heaviness and monotony. Let us compare the coplas with which the book
_El Tesoro_ commences, with the stanzas alluded to.

      The strange intelligence then reached my ears
      That in the land of Egypt lived a man,
      Who, wise of wit, subjected to his scan
      The dark occurrences of uncome years:
      He judged the stars, and by the moving spheres,
      And aspects of the heavens, unveiled the dim
      Face of futurity, which then to him
      Appeared, as clear to us the past appears.
      A yearning toward this sage inspired my pen
      And tongue that instant, with humility
      Descending from my height of majesty;
      Such mastery has a strong desire o'er men:
      My earnest prayers I wrote--I sent--with ten
      My noblest envoys, loaded each apart
      With gold and silver, which with all my heart,
      I offered him, but the request was vain.
      With much politeness the wise man replied,
      'You, sire, are a great king, and I should be
      Most glad to serve you, but in the rich fee
      Of gold and gems I take no sort of pride:
      Deign, then, yourself to use them; I abide
      Content in more abundant wealth; and may
      Your treasures profit you in every way
      That I can wish, your servant.' I complied;
      But sent the stateliest of my argosies,
      Which reached, and from the Alexandrian port
      Brought safe this cunning master to my court,
      Who greeted me with all kind courtesies:
      I, knowing well his great abilities,
      And learning in the movement of the spheres,
      Have highly honoured him these many years,
      For honour is the birthright of the wise.

The two coplas with which the book of _Las Querellas_ began, are
altogether superior in style, harmony, and elegance.

      'Cousin, friend, faithful vassal, all and each,
      Diego Perez Sarmiento, thee
      The ills which from my men adversity
      Makes me conceal, do I intend to teach;
      To thee who, far, alas! from friendship's reach,
      Hast left thy lands for my concerns in Rome,
      My pen flies; hearken to the words that come,
      For mournfully it grieves in mortal speech.

      How lonely lies the monarch of Castile,
      Emperor of Germany that was! whose feet
      Kings humbly kissed, and at whose mercy-seat
      Queens asked for alms; he who in proud Seville
      Maintained an army sheathed from head to heel,
      Ten thousand horse and thrice ten thousand foot,
      Whom distant nations did with fear salute,
      Awed by his wisdom[A] and his sword of steel.'

There seems to be a century between verse and verse, between language
and language; but what is yet more remarkable, to meet with _coplas de
arte mayor_ of equal merit, as well in diction as in cadence, we must
overleap almost two centuries more, and look for them in Juan de
Mena.[B]

If the impulse which this great king gave to letters had been continued
by his successors, Spanish literature would not only be two centuries
forwarder, but would have produced more works, and those more perfect.
The ferocious character of the times did not allow it. The fire of civil
war began to blaze in the last years of Alfonso, with the disobedience
and rebellion of his son, and continued, almost without intermission,
for a whole century, till it arrived at the last pass of atrocity and
horror in the tempestuous and terrible reign of Pedro. The Castilians,
during this unhappy period, seem to have had no spirit but for hatred,
no arms but for destruction. How was it possible, amidst the agitation
of such turbulent times, for the torch of genius to shine out
tranquilly, or for the songs of the muses to be heard? Thus only a very
scanty number of poets can be named as flourishing then: Juan Ruiz,
archpriest of Hita; the Infante Don Juan Manuel, author of _Conde
Lucanór_; the Jew, Don Santo; and Ayala, the historiographer. The verses
of these writers are some of them lost, others exist wholly unedited,
and those only of the archpriest of Hita have seen the light, which,
fortunately, are the most worthy, perhaps, of being known. The subject
of his poems is the history of his loves, interspersed with apologues,
allegories, tales, satires, proverbs, and even devotions. This author
surpassed all former writers; and but few of those by whom he was
succeeded, excelled him in faculty of invention, in liveliness of fancy
and talent, or in abundance of jests and wit; and if he had taken care
to choose or to follow more determinate and fixed metres, and had his
diction been less uncouth and cumbrous, this work would have been one of
the most curious monuments of the Middle Age. But the uncouthness of the
style makes the reading insufferable. Of his versification and manner,
let the following verses serve as specimens, in which the poet begs of
Venus to interpose her influence with a lady whom he loved, who was,
according to his pencil,

      "Of figure very graceful, with an amorous look, correct,
      Sweet, lovely, full of frolic, mild, with mirth by prudence
          checked,
      Caressing, courteous, lady-like, in wreathed smiles bedecked,
      Whom every body looks upon with love and with respect.
      Lady Venus, wife of Love, at thy footstool low I kneel,
      Thou art the paramount desire of all, thy force all feel.
      O Love! thou art the master of all creatures; all with zeal
      Worship thee for their creator, or for sorrow or for weal.
      Kings, dukes, and noble princes, every living thing that is,
      Fear and serve thee for their being; oh, take not my vows amiss!
      Fulfil my fair desires, give good fortune, give me bliss,
      And be not niggard, shy, nor harsh; sweet Venus, grant me this!
      I am so lost, so ruined, and so wounded by thy dart,
      Which I carry close concealed and buried deep in my sad heart,
      As not to dare reveal the wound; I dare not e'en impart
      Her name; ere I forget her, may I perish with the smart!
      I have lost my lively colour, and my mind is in decay;
      I have neither strength nor spirits, I fall off both night and
          day;
      My eyes are dim, they serve alone to lead my steps astray,
      If thou do not give me comfort, I shall swoon and pass away."

Venus, amongst other counsels, says to him:--

      "Tell all thy feelings without fear or being swayed by shame,
      To every amorous-looking miss, to every gadding dame;
      Amongst a thousand, thou wilt scarce find one that e'er will blame
      Thine unembarrassed suit, nor laugh to scorn thy tender flame.
      If the first wave of the rough sea, when it comes roaring near,
      Should frighten the rude mariner, he ne'er would plough the clear
      With his brass-beaked ship; then ne'er let the first word severe,
      The first frown, or the first repulse, affright thee from thy
          dear.
      By cunning hardest hearts grow soft, walled cities fall; with care
      High trees are felled, grave weights are raised; by cunning many
          swear:
      By cunning many perjured are, and fishes by the snare
      Are taken under the green wave; then why shouldst thou despair?"

Other passages much more striking might be quoted; and amongst them the
description of the power of money, which has a severity and freedom, of
which it would be difficult to find examples in other writers of that
time, either in or out of Spain, though the independent Dante were to
enter into the comparison; or the facetious apology and praise of little
women, which begins:

      I wish to make my speeches suit the season,
        Short; for I always liked, the more I read,
      Short sermons, little ladies, a brief reason;
        We fructify on little and well said, &c.[1]

But the examples already quoted will suffice for our assertion.
Sometimes the poet, weary perhaps of monotony and heaviness, varies from
the measure which he generally uses, and introduces another combination
of rhymes in songs which he mingles with his narrative; as, for
instance, the following:--

      Near the vale's fresh fountain,
      Having past the mountain,
      I found relief, at play
      Of the first beams of day.
      I thought to die upon
      The mountain summits lone,
      With cold and hunger, lost
      Mid glaciers, snows, and frost.
      Beside the sparkling rill,
      At foot of a small hill,
      A shepherdess I met,--
      I see her smiling yet:
      Her cheeks made e'en the red
      Ripe roses pale; I said
      To her, 'Good morrow, sweet,
      I worship at thy feet!' &c.

Don Tomas Antonio Sanchez has published the works of almost all the
authors mentioned, with illustrations, excellent, as well for the
notices given of them, as for the elucidation of the text, which the
antiquity and rudeness of the language, and the errors of manuscripts,
by their complication, obscured. There, as in an armoury, rest these
venerable antiques, precious objects of curiosity for the learned, of
investigation for the grammarian, of observation for the philosopher and
historian, whilst the poet, without losing time in studying them,
salutes them with respect, as the cradle of his language and his art.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: _Tablas_, in allusion to those celebrated calculations
drawn up under the superintendence of this monarch, and called, after
him, the _Alphonsine Tables_, a work truly extraordinary for the age.]

[Footnote B: Some learned men question whether these two works do
actually belong to the time and author to whom they are ascribed; and
the improvement which the versification and language present, forms a
very strong presumption in favour of this doubt.]


CHAPTER II.

OF SPANISH POETRY TO THE TIME OF GARCILASSO.

Both language and versification present themselves more fully formed and
more vigorous, in the verses written by the poets of the fifteenth
century; and this progress is matter of no surprise, if we attend to the
multitude of circumstances which at that time concurred to favour
poetry. The floral games, established at Tolosa in the middle of the
former century, and introduced by the kings of Arragon into their states
towards the conclusion of the same; the concourse of wits who contended
for the prizes proposed at these solemnities; the ceremonies observed in
them; the rank and consideration given to the art of song; the favour of
princes; a more extended knowledge of ancient books; the light which now
broke forth from all parts, and dispersed the dark mists of so many
barbarous centuries; a growing acquaintance with Italy, which, with a
happier and more mercurial genius, had been enlightened before the rest
of Europe;--all contributed powerfully to the kind reception of this
art, the first that becomes cultivated when nations approach their
civilization. Thus, in casting our eyes upon the ancient _Cancioneros_
wherein the poetry of this period was collected, the first thing that
surprises us is the multitude of authors, and the second, their quality.
Juan the Second, who found much pleasure in listening to their rhymes,
and who occasionally rhymed himself, introduced this taste into his
court, and thus all the grandees, in imitation of him, either protected
or cultivated it. The Constable Don Alvaro made verses; the Duque de
Arjona made verses; the celebrated D. Enrique de Villena made verses;
the Marques de Santillana made verses; in fact, a hundred others more or
less illustrious than they.

The form which had now been given to versification was much less
imperfect than that of former ages. _Coplas de arte mayor_ and
octosyllabic verses prevailed over the tedious heaviness of the
Alexandrine: their crossed rhymes struck upon the ear more delightfully,
and stunned it not with the rude and heavy hammered sounds of the
quadruplicate rhyme; whilst the poetic period, more clear and
voluminous, came from time to time upon the spirit with some pretensions
of elegance and grace. The writers of this period sweetened down a
little the austere aspect which the art had hitherto presented, and
abandoning the lengthy poems, devotional legends, and wearisome series
of dry precepts and bald sentences, devoted themselves to subjects more
proportioned to their powers, and the murmurs of the love-song and tone
of the elegy were now most commonly felt upon their lips. Lastly, a more
general reading of the Latin writers taught them sometimes the mode of
imitation, and at others, furnished those allusions, similes, and
ornaments, which served to embellish their verse.

Amongst the great number of poets which flourished then, the one that
most excels all others for the talent, knowledge, and dignity of his
writings, is Juan de Mena. He raised, in his _Laberinto_, the most
interesting monument of Spanish poetry in that age, and with it left all
cotemporary writers far behind him. The poet in this work is represented
as designing to sing the vicissitudes of Fortune: whilst he dreads the
difficulty of the attempt, Providence appears to him, introduces him
into the palace of that divinity, and becomes his guide and tutor. There
he beholds, first, the earth, of which he gives a geographical
description, and afterwards the three grand wheels of Fortune, upon
which revolve the present, past, and future times. Each wheel is
composed of seven circles, allegorical symbols of the influence which
the seven planets have upon the lot of men, in the inclinations which
they give them; and in each circle are an innumerable multitude of
people, who receive their temper and disposition from the planet to
which the circle belongs; the chaste from the moon, the warlike from
Mars, the wise from the sun, and so on of the rest. The wheel of time
present is in motion, the other two at rest; whilst that of future time
is covered with a veil, so that although forms and the images of men are
apparent, they are but dimly distinguishable. The work, conceived upon
this plan, naturally divides itself into seven divisions: and the poet
in describing what he sees, or in conversing with Providence, paints all
the important personages with whom he was acquainted; recounts their
celebrated actions, assigns their causes, displays great information in
history, mythology, natural, moral, and political philosophy, and
deduces, from time to time, admirable precepts and maxims for the
conduct of life, and the government of nations. Thus the _Laberinto_,
far from being a collection of frivolous or insignificant coplas, where
the most we have to look for is artifice of style and rhyme, must be
regarded as the production of a man learned in all the compass of
science which that epoch permitted, and as the depository of all that
was then known.

If the invention of this picture, which, without doubt, is the product
of a comprehensive and philosophical mind, had belonged exclusively to
our poet, his merit would be infinitely greater, and we must have
conceded to him, in a plan so noble, the gift of genius. But the
terrible visions of Dante and the _Trionfi_ of Petrarch being now known
in Spain, the force of fancy necessary to create the plan and argument
of the _Laberinto_, appears much less; Mena having done nothing more
than imitate these writers, changing the situation of the scene in which
he places his allegorical world. His sentiments are noble and grand, his
views just and virtuous. We see him take advantage of his subject, and
apostrophize therein the monarch of Castile, reminding him that his laws
should not be like spiders' webs, but curb alike the strong and the
weak: elsewhere he prays him to repress the horror of a practice that
was then growing common, of poisonings between the closest connexions;
now he is indignant at the barbarism which had burnt the books of D.
Enrique de Villena;[C] and now he represents the slaughters and
disorders in Castile, as a punishment for the repose in which the
grandees were leaving the infidels, in order to attend solely to their
own ambition and avarice.

Juan de Mena expresses himself generally with more fire and energy than
delicacy and grace; his course is unequal; his verses at times are bold
and resonant, at others, they grow weak for want of cadence and metre;
his style, animated, vivid, and natural at times, occasionally borders
on the turgid and the trivial: language, in fine, in his hands is a
slave that he holds but to obey him, and follow willingly or by
compulsion the impulse which the poet gives it. No one has manifested,
in this way, either greater boldness or loftier pretension; he
suppresses syllables, modifies phrases at his will, lengthens or
contracts words at his pleasure, and when he does not find in his own
language the expressions, or modes of expression, which he wants, he
sets himself to search for them in the Latin, the French, the Italian,
in short, where he can. Spanish idiom not being yet finished in its
formation, gave occasion and opportunity for these licenses,--licenses
which would have been converted into privileges of poetic language, if
the talents of this writer had been greater, and his reputation more
permanent. The poets of the following age, whilst polishing the
harshnesses of diction, and making an innovation in the metres and
subjects of their compositions, did not preserve the noble freedom and
acquisitions which their predecessors had gained in favour of the
tongue. Had they followed their example in this, the Castilian language,
and, above all, the language of its poetry, so harmonious, so various,
so elegant and majestic, would have had no cause to envy the richness
and flexibility of any other. The _Laberinto_ has met with the fate of
all works which, departing from the common sphere, form epochs in an
art. It has been several times printed and reprinted: many have imitated
it, and some respectable critics have written commentaries on it, and,
amongst them, Brocensis. Thus it has been transmitted to us: if it has
not been read throughout with delight, from the rudeness of the language
and monotony of the versification, it has at least been dipped into with
pleasure, occasionally quoted, and always mentioned with esteem. The
author would have conciliated greater respect, if, when he imposed on
himself the task of writing on the events of the day, he had removed at
a distance from the tumults and intrigues which were then passing in
Castile. This would have been the way both to see them better, and to
judge of them with greater freedom. Juan de Mena took upon himself a
duty which a courtier could not satisfactorily fulfil; and his vigorous
spirit, employing but half its power in regard to circumstances, was
left far below the dignity and eminence to which, with greater boldness,
it could easily have attained.

The other most distinguished poets of this century were the Marques de
Santillana, one of the most generous and valiant knights that adorned
it, a learned man, and an easy and sweet love poet, just and serious in
sentiment; Jorge Manrique, who flourished after, and who, in his coplas
on the death of his father, left a fragment of poetry, the most regular
and purely written of that time; Garci Sanchez de Badajoz, who wrote
verses with much fire and vivacity; and, lastly, Macías, anterior to
them all, the author of only four songs, but who will never be forgotten
for his amours and melancholy death.[D]

Whoever looks in the old _Cancioneros_ for a poetry constantly animated,
interesting, and agreeable, will be disappointed. After perusing one or
two pieces, wherein indulgence towards the writer supplies their
frequent want of merit, the book drops from our hands, and we have
little inclination to stoop to resume it. It is true that we often meet
with an ingenious thought, an apposite image, and a stanza well
constructed; but it is equally true, that we stumble, at the same
instant, upon ideas puerile, mean, and trivial, upon uncouth verses, and
indeterminate rhymes. The writer is seen to struggle with the rudeness
of the language, as well as with the heaviness of the versification,
and, in spite of all the efforts he makes, entirely overcome by the
difficulty, he neither strikes out true expression nor elegant harmony.
They knew, and they handled Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Lucan, and other
ancient poets; but if occasionally they subjected them to their service
with propriety, they more frequently drew from those sources incoherent
allusions, and a learning that degenerated into inapposite and puerile
pedantry.[E] They did not succeed in imitating either the simplicity of
their plans, or the admirable art with which, in their compositions,
they knew how to unfold a thought with vigour, and to sustain and
graduate the effect from first to last. Finally,--their verses, though
more tolerable than those of a more ancient period, have the great
disadvantage of monotony, and inability to accommodate themselves to the
variety, elevation, and grandeur which the poetic period ought to
possess in correspondence with the images, affections, and sentiments it
developes.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote C:
      "Again and yet again do I deplore
      This injury; dissatisfied Castile
      Has lost a treasure, whose rare worth, I feel,
      The thoughtless nation never knew before.
      She lost thy books, all unappreciated!
      In funeral expiation some were thrown
      To the devouring flames, and others strewn
      About, in ruinous disorder spread.
      Surely, in Athens, the false books of fled
      Protagoras, esteemed so reprobate,
      Were to the fire consigned with greater state,
      When to the angry Senate they were read."]

[Footnote D: Macías was a gentleman of the Grand Master's, Don Enrique
de Villena. Among the ladies who attended on this nobleman was one with
whose beauty our poet became captivated; and neither the seeing her
married to another, the reproofs of the Grand Master, nor, in fact, the
prison into which he ordered him to be consigned, could conquer his
fatal attachment. The husband, fired with wrath, concerted with the
alcaide of the tower in which his rival was imprisoned, and found means
to dart at him, through a window, the lance he bore, and with it pierced
him to the heart. Macías was at that moment singing one of the songs he
had composed upon his mistress, and thus expired with her name and love
upon his lips. The two qualities of troubadour and lover united in him,
made him an object of celebrity, and almost of reverence, with the poets
of the age. Most of them celebrated him, and his name, to which was
joined the title of _Enamorado_, is still proverbial, as a designation
for devoted lovers. The reader will not be displeased to see the verses
which Mena devoted to him in the _Laberinto_: they may serve to show the
character of that poet's fancy.

      "We in this radiant circle looked so long,
      That we found out Macías; in a bower
      Of cypress, was he weeping still the hour
      That ended his dark life and love in wrong.
      Nearer I drew, for sympathy was strong
      In me, when I perceived he was from Spain;
      And there I heard him sing the saddest strain
      That e'er was tuned in elegiac song.
      'Love crowned me with his myrtle crown; my name
      Will be pronounced by many, but, alas,
      When his pangs caused me bliss, not slighter was
      The mournful suffering that consumed my frame!
      His sweet snares conquer the lorn mind they tame,
      But do not always then continue sweet;
      And since they caused me ruin so complete,
      Turn, lovers, turn, and disesteem his flame:
      Danger so passionate be glad to miss;
      Learn to be gay; flee, flee from sorrow's touch;
      Learn to disserve him you have served so much,
      Your devoirs pay at any shrine but his:
      If the short joy that in his service is,
      Were but proportioned to the long, long pain,
      Neither would he that once has loved, complain,
      Nor he that ne'er has loved despair of bliss.
      But even as some assassin or night-rover,
      Seeing his fellow wound upon the wheel,
      Awed by the agony, resolves with zeal
      His life to' amend, and character recover;
      But when the fearful spectacle is over,
      Reacts his crimes with easy unconcern:
      So my amours on my despair return,
      That I should die, as I have lived, a lover!'"]

[Footnote E: This song of Santillana, not entirely devoid either of
grace or pathos, may serve as a specimen of the manner in which these
writers applied their learning.

      1.
      First shall the singing spheres be dumb,
        And cease their rolling motion,
      Alecto pitiful become,
        And Pluto move devotion,
      Ere to thy virtues, printed deep
        Within my heart, I prove
      Thoughtless, or leave thine eyes to weep,
        My soul, my life, my love!

      2.
      Successful Cæsar first shall cease
        To fight for an ovation,
      And force defenced Priamedes
        To sign a recantation,
      Ere, my sweet idol, thou shalt fret,
        Neglect in me to trace,
      Ere I one lineament forget
        In all that charming face.

      3.
      Sinon shall guilelessly behave,
        Thais with virtue, Cupid
      Meekly--Sardanapalus brave,
        And Solomon grow stupid,
      Ere, gentle creature, from my mind
        Thine image flits away,
      Whose evermore I am, resigned
        Thy biddings to obey.

      4.
      Swart Ethiopia shall grow chill
        With wintry congelation,
      Cold Scythia hot, and Scylla still
        Her boiling tide's gyration,
      Ere my charmed spirit shall have power
        To tear itself away,
      In freedom, but for one short hour,
        From thy celestial sway.

      5.
      Lions and tigers shall make peace
        With lambs, and play together,
      Sands shall be counted, and deep seas
        Grow dry in rainy weather,
      Ere Fortune shall the influence have
        To make my soul resign
      Its bliss, and call itself the slave
        Of any charms but thine.

      6.
      For thou the magnet art, and I
        The needle, oh my beauty!
      And every hour thou draw'st me nigh,
        In voluntary duty;
      Nor is this wonderful, for call
        The proudest, she will feel
      That thou the mirror art of all
        The ladies in Castile.]


CHAPTER III.

FROM GARCILASSO TO THE ARGENSÓLAS.

To Juan Boscán is generally attributed the introduction into Spanish
poetry of endecasyllables, and Italian measures. Andreas Navagero,
ambassador of Venice to the court of Spain, recommended to Boscán this
novelty, which, begun by him, and followed by Garcilasso, Mendoza,
Acuña, Cetina, and other fine spirits, effected an entire change in the
art. Not that endecasyllabic verse was unknown in Castile before. There
are some specimens of it in the _Conde Lucanór_, written in the
fourteenth century; and the Marques de Santillana in the fifteenth,
composed many sonnets in the mode of the Italians. But these essays had
not obtained consequence, and it was only in the time of Boscán that the
poets generally devoted themselves to this species of versification. And
herein, if rightly I judge, the intimate relation that now subsisted
between the two nations had more influence than the authority of a
second-rate poet like Boscán; it is, notwithstanding, without dispute
much to his glory to have been the author of so happy a revolution, and
to have contributed by his example and his talents to its establishment.

But those who were sufficiently satisfied with the old versification,
instantly rose in clamour against the innovation, and treated its
favourers as guilty of treason against poetry and their country. At the
head of these, Christoval de Castillejo, in the satires which he wrote
against the _Petrarquistas_ (for so he called them) compared this
novelty to that which Luther was then introducing in religion, and
making Boscán and Garcilasso appear in the other world before the
tribunal of Juan de Mena, Jorge Manrique, and other troubadours of
earlier time, he puts into their mouth the judgment and condemnation of
the new metres. To this end he supposes that Boscán repeats a sonnet,
and Garcilasso an octave, before their judges, and presently adds:

      "Juan de Mena, when he through
      Had heard the polished stanza new,
      Looked most amused, and smiled as though
      He knew this secret long ago;
      Then said: 'I now have heard rehearse
      This endecasyllabic verse,
      Yet can I see no reason why
      It should be called a novelty,
      When I, long laid upon the shelf,
      Oft used the very same myself.'
        Don Jorge said: 'I do not see
      The most remote necessity
      To dress up what we wish to say
      In such a roundabout fine way;
      Our language, every body knows,
      Loves a clear brevity, but those
      Strange stanzas show, in its despite,
      Prolixity obscure as night.'
        Cartagena then raised his head
      From laughing inwardly, and said:
      'As practical for sweet amours,
      These self-opinioned troubadours,
      With force of their new-fangled flame
      Will not, it strikes me, gain the game.
      Wondrously pitiful this measure
      Is in my eyes,--a foe to pleasure,
      Dull to repeat as Luther's creed,
      But most insufferable to read!'"

If Juan de Mena and Manrique could then have manifested any regret, it
would have been for not having had the new versification established
when they wrote. The fiery and daring genius of the one, the grave and
sedate spirit of the other, would have found for the expression of their
thoughts and pictures, a fit instrument in endecasyllabic verse. They
would instantly have known that the _coplas de arte mayor_, reduced to
their elements, were one continued and wearying combination of verses of
six syllables; that the rhymed octosyllabics serve rather for the
epigram and the madrigal than for sublime poetry, and that _coplas de
piè quebrado_,[F] essentially opposed to all harmony and pleasure,
ought not to be defended. This Castillejo could not know; he wrote
indeed the Castilian language with propriety, facility, and purity; but
the inspiration, the invention, sublime and animated imagery, force of
thought, warmth of emotion, variety, harmony,--all these qualities,
without which, or without many of which, no one can be considered a
poet--all were wanting in him. Hence it is nothing extraordinary, that,
entrenched in his coplas, all sufficient for the acute and ingenious
thoughts in which he abounds, he perceived not the need that Spanish
poetry had for the new versification to issue from its infancy. The
latter had more freedom and ease, gave opportunity to vary the pauses
and cesuras; and the variety of combinations of which long and short
verses are capable, supplied a flexible instrument for the various
purposes of imitation. Such were the advantages gained by the new
system, and they were all recognised by the new geniuses who adopted it;
but it was an exact touchstone of the quality of a poet, and Castillejo,
finding it a rigorous one, would not hold with it. This circumstance was
of much more consequence to the dispute than at first sight appears;
for though there had not been the great difference which there was
between the two metres, that party would have borne away the palm, which
could have produced in its favour the most, and the most agreeable
verses and compositions. In this point of view, the single talent of
Garcilasso should diminish and reduce to nothing, as he did, all the
partisans of the Copla. A thing truly extraordinary, not to say
admirable! A youth who died at the age of thirty-three, devoted to the
bearing of arms, without any regular studies, with only his native
genius, assisted by application and good taste, drew Spanish poetry
suddenly forth from its infancy, guided it happily by the footsteps of
the ancients, and of the most celebrated moderns then known; and coming
into rivalry with each in turn, adorned it with graces and appropriate
sentiments, and taught it to speak a language, pure, harmonious, sweet,
and elegant! His genius, more delicate and tender than strong and
sublime, inclined him by preference to the sweet images of the country,
and to the native sentiments of the eclogue and elegy. He had a vivid
and pleasing fancy, a mode of thought noble and decorous, an exquisite
sensibility; and this happy natural disposition, assisted by the study
of the ancients, and intercourse with the Italians, produced those
compositions which, though so few, conciliated for him instantly an
estimation and a respect, which succeeding ages have not ceased to
confirm.

There are some who wish that he had given himself up more fully to his
own ideas and sentiments; that, studying the ancients with equal
devotedness, he had not allowed himself to be led away so much by the
taste of translating them; that he had not abandoned the images and
emotions which his own fine talent could suggest, for the images and
emotions of others; that, as for the most part he is a model of purity
and elegance, he had caused some traces which he keeps of antique
rudeness and negligence to disappear; they wish, lastly, that the
disposition of his eclogues had preserved more unity and connexion
between the persons and the objects introduced in them. But these
defects cannot counterbalance the many beauties which his poetry
contains, and it is a privilege allowed to all that open a new path, to
err without any great diminution of their glory. Garcilasso is the first
that gave to Spanish poetry wings, gentility, and grace; and for this
was needed, beyond all comparison, more talent, than to avoid the errors
into which his youth, his course of life, and the imperfection of human
powers, caused him to fall.

To the supreme endowments which he possesses as a poet, is added that of
being the Castilian writer who managed in those times the language with
the most propriety and success. Many words and phrases of his
cotemporaries have grown old and disappeared: the language of
Garcilasso, on the contrary, if we except some Italianisms, which his
constant intercourse with that nation caused him to contract, is still
alive and flourishing, and there is scarcely one of his modes of speech
which cannot be appropriately used at the present day.

So many kinds of merit, united in a single man, excited the admiration
of his age, which instantly gave him the title of the Prince of
Castilian poets--foreigners call him the Spanish Petrarch; three
celebrated writers have illustrated and written comments on him; he has
been printed times innumerable, and all parties and poetical sects have
respected him. His beautiful passages pass from lip to lip with all who
relish tender thoughts and soothing images; and if not the greatest
Castilian poet, he is at least the most classical, and the one that has
conciliated the most votes and praises, who has maintained this his
reputation the most inviolate, and who will probably never perish whilst
Castilian language and Castilian poetry endure.

The impulse given by Garcilasso was followed by the other geniuses of
his time; by D. Hernando de Acuña, Gutierre de Cetina, D. Luis de Haro,
D. Diego de Mendoza, and a few others, but all very unequal to him: and
to meet with a writer in whom the art made any progress, we must look
for him in Fray Luis de Leon. This most learned man, versed in every
kind of erudition, familiar with the ancient languages, connected by
ties of friendship with all the learned of his time, was one of those
writers to whom the Spanish language has owed most, for the nerve and
propriety with which he wrote it; and as the one who gave to its poetry
a character hitherto unknown. The songs and sonnets of Garcilasso were
written in the elegiac and sentimental tone of Petrarch, and his _Flor
de Gnido_ was the only one of his compositions in which he approaches
near to the character of ancient lyric poetry. Luis de Leon, full of
Horace, whom he was constantly studying, took from him the march, the
enthusiasm, and the fire of the ode; and in a diction natural and
without ornament, he knew how to assume elevation, force, and majesty.
His profession and his genius inclined him more to the moral lyric than
to the epic, yet his _Profecía del Tajo_[2] shows what he could have
accomplished in this; in that he has left some excellent odes, which
very nearly approach, if they do not equal, the models which he proposed
to himself for imitation. His principal merit and character in them, is
that of producing majestic and forcible thoughts, grand images, and
sententious maxims, without effort, and with the greatest simplicity.
His style and diction are animated, pure, and copious, as though they
gushed from a rich and crystal spring. He is not so fortunate in his
versification; although sweet, fluent, and graceful, his verse wants
stateliness, and fails not unfrequently from want of harmony and
fulness. With this defect must be named another, greater yet in my
estimation, which is, that no one shows less poetry when the heat
abandons him: languid then and prosaic, he neither touches, nor moves,
nor elevates; the merit remains alone of his diction and style, which
are always sound and pure, even when they preserve neither life nor
colour.

To this same epoch belongs, in my opinion, the poetry of Francisco de la
Torre, published by Quevedo in 1631. No one doubted then that these were
the works of a poet anterior to the editor; but in these later days, a
gentleman of much merit, D. Luis Velasquez, reprinted them with a
preliminary discourse, wherein he assures us they were the production of
Quevedo, who wished to publish his amatory verses under a feigned name.
The absolute ignorance that existed of the quality and particulars of
this Francisco de la Torre; the example of Lope de Vega, who published,
under the name of Burguillos, poetry known to be his own; the similarity
of style which Velasquez thought he saw between these verses and those
of Quevedo, with other less important reasons, were the foundation of
this opinion, which at that time was followed without any contradiction.

But these proofs not only pass for mere conjectures, but being moreover
unconfirmed by any positive fact, vanish the instant we examine the
nature and character of the poetry. He who might not know how to
distinguish the verses of Quevedo from those of Garcilasso, or any other
poet of the former age, could alone confound Francisco de la Torre with
him. Verses gleaned from the works of both writers, drawn from their
places, and jumbled together, are not proof sufficient of similarity;
nor, even taken in this manner, will they, if they are well examined,
show the similarity so well as is supposed. To know if the poetry of
Francisco de la Torre be, or be not that of Quevedo, it is absolutely
necessary, after reading the former, to seek out in the _Erato_ or
_Euterpe_ of the latter, the verses which he there gives for pastoral
poetry: it is then that the vast difference which subsists between them
becomes palpable; whether we examine the diction, the style, the verses,
the images, or nature of the composition. It is not possible to mistake
them, as it is impossible ever to confound women that are naturally
beautiful with those who torture themselves to appear so.[G]

In fact, these poems of Francisco de la Torre are the most exquisite of
the fruits which the Parnassus of Spain had then produced. All of them
pastorals, his images, his thoughts, and his style, detract nothing from
this character, but preserve the most rigorous keeping with it. His most
eminent qualities are simplicity of expression, the liveliness and
tenderness of his emotions, the luxury and smiling amenity of his fancy.
No Castilian poet has known how to draw from rural objects so many
tender and melancholy sentiments: a turtle-dove, a hind, an oak thrown
down, a fallen ivy, strike him, agitate him, and excite his tenderness
and enthusiasm. The imitations of the ancients, in which his poems
abound, are recast so naturally in his character and style, as to be
entirely identified with him. It is a pity that to the purity of his
language was not added greater study of elegance, which suffers at times
from trivial words and prosaic expressions. At times, also, the diction
becomes obscure from dislocations and omissions of expression, the
results perhaps of negligence, and a corruption of the manuscript.
Lastly, we miss in his eclogues variety, knowledge of the art of
dialogue, and opposition and contrast in his situations and
interlocutors: the poet who paints and feels with so much delicacy and
fire when he speaks for himself, does not succeed in making others
speak, and loses himself in uniform and prolix descriptions, which at
last weary and grow tiresome.

Hitherto poetry preserved the natural graces and simplicity which it
had caught from Garcilasso; and Luis de Leon had succeeded in giving it
some sublimity and grandeur: Francisco de la Torre inclined more to
subjects that require a middle style, such as those which rural nature
presents. He had ornaments of taste, but without ostentation or wealth,
and his language was more pure and graceful than brilliant and majestic.
The best supporters of this style were Francisco de Figueroa, who in his
eclogue of Tirsi gave the first example of good blank verse in Spanish;
Jorge de Montemayor, who, with his _Diana_, introduced the taste and
love of pastoral novels; and Gil Polo, one of his imitators, who, less
happy than he in invention, had much the advantage of him in
versification, and almost arrived at the point of throwing him into the
shade. But, passing from these writers to the Andalusians[H], the art
will now be seen to take a change in taste, to assume a tone more lofty
and vehement, to enrich and adorn the diction, and to manifest the
intention of surprising and ravishing; in short, to aspire to the _mens
divinior atque os magna soniturum_, by which Horace characterises true
poetry.

At the head of these authors must indisputably be named Fernando de
Herrera, a man to whom poetic elocution owes more than to any other. His
genius was equal to his industry; and, familiar with Latin, Greek, and
Hebrew, he devoted himself to the imitation of the great writers of
antiquity, to form a poetic language which might compete in pomp and
wealth with that which they used in their verses. He was not, it is
true, circumstanced like Juan de Mena; he had not the license to
suppress syllables, syncopate phrases, or change terminations. This
physical part of the language was now fixed by Garcilasso and his
imitators, and could not suffer alteration. But the picturesque part
might, and in fact, did receive from him great improvements: he made
much use of the compound epithets that already existed, he introduced
other new ones, he re-established many forgotten adjectives, to which he
imparted new strength and freshness by the fitness with which he applied
them, and used in fine more phrases and modes of speech distinct from
usual and common language than any other poet. To this careful
attention, he added another quality, not less essential, that of
painting to the ear by means of imitative harmony, making the sounds
bear analogy with the image. He breaks them; he suspends them; he drags
them wearily along, he precipitates them at a stroke; he rubs them into
roughness, he touches them into mildness;--in short, they sometimes roll
fluently and easily along, at others they pierce the ear with a calm and
quiet melody. These effects, which the verses of Herrera produce by the
mechanism of their language, distinguish them from prose in such a
manner, that though they may be broken up, and lose their measure and
cadence, they still preserve the picturesque and poetic character which
the poet stamped upon them.

If from the exterior forms we pass to the essential qualities, it may be
said that no one surpasses Herrera in force and boldness of imagination,
very few in warmth and vivacity of emotion, and none even equal him, if
we except Rioja, in dignity and decorum. The greater part of his poems
consists of elegies, songs, and sonnets, in the taste of Petrarch. It
was Petrarch who first, deviating from the manner in which the ancients
painted love, gave to this passion a tone more ideal and sublime. He
refined it from the weakness of the senses, converting it into a species
of religion; and reduced its activity to be constantly admiring and
adoring the perfections of the object beloved, to please itself with its
pains and martyrdom, and to reckon its sacrifices and privations as so
many other pleasures. Herrera having, throughout his life, a passion for
the Countess of Gelves, gave to his love the heroism of Platonic
affection; and under the titles of Light, Sun, Star, Eliodora,
consecrated to her a passion fiery, tender, and constant, but
accompanied by so much respect and decorum, that her modesty could not
be alarmed, nor her virtue offended. In all the verses which he devoted
to this lady, there is more veneration and self-denial, than hope and
desire. This taste has the inconvenience of running into metaphysics
nothing intelligible, into a distillation of pains, griefs, and
martyrdoms, very distant from truth and nature, and which, consequently,
neither interests nor affects. To this error, which may occasionally be
remarked in Herrera, must be added that his diction, too much studied
and refined, offends, almost always, by affectation, and not seldom by
obscurity. The style and language of love must flow more easy and
unencumbered, to be graceful and delicate. Thus Herrera, who, no doubt,
loved with vehemence and tenderness, seems, in uttering his sentiments,
to be more engaged about the manner of expressing them, than with the
desire of interesting by them; and to this cause must be attributed,
that, of the Spanish poets, he is the one whose love-verses are the
least calculated to pass from lip to lip, and from nation to nation.

But the composition in which this rich poetic diction shines equally
with his ardent and vigorous imagination, is the elevated Ode, which
Herrera, a happy imitator of Greek, Hebrew, and Latin poetry, knew how
to fill with his fire, and thus to become the rival of the ancients.
Lyric poetry, in its origin, was very distant from the range of ordinary
ideas. The poet, possessed by an afflatus which it was not in his power
either to moderate or to rule, chanted his verses before the altars of
the temples, in the public theatres, at the head of armies, in grand
national solemnities. The genius that inspired him caused him then to
take flight to other regions, and to see things hidden from the ken of
common mortals. Thence, in a language of fire, and through all their
wonderful circumstances, in grand and forcible addresses to the people,
he made Truth descend from on high, he opened the gates of destiny, and
announced the future; tuned hymns of gratitude and praise to gods and
heroes; or, filling with patriotic and martial fury armed squadrons,
called them on to battle and to victory. In this situation of things,
the lyric poet should not appear a mortal like the rest of mankind; his
agitation, his language, the numbers to which he reduced it, the music
with which he sang it, the boldness of his figures, the grandeur of his
conceptions,--all should concur to the consideration of him, in these
moments of enthusiasm, as a supernatural being, an interpreter of the
Divinity, a sibyl, and a prophet.

Such, in ancient times, was the character of the ode; which modern
nations have since introduced into their poetry with more or less
success. But, stript of the accompaniment of song, and removed from
solemnities and numerous assemblages, it has been but a weak reflection
of the first inspiration. The modern poets of Spain have thought that,
to restore it to the exalted and divine character which it held at its
origin, it was necessary to transplant it again to the regions whence it
sprung, and to fill it with antique ideas, images, and even phrases.
Herrera was the first that thought so. Horace would have adopted with
pleasure his ode to Don Juan of Austria; his hymn on the battle of
Lepanto breathes throughout the most fervent enthusiasm, and is adorned
with the rich images and daring phrases that characterise Hebrew poetry;
whilst the elegiac cancion to King Don Sebastian, animated with the
same spirit as the hymn, but much more beautiful, is full of the
melancholy and agitation which that unhappy catastrophe should produce
on a vivid imagination. Even in songs, little interesting in their
subject and composition, are found flights daring and worthy of Pindar.
So absolutely superior to all others is his assiduous attention to
diction and the poetry of style, that never can three of his verses be
possibly mistaken for those of any other poet. The following passage may
serve as a specimen here, extracted from his song to San Fernando, which
is not one of the best.

      "The sacred Betis strewed the wavy shore
      With purple flowers, fine emeralds, golden ore,
      And tender pearls; toward heaven he raised his head,
      Adorned with grasses, reeds, and corals red;
      Spread o'er the sands the moving glass that shot
      Capricious lustres round his shadowy grot;
      Then stretched his humid horns, increasing so
      His affluent floods, dilated in their flow;--
      Swift roll his billows, murmuring, pure, and cool,
      And into ocean far extend his rule."

Lope de Vega, quoting these verses as a model of poetic elevation, so
opposite to the extravagances of _Purism_,[I] exclaimed with enthusiasm,
"Here no language exceeds our own; no, not the Greek nor the Latin.
Fernando de Herrera is never out of my sight."

His countrymen gave him the surname of Divine; and of all the Castilian
poets on whom that title has been bestowed, none deserved it but he. In
spite of this glory, and the praises of Lope, his style and principles
of composition had then but few imitators; nor, till the
re-establishment of good taste in our own times, has the eminent merit
of his poetry, and the necessity of following his steps to elevate the
poetic above the vulgar language, been properly appreciated. Don Juan de
Arguijo imitated him in his sonnets, a little curtailing the style of
that excessive ornament which sparkles in Herrera; but the poet who
improved infinitely upon Arguijo was Francisco de Rioja, a Sevillian
like the other two, and a disciple of the same school, although he
flourished several years afterwards.

Equal in talent to Herrera, and superior in taste, Rioja would,
doubtless, have fixed the true limits between the language of poetry and
prose, if he had written more, or if his compositions had but been
preserved. How is it possible that a man of so great a genius, and who
lived so many years, should have written no more than one ode, one
epistle, thirteen silvas, and as many sonnets? It is easier to believe
that his writings were lost in the different vicissitudes which his
life sustained, or that they lie forgotten with the many other literary
monuments which, in Spain, wrestle still with dust and worms. The few
that he has left are sufficient, notwithstanding, to give us an idea of
his poetic character, superior to others for nobleness and chasteness of
phrase, for novelty and choice of subject, for the force and vehemence
of his enthusiasm and fancy, and for the excellency of a style always
pure without affectation, elegant without superfluity, without tumidity
magnificent, and adorned and rich without ostentation or excess. A merit
which particularly distinguishes him is the happy success with which he
constructs his periods, which neither grow dull from brevity, nor
cumbrous from prolixity; a great and frequent defect amongst the poets
of Spain, whose sentences, ill distributed, fatigue the voice when
recited. I am well aware that, even in these few compositions, there are
traces of that prosing which marked the poets of the sixteenth century,
and of the tinsel of the following one; but, besides that these are very
rare, it should be kept in mind that he neither polished nor arranged
his verses for publication; a circumstance that would sufficiently
excuse yet greater errors. But whatever importance may be attributed to
such defects, none will be able to deprive the delicate Silvas to the
flowers, the magnificent ode on the ruins of Italica, and the almost
perfect moral epistle to Fabio, of the foremost rank which they enjoy
amongst the poetical treasures of Spain.

To the last third division of the sixteenth century belong other poets,
celebrated then, but of a merit and order very inferior to those already
named:--Juan de la Cueva, who more properly belongs to the history of
comedy, is considered amongst its first corrupters; Vicente Espinel, to
whom music owes the introduction of the fifth chord in the guitar, and
poetry the combination of rhymes in octosyllabic verses, to which was
then given the name of _espinela_, but which are now better known under
that of _decima_; Luis Barahona de Soto, author of _Las Lagrimas de
Angelica_, a poem very celebrated then, and read by no one now; Pablo de
Cespedes, sculptor, painter, and poet, in whose didactic poem on
Painting breathes, at times, the vigorous and picturesque style of
Virgil; Pedro de Padilla, whom some esteemed highly for his pure diction
and fluent versification, but poor of fancy and fire; and lastly, others
less noted, who cultivated the art, and who, if they did not obtain a
great reputation in it, contributed with the rest to give to verse and
style more ease, harmony, and copiousness.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote F: The Spaniards call _quebrado_ those shorter verses which
are, as it were, _broken_ from, and intermingled with their _redondillas
mayores_, or octosyllabic lines, as for example:

      "Recuerde el alma adormida,
      Avive el seso y despierte,
      Contemplando
      Como se pasa la vida,
      Como se viene la muerte,
      Tan callando."
                            MANRIQUE.

They do not however strike an English ear as destitute of harmony, but
it is a harmony that in any long composition would become very
monotonous.]

[Footnote G: These signs I think sufficient for my purpose. Whoso
desires yet farther proofs may compare the ode of Torre, which begins
"Sale de la sagrada," with the two canciones of Quevedo, "Pues quitas
primavera al año el ceño," and "Dulce señora mia," placed in _Euterpe_,
whence Velasquez took the verses which he cites here and there in his
discourse, to prove the resemblance. He may do more; he may look in
_Melpomene_ for the funeral Silva of the Turtle, and compare it with the
very beautiful cancion of Torre, to the same bird. What a troublesome
ingenuity, what exaggeration, what hyperbole, what coldness in the
first; what melancholy, tenderness, and sentiment in the second! It is
quite impossible that the same object could produce an inspiration so
different in the same fancy. The example of Lope is cited, in the poetry
of Burguillos; but the real and absolute similarity that exists between
these verses and the diction of Lope and Burguillos, notwithstanding the
difference of subject and character, the insinuation of Lope himself,
that of Quevedo in his approbation of the same poems, the conclusive
authority of Montalban and Antonio de Leon, friends and cotemporaries of
Lope, who attribute them to him, make the identity of Lope with
Burguillos as evident, as the reasons already alleged do the diversity
of Francisco de Torre and Quevedo.]

[Footnote H: Luis de Leon, although a native of Granada, finished his
studies and lived in Salamanca, and consequently does not contradict
this general observation.]

[Footnote I: The meaning of this term will be fully understood by the
English reader, when he is reminded of the style of writing which was
prevalent in the time of Elizabeth, under the name of Euphuism; rich
specimens whereof are exhibited by the author of Waverley, in the
delectable speeches of sir Piercie Shafton.]


CHAPTER IV.

FROM THE ARGENSÓLAS AND OTHER POETS TO GONGÓRA.

None of the authors of this time equalled the Argensólas in severity of
sentiment, facility of rhyme, or correctness and propriety of language.
They are so paramount in this last quality, that Lope de Vega says of
them, that they came to Castile from Arragon to teach the Castilian
language. Their learning, the dignity of their maxims, their connexions,
and the great protection extended to them by the Count de Lemus, were
the causes of that kind of sovereignty which they exercised over their
cotemporaries, and of that authority recognised and confirmed by the
praises that were lavished on them from all quarters. They have been
entitled the Horaces of Spain, and have ever been regarded as poets of
the first rank, preserving a reputation almost as inviolate as
Garcilasso himself.

Without intending to diminish the just esteem which is their due, or to
contend with their many admirers, we may observe, that their fame
appears to us much greater than their merit; and that if language owes
them much for the exact attention and propriety with which they wrote
it, poetry is indebted to them less, and that their reputation appears
to rest more on their freedom from the vices, than on any great display
of the virtues of composition. In lyric poetry they are easy, pure, and
ingenious; but generally devoid of enthusiasm, majesty, and fancy. As
little have they in their love pieces the grace and tenderness which
erotic poetry requires; and if we except some sonnets of Lupercio, not
one of their compositions in this class can be quoted as deserving to
arrest the attention, or be recommended to the memory of lovers. I will
not speak of the _Isabella_ and the _Alexandra_, as it is evident to
all, even without the necessity of a profound acquaintance with the
subject, that these compositions have nothing of the tragedy in them but
the name, and the coolly atrocious deaths with which they end. Their
severe character, the bias of their disposition, more ingenious and neat
than florid and expansive, the wit and mirth which at times they knew
how to fling forth, were more fit for moral and satiric poetry, in which
they have succeeded best. There are in them an infinite number of
strokes, some valuable for their depth and boldness, and many for that
ingenuity of thought, that facility and propriety of expression, which
has rendered them proverbial.

      "Well say the vulgar, that the man's an ass,
      Who, having his own villa roofed with glass,
      Wreaks or his hate or spleen, from all aloof,
      In flinging stones upon his neighbour's roof.
             *       *       *       *       *
                      The grave authority of gold,
      Never provoked by harsh asperity,
      Because it never heard a harsh reply.
             *       *       *       *       *
      The nuptial bed your industry profanes
      With lawless tires, and even the cradle stains;
      Into the winepress throws, ere half matured,
      The virgin grapes; delay is not endured;
      Picks locks, breaks bars, climbs walls however steep,
      And drugs the total family with sleep.
             *       *       *       *       *
      So the genteel adult'ress, on her charms
      Relying, with feigned warmth and false alarms,
      Stands sure of her soothed consort; now she faints,
      Now, agitated, pours forth wild complaints;
      From her disloyal bosom breathes deep sighs,
      And for a flood of tears prepares her eyes;
      Storms at the servants for their lawful zeal,
      And acts the indignant rage she does not feel:
      Her honest husband, credulous, beholds,
      And growing tenderer as she louder scolds,
      Gives useless satisfaction to his wife,
      Embraces, kneels to her to end the strife,
      Drinks with warm kiss the atrocious tears that rise
      To his dear Portia's well commanded eyes:
      But, though her protestations more renew,
      Her escritoire will tell thee if they are true;
      Search but the desk, and, gracious Gods! what schemes
      Must be found out, in what perfidious reams!
             *       *       *       *       *
      And if the jug's of plate, engraved with cost,
      Or with a Satyr's laughing face embossed,
      'Twill more, forsooth, assuage thy thirst than e'er
      Did the plain jug of horrid earthenware!
      When from plain vessels, filled with water pure,
      I wet the thirsty lip, I drink secure:
      Say, would a vase whereon rich sculptures live,
      Filled in a palace, like assurance give?
      No! the Greek tyrants for their guests of old,
      Mixed poison always in a vase of gold."

These passages, extracted from various satires of Bartolomé, and many
others of equal or superior merit, which might be quoted as well from
him as from Lupercio, prove their happy genius for this kind of poetry.
They have been compared to Horace, and undoubtedly bear most similarity
to him, notwithstanding the preference that Bartolomé gave to
Juvenal.[J] But at what a distance do they stand from him! The vivacity,
the freedom, the variety, the conciseness, the exquisite and delicate
mixture of praise and censure, the amiable disdain, and spirit of
friendship, which enchant and despond in that ancient model, are all
wanting in them, and condemn the excessive condescension or want of
taste which led their cotemporaries to give them the title of Horaces.
Facility of rhyming led them to string tercetos together without end, in
which, if we meet with no unnecessary words, we find plenty of
unnecessary thoughts. This causes their satires and epistles frequently
to appear prolix, and even at times wearisome. Horace would have
counselled Lupercio to shorten the introduction of his satire on the
Marquesilla, and many of the tales that occur in it; and Bartolomé to
suppress, in his fable of the Eagle and Swallow, the long enumeration of
birds, useless and unseasonable for a poet, superficial and scanty for
a naturalist; he would have reminded both, in short, that strokes of
satire, like arrows, should carry feathers and fly, to wound with
certainty and force. It is painful, on the other hand, to find that they
never leave the tone of ill-temper and suspicion which they once assume;
and that neither indignation against vice, nor friendship, nor
admiration, can draw from them one warm sentiment or gleam of
enthusiasm. We choose friends amongst the authors we read, as amongst
the men we have to deal with: I confess that I am not for those poets
who, to judge by their verses, never appear to have loved nor esteemed
any body.

Villegas was a disciple of the younger Argensóla, and if to the native
talent he had joined some portion of the judgment and good sense of his
master, he would have left nothing to desire in the department which he
cultivated. He was the first that introduced Anacreontics in Spanish
poetry, and, in spite of their defects, his Cantilenas and Monostrophes
are read with delight, and remain imprinted on the minds of youth. The
cause of this is, that there is vivacity in them, playfulness, grace,
and cadence, which are the qualities that characterise this class of
compositions, charming alike the imagination and the ear. His longer
verses have not had equal success, because their ease, their harmony,
and learning, do not compensate for the dissatisfaction caused by
affectation, pedantry, and want of enthusiasm, for the violent
transpositions, vicious modes of speech, and, lastly, the ringing
changes and puerile antitheses in which they abound.[K]

He attempted another innovation, which required for its establishment
greater powers than his. He set himself to compose Castilian sapphics,
hexameters, and distichs; and although the specimens he published are
not altogether unsuccessful, especially the sapphic, from its analogy to
endecasyllabic verse,[L] he has had no successor in this enterprise.
The hexameter demands a prosody more determinate and fixed than the
Spanish language possesses, to satisfy the ear; and therefore the
imitation of it is so much the more difficult, not to say impossible. He
would, doubtless, however, have enriched the art by establishing this
novelty, had it not been necessary, for this purpose, that the art were
then in its infancy, in order that the docile and flexible language
might accommodate itself to the will of the poet, and had he been the
colossal genius that could subjugate others, and dictate to them a law
of like versification. It was an unfortunate time to introduce fresh
measures, when the fine endecasyllabics of Garcilasso, Leon, and Herrera
were known, and when the consistency and fixedness of the language and
poetry did not permit them to retrocede to their infancy, which was
absolutely necessary to exercise them in the manège of Latin
versification.

The reputation of this poet did not then correspond to the proud hopes
he cherished when he published his book. In this, he insulted Cervantes,
scoffed at Góngora, jested with Lope de Vega; and, fancying himself some
superior star about to eclipse his cotemporaries, he represented himself
at the head of his _Eroticas_, as a rising sun extinguishing the stars
with its rays, and raised the arrogant note,--_Sicut sol matutinus: me
surgente, quid istæ?_ Even if he had united in himself the talents of
Horace, Pindar, and Anacreon, in all their extent and purity, from which
he was yet far distant, this would have been an unpardonable boast,
which not even his youth could excuse. The public is always greater than
any writer, how great soever he may be; and it is necessary for him to
present himself before it with modesty, unless he wishes to pass for a
madman or a fool. Villegas, after impertinently irritating his equals,
caused no sensation on the public, but attracted the rude and biting
sarcasms of Góngora, and the just and moderate reprehension of Lope.[M]
He was consigned to oblivion till the appearance of the Parnaso
Español, in which collection he had an eminent place; from that time, he
was again printed, with a prefatory discourse, in which Don Vincente de
los Rios, a man of vast learning and exquisite taste, but on this
occasion too good-natured, assigned to him the palm of lyric poetry,
which no subsequent critic has confirmed.

The Spanish poets had cultivated up to this time almost every species of
Italian versification. The harmonious and rounded octave, the exact and
laborious terza, the artificial sonnet, the trifling sextine, the
canzone in its infinite combinations, and blank verse, although for the
most part extremely ill managed[N]--were the forms of all their
compositions, which came to be reflections, more or less luminous, of
ancient, and of Tuscan poetry. Some coplas and trobas were made, though
very few, in which the taste prior to Garcilasso prevailed; but when
the use of the _asonante_[O] became general in the last third division
of this sixteenth century, the taste and inclination for _Romances_
became equally in vogue, and in them were continued, and, as it were,
perpetuated, the old Castilian poesies.

Utterly stript of the complexity and force, to which imitation in other
kinds of writing obliged them to have recourse, their authors little
caring for a resemblance with the odes of Horace, or the canzone of
Petrarch, and composing them more happily by instinct than by art, the
_Romances_ could not have the pomp and loftiness of the odes of Leon,
Herrera, and Rioja. Yet were they peculiarly the lyric poetry of Spain:
in them music employed its accents; they were heard at night in the
halls and gardens to the sound of the harp or guitar; they served as the
vehicle and the incentive of love, as well as shafts for satire and
revenge; they painted most happily Moorish customs and pastoral manners,
and preserved in the memory of the vulgar the prowess of the Cid and
other champions. In fine, more flexible than other kinds of composition,
they accommodated themselves to all kinds of subjects, made use of a
language rich and natural, clothed themselves with a mezzo-tinto soft
and sweet, and presented on every hand that facility and freshness
which rise from originality, and which flow without effort and without
study.

There are in them more fine and energetic expressions, more delicate and
ingenious passages, than in the whole range of Spanish poetry besides.
The Morisco ballads, in particular, are written with a vigour and a
sprightliness of style that absolutely enchant. Those customs in which
prowess and love are so beautifully blended, those Moors so gallant and
so tender, that so romantic and delicious country, those names so sweet
and so sonorous, each and all contribute to give novelty and poetry to
the compositions wherein they are portrayed. The poets afterwards grew
weary of disguising gallantries under the Morisco dress, and had
recourse to the pastoral. Then to challenges, tournaments, and devices,
succeeded green meads, brooks, flowers, and ciphers carved on trees; and
what the Romances lost in vigour by the change, they gained in sweetness
and simplicity.

The invention in both kinds was beautiful, and it is wonderful to see
with how little effort, and with what conciseness, they describe the
scenery, the hero, and the feelings that agitate him. Now, it is the
alcayde of Molina, who, entering the town, alarms the Moors by the
report that the Christians are ravaging their fields; now, it is the
unfortunate Aliatar, borne bloody and lifeless to his grave in
melancholy pomp through the very gate whence the day before he was seen
to issue, full of gaiety and life: there it is a simple beauty, who
having lost her earrings, the keepsake of her lover, is in great
affliction, dreading the reproaches that await her; and here it is the
solitary and rejected shepherd, who, indignant at the sight of two
turtles billing in a poplar, scares them away with stones.

The defects of these compositions spring from the same source as their
beauties, or, to speak more correctly, are the excess or abuse of those
very beauties. Their facility and freedom often degenerated into
negligence and slovenliness, their ingenuity into affectation; puns,
conceits, and false ornaments were introduced with so much the more
liberty, as they more assisted those flights of gallantry which passed
for refinements of speech, and as they appeared more excusable in works
written merely for self-amusement. The principal authors of this poetry
cannot be decidedly ascertained; but the golden epoch of the _Romances_
was before Lope de Vega, Liaño, and a thousand others, not even
remembered, introduced the bad taste which afterwards corrupted the
whole literature of Spain; it comprises the youth of Góngora and
Quevedo, and terminates in the Prince de Esquilache, the only one after
them that succeeded in giving to the _Romances_ the colouring, grace,
and lightness, which they formerly possessed. But this taste, if on the
one hand it tended to popularize poetry, to give it greater ease and
sweetness, and to remove it from the bounds of imitation, to which
former poets had restricted it, had an equal influence in making it
incorrect and careless, the same facility of composition inviting to
this looseness. Thus it is that the poets who flourished at the end of
the sixteenth, and commencement of the succeeding century, more
harmonious, more easy, more delightful, and above all, more original
than their predecessors, will be found at the same time more negligent,
and to exhibit less artifice and polish, less purity and correction in
their style and diction.

At this period lived the three poets whose verses have possessed most
amenity, richness, and facility. The first is Balbuena, born in La
Mancha, educated in Mexico, and author of _El Siglo de Oro_ and of
_Bernardo_. No one, since Garcilasso, has had such command over the
language, versification, and rhyme; and no one, at the same time, is
more slovenly and unequal. His poem, like that New World in which the
author lived, is a country spacious and immense, as fruitful as
uncultivated, where briers and thorns are mingled in confusion with
flowers, treasures with scarcity, deserts and morasses with hills and
forests more sublime and shady. If at times he surprises by the freedom
of his verse, by the novelty and vividness of his expression, by his
great talent for description, in which he knows no equal, and even
occasionally by his boldness and profundity of thought, he yet more
frequently offends by his unseasonable prodigality, and inconceivable
carelessness. The greatest defect of the _Bernardo_, is its excessive
length; it being morally impossible to give to a work of five thousand
octaves the sustained and continued elegance necessary to give pleasure.
The eclogues of the _Siglo de Oro_ have not the same defects of
composition as the poem, and in the public estimation enjoy the nearest
place to those of Garcilasso. They undoubtedly deserve it, considering
the propriety of style, the ease of the verse, the suitableness and
freshness of the images, and the simplicity of the invention. If his
shepherds were not at times so rude, if he had had a more constant eye
to elegance in diction, and beauty in the incidents; if, in short, he
had thrown more variety into his versification, reduced almost entirely
to tercetos,--there is no doubt but that good taste would have conceded
to him in this branch of the art an absolute supremacy.

The second of these poets is Jauregui, celebrated for his translation of
the Aminta, a florid poet, an elegant and harmonious versifier. He is
the one who expressed his thoughts in verse with the most ease and
elegance; but he had little nerve and spirit, and was, besides, poor of
invention. His taste in early life was very pure, as his _Rimas_ show.
But after having been one of the sharpest assailants of _Purism_, he
ended in suffering himself to glide with the current, and in his
translation of the Pharsalia, and in his _Orpheus_, he has abandoned
himself to all the extravagances he had before burlesqued.

But the man who received from nature the most poetical endowments, and
who most abused them, was, without doubt, Lope de Vega. The gift of
writing his language with purity, elegance, and the deepest clearness;
the gift of inventing, the gift of painting, the gift of versifying in
whatever measure he desired; flexibility of fancy and talent to
accommodate himself to all sorts of writing, and to all sorts of
colouring; a richness that never knows impediment or dearth; a memory
enriched by a vast range of reading; and an indefatigable application,
which augmented the facility he inherited from nature: with these arms
he presented himself in the arena, knowing in his bold ambition neither
curb nor limit. From the madrigal to the ode, from the eclogue to the
comedy, from the novel to the epic--he ran through all, he cultivated
all, and has left in all signs of devastation and of talent.

He brought the theatre under his subjection, and fixed upon him
universal attention,--the poets of his time were nothing compared to
him. His name was the seal of approbation for all; the people followed
him in the streets; strangers sought him out as an extraordinary object;
monarchs arrested their attention to regard him. He had critics who
raised the cry against his culpable carelessness, enviers who murmured
at him, detractors who calumniated him,--a mournful example, in addition
to the many other instances which prove that envy and calumny are born
with merit and celebrity; for neither the amiable courtesy of the poet,
nor the placidity of his genius, nor the pleasure with which he lent
himself to commend others, could either disarm his slanderers or temper
their malignity. But none of them could snatch away the sceptre from his
hands, nor abrogate the consideration which so many and such celebrated
works had acquired for him. His death was mourned as a public calamity;
his funeral drew an universal attendance. A volume of Spanish poetry was
composed upon his death, another of Italian; and, living and dying, he
was always hearing praises, always gathering laurels; admired as a
prodigy, and proclaimed "the Phoenix of Wits."

What, at the end of two centuries, remains of all that pomp, of all the
loud applauses which then fatigued the echoes of fame? When we see that,
of all the poetry and poems he composed, there are few, perhaps none,
which can be read through without our being shocked at every step by
their repugnance; when we see that his most studied and favourite work,
the _Jerusalem_,[P] is a compound of absurdities, wherein the little
excellence we meet with, makes the abuse of his talent but the more
deplored; when we see that of so many hundreds of comedies, there is
scarcely one that can be called good; and finally, that of the many
thousands of verses which his inexhaustible vein produced, there are so
few that remain engraved on the tablets of good taste,--can we do less
than exclaim, where are now the foundations of that edifice of glory
raised in homage of a single man by the age in which he lived, and which
still surprises and excites the envy of those who contemplate it from
afar?

It was not possible for works written with so much precipitation to have
any other result, with his utter forgetfulness of all rules, and neglect
of all great models; without plan, without preparation, without study,
or attention to nature. The necessity of writing hastily for the
theatre, when he had accustomed the public to almost daily novelties,
unsettled, and, as it were, relaxed all the springs of his genius,
carrying the same hurry and negligence into all his other writings.[Q]
Hence it is that, with the exception of some short poems in which he
improved the happy inspiration of the moment, there are, in all his
others, unpardonable faults of invention, of composition, and of style.
Fatal facility! which corrupted all his excellencies, which led him to
obscure the clearness, the harmony, the elegance, the freedom, the
affluence, and even the strength with which he was alike gifted; giving
place to unappropriate figures, to historic or fabulous allusions
pedantic and ill-timed; to frigid and prolix explanations of the very
thing he had said before; to weakness in short, to shallowness, to an
insufferable tone, into which the rich abundance and amiable purity of
his diction and versification degenerated.

The age then, it will be said, was barbarous, that tolerated such
errantries, and that gave so much applause to a writer so defective. It
was not barbarous, but excessively compliant. There were many men of
talent who deplored this abuse; but they could not resist the popular
approbation which the nature of Lope's writings carried with it, and
which in some degree his genius authorized. The general sweetness and
fluency of his verse; the lucidness of his expression, intelligible
almost always to the most illiterate; the fine and polished language of
gallantry which he invented, and brought into use in his comedies; the
decorum and ornament with which he invested the stage;[R] the vivid and
delicate touches of sensibility which he from time to time presents;
the eminent and brilliant parts which the women generally sustain in his
works; in short, his absolute dominion in the theatre, where
acclamations have most solemnity and force; are all circumstances which
concur to excuse the public of that day, who were not unjust in admiring
most the individual that gave them most delight.[S]


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote J:
      "But when to lash loose vices you aspire,
      And seek to catch the true satiric fire,
      All others' leaves pass over, all neglect,
      But Juvenal's, the shrewd and circumspect;
      None to the high court-taste with such success
      Feels the town's pulse--ev'n Horace's is less."]

[Footnote K:
      "What of the swain Anchises shall I say,
      But ask Idalian Venus by the way
      Who is the gardener of those flowers of hers,
      Or Ida's pencil who her fancy stirs?
      Did not Ulysses farm the watery waste?
      How then could he Calypso's fruitage taste?"

What ridiculous nonsense! Will any one believe that these are by the
same author, and found in the same piece as the following?--

      "Come, then, fair mountaineer, hide not nor flee,
      Thou, by thy marriage with this stream, shalt be
      Queen of the sweetest waves that in their sweep
      Love to give lustre to the shady deep.
      'Tis just that thou respond to love's light pain,
      With kind acknowledgment, not coy disdain."]

[Footnote L: One of his sapphics is written with so much delicacy and
beauty that I cannot resist the temptation of translating it.

_To the Zephyr._

      "Sweet neighbour of the green, leaf-shaking grove,
        Eternal guest of April, frolic child
      Of a sad sire, life-breath of mother Love,
                      Favonius, zephyr mild!

      If thou hast learned like me to love--away!
        Thou who hast borne the murmurs of my cry;
      Hence--no demur--and to my Flora say,
                    Say that 'I die!'

      'Flora once knew what bitter tears I shed;
        Flora once wept to see my sorrows flow;
      Flora once loved me, but I dread, I dread
                    Her anger now.'

      So may the Gods, so may the calm blue sky,
        For the fair time that thou, in gentle mirth,
      Sport'st in the air, with love benign deny
                    Snows to the earth!

      So never may the grey cloud's cumbrous sail,
        When from on high the rosy daybreak springs,
      Beat on thy shoulders, nor its evil hail
                    Wound thy fine wings!"]

[Footnote M:
      "Spanish Anacreon! none your Highness meets,
        But says most courteously, that though your lines
      Move elegiacally sad, your sweets
        Have all the tasty syrup of new wines!
      They say that they should like to see each song
        With scrupulous exactness, for a freak,
      Translated well into Anacreon's tongue,
        Your honest eyes not having seen the Greek."
                                               GÓNGORA.

      "Although he said that all would hide from shame,
      When the fine splendours of his genius came."
                                                  LOPE.]

[Footnote N: The eclogue of Tirsi of Figueroa, and the translation of
the Aminta by Jauregui, are the only exceptions to this general
decision, and the only examples that can be quoted among the ancient
Spanish poets, of blank verse well constructed.]

[Footnote O: The Asonante is a sort of imperfect rhyme peculiar to the
Spaniards; it consists in the uniformity of the two last vowels,
counting from the accent, as for example:

      Tras una mariposa
        Qual zagalejo _símple_
      Corriendo por el valle
        La senda á perder _víne_.

Their perfect rhymes are termed _Consonantes_.]

[Footnote P:
      Until the surety comes whom I oblige
      With my _Jerusalem_, which I indite,
      Prune, polish, and correct from morn till night.
                       _Epistle to Gaspar de Barrionuevo._

What ideas of taste, correctness, elegance, and order, must the writer
have had, who with such diligence and study, produced so wild a work!]

[Footnote Q:
      If my free neck had not been broke
      To strict necessity's hard yoke,
      I should have seen around my head
      Some honour due to merit shed,
      That would have given, as honour goes,
      Green lustre to its hoary snows.
      I ever have invoked the laugh
      Of the vile vulgar on behalf
      Of love-intrigues, meet or unmeet,
      Oft dashed off at a single heat;
      So--but far less impolitic,
      Great painters daub their canvass quick.
                           LOPE; _Eclogue to Claudio_.]

[Footnote R:
      Achilles' pictured wrath to Greece,
      In gold-illumined palaces
      Decorum kept, vile flatterers shamed,
      The headstrong youth with love inflamed,
      The beauteous lady under ban
      Of some stern sire, the rich old man
      Shrewd and sententious as a Jew,
      To whom are these creations due?]

[Footnote S: After his death, Calderon, Moreto, and others, who in his
lifetime were contented with the title of his pupils, eclipsed him in
the scene, though his name was always respected as a writer. This
respect was, however, daily diminishing under a more attentive
observation of the principles of taste and of good models, till the
representation in later days of some of his comedies with general
applause served to re-establish his tottering reputation. In France, a
very good translation of some of his poems, has within these few years
been made by the Marquis d'Aguilar; and in England, a man respectable as
well for rank and character as for learning, philosophy, and taste (Lord
Holland), has published an excellent essay and criticism on his life and
writings. A vicissitude sufficiently singular; and which at least
proves, that although Lope may be a very faulty writer, he is yet very
far from being an object of but little interest in the history of
Spanish literature.]


CHAPTER V.

OF GÓNGORA, QUEVEDO, AND THEIR IMITATORS.

To restore to Castilian poetry the tone and vigour which were failing
it, the powers of Horace and Virgil, with all the grandeur of their
genius, the perfection of their taste, and the high protection they
enjoyed, would scarcely have sufficed. Two men in Spain applied
themselves to this task; both of great talent, but of a depraved taste,
and of different pursuits. Their defects, which they sometimes relieve
by better qualities, had the effect of a contagion, and produced
consequences more fatal than the evil itself which they sought to
remedy.

The first was Don Luis de Góngora, the father and founder of the sect
called Purists. All know that after a century of adoration by the
followers of his style, Luzán and the other professors who
re-established good taste, set themselves to destroy the sect by
decrying their founder; and with them Góngora and the detestable poet,
were terms synonymous. But this was unjust; and in him, the brilliant,
gay, and pleasant poet, should ever be distinguished from the
extravagant and capricious innovator. His independent genius was
incapable of following, or of imitating any body; his imagination, fiery
and vivid in the extreme, could not see things in a common light; and
the weak and pallid colouring of other poets will not bear comparison
with the rich emblazonry, if we may so say, of his style and
expression. In which of them are poetical periods met with, that in
wealth of language, brilliancy, and music, can be compared with the
following?

      Deep king of other streams, whose waters go
      Renowned in song, and crystal in their flow;
      Let a rough coronal of dark green pine
      Bind thy broad brow and wandering locks divine!
             *       *       *       *       *
      Rise, glorious sun, illuminate and print
      The laughing mountains with thy golden tint;
      Chase the sweet steps of rosy-red Aurora,
      And loose the reins to Zephyrus and Flora!

In which are images more delicate and appropriate, or more naturally
expressed, than these?

      Sleep, for your winged Lord in guardianship
      Keeps watch, the finger on his serious lip.
      Lovers! touch not, if life you love, the chaste
      Sweet smiling mouth that wooes you to its taste!
      For 'twixt its two red lips armed Love reposes,
      Close as a poisonous snake 'twixt two ripe roses.
             *       *       *       *       *
      Each wind that breathes, gallantly here and there
      Waves the fine gold of her disordered hair,
      As a green poplar-leaf in wanton play
      Dances for joy at rosy break of day.

There is not in all Anacreon a thought so graceful as that of the song,
wherein, presenting some flowers to his lady, he begs from her as many
kisses as he had received stings from the bees that guarded them.

      "From my summer alcove, which the stars this morn
        With lucid pearls o'erspread,
      I have gathered these jessamines, thus to adorn
        With a wreath thy graceful head.
      From thy bosom and mouth they, as flowers, ere death,
      Ask a purer white and a sweeter breath.

      Their blossoms a host of bees, alarmed,
        Watched over on jealous wing;
      Hoarse trumpeters seemed they all, and armed
        Each bee with a diamond sting:
      I tore them away, but each flower I tore
      Has cost me a wound which smarteth sore.

      Now as I these jessamine flowers entwine,
        A gift for thy vagrant hair,
      I must have, from those honey-sweet lips of thine,
        A kiss for each sting I bear:
      It is just that the blooms I bring thee home,
      Be repaid by sweets from the golden comb."

If from Italian measures we pass to Letrillas and the Castilian Romance,
Góngora will be found king of that class, which has received from no one
so much grace, so many splendours, and so much poetry. His merit indeed,
in this department, is so great, and specimens of his success in it are
so common, that there remains no other difficulty to prove it than that
of choice. This fragment will suffice for our purpose.

      "Now, all pomp, the Moorish hero,
        Whilst his robes sweet perfumes throw,
      Lays aside his crooked sabre,
        Hangs on high his moony bow.
      His hoarse tambours, hoarse no longer,
        Seem like amorous turtle-doves;
      And his pendants streaming favours,
        Favours given by her he loves.
      She goes forth with bosom naked,
        Loosely flow her golden locks;
      If she stays them, 'tis with jasmines,
        Chains them, 'tis with pinks and stocks.
      All things serve their gentle passion,
        Every thing fresh joy assumes;
      Flattering, if not babbling breezes,
        Stir their robes and toss their plumes.
      Green fields yield them mossy carpets,
        Trees pavilions, flowers the vales,
      Peaceful fountains golden slumber,
        Music love-lorn nightingales.
      Trunks their bark, whose tablets better
        Keep their names than plates of brass;
      Better far than ivory pages,
        Than the marble's sculptured mass.
      Not a beech but bears some cipher,
        Tender word, or amorous text;
      If one vale sounds Angelina,
        Angelina sounds the next."

How could a writer possessing this strength and richness afterwards
abandon himself to the pitiable frenzies in which he lost himself,
without preserving even a shadow of their excellences! Thinking that the
poetic period was enervated, and looking upon nature as poverty, purity
as subjection, and ease as looseness, he aspired to extend the limits of
the language and poetry, by the invention of a new dialect which should
re-elevate the art from the plain, dull track into which, according to
him, it was reduced. This dialect was distinguished by the novelty of
the words, or by their application; by the singularity and dislocation
of the phrase, or by the boldness and profusion of its figures; and in
it he not only composed his _Soledades_ and _Polifemo_, but distorted,
after the same manner, almost all his sonnets and songs, sprinkling as
well with a sufficient number of false ornaments his romances and
letrillas.

If Góngora, to the excellent qualities he possessed, had joined the
judgment and good taste he wanted; if he had made the same profound
study of the language as Herrera, both meditating on the resources which
the idiom presented, and attending to its character, richness, and
harmony, then would have followed the result he desired, and he would,
perhaps, have gained the glory of being the restorer, and not the
opprobrium of having been the corrupter of the art. But the same
circumstance befel him which befals all who seek to erect a building
without foundations; he gave into a world of freaks and extravagances,
into an abominable gibberish, as opposite to truth as to beauty, and
which, whilst it was followed by a multitude of the ignorant, was
censured by as many as yet preserved a spark of sense and judgment.

"He sought," says Lope de Vega, "to enrich the art, and even the
language, with such figures and ornaments, as were never, till his time,
imagined or beheld. In my opinion, he fully succeeded in what he aimed
at, if this was his aim; the difficulty is in receiving it. According to
many, he has raised the novelty into a peculiar class of poetry, and
they are not at all mistaken; for, in ancient times, men were made poets
by the study of a whole life; in the modern, they become poets in a day;
as, with a few transpositions, four precepts, and six Latin words or
emphatic phrases, you will see them elevated where they neither know nor
understand themselves. Lipsius wrote that new Latin which good judges in
these matters say Cicero and Quintilian laughed at in the other world.
The whole foundation of the structure is transposition; and what makes
it the more harsh is the so far separating the substantive from the
adjective, where the parenthesis is impossible: it is a composition full
of tropes and figures; a face coloured in the manner of angels with the
trumpet of judgment, or of the winds in maps. Sonorous words and figures
enamel an oration; but if the enamel covers all the gold, it is no
longer a grace to the jewelling, but a notable deformity." And in
another part he says, "..., without going in search of so many metaphors
on metaphors, wasting in rouge what is needed in features, and
enfeebling the spirit with the weight of such an excessive body. This it
is that has destroyed a great number of talented men in Spain, with such
deplorable effect, that an illustrious poet, who, writing with his
native powers and in his proper language, was read with general
applause, since he has abandoned himself to purism, has lost it all."

Not satisfied with these demonstrations of severity, this placid man,
who scarcely knew what malignity was, thought it his duty to persecute
the pest as with fire and sword, and in his comedies, in the burlesque
poetry of Burguillos, in the _Laurel de Apollo_, and in a thousand other
places, ridiculed and cursed this kind of poetry, which he characterized
as "an odious invention to make the language barbarous." He was aided in
this warfare by Jauregui, Quevedo, and some others; but their efforts
were unavailing, and they themselves were at length forced to yield to
the contagion. For though they cannot be called Purists in all the
rigour of the term, they adopted some of the elements which composed the
dialect, such as violent transpositions, extravagant hyperboles, and
incoherent figures. Góngora, meanwhile, as he had never known restraint
or subjection, fulminated against his adversaries the grossest taunts;
and, fierce and proud from the applauses of the ignorant, internally
exulted with all the glory of a triumph. This was increased by the
support given to his party by the celebrated preacher, Fray Hortensio
Paravicino, from the great influence which he had with the theologians
and sacred orators, and by the unfortunate Count de Villamediana, in the
secret and powerful favour which he was supposed to have at court. Both
imitated Góngora, and drew after them other writers of less note,
propagating thus this barbarous language till the middle of the century
in which Luzán and other admirable critics entirely succeeded in weaning
the nation from it.

At the same time with the Purists appeared the _Concettisti_, punsters,
and utterers of grave saws in frigid and sententious language: D.
Francisco de Quevedo surpassed all, as well by his merit as influence,
in the progress of these different sects. Quevedo, according to some, is
the father of laughter, the treasury of jests, the fountain of wit, the
inventor of a number of happy words and phrases, in a word, the Comus of
Spain. According to others, he is, on the contrary, a writer
inauspicious to the beauty and decorum of wit: his humour, say they,
instead of being festive, is low buffoonery; he has impoverished the
language, depriving it of an infinite number of modes of speech, once
noble and becoming, now, thanks to him, low and indecorous; and if he at
any time amuses, it is by the original extravagance of his follies.
These two judgments, so contradictory, are yet both true; and if we
consider attentively the character of this writer, we shall see what
foundation both the one and the other have for their censures and
applauses. Quevedo was every thing in excess: no one, in the same
manner, displays in the serious a gravity so rigid and morals so
austere; no one, in the jocose, shows a humour so gay, so free, and so
abandoned to the spirit of the thing. In the choice of his subjects, we
are alike sensible of this contrariety. Alguazils, scriveners,
procuresses, compliant husbands, ruffians, and women of easy access,
generally form the subject matter of his buffooneries; and we must, in
justice, acknowledge that he very often lashes them in a masterly
manner. At another time a theologian and stoic, he translates Epictetus,
comments on Seneca, interprets Scripture, and entangles himself in the
useless labyrinths of metaphysics; lost labours, which, for the most
part, are no longer read, and which have scarcely any other merit than
their astonishing erudition.

From this contradiction springs so often the effort and difficulty with
which he writes in both kinds of composition. His style, in prose as in
verse, in serious as in jocose, is always struck forth without connexion
or graduation, sacrificing almost always truth and nature to
exaggeration and hyperbole. His imagination was most vivid and
brilliant, but superficial and negligent; and the poetic genius that
animates him, sparkles but does not glow, surprises but does not
agitate, bounds with impetuosity and force, but neither flies nor ever
supports itself at the same elevation. The rage of expressing things
with novelty made him call the brink of the sea _the law of the sand_;
love, _the civil war of the born_; trunks of trees on which lovers'
names are engraved, _a rural book written in enamel_. In burlesque
verse, he heaps together forced allusions, ambiguities, and paragraphs
of nonsense. A ruffian, to denote how keenly he has felt his disgrace,
will say, that he has wept _rope for rope_, and not, at every lash; he
will say, that he has had _more grasshoppers than the summer, more
tenants than the tomb, more bookstrings than the missal_. I am well
aware that Quevedo often diverts with what he writes, and raves because
it is his pleasure: I know that puns have their proper place in such
compositions, and that no one has used them more happily than he. But
every thing has its bounds; and, heaped together with a prodigality like
his, instead of pleasing, they create only weariness.

The same incorrectness and bad taste that mark his style, composed of
words and phrases noble and sublime, united with others as mean and
trivial, are found in his images and thoughts, which are mixed together
without economy, judgment, or decorum. The following sonnet will show
this miserable confusion better than any description:--

      "Cæsar, the fortunate and forceful, bled;
      Pity and warning know it not--a wreath
      This of his glory, for there is a death
      Even to the grave that sepulchres the dead.
      Dies life, and like life, dies, and soon is fled
      The rich and sumptuous funeral; time flies,
      And, in his unseen circuit, stills the cries,
      Shouts, and huzzas, that fame delights to spread.
      The sun and moon wind night and day the web
      Of the world's life robust, and dost thou weep
      The warning which age sends thee? all things ebb!
      Auroras are but smiling illnesses,
      Delight the lemon of our health, nor less
      Our sextons the sure hours that seem to creep."

In spite of these defects, which are certainly very great, Quevedo will
be read with respect, and be justly admired in many passages. In the
first place, his verse is for the most part full and sonorous, his rhyme
rich and easy, and yet this merit, the first which a poet should
possess, is not the principal one; our author knows how to accompany
them with many touches, excellent, some from the brightness of their
colouring, others from their spirit and boldness. His poetry, strong and
nervous, proceeds impetuously to its end; and if his movements betray
too much of the effort, affectation, and bad taste of the writer, their
course is yet frequently seen to have a wildness, an audacity, and a
singularity, that is surprising. His verses oft-times spring from his
own imagination, and without extraneous aid strike the ear with their
loud and strong vibration, or sculpture themselves in the mind by the
profundity of the thought they develope, or by the novelty and strength
of the expression. From no one can such beautiful isolated verses be
quoted as from him; from no one, poetic periods so stately and so
strong.

      "Pure, ardent virtue was a joy divine."

      "The' unbounded hemisphere fatigued his rage."

      "I felt my falchion conquered by old age."

      "Lashed by the waves, before, around, behind,
      And rudely lashed by the remorseless wind;
      The storm's thy glory, and its groans, that tear
      The clouds, move more thy triumph than thy care.
      Then, daring cliff, thou reign'st in majesty,
      When the blast rages and the sea rides high."

_Rome buried in her Ruins._

      "Pilgrim, thou look'st in Rome for Rome divine,
      And ev'n in Rome no Rome canst find! her crowd
      Of mural wonders is a corse, whose shroud
      And fitting tomb is the lone Aventine.
      She lies where reigned the kingly Palatine,
      And Time's worn medals more of ruin show
      From her ten thousand fights than ev'n the blow
      Struck at the crown of her Imperial line.
      Tiber alone remains, whose rushing tide
      Waters the town now sepulchred in stone,
      And weeps its funeral with fraternal tears:
      Oh Rome! in thy wild beauty, power, and pride,
      The durable is fled, and what alone
      Is fugitive, abides the ravening years."

On meeting in his works with these brilliant passages, after paying them
the high admiration they deserve, we cannot restrain a feeling of
indignation, to see the deplorable abuse which Quevedo has made of his
talents, in employing on the useless evolutions and balanced movements
of a tumbler, the muscular limbs and strength of an Alcides.

Don Francisco Manuel Melo was a friend of Quevedo, a Portuguese, and as
indefatigable a writer as he was an active warrior and politician. He
managed the Castilian idiom with equal facility as his own, and poet,
historian, moralist, author political, military, and even religious, he
excels in some of these departments, and is contemptible in none. The
volume of his verses is extremely rare, and though some have made him
the imitator of Góngora, he has more points of resemblance to Quevedo;
the same taste in versification, the same austerity of principles, the
same affectation of sententiousness, the same copiousness of doctrine.
He has besides conformed to the example of Quevedo in publishing his
poems, in divisions of the nine Muses, though three of them are in
Portuguese. There are in the Spaniard colours more brilliant, and
strokes more strong; in Melo more sobriety and fewer extravagances. His
style, though elegant and pure, is barely poetical; and his amatory
verses are deficient in tenderness and fire, as are his odes in
enthusiasm and loftiness. He is as little happy in the many burlesque
verses with which the large volume of his poetry abounds; but when the
subject is grave and serious, then his philosophy and doctrine sustain
him, and his expression equals his ideas. Naturally inclined to maxims
and reflections, he was most at home in moral poetry; in the epistle
particularly, where strength and severity of thought best combine with a
tempered and less profound fancy. Here, if he is not always a great
painter, he is at least chaste and severe in style and language, in his
verse sonorous, grave and elevated in his thoughts, a respectable
moralist in character and principles. Notwithstanding these
distinctions, the claims of his glory as a writer are more firmly
grounded on his prose works; on the _Eco politico_ for instance, on his
_Aula militar_, and, above all, on the _Historia de las alteraciones de
Cataluña_, the most excellent production of his pen, and perhaps the
best work of its kind in the Castilian language.

Poetry was meanwhile expiring; tortured by such demoniacs, it could not
recover its beauty and freshness from the aid of the few who yet
composed with care, and wrote with greater purity. Rebolledo had neither
force nor fancy, and his verses are nothing more than rhymed prose:
Esquilache, with somewhat more grace in his romances, was spruce and
affected, and had neither the talent nor strength which are necessary
for higher compositions: Ulloa wrote nothing good but his _Raquel_: and
lastly, Solis, who sometimes shows himself a poet in his comedies, and
often in his history, is a mere rhymester in his lyrics, which now are
read by none. How could these emasculated writers raise the art from the
abyss into which it had fallen? The thing was impossible. This vicious
taste was reduced to a system in the extravagant and singular work of
Gracian, _Agudeza y Arte de Ingenio_, which is an art of writing in
prose and verse, founded on the most absurd principles, and supported by
good and bad specimens, jumbled together in the most discordant manner.
This Gracian is the same that composed a descriptive poem on the
seasons, under the title of _Silvas del Año_; the first I fancy that was
written in Europe on this subject, and most assuredly the worst. As a
specimen of his manner, and of the laughable degradation to which poetry
had fallen, the following verses will suffice, selected from the opening
of Summer:--

      "After, in the celestial theatre,
      The horseman of the day is seen to spur
      To the refulgent Bull, in his brave hold
      Shaking for darts his rays of burning gold.
      The beauteous spectacle of stars--a crowd
      Of lovely dames, his tricks applaud aloud;
      They, to enjoy the splendour of the fight,
      Remain on heaven's high balcony of light.
      Then in strange metamorphosis, with spurs
      And crest of fire, red-throated Phoebus stirs,
      Like a proud cock amongst the hens divine
      Hatched out of Leda's egg, the Twins that shine,
      Hens of the heavenly field."

This is beyond every thing: the whole poem is written in the same
barbarous and ridiculous manner, and it is a proof as evident as
mournful, that there now remained no memory of the principles of
composition, no vestiges of eloquence. Ornaments, suited to the madrigal
and epigram, were transferred to the higher kinds of composition, and
the whole was changed into concetti, conundrums, puns, and antitheses.
Thus Castilian poesy came to an end! In her more tender youth, the
simple flowers of the field which Garcilasso gathered sufficed to adorn
her; in the fine writings of Herrera and Rioja, she presents herself
with the pomp of a beautiful lady, richly attired; in Balbuena,
Jauregui, and Lope de Vega, although too free and gay, she yet preserved
traits of elegance and beauty; but first spoiled by the contortions
taught her by Góngora and Quevedo, she afterwards gave herself up to a
crowd of Vandals, who completed her ruin. Thenceforward her movements
became convulsions, her colours paint, her jewels tinsel, and old and
decrepid, there was nothing more for her to do than madly to act the
girl, to wither, and to perish.


CHAPTER VI.

GENERAL OBSERVATIONS; RE-ESTABLISHMENT OF GOOD TASTE.

If in this state a glance is cast at the steps which the art in little
more than a century of its existence had taken, it will be seen that
nothing had been left unattempted. There were translations of all, or of
the greater number, of the ancient authors: epics of all kinds had been
written; the theatre had taken a compass, and presented a fruitfulness
so great as to have communicated of its wealth to foreigners; lastly,
the ode in all its forms, the eclogue, the epistle, the satire,
descriptive poetry, the madrigal, and epigram, all had been noticed, and
all cultivated.

If this compass and variety do honour to its flexibility and boldness,
the success of its accomplishments in all these various kinds of
composition is not equal. For, in the first place, the translations are
almost all bad or indifferent. Who, in good truth, can say that that of
the Odyssey, by Gonzalo Perez; of the Eneid, by Hernandez de Velasco; or
of the Metamorphoses, by Sigler, are real substitutes for the originals?
What person, possessing the least taste in poetic language and
versification, can read two pages of these versions, wherein the
greatest poets of antiquity are metamorphosed into trivial rhymers,
without elegance and harmony? Spain has a number of epic poems; and
although some fragments of good poetry may be culled from them, not one
can be looked upon as a well-arranged fable, or as corresponding in
dignity and interest with its title and argument. Of Spanish comedies,
it is notorious that the defects exceed the beauties. Happier in shorter
kinds of composition, her odes, elegies, sonnets, romances, and
letrillas, approach nearer to perfection. But even in these, what
forgetfulness of propriety, what negligence at times, and at times what
pedantry and false taste exist! In the best writers, in the choicest
pieces, the mind is offended by finding too frequently joined to a fine
turn a harsh extravagance, and a sharp thorn to an incomparable flower.

There is one thing extraordinary in the good poets of the sixteenth
century, that their genius never rises to the level of the events which
passed around them. The compositions of Virgil and of Horace in Rome
correspond with the dignity and majesty of the empire. Lucan afterwards,
though very distant from the perfection of his predecessors, preserved
in his poem the bold and fiery tone adapted to the subject on which he
wrote, and to the patriotic enthusiasm with which he was animated.
Dante, in his extraordinary poem, shows himself inspired by all the
sentiments which the rancour of faction, civil dissension, and the
effervescence of men's minds, stirred up. Petrarch, if in his
love-sonnets he sacrificed to the gallantry of his time, rises, in his
Trionfi, to a level with the elevation to which the human mind was
rising at that period. It was not so with the poets of Spain. The Moors
expelled from the peninsula; a discovered world opening a new hemisphere
to Spanish fortune; fleets sailing from one extremity of the ocean to
the other, accompanied by terror, and exchanging the riches of the east
and west; the church torn by the reformation of Luther; France, Holland,
Germany, convulsed and desolated by civil wars and religious
dissensions; the Ottoman power rolled away on the waters of Lepanto;
Portugal falling in Africa, to be then united to Castile; the Spanish
sword agitating the whole world with the spirit of heroism, of religion,
of ambition, and of avarice;--when was there ever a time more full of
astonishing events, or more suited to sublime the fancy? Yet the
Castilian muses, deaf and indifferent to this universal agitation, could
scarcely inspire their favourites with aught but moralities, rural
images, gallantry, and love.[T]

This deficiency of grandeur is compensated in part by a moral quality
which distinguishes those poets, and recommends them infinitely. Neither
in Garcilasso, nor in Luis de Leon, nor in Francisco de la Torre, nor in
Herrera, are to be found any traces of rancour and literary envy, of
gross indecency, or of servile and shameless adulation. The praises
which they sometimes pay to power are restricted within those bounds of
moderation and decorum which make them endurable. Till the corruption of
literary taste, there was no appearance of this moral degradation, made
up of meanness towards superiors, of insolence towards equals, and of
utter forgetfulness of all respect towards the public; vices
unfortunately sufficiently contagious, and which defame and destroy the
nobleness of an art, that from the nature of its object, and the means
it uses, has in it something superhuman.

There cannot be denied to a great number of the Spanish poets admirable
talent, extensive learning, and great acquaintance with the ancient
classics, although it is an uncommon thing to meet in them the sustained
elegance and perfection of taste which other modern authors have drawn
from the same fountains. Many causes contributed to this. One is, that
these poets communicated little with each other: there wanted a common
centre of urbanity and taste, a literary legislature, that should draw
the line between bombast and sublimity, exaggeration and vigour,
affectation and elegance. The universities, where dwelt the greatest
knowledge, could not become such, from the nature of their studies, more
scholastic than classical. The court, where the tone of society and
fashion is most quickly perfected, would have been more to the purpose;
but wandering under Charles the Fifth, severe and melancholy under the
Second Philip, it gave not till Philip the Third to poetical talent the
encouragement necessary for its perfection; even then, but much more in
the time of his successor, taste was vitiated, and the encouragement
given by princes and grandees, and even the occasional share they took
themselves in poetical pursuits, could do nothing but authorize the
corruption. In short, there wanted in Spain a court like that of
Augustus, of Leo the Tenth, of the dukes of Ferrara, and of Louis the
Fourteenth; where polite and refined conversation, devotion to the
Muses, culture and elegance, with other fortunate circumstances,
powerfully contributed to the perfection of the great writers that
flourished therein.

Another cause is the secondary place which poetry held with many of
those who cultivated it. They wrote verses to unbend themselves from
other more serious occupations; and he who writes verses to amuse
himself, is not usually very nice in the choice of his subject, nor very
careful in its execution. Fatal lot to Spain in the finest and most
difficult of all arts! Poetry, which is a recreation and amusement for
those who enjoy it, should be a very serious and almost exclusive
occupation with those who profess it, if they aspire to hold any
distinguished rank in reputation. When it is considered that Homer,
Sophocles, Virgil, Horace, Tasso, Ariosto, Pope, Racine, and others,
were at once the greatest poets and the most laborious, it should not be
thought extraordinary that those have remained so far behind, who, even
supposing them to have possessed equal talent, equalled them neither in
application nor perseverance.

To this evil was added another and a worse, arising in a great measure
from the same cause. Very few of the good poets of Spain published their
works in their lifetime. The works of Garcilasso, Luis de Leon,
Francisco de la Torre, Herrera, the Argensólas, Quevedo, and others,
were published after their death by their heirs or friends, with more or
less judgment. How much would they not have rejected, if they had
published their writings in their own name! how many corrections would
they not have made in the selection, and how many spots of slovenliness,
bad taste, and obscurity, would they not have expunged!

But even though the want of perfection from this cause should seem less
imputable to them, it is not on that account less certain. It has given
cause to a diversity of opinion on the merit of the ancient poets of
Spain, whom some value as admirable models, whilst others depreciate
them so far as to think them unworthy of being read. In this, as in all
cases, partiality and prejudice are wont to carry critics to their
conclusions more than truth and justice; and to exalt or depress the
dead is often with them nothing but an indirect mode of exalting or
depressing the living. But setting this consideration aside, it may be
said that this vast difference arises from the different points of view
which are taken for the comparison. Comparing Leon, Garcilasso, Herrera,
Rioja, and a few others, with the monstrous extravagances introduced and
sanctioned by Góngora and Quevedo, there is no doubt that the former
should be regarded as classical writers, perfect, and worthy to be
imitated and followed: if compared even with the great authors of
antiquity, or with the few moderns that have approached near, or have
excelled them, we have yet to discover the reason why many treat them
with such excessive rigour. As to myself, without pretending to lay down
for a rule my particular opinion, and judging by the effect produced on
me in the perusal, I would say, that though I consider the ancient
Spanish poesies as sufficiently distant from perfection, they yet convey
to my mind and ear sufficient pleasure for me to overlook in their
graces the negligences and blemishes I meet with. I would, moreover, be
bold to say, that if the poets of Spain had cultivated the loftier kinds
of poetry, the epopee and the drama, with the same successful diligence
as the ode and other shorter species, Spain would have been satisfied
with the praises that would have fallen to her lot in this delightful
department of literature. I will add, lastly, that, in my judgment, it
is absolutely necessary to read and study these poets, in order to learn
the purity, propriety, and genius of the language, to form the taste and
ear to the harmony and flow of its verse, and to acquire the structure
of the true poetic period. It would not be difficult, nor perhaps
foreign to my subject, to show in her modern compositions the influence
which exclusive admiration or exaggerated depreciation of the fathers of
Spanish poetry has had upon her authors; but this application,
necessarily odious, enters neither into my character nor design.

Castilian poetry, buried in the ruins wherein sank the other arts,
sciences, and power in the time of Charles the Second, began to be
revived towards the middle of the last century, by the laudable efforts
of some literary characters who devoted themselves wholly to the
re-establishment of classical study. The principal glory of this happy
revolution is due to D. Ignacio de Luzán, who, not satisfied with
pointing out the path of good taste in his _Poetica_, published in 1737,
gave no less the example of treading in it, by the poetical beauties
which are visible in the few compositions of his that have been
published. His poetry, like that of all professed critics, is
recommended more by its dignity, circumspection, and propriety, than by
any sublimity or boldness; but his memory will be always respected as
that of the restorer of Spanish poesy. Others followed in the same
career: the Count of Torrepalma, whose _Deucalion_, notwithstanding some
touches of bombast and purism which it preserves, is one of the
strongest and best pieces of descriptive poetry in Castilian; D. Josef
Porcel, author of some hunting eclogues, much praised by all his
cotemporaries, but which I have not read, nor indeed have they been
collected for publication; D. Augustin Montiano, a learned man and of
good taste, though deficient in imagination and genius; D. Nicolas de
Moratin, a poet gifted with a lively and flexile fancy, and an original
and forcible expression, who for his whole life has been struggling with
indefatigable zeal in favour of the principles and rules of correct
composition: and, lastly, Don Josef Cadalso, in whose hands, the
Anacreontic, which had been buried with Villegas, revived towards the
end of the century. In this gay and agreeable writer terminate the
trials and efforts for the revival of the art. From that period a new
epoch in Castilian poetry commences, upon another foundation, with
another character, with other principles, and it may even be said, with
other models; an epoch, the description and judgment of which posterity
will know how to give with more justice, authority, and propriety, than
it is generally supposed can be given by a cotemporary.


FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote T: Three odes of Herrera, and some fragments little
interesting, are no more than an exception of this general position.
Neither the Gulf of Lepanto, nor the Carolea, nor the Austriada,
approach at all near to the dignity and importance of their subjects.
Even in the Araucana itself, if there is any thing well painted, it is
not the Spaniards, but the Indians.]



LIFE OF GARCILASSO.


Of the many distinguished men, to whom, in the enterprising reign of
Ferdinand and Isabella, Spain had the honour of giving birth, there are
few perhaps much more admired by herself, or that come recommended to
the notice of a stranger with so much interest as Garcilasso de la Vega.
Whether considered as the cultivated spirit, who, shaking from the
Spanish lute the dust of ages, imparted to it by the force of his
genius, a more harmonious string and a more polished tone; or whether as
a young warrior, brought up in the court of the most celebrated prince
of his age, qualified both by birth and education to take part, and
actually taking part in that prince's enterprises, till doomed to fall
the victim of his too rash valour, his story is calculated to strike
forcibly the attention, and to touch the springs of admiration and of
sympathy in no common degree. The character of the times in which he
lived, of the monarch whom he served, his own adventures, his deep
devotion to the muses during the few hours of leisure which alone he was
able to snatch from the hurry and alarm of war, the amiable qualities
and classic taste developed in his writings, and the new impulse which
these writings gave to Spanish poesy,--all offer to the biographer a
theme more fertile than usually falls to his lot in recording the lives
of poets, and upon which he would love to bestow the illustration they
deserve. But unfortunately for such a desire,--a desire in which every
one must participate, who peruses the fine relics which his fancy has
left of its sweetness,--the pen of his cotemporaries was unemployed in
the record of his actions, and centuries were suffered to elapse before
any of his countrymen set themselves to the task. It was then too late;
the anecdotes that marked the character of the man, and all those
slighter traits which in a more particular manner give life and
individuality to biography, had perished with his intimate associates;
and those who admired his talents, and desired to illustrate them, were
obliged to gather from his works, and from the common voice of fame,
their scanty particulars, and to make up the deficiency of incident by
excessive compliments and eulogies. The consequence is, that although he
lived on terms of close intimacy with many who were admirably qualified
to depict the lights and shadows of his amiable mind and eventful life,
a writer of the present day can hope alone to offer to the world a bare
outline of his actions, unenriched by any of those distinctive touches
which give value to a portrait. An industrious research into such of the
Spanish annalists and cotemporary historians as are to be met with in
our public libraries, and the interest I have naturally taken in his
story, have enabled me to glean several particulars and incidents
unnoticed by any of his commentators; but these must be still too few to
satisfy our common curiosity, and it must always remain a subject of
regret that we know so little of him, who has ever been considered by
his countrymen as one of their most elegant writers, as the one in short
who contributed most to the polish and refinement of their language.

Garcias, or, as he is commonly called, Garcilasso de la Vega, was born
of one of the noblest titled families in the ancient city of Toledo. His
ancestors from remote antiquity were persons of opulence and high
consideration, as is evident from the frequent mention of them in the
old chronicles of the kingdom. They originally sprang from the mountains
of Asturias, having their seat on the banks of the river Vesaya, a
league from Santillana, but making in course of time Toledo their
principal residence. The first of our poet's ancestors, whom I find
chronicled in Spanish story, is Don Diego Gomez, a very rich and
distinguished knight in the reign of Don Alonzo the Seventh, a prince
cotemporary with our Henry the First. From him sprang Gonzalo Ruyz, who
lived in the time of Don Ferdinand the Third and Alonzo the Wise. His
descendant, Don Pedro Lasso, was in the year 1329 Admiral of Castile;
his son Garcilasso arrived at yet greater honours, being the principal
favourite of Alonzo the Eleventh. He was made High Judge and
Superintendent of sheep-walks in Castile, as well as Chancellor of the
kingdom, and was entrusted with the education of the lady Blanche,
daughter of prince Pedro who had fallen in battle against the Moors, no
less than with the care of her estate. So rich was he become, that he
purchased, says Mariana, the whole lordship of Biscay, of the lady Mary,
mother of Don John, who aspiring to the marriage of the infant Blanche,
in order to obtain the great estates whereof she was the heiress, had
been treacherously invited to a banquet in the palace, and by the king's
orders cruelly put to death. Garcilasso was employed by the king in
several important negotiations, and amongst others, in that of thwarting
the designs of D. John Manuel, who had renounced his allegiance to the
crown, and was in arms to revenge the affront put upon him by the king
in divorcing his daughter to make way for a second marriage. But in
these turbulent times the highest distinctions of court-favour served
only to mark out those who enjoyed them for destruction, either by the
common vice of courts, intrigue, or by the more decisive dagger. The
nobles of the kingdom, piqued at the elevation of one who was no noble
to such high offices of trust, or envying his favour and influence with
the king, conspired together, and he was assassinated in the church of
Soria during the celebration of mass, A.D. 1328. Alonzo was seized with
the greatest concern when the news of the murder was brought him; nor
was his grief overcome, though his revenge was gratified, by the swift
justice executed on the principal conspirators. The lordship of Biscay
did not long remain in the family of the purchaser, being at the king's
desire restored to the heiress of the attainted family on her marriage
with Don John de Lara. The murdered Chancellor left two sons, Garcilasso
and Gonzalo Ruyz, who in the grand battle of Salado, 1340, were the
first that in spite of the Moors passed the river. The former was made
Lord Chief Justice of Spain, as appears by the deeds of the year 1372;
and this knight it was, who for his valour in slaying a gigantic Moor
that had defied the Christians by parading in the _Vega_, or plain of
Granada, with the words 'Ave Maria' fixed to his horse's tail, took the
surname De la Vega, and for his device the Ave Maria in a field d'or;[U]
as is seen in the scutcheon of Garcilasso de la Vega, a son of one of
the brothers, who followed the party of King Henry against the king Don
Pedro, was slain in the battle of Najara, and lies buried in the royal
monastery of that city, in the chapel de la Cruz, near Donna Mencia,
queen of Portugal. He had married Donna Mencia de Cisneros, and left a
daughter, Leonora de la Vega, who married Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza,
High Admiral of Castile, a knight much celebrated in the annals of that
period for his naval and military actions. From this marriage sprang D.
Iñigo Lopez de Mendoza, who in 1445 was created Marques de Santillana,
Gonzalo Ruyz de la Vega, and two daughters, the elder of whom, Elvira
Lasso de la Vega, marrying Gomez Suarez de Figueroa, continued the line
of descent. Their son, Don Pedro Suarez, acquired the estate of Los
Arcos and Botova by marriage with the lady Blanche de Sotomayor, and Don
Pedro Lasso was the fruit of their union. The father of our poet, who
was likewise named Garcilasso, was the fourth lord of Los Arcos, Grand
Commendary of Leon, a knight of the Order of St. James, and one of the
most distinguished gentlemen in the court of Ferdinand and Isabella,
being appointed Counsellor of State to their Catholic Majesties, and
sent as their ambassador to Pope Alexander the Sixth;[V] his wife, Donna
Sancha, of the illustrious house of Toral, was lady of Batres, a
considerable domain in Leon, where a fountain, the same our poet
describes in his second eclogue, is still seen to play, and bears the
name of Garcilasso's fountain, an illustrious monument of the
estimation in which his writings were held.[W] According to the best
accounts, Garcilasso, who was destined to rival, if not eclipse in
battle the valorous deed of the first De la Vega, was born at Toledo, in
the year 1503, a few years only after the birth of the celebrated
Charles the Fifth; and when, on that prince's accession to the crown, he
was persuaded to visit Spain, in the resort which the nobility made to
him at Barcelona, Garcilasso, then in his fifteenth year, was not left
behind. The office which his father had held under Ferdinand, rendered
his attendance on such an occasion indispensable, and Garcilasso was
presented to the prince. With a graceful person, frank address, and the
most amiable dispositions, it may easily be conceived that he soon
recommended himself to the notice and favour of Charles. What confirmed
these first prepossessions, was his skill in those martial and gymnastic
exercises, which formed in that age the chief pride of persons of rank,
and to which the prince always showed an excessive fondness: to ride at
full speed, to leap, to wrestle, to fence, to tilt, to swim the
Tagus--in these accomplishments, Garcilasso, who, as a younger son, was
probably early devoted to the profession of arms, bore the palm from his
competitors, and in these severe amusements their hours were frequently
spent together. Garcilasso knew, however, and loved to temper the
exercises of the gymnasium with those more elegant pursuits and studies
to which his royal companion showed but little inclination. Of music,
from his earliest years, he was passionately fond, and on the harp and
the guitar, already played with extreme sweetness.[X] Music called into
exercise the poetical powers with which he now began to feel that he was
gifted, and refined both his ear and taste to perceive the wide distance
subsisting between the songs and coplas of his native poets, and the
writings of those Latin, Greek, and Tuscan masters, to whose works his
studies were directed. His acute judgment at once perceived the error
into which the generality of Spanish poets had fallen, in contenting
themselves with their merely natural endowments, without giving
attention to art, as though impatient of the toil of culture.
Dissatisfied with the little they had accomplished, he set himself
sedulously to the study of more classical models than his countrymen
had yet taken as standards of good writing; and the pure elegance of the
Greeks, and harmonious numbers of the Tuscans, alternately engrossed his
attention. In these pursuits was associated with him Juan Almogavar
Boscán, a young man of honourable family, born at Barcelona, with whom
he probably became first acquainted on his visit to that city with his
father; for whom he entertained through life the warmest affection, and
of whose amiable mind and poetical talent he has left in his writings
many interesting testimonies. They applied themselves to their purpose
with all the devotedness of youthful enthusiasm, newly conscious of its
latent powers. Dante, Ariosto, and Petrarch, were ever in their hands,
and the reputation of cotemporary poets amongst the Italians, of
Bernardo Tasso, Tansillo, Sannazaro, and Bembo, quickened their literary
ambition. But the poet whom above all others Garcilasso evidently
studied with the most partiality, was Virgil. The mild and tender spirit
which pervades and shines throughout his beautiful writings, was in
peculiar concordance with the disposition and character of Garcilasso,
naturally inclined to the gentle and the affectionate, to the love of
rural images and the tranquillity of a country life, though drawn by
circumstance into a ruder sphere, and compelled by passing events so
frequently to cast aside the pages of the poet and the tones of the
lyre, for the sword of battle and those military exertions which his
country shortly claimed of him.

Although the nobility and nation at large had hailed Charles's arrival
with delight, it was not long before they began to regard his
proceedings with extreme mistrust and jealousy. For this there were many
causes; but that which excited the greatest discontent was his almost
exclusive partiality for his Flemish favourites, and the ascendancy of a
Flemish minister. The great Ximenes, whose commanding genius had secured
from a murmuring nobility the peaceful recognition of his title, was
gone; weighed down by years, and by mortification at being refused an
interview by the king, in which his prophetic spirit hoped to expose the
calamities impending over the country from the insolence and rapacity of
foreign minions, he expired. His death freed Chievres from those fears
with which he could not but regard his superior talents, and for awhile
he ran his round of misgovernment without restraint. He engrossed, or
exposed to sale all offices and appointments, exported into Flanders all
the treasures he could amass in the collection of the taxes, imposed new
ones, and sedulously guarded the king's ear from the language of
complaint. But this system of arbitrary peculation could not long escape
the indignant remonstrances of a high-spirited and free people. Already
Toledo, Segovia, Seville, and several other cities of the first rank,
had entered into a confederacy for the defence of their rights
and privileges, had laid before the king complaints of the
mal-administration under which they suffered; and the first rumour of
his intended departure for Germany to receive the imperial crown of
Maximilian, was a signal for every hitherto suppressed discontent to
burst forth in open violence. The nobles of Valencia refused to admit
the Cardinal, afterwards Pope Adrian, as the royal representative, and
firmly declared, that by the fundamental laws of the country, they could
grant no subsidy to an absent sovereign: exasperated by their obstinacy,
Charles countenanced the people who had risen against their privileges;
he rashly authorized them to continue in arms, and sanctioned the
association into which they entered under the fatal name of the
Germanada or Brotherhood.

The civil dissensions which followed in the king's absence, the alliance
of the commons in the principal cities, under the title of the Junta,
the actions and death of their heroic leader John de Padilla, and the
final extinction of the Germanada, are historical events generally
known. Less generally known, however, is the honourable and
distinguished part which Don Pedro, the elder brother of Garcilasso,
took in these commotions, and we may with little impropriety devote a
few pages to its consideration. Our English historians, seizing upon the
leading features of the struggle, have celebrated alone the proceedings
of Padilla, whose deeds in arms and tragical end seemed to mark him out
as the principal personage of the drama. They have not communicated the
fact, that Don Pedro Lasso was thought by the Junta to be more worthy of
the distinction of Captain-General, was indeed elected such, and that it
was only by low intrigues with the meanest of the people that Padilla
had the election reversed in his favour.[Y] Young, generous, brave, of
an open and sweet disposition, and intolerant of every species of
injustice and oppression, Don Pedro Lasso pursued the views he meditated
for the freedom and welfare of his country, with a simple sincerity and
straight-forwardness of action, which showed clearly that he was swayed
by no personal motives of aggrandizement or popularity; he dared the
frowns of his sovereign, without stooping to pay court to the passions
of the people. Equally brave and zealous, but with views less purely
patriotic, and an ambition more daring, John de Padilla threw himself
into their ranks, and sealed his devotion to the cause he embraced, by a
death which he met with the utmost fortitude and boldness. But if the
springs of his conduct are closely examined, they will furnish us with
but too certain grounds for belief, that his own aggrandizement in the
minds of men occupied quite as much of his thoughts as the good of his
country; and if any mode seemed likely to facilitate his ends, he did
not stand upon niceties in the use of them. Don Pedro, when he saw the
unconstitutional excesses into which the Germanada were hurrying,
laboured to lead them back by ways that would have secured from the
monarch a recognition of the rights and claims for which they fought:
with a blinder or less disinterested policy, Padilla led them on to
fresh enterprises, which extinguished the high hopes in which the people
indulged. Had the series of events led Don Pedro to the scaffold, he
would have met his doom with calm and unpretending dignity, sufficiently
rewarded by the testimony of a good conscience; Padilla bent his
thoughts to the last to stand high in the applause of men, and the
address to the citizens of Toledo, which he caused to be circulated at
his death, noble and fine-spirited as it was, betrayed not merely a
satisfaction with being, but a thirst to be considered the martyr in
their cause he was.

So soon as it was known that the king intended to leave Spain, and that
the calling of the Cortes together would only increase their taxes, the
principal cities sent either petitions or protests against what they
deemed so mischievous a measure. The citizens of Toledo, who considered
themselves, on account of the great privileges they enjoyed, as
guardians of the liberties of the Castilian commons, and were especially
discontented, took the lead; they wrote to the other cities of Castile,
exhorting them to send messengers to the king for the redress of their
grievances: all, except Seville, returned for answer, that the
representatives whom they sent to the approaching Cortes should act
conformably to their desire. The persons who interested themselves most
in this affair were Don Pedro, Padilla, and Fernando de Avalos, a
gentleman of high extraction, and allied to the first nobles of Spain,
all commissioners of the juntas in the city. They perpetually urged the
expediency of a general assembly being held of those states that sent
votes to the Cortes, to petition for a reformation of the abuses of
government; it was at length debated in junta, but met with much
opposition from the king's party; the dispute waxed hot, insomuch that
Padilla and Antonio Alvarez de Toledo drew their daggers at each other.
After some disturbances in the city, it was at last voted that they
should send two of their regidores as Procuradores, and two Hurados to
the king to demand redress: Don Pedro and Alonzo Suarez were appointed
Procuradores, and departed with their equipages for Valladolid. They
came into the palace as the king, with his dukes, bishops, and ministers
of state, were rising from dinner, and requested audience; he, being
already acquainted, through Alvarez de Toledo, with the nature of their
embassy, pleaded haste, and was retiring; but Don Pedro pressed so
urgently the importance of the business they were charged with, that he
was obliged to appoint them to meet him at Benavente, on his way to St.
Jago, where he had appointed the Cortes to be held, and meanwhile
referred their petition to his Council of Justice. It will readily be
imagined that no very favourable reception was given by the Council to a
petition complaining, not merely of the monarch's leaving the kingdom,
but of his ministers' lavishing all offices on strangers, and their
rapacity in engrossing the treasures of Spain to enrich a foreign
nation. The Council gave their judgment to the king, that the framers
and supporters of a petition so dangerous deserved punishment rather
than satisfaction; upon which he sent for the Procuradores to his
chamber, and with a severe frown told them he was not pleased with their
proceedings, and that if he did not consider from what parents they were
descended, he would punish them as they deserved; then, referring them
to the President of his Council, without listening to their excuses, he
retired. The President desired them to return and prevail with their
city to send commissioners to the approaching Cortes, who might present
a memorial of what they desired, which should be disposed of as might
best suit the general good: they refused compliance, and followed the
king to St. Jago.

The Cortes was convoked: Charles opened it in person, and stating the
circumstances that rendered it necessary for him to leave the kingdom,
requested the usual subsidy, that he might appear in Germany with the
splendour suitable to his dignity. The Commissioners of Salamanca
refused to take the oath, unless he would first grant them what they
desired: for this act of court-disrespect they were forbidden to come
any more into the assembly. Then rose Don Pedro: he said he had brought
a memorial from the city of Toledo, of what he was to do and grant in
Cortes, which his majesty might see; that he could not go beyond his
commission, yet would perform it as should be most agreeable to his
sovereign; "but, my Lord and Señors," said he with a generous
enthusiasm, "I will sooner choose to be cut in pieces, I will sooner
submit to lose my head, than give my consent to a measure so mischievous
as this which is contemplated, and so prejudicial to my city and my
country." This bold speech, coming upon an assembly already sufficiently
indignant at the innovation of transferring the Cortes to so remote a
province, and at the demand for a new subsidy before the time for paying
the former one was expired, operated most powerfully: the commissioners
of Seville, Cordoba, Salamanca, Toro, Zamora, and Avila, supported Don
Pedro's remonstrance, refused their assent, and the king, perceiving the
present temper of the assembly, adjourned it to a more convenient
season.

The Council meanwhile were not inactive; they thought it would be well,
on their part, to send some of the chief officers in opposition back to
their cities, that their places might be supplied by others that would
be more pliant to the wishes of the king. This was accordingly done, and
other regidores were commanded under heavy penalties to attend the
court, that Toledo might revoke the powers given to Don Pedro and his
colleague: John de Padilla was one of the persons cited. But, with one
exception, these regidores excused themselves; and the delegates from
Toledo and Salamanca made a request to the others, that as their
Commissioners were not yet come to the Cortes, or not admitted, nothing
should be granted,--protesting that if any vote of money were passed, it
should not be to the prejudice of their cities. This protest was sent in
to the new Assembly; but, though many voted in its favour, they would
neither receive it, nor suffer the delegates from Toledo to enter.
Whereupon they made their protest at the door, declaring, that as they
could not form a Cortes without their commissioners, the acts they might
pass should be null and void, both as respected their cities and the
kingdom at large; requiring them moreover as citizens, not to assemble
as a Cortes till they could do so constitutionally. Charles, hearing
that Don Pedro and his companions slighted his commands, issued on Palm
Sunday immediate orders for their banishment. Don Pedro was ordered
within forty days to go and reside in the government of the fort of
Gibraltar, which was his own inheritance; and not to depart from thence
without the king's permission, under penalty of losing, not only that
command, but all his estates whatsoever: but they, ill brooking such
rigorous and arbitrary measures, went within two hours of night to the
palace, and strongly remonstrated with the minister; the result was an
agreement for them to retire only a few miles from St. Jago, leaving the
Hurado Ortiz behind, to remind Chievres to solicit the revocation of
their sentence of banishment; but no sooner had they followed this
crafty advice, and left the town, than the treacherous Fleming opposed
it in Council, and no relaxation could be obtained.

Toledo heard of the banishment of their messengers and failure of their
embassy, and were exasperated beyond measure. Of this spirit of
discontent, John de Padilla took all possible advantage. "Seeing," says
the Spanish historian,[Z] "things go forward as they wished, he and
Avalos, the other summoned regidor, made a show of complying with the
king's command. Hereupon the armed populace, to the number of six
thousand men, withstood their apparent intention, and a great tumult was
raised, Padilla all the while desiring them to let him fulfil the king's
command, which renewed the people's resolve to detain them; and the
crowd led them away as honourable prisoners, set a guard over them,
still protesting against, though inly rejoiced at the violence, and
obliged the governor, at the sword's point, to forbid them on their oath
from leaving the city." Not satisfied with this, they seized the bridges
and fortified gates, and attacked the alcazar, or castle, which they
soon obliged the governor to surrender. Emboldened by this success, they
deprived of all authority every one whom they suspected of being in any
wise attached to the court, established a popular form of internal
government, and levied troops in their defence. Thus, by the evil
counsels of an arrogant ministry, was kindled the first spark of that
rebellious flame which afterwards burned in men's bosoms with so much
fury, and involved the whole kingdom in civil discord; another instance
to the many others which history furnishes,--if warning were of any
avail,--of the terrible consequences arising from an administration's
slighting the voice of an aggrieved and proud-spirited people.

Meanwhile Don Pedro and his companions were come again to St. Jago; and
though some gentlemen, their friends, had counselled them to be gone,
lest the king, already sufficiently incensed against the Toledans,
should imagine them to have abetted the commotion in their city, and
punish them accordingly, they yet continued there, without much fearing
what might befal them. But Garcilasso, who in this crisis could not
avoid feeling a brother's anxiety and alarm, earnestly desired the
king's solicitor to go with all expedition to St. Jago, and persuade him
to depart, as now only five days remained of the forty limited for his
retirement. The solicitor took post, communicated the entreaties of
Garcilasso, and with added arguments at length prevailed. Passing
through Zamora, Don Pedro arrived by the expiration of the fifth day at
Cueva, a village of his, on his way to Gibraltar. The Toledans, hearing
of his arrival there, sent messengers to request him to return to the
city; but this he refused, and prepared to prosecute his journey. Upon
this, they ordered a party of horse to intercept and bring him thither,
which he was forced to attend, and got as privately as he could to his
own home: he could not, however, keep himself long retired; the people
in immense numbers flocked round his house, obliged him to come forth,
set him on horseback, then, forming a triumphal procession, escorted him
to the church, and with loud acclamations of joy extolling to the skies
his patriotism, his courage, the resolution he had shown in defence of
their liberties, saluted him with the title of the Deliverer of his
Country.[AA]

If the history of these events were followed up, Don Pedro would be
found acting uniformly the same part of a pure and fearless patriot. He
it was who when the nobles, jealous of the rising freedom of the
commons, opposed in arms its progress, was principally instrumental in
prevailing on Queen Joanna to come from her retirement, and to use in
this state of civil disorder the constitutional authority with which she
had been invested on the accession of Charles. Upon him was conferred,
after the rash indiscretion of Don Pedro Giron, the office of
Captain-General, which Padilla by his artifices caused to be revoked in
his own favour: it was no personal offence however that could cool his
ardour in the cause of freedom and his country; he led the vanguard of
cuirassiers in the battle with the royalists which terminated in the
defeat near Tordesillas. It was not till he saw the Junta bent upon
pushing their demands and measures to an excess which threatened the
extinction of the rights and privileges of the nobility, that he ceased
taking an active part in their proceedings; but even then he exerted his
good offices in the negotiations carried on between them, and would have
persuaded the people to accept the terms offered by the nobility, who,
on condition of the Junta's conceding a few articles subversive of the
royal authority and their own unalienable privileges, engaged to
procure the Emperor's consent to their other demands, and to join with
them in order to extort it, if the influence of evil counsellors should
lead to a refusal. Unfortunately for the liberties of Spain, the Junta,
elevated by success or blinded by resentment, refused assent to any such
reasonable conditions; the army of Padilla was shortly after defeated by
the Count de Haro, the royalist general; Padilla himself, disappointed
of the death he sought on the lost field, was taken and executed; and
this bold attempt of the commons did but contribute, as is the case with
all unsuccessful insurrections, to extend the power it was intended to
abridge.

The return of the Emperor to Spain filled his subjects who had been in
arms against him with deep apprehensions; and if they escaped
punishment, it was rather from Charles's own generous nature than from
the forbearance of his minister, who endeavoured, but in vain, to stir
his mind up to revenge. A general pardon was published, extending to all
crimes committed from the first of the insurrections, from which a few
only were excepted, and these few rather for the sake of intimidating
others, than from the wish to seize them. "Go," said the monarch to an
officious courtier who offered to inform him where one of the most
considerable lay concealed, "I have now no reason to be afraid of that
man, but he has some cause to keep at a distance from me, and you would
be better employed in telling him that I am here, than in acquainting me
with the place of his retreat." By this prudent line of conduct, by
adopting the manners and language of Spain, and by breaking from the
pupillage in which Chievres had studied to keep him, he effectually
conciliated his subjects. The invasion of Navarre by the French
determined him to engage in open war with the French king; and without
consulting his minister, whose aversion to a war with Francis might have
thwarted his design, he had entered into an alliance with the pope to
expel the French out of the Milanese, and to secure Francis Sforza in
possession of that duchy. No sooner was the treaty signed and imparted
to him, than Chievres was well assured he had lost his ascendancy; his
chagrin on this account is said to have shortened his days, and his
death left the Emperor to exercise without control the unbiassed wishes
of his own great mind.

The declaration of war against France called Garcilasso from his
studies, and though little more than eighteen, he commenced his career
of arms in this campaign. Lautrec, to whom the French forces in Milan
were committed, was forced, notwithstanding his vigilance and address,
to retire toward the Venetian territories before Colonna and Pescara,
the papal and imperial generals; by the bravery of the Spanish
fusiliers, the city of Milan was surprised; Parma and Placentia were
reduced by the former, and in a short time the whole Milanese, except
the citadel of Cremona, submitted to Sforza's authority. To efface the
disasters of this campaign, Francis in 1524 assembled a numerous army,
and determined, notwithstanding the approach of winter and the
dissuasions of his generals, to march into Italy, and attempt the
recovery of the lost territory. Crossing Mount Cenis, he advanced with
an activity and strength that disconcerted the Imperialists. They
retired precipitately from the city of Milan; but instead of seizing
upon that favourable moment to attack and disperse them, the evil genius
of Francis led him to turn aside to besiege Pavia. The battle of Pavia
set the final seal upon his misfortunes. After romantic deeds of
personal bravery, and not till he had seen the flower of his nobility
perish around him and the fortune of the field hopeless, he delivered up
his sword, and submitted himself a captive. It does not appear whether
in this memorable engagement Garcilasso fought under the flag of Pescara
or the Marques del Vasto: it is certain, however, that he distinguished
himself by his courage and heroism, as the emperor, in acknowledgment of
the high regard in which he held his conduct, conferred on him shortly
after the Cross of the order of St. James.

Previously to the emperor's descent upon Milan, the state of Venice had
been in league with Francis, and it was the last of his allies who
abandoned him. So long as Charles had to struggle with his insurgent
subjects, and with formidable enemies elsewhere, he had avoided
increasing their number, and had consented not to consider the Venetians
as at war with him, notwithstanding the succour which they gave to
France; but now that he felt his power unfettered, he assumed a loftier
tone, and declared that he would no longer suffer a State almost
surrounded by his own territories, to enjoy the advantages of peace
whilst engaged in constant hostilities against him.[AB] The regret which
they felt to renounce the friendship with France, for which they had
made the greatest sacrifices, caused the Venetians to hesitate a long
time which of the two powers they should join with. The ascendancy which
Charles was acquiring in Italy at length cut short their deliberation;
a treaty of alliance was entered into with the emperor, and Andreas
Navagero and Lorenzo Priuli, afterwards doge, were appointed ambassadors
to the Spanish court. At Pisa, however, they received orders to await
the issue of the siege of Pavia; and it was not till they had received
intelligence of the defeat of Francis, that they proceeded on their
embassy. They were met on their entrance into the city of Toledo,[AC]
where the court at that time was, by the Admiral of the Indies, who was
a young son of Columbus,[AD] by the Bishop of Avenea, and the whole suite
of foreign ambassadors. Navagero was a scholar and a poet. Born of one
of the noblest families of Venice, and naturally inclined to letters, he
had devoted his youth to study with so much severity, as to occasion a
melancholy which he was obliged to divert by frequent travel and
relinquishment of the pursuits he loved. He was no less distinguished
for Greek learning than for the ease and elegance of his Latin
compositions, and for his taste in Italian poetry, a taste so fastidious
that he was rarely satisfied with any thing he wrote, so that he is said
to have destroyed, a few hours before his death, not only the greater
part of a History of Venice, which he had been charged to write when
appointed librarian of the public library of Saint Mark, but many of his
Italian poems, which fell short of his high standard of excellence. Such
as are extant are sufficient to justify the great applause which he
received from his cotemporaries.[4] Navagero enjoys the additional
distinction of having originated the improvement that was derived to
Spanish poesy from the naturalization of Italian metres and Italian
taste, as hitherto both Garcilasso and Boscán had restricted their
genius to compositions in the redondilla measure. The circumstance that
first led to their relinquishment of the antique models, is narrated by
Boscán himself, in the Dedication of the second volume of his poems to
the Duchess of Soma.[AE]

"Conversing one day," says he, "on literary subjects, with Navagero the
Venetian ambassador (whom I wish to name to your ladyship as a man of
great celebrity in these days), and particularly upon the different
genius of many languages, he inquired of me why in Castilian we had
never attempted sonnets and other kinds of composition used by the best
writers in Italy; he not only said this, he urged me to set the example.
A few days after I departed home, and musing on a variety of things
during the long and solitary journey, frequently reflected on Navagero's
advice, and thus at length began the attempt. I found at first some
difficulty, as this kind of versification is extremely complex, and has
many peculiarities different from ours; but afterwards, from the
partiality we naturally entertain towards our own productions, I thought
I had succeeded well, and gradually grew warm and eager in the pursuit.
This however would not have been sufficient to stimulate me to proceed,
had not Garcilasso encouraged me, whose judgment, not only in my
opinion, but in that of the whole world, is esteemed a certain rule.
Praising uniformly my essays, and giving me the highest possible mark of
approbation in following himself my example, he induced me to devote
myself exclusively to the undertaking."

The noiseless tenour of a country life and calm domestic pleasure which
Boscán now enjoyed, so different from the agitations of the camp to
which his friend was subjected, fortunately concurred to favour the
poet's scheme. He had for the last four years travelled much, or
devoted his principal attention to the education of Fernando de Toledo,
afterwards the celebrated Duke of Alva; but having married the lady Anna
Giron de Rebolledo, an amiable woman of noble family, he seems now to
have given himself up without distraction to his favourite pursuit, and
to have presented himself as a reformer of the lyric poetry of his
nation, in pursuance of Navagero's advice. He began to study with
greater closeness the Tuscan poets, the sonnets of Petrarch, the terze
rime of Dante, and the octaves of Bembo, Politian, and Ariosto. The
Castilian songs, so pleasing to his nation, compared with those more
perfect models, seemed to him comparatively barbarous; he resolved to
effect the overthrow of the existing laws of Castilian versification,
and to introduce new ones, on a system directly the reverse. The old
Castilian measure in short verses, which constituted the actual national
poetry, proceeded always from long to short; it consisted of four
trochees in succession; Boscán substituted iambics as in Italian, and
made the movement of the verse proceed from short to long. The old poets
scarcely ever made use but of redondillas of six and eight syllables,
and of verses _de arte mayor_ of twelve. Boscán took a medium between
both, in adopting the heroic Italian endecasyllabic verse of five
iambics with a conclusive breve; a measure which wonderfully enlarged
the powers and sphere of Spanish poetry, as the redondillas were by no
means fitted for any of the higher kinds of composition. The outcry,
however, that was raised at first against this innovation by the host of
poets who could conceive nothing excellent but what accorded with their
own habits, caused him to reflect seriously on his enterprise. Some of
his opponents alleged that the old measures were sufficiently melodious;
some, that the new verses had nothing to distinguish them from prose;
and others even that the poesies which Boscán took for his model, had
something in them effeminate, and were fit only for Italians and for
women. It was then, when encouragement was most needed, that Garcilasso,
returned from Italy, gave his voice in favour of the poet, and confirmed
him in the undertaking by his own effective example. His Sonnets were
the first of his compositions which Garcilasso wrote on the new system.
The form of the sonnet had been long known in Spain, but the genius of
the language had seemed repugnant to its successful structure. Boscán
however fully succeeded in naturalizing it, though he failed to
communicate to it the sweet reverie of the Tuscan melodist. Garcilasso
approached much nearer the softness and sweetness of his model, and has
left a few pre-eminently beautiful, which may be placed, without fear
from the comparison, by the side of even Petrarch's: several of them, it
is true, exhibit a refinement of thought that often verges upon
hyperbole and affectation; but in extenuation of this fault, let it not
be forgotten that the language of gallantry of those times was made up
wholly of artifices of thought, and that the practice of Petrarch had
sanctioned their adoption in song. Garcilasso's admiration of Petrarch,
which led him to imitate his tone of lamenting love, would be
strengthened in that choice of subject by his passion for an Arragonese
lady, a cousin-german to the Count of Miranda, and maid of honour to
Leonora, Queen of France, to whom it is probable many of them were
addressed, and who it would appear from them as well as from his odes,
subjected the sincerity and steadiness of his attachment to an ordeal
sufficiently severe. More kind however than the Laura of Petrarch, or
unpreoccupied in her affections, Helen de Zuñiga at length acknowledged
her sense of his merit, and yielded him her hand. Their marriage was
celebrated in the palace of the Queen of France,[AF] in 1528, in our
poet's twenty-fifth year. It would seem from some coplas of his, which
must have been written early in life, that he had been unsuccessful in
his first choice, the verses in question exhibiting all that resentment
and reproach softening into tenderness, which is the natural course of
feeling under disappointment to a mind warm in the hopes and visions it
indulges and proudly conscious of its own deserts, yet unchanging in the
current of that one emotion into which all its thoughts have set. But
whatever might have been his sufferings under this severe privation, it
is natural to suppose that time had softened them into that mild
melancholy which we trace in almost all his writings, and that they were
recompensed by the happiness he now enjoyed in a home, where, in the
words of one who has realized himself the picture--

      --Love and lore might claim alternate hours
      With Peace embosomed in Idalian bowers.

At this time, the celebrated 'Libro del Cortegiano' of Castiglione first
made its appearance. It was every where read in Italy with the greatest
avidity. The moral and political instruction which her people met in
every page of that charming performance, enriched as it was with the
flower of Greek and Roman wit, of the sciences and liberal arts, the
easy and natural style of elegance in which its precepts were conveyed,
the lively pictures it presented of characters whom all Italy knew, and
above all, its pure and beautiful Tuscan, that 'poetry of speech' so
dear to them, used too with such grace by a Lombard writer, delighted
and surprised them. From Italy it passed immediately into Spain, where
it was equally well received. The Spaniards read it with the greater
interest, having before their eyes the fine qualities of Castiglione
himself. This accomplished nobleman had been sent by Pope Clement in
1520, as ambassador to Spain, where he acquired, in a singular degree,
the esteem and affection of the Emperor, and of the gentlemen of his
court. Desirous that a work of so much merit should be naturalized in
Castile, Garcilasso urged Boscán to translate it. It was done, and
immediately printed, with a prefatory letter from Garcilasso to the lady
Geronyma Palova de Almogavar, who seems to have originated the task; a
composition no less interesting from its ingenuity and grace of thought,
than from its being the only one that remains to us of our poet's
letters.[5] It must have been highly gratifying to Castiglione to see
his "Book of Gold," as the Italians in their admiration call it,
circulated through Spain by the medium of her two principal geniuses.
But he did not live long to enjoy this literary reputation. Falling sick
at Toledo, he died in February 1529, to the extreme grief of the
Emperor, who commanded all the prelates and lords of his court to attend
the body to the principal church there; and the funeral offices were
celebrated by the Archbishop with a pomp never before permitted to any
but princes of the blood.

The invasion of Hungary by Solyman, the Turkish Sultan, in 1532,
summoned Garcilasso from the blandishments alike of Beauty and the Muse.
At the instigation of John, the Waywode of Transylvania, that daring
prince had laid siege to Vienna; but finding it bravely defended by
Philip the Count Palatine, he was obliged to abandon it with disgrace.
To repair the discredit of that retreat, he now prepared to enter
Austria with more numerous forces. Charles, resolving to undertake the
campaign in person, raised on his part the forces of the empire, and all
Europe with eager attention expected the contest. But either monarch
dreaded the power and talent of his antagonist, each conducted his
operations with great caution, and Solyman, finding it impossible to
gain ground upon an enemy so wary, marched back towards the end of
autumn. Garcilasso was engaged in several skirmishes with the Turks,
and has drawn in his second eclogue some interesting pictures of the
events of the campaign. Whilst at Vienna, a romantic adventure at court
drew upon him the displeasure of the emperor. One of his cousins, a son
of Don Pedro Lasso, fell in love with Donna Isabel, daughter of D. Luis
de la Cueva, and maid of honour to the empress; and as his views were
honourable, Garcilasso favoured by all means in his power this passion
of his relative. The resentment which Charles displayed on a discovery
of the amour can scarcely be accounted for, but by supposing the lady to
have been a favourite of the monarch himself. As a punishment for their
indiscretion or presumption, Charles banished the cousin, and confined
Garcilasso in an isle of the Danube, where he composed the ode in which
he proudly deplores his misfortune, and celebrates the charms of the
country watered by the divine Danube (Danubio, rio divino). The marriage
he had laboured to promote did not take effect, and the lady became
afterwards Countess of Santistévan. How long Garcilasso remained in
confinement is not now to be ascertained, but it is probable the
monarch's severity soon softened towards him; the expedition he
meditated against Tunis would remind him of the bravery he had
displayed in past engagements, and suggest the propriety of forgiveness
and reconciliation. He was recalled, and desired to attend the Emperor
to Tunis.

The daring courage of the corsair Barbarossa, the son of a potter at
Lesbos, had recommended him to the friendship of the king of Algiers:
having made himself master of twelve galleys, he was received as an
ally, murdered, and seized the sceptre of the monarch to whose
assistance he had sailed. Putting his dominions under the protection of
the Grand Seignior, he was offered the command of a Turkish fleet,
availed himself of the rival claims that distracted Tunis, made a
descent upon the city, and obliged Muley Hascen the king to fly before
him. Muley Hascen escaped to Spain, and presented himself a suppliant
before the Imperial throne. Compassionating his misfortunes, and
animated at once by a thirst for fame, and a desire to punish the
pirate, whose depredations were the subject of continual complaint,
Charles readily yielded to his entreaties; he declared his design to
command in person the armament destined for the invasion of Tunis; and
the united strength of his vast dominions was called out upon the
enterprise. Nor was Barbarossa destitute of either vigour or prudence in
preparing for his defence. He strengthened the citadel of Tunis,
fortified Goletta, and assembled 20,000 horse, and a considerable body
of foot; but his chief confidence was placed in the strength of the
Goletta. This was a castle on the narrow straits of a gulf formed by the
sea, extending nearly to Tunis, of which it formed the key. This fort he
garrisoned with 6,000 Turkish soldiers, under the command of Sinan, a
renegado Jew, one of the bravest and most experienced of the corsairs.
The Emperor, landing his forces, invested it the 19th of June, 1535.
Frequent skirmishes took place with the Turks and Arabs, who sallied
from the fortress with loud shouts to the sound of trumpets and of
cymbals, and once or twice surprising the Imperial forces before break
of day, committed great slaughter. In one of these fierce encounters,
Garcilasso was wounded in the face and hand, as he himself declares in a
sonnet to his friend Mario Galeota. Notwithstanding the resolution of
Sinan, however, and the valour of Barbarossa, the breaches of the
Goletta soon became considerable. The Spaniards battered the bastion on
the shore; the Italians the new works which the Moors had raised towards
the canal. The battery continued for six or seven hours without
remission, in which time above four thousand bullets were fired, but to
great effect, bringing down a great part of the fort with the cannon on
it. The Emperor having sent to view the breach, conferred with his
officers, and addressing a few words to the soldiers of each nation,
gave orders for the last assault. Led and encouraged by a Franciscan
friar, carrying a crucifix, the Spaniards pushed fiercely forward, and
in a short time all the four nations made their way through the
breaches, driving the Moors before them, who at first gave way gently,
but soon fled with precipitation, throwing away their arms. To men who
were taught to consider it meritorious to destroy the Infidels, pity was
a thing unknown: the slaughter was great, and those of the enemy that
guarded the entrenchment towards the canal, unable to get over by reason
of the throng, threw themselves into the water to escape. Upwards of 80
galleys were taken, and 400 pieces of cannon, many of them marked with
fleurs de lys. The same day the emperor entered Goletta through the
breach, and turning to Muley Hascen, who accompanied him--"Here," said
he, "is the open gate by which you shall return to take possession of
your throne."

Barbarossa, though sufficiently concerned for the fall of Goletta, lost
not his accustomed courage. He mustered for the defence of Tunis all his
forces, amounting to 150,000 men, Moors, Turks, Arabs, and Janizaries,
of which 13,000 had muskets or cross-bows, and 30,000 were mounted on
fleet horses. Confident in his numbers, he resolved to hazard a battle,
and marched out to meet the enemy, having in vain attempted to persuade
his officers to massacre 10,000 Christian captives confined in the
citadel, lest in the absence of the army they should overpower their
guards. Knowing that the Imperialists were in great want of water, he
took possession of a plain divided into orchards and olive-grounds,
where there were numerous wells among certain ruins of old arches by
which the Carthaginians used to convey water to the city. There he
placed about 12,000 Turks and renegadoes, all musqueteers, who formed
his chief confidence; 12,000 horse he marshalled along the canal, and
disposed several other squadrons of horse among the olive-gardens, to
shelter them from the scorching sun; his multitudes of foot he placed in
the rear. Then, distributing amongst them abundance of water brought
upon mules and camels, and inculcating on his men how easy the victory
would be over so few Christians, and those spent with thirst, fatigue,
and heat, he awaited the Emperor's approach. Arrived within sight of the
Africans, Charles posted his Italian foot on the side of the canal, the
pikes close to the water, and next to them the Germans. On the right
towards the olive-gardens, together with the light-horse, were the
veteran Spaniards that had served in Italy; between these wings was the
cannon, guarded by the choicest of the army; and the new-raised
Spaniards brought up the rear with some horse, commanded by the Duke of
Alva. The Emperor himself rode about with his naked sword, ranging and
encouraging his men. With loud shouts of Lillah il Allah, the Moors and
Arabs rushed to the attack. The latter, taking a compass by the
olive-gardens, fell on the rear, where they were warmly received by the
Duke of Alva, and the battle became general. The barbarians tossing
their darts, and shooting their arrows from the trees, greatly galled
the Imperialists, which the emperor perceiving, sent forward the
Italians, several of the German veterans, and his Spanish cohorts,
commanded by the Marquis de Mondejar, who had been set to guard the
baggage between the artillery and the rear. For awhile it was fought
with various success, as although the foot went on prosperously, the
Spanish cavalry were wavering before the impetuous charge of the
Numidian and Turkish horse. The Marquis de Mondejar was deeply wounded
in the throat by a Moorish lance, and was with difficulty saved. It was
then that Garcilasso rushed forward amongst the thickest of the enemy,
and amply atoned for the absence of the general. With his invincible
sword, he clove in two the shields and turbans of the bravest Turks,
and by his example quickened the drooping courage of those about him.
But the Africans in fresh swarms poured around; and inclosed on all
sides, and already wounded, he must have fallen a victim to his valour,
if a noble Neapolitan, Federico Carafa by name, had not at the imminent
peril of his own life generously resolved upon his rescue; by great
efforts he at length succeeded in dispersing the multitude, and bore him
back in safety, but half-spent with toil, thirst, and loss of blood.[AG]
Meanwhile the Duke of Alva had put to flight the Arabs, and the Imperial
musqueteers keeping up a constant fire did great execution, so that the
foe shortly quitted their posts in the utmost confusion; and though
Barbarossa did all he could to rally them, the rout became so general,
that he himself was hurried with them in their flight back to the city,
leaving the Christians in possession of his cannon, and of the wells of
water, which prevented the pursuit; for the soldiers, almost mad with
thirst and heat, ran to drink in such confusion, that the infidels might
have redeemed the lost field if their panic had been less. The victory
however was complete, and gained, according to Sandoval, with the loss
of only twenty men. Barbarossa, on gaining Tunis, found his affairs
desperate; some of the inhabitants flying with their families and
effects, others ready to set open the gates to the conqueror, and the
Christian slaves in possession of the citadel. These unhappy men, on the
defeat of the army, had been consigned to destruction. A Turk came with
powder and a lighted match to blow them up, when one of the captives
near the gate ran forward in desperation, snatched a target and scimeter
from the nearest officer, and drove the Turk out; the rest having gained
two of the keepers, by their assistance knocked off their fetters, burst
open the prisons, overpowered the Turkish garrison, and turned the
artillery of the fort against their former masters. Barbarossa, cursing
at one time the false compassion of his officers, and at others the
treachery of the Prophet, fled precipitately to Bona; upon which a Xeque
came from the suburbs, and submitted to the emperor the keys of the
city. Muley Hascen, restored to his throne, consented to do homage for
the crown of Tunis; and Charles, setting at liberty the Christian slaves
of all nations without ransom, re-embarked for Europe, and returning
through Italy, was every where honoured with triumphs, and complimented
in panegyrics by her orators and poets.

Garcilasso, on his return from this expedition, spent some time in
Sicily and Naples, in the society perhaps of the young Neapolitan who
had so nobly saved his life; and in communion with the Italian literati,
and in the composition of his eclogues, the autumn months doubtless
rolled delightfully away. The romantic scenery of Sicily would suggest
to his fancy a thousand charming images; and passionately fond as he
ever was of the country, its quiet and repose would after the tumult of
battle fall upon his spirit with peculiar sweetness. He in fact,
notwithstanding some melancholy anticipations arising from the chequered
incidents of his past life, which are met with in his poems of this
period, seems to have luxuriated in the delicious idlesse of such a
cessation, in so beautiful a country, at so enchanting a season, with a
delight similar to that which Rousseau describes himself as tasting in
his solitary summer rambles in Switzerland; whilst the Genius of Poesy,
amid the steeps and shades which he haunted, unlocked in his mind her
divinest reveries, and casting round his footsteps 'her bells and
flowerets of a thousand hues,' submitted to his lips the pastoral flute
of Theocritus and Virgil, from which in the mellow noon, amidst the rich
red chesnut woods, he struck out sounds that had not for many ages been
listened to by the ear of Dryad, or of Faun. In Sicily, from the foot of
Mount Etna, he sent to Boscán and the young Duke of Alva, his pensive
elegies; at Naples, penetrated with all the spirit of Maro and
Sannazaro, he composed the first and finest of his eclogues, which has
served as a model to a crowd of imitators, who have been all unable to
approach it. The celebrity he had acquired by his actions and his
compositions, caused his society to be courted by all of illustrious
birth or intellectual endowments, whilst his engaging manners and
amability of disposition increased the admiration excited by his
talents, and caused him to be beloved wherever he went. Cardinal Bembo,
whose Italian writings he always admired, and sometimes imitated, and
whose Spanish poems are highly praised by Muratori for their purity and
elegance, thus writes of him in Tuscan to one of his friends, the monk
Onorato Fascitelo, in a letter dated from Padua, Aug. 10, 1535:--"I have
seen the letter of the Rev. Father Girolamo Seripando; concerning the
Odes of Sig. Garcilasso which he sent me, I can very easily and
willingly satisfy him, assuring him that that gentleman is indeed a
graceful poet, that the Odes are all in the highest degree pleasing to
me, and merit peculiar admiration and praise. In fine spirit, he has far
excelled all the writers of his nation, and if he be not wanting to
himself in diligent study, he will no less excel those of other nations
who are considered masters of poetry. I am not surprised that, as the
Rev. Father writes me word, the Marquis del Vasto has wished to have him
with him, and that he holds him in great affection. I beg you to take
care that the Signior may know how highly I esteem him, and how desirous
I am to continue to be loved as I perceive myself to be by a gentleman
so illustrious."[AH]

Amidst the Cardinal's Latin letters, I find one of great elegance to
Garcilasso himself, filled with the same kind expressions of esteem and
admiration.[AI]

                                                       "_Naples._

     CARDINAL BEMBO TO GARCILASSO THE CASTILIAN OFFERS HEALTH AND
     PEACE.

     From the verses which you have written for my perusal, I am
     happy to perceive, first, how much you love me, since you
     are not one who would else flatter with encomiums, or call
     one dear to you whom you had never seen; and, secondly, how
     much you excel in lyric compositions, in splendour of
     genius, and sweetness of expression. The first gives me the
     greatest pleasure, for what is comparable to the love and
     esteem of a fine poet? All other things, how dear and
     honourable soever they are considered by mankind, perish in
     a very short time, together with their possessors. Poets
     only live, are long-lived, and immortal, and impart the same
     life and immortality on whom they will. As concerns the
     latter division of your qualities, you have not only
     surpassed in the poetical art all your fellow Spaniards who
     have devoted themselves to Parnassus and the Muses, but you
     supply incentives even to the Italians, and again and again
     excite them to endeavour to be overcome in this contest and
     in these studies by no one but yourself. Which judgment of
     mine, some other of your writings sent to me at Naples have
     confirmed. For it is impossible to meet in this age with
     compositions more classically pure, more dignified in
     sentiment, or more elegant in style. In that you love me,
     therefore, I most justly and sincerely rejoice; that you are
     a great and good man, I congratulate, in the first place
     yourself, but most of all your country, in that she is thus
     about to receive so great an increase of honour and of
     glory. There is, however, another circumstance which greatly
     increases the pleasure I have received; for lately, when the
     monk Onorato, whom I perceive you know by reputation,
     entered into conversation with me, and amongst other
     topics, asked me what I thought of your poems, the opinion I
     gave happened to coincide exactly with his own, (and he is a
     man of very acute perception, and extremely well versed in
     poetical pursuits.) He told me what his friends had written
     to him of your very many and great virtues, of the urbanity
     of your manners, the integrity of your life, and
     accomplishments of your mind; adding, that it was a fact
     confirmed by the assurances of all Neapolitans that knew
     you, that no one had come from Spain to their city in these
     times wherein the greatest resort has been made by your
     nation to Italy, whom they loved more affectionately than
     yourself, or one on whom they would confer superior
     benefits. Thus I consider it an advantage to have received
     your good wishes, by no trouble of my own, and that you
     should have so far loved me as even to adorn me by the
     illustrious herald of your muse. Wherefore, if I do not in
     the highest degree love and esteem you in return, I shall
     think I act by no means as a gentleman. But from the first I
     have resolved to give you a proof of my respect and love,
     and earnestly recommend to your notice the said Onorato, who
     has a great affection for you, and who is now setting out to
     pay you a visit; that hence you may best know what to
     promise yourself respecting me, when you see that I dare ask
     of you what I have decided to be most desirable for myself.
     I believe you know that the patrimony of his brothers,
     worthy and harmless men, was plundered in the Italian wars,
     from no provocation on their part; I will therefore say
     nothing on this head. But now that they have come to a
     resolution to solicit of the emperor, the best of kings and
     princes, what they have unjustly lost, they will have hopes,
     if they obtain your assistance, of recovering easily what
     they honourably desire; so great is your friendship,
     influence, and authority with him, and with all who are
     dearest to him. I therefore earnestly solicit you to take up
     the matter, that by your kind mediation his brothers and
     family may be restored to their former state of fortune: you
     will thus firmly secure to yourself the most honourable of
     men, but me you will so highly oblige, that I shall consider
     the gift of their patrimony made as to myself; for I love
     Onorato as a brother, I esteem him more than the generality
     of my friends; and so desirous am I that through your
     obliging offices this affair may have the issue which he
     hopes, that his own brother could not more ardently wish or
     labour for it than I really do. But I trust that as you love
     me of your own good pleasure, you will quickly relieve me of
     this concern by the address in which you excel, and by that
     amiable ingenuity which endears you so to all. Which that
     you may do, relying on the excellence of your disposition,
     not as a new friend modestly and submissively, but as old
     and peculiar friends are wont, I again and again entreat
     you. Farewell."[6]

The quiet enjoyment, however, of alternate study and society which
Garcilasso thus possessed, was of no long continuance. It was his fate
to be called perpetually from his favourite pursuits to scenes of strife
from which his mind revolted, and his writings show how keenly he felt
the change. A fresh war summoned him to the field. Francis had taken
advantage of the emperor's absence to revive his claims in Italy, and
the death of Sforza strengthened the ground of his pretensions. Charles
acted the part of a skilful diplomatist; he appeared to admit the equity
of the claim, and entered into negotiations respecting the disputed
territory, till he should be better able to cope with his antagonist.
But no sooner had he recruited his armies and finances, than he threw
off the mask of moderation, and driving the forces of his rival from
Piedmont and Savoy, invaded, though contrary to the advice of his
ministers and generals, the southern provinces of France. Garcilasso, on
his way from Naples to join the army, wrote from Vaucluse his Epistle to
Boscán, concluding it with a gaiety in which he seldom indulges, and
which, coupled in our mind with the reflection that his end was near,
has something in it singularly affecting. To the period also of this
campaign, I should ascribe the composition of his third eclogue,
avowedly written in the tent.

      "Midst arms, with scarce one pause from bloody toil,
      Where war's hoarse trumpet breaks the poet's dream,
      Have I these moments stolen, oft claimed again,
      Now taking up the sword, and now the pen."

In this ill-starred expedition, Garcilasso was entrusted with the
command of thirty companies of Spanish troops. The Marechal de
Montmorency, to whom the French army was committed, resolved to act
wholly on the defensive, to weary out the enemy by delay, and by laying
waste the country around to deprive him of subsistence. This plan, to
which he inflexibly adhered, had all the effect he desired. After
unsuccessfully investing Marseilles and Arles, with his troops wasted by
famine or disease, the emperor was under the necessity of ordering a
retreat. In this retreat, effected with much disorder and with more
precipitation, his army suffered a thousand calamities. Crowds of
peasants, eager to be revenged on a foe, through whom their cultured
fields had been turned into a frightful desert, lying ambushed in the
lanes and mountainous defiles which overhung their way, by frequent
attacks, now in front, now in the rear, kept them in perpetual alarm;
nor was there a day passed without their being obliged, every two or
three hundred paces, to stand and defend themselves. The farther they
advanced, the more their difficulties increased. At Muy, near Frejus,
the army was put to a stand. A body of fifty rustics, armed with
muskets, had thrown themselves into a tower, and inconsiderable as they
were in number prevented its progress. The emperor ordered Garcilasso to
advance with his battalion, and attack the place. Gratified with this
mark of his sovereign's confidence, and eager for distinction, he
planted his scaling-ladders, and prepared for the ascent. The simple
peasants, seeing the decorated garment which he wore over his armour,
and the high honour that was every where paid him by the soldiers whose
motions he directed, supposed it to be the emperor himself, and marked
him out for destruction.[AJ] With showers of missiles and the fire of
musquetry, they saluted the assailants, whom however they could neither
check nor dismay. Garcilasso himself, cheering on his men, was the first
that mounted the ladder, and was perhaps the only individual who in this
disastrous campaign acquired any splendid addition to what would be
considered his military glory. But his life was destined to be the price
of this distinction. A block of stone, rolled over the battlements by
the combined strength of numbers, fell upon his shielded helmet, and
beat him to the ground. He was borne to Nice, where after lingering
four and twenty days he expired, November 1536; showing, says D. T.
Tamaio de Vargas, no less the spirit of a Christian in his last moments,
than that of a soldier in the perils he had braved. Every one was
penetrated with sorrow at the loss of one so deservedly dear; but the
Emperor was so deeply afflicted, that having taken the tower, he caused
twenty-eight of the peasants, the only survivors of the escalade, to be
instantly hung; giving thus a strong, though at the same time a
barbarous proof of the esteem and affection he entertained for
Garcilasso. Thus perished, at the early age of thirty-three, Garcilasso
de la Vega, a youth of whom no record remains but what is honourable to
his character and talents, and who conferred more real glory on his
country by his pen, than all the conquests of the mighty Charles,
achieved by his ambitious sword. With every mark and ceremonial of
public respect, his body was conveyed to the church of St. Domingo, at
Nice; whence it was afterwards in 1538 removed to Spain, and finally
deposited in a chapel of the church of San Pedro Martyr de Toledo, the
ancient sepulchre of his ancestors, the Lords of Batres.

Garcilasso left three sons and a daughter. His eldest son, named also
Garcilasso, as he grew up was highly distinguished by the emperor, who
seemed to find a melancholy pleasure in having him near his person. He
too fell in the field at the yet earlier age of twenty-four, fighting
valiantly at the battle of Ulpian: he lies beside his father. Francisco
de Figueroa has celebrated his fall in a sonnet, too beautiful to be
here omitted.

      "Oh tender slip of the most beauteous tree
      That fruitful earth e'er nourished, full of flowers,
      And to that other glory of the bowers,
      Thy parent sylvan, equal in degree!
      The same tempestuous wind, by the decree
      Of Eolus that plucked up by the roots,
      Far from its native stream, thy trunk, its shoots
      Stript off to flourish in a greener lea.
      One was your doom; the same fond Angel too
      Transplanted you to heaven, where both your blooms
      Produce immortal fruits; your fatal case
      I weep not, as the wont is, but to you,
      On my raised altar burn all sweet perfumes,
      With hymns of gladness and a tearless face."

His second son, Francisco de Guzman, entered a convent of Dominicans,
and became a great theologian. Lorenzo de Guzman, his youngest son, was
distinguished by much of his father's genius, and highly esteemed as
such by Don Ant. Augustin, most illustrious, says Vargas, in dignity and
doctrine, who, being banished to Oran for a lampoon, died upon the
passage. Donna Sancha de Guzman, the poet's daughter, married D.
Antonio Portocarrero de Vega, a son of the Count of Palma, who had
married Garcilasso's sister. The grandson of Don Pedro Lasso was created
Count of Los Arcos, and Charles the Second created his descendant, D.
Joachim Lasso de la Vega, the third Count of Los Arcos, a Grandee of
Spain, October, 1697.[AK]

Garcilasso in person was above the middle size; with perfect symmetry of
figure, he had such dignity of deportment, that strangers who knew him
not were sensible at once that they were in the presence of some
superior personage. His features corresponded with his deportment; his
countenance, not without a shade of seriousness, was expressive of much
mildness and benevolence; he had most lively eyes, his forehead was
expansive, and his whole appearance presented the picture of manly
beauty. Graceful and genteel in his address, courteous and gallant in
his behaviour, he is said to have been a first favourite with the
ladies; by the most winning manners he engaged his own sex, and
accomplished as he was in all the duties of knighthood, he may with much
propriety be called the Sidney or the Surrey of Spain. Notwithstanding
the great favour he enjoyed at court, he passed through life without
incurring the jealousy of the courtiers; a rare piece of good fortune,
which he owed to some happy art or sincerity of conduct that disarmed
envy. With a disposition peculiarly affectionate, he was more inclined
to praise than to censure; in the whole course of his writings, we meet
with but one passage that bears the least approach to satire or
severity, and this he immediately checks, as though it were something
foreign to his nature. He has preserved in his verses the names of his
particular friends. Boscán was evidently the one whom he loved with most
devotedness; but his attachment seems also to have been great to the
Countess of Ureña, Donna Maria de la Cueva, to the Marchioness of
Padula, Lady Maria de Cardona, to the Marquis del Vasto, the Duke of
Alva, Don Pedro de Toledo, Marquis of Villafranca, Julio Cæsar
Caracciola, a Neapolitan poet, and other distinguished characters, whom
he celebrates in his poems. Boscán charged himself with performing the
last honour to his memory, and published in 1544 their joint
productions, under the title of 'Obras de Boscán y Garcilasso.'[AL]

Had Garcilasso lived longer, his poems would probably have been made
yet more deserving of cotemporary praise and the perusal of posterity,
for the relics he has left are to be considered rather as the early
flowers than as the fruits of his genius; yet from these few blossoms we
may imagine how rich would have been the autumn of his muse. His style
is unaffected, his thoughts ingenious; the language he uses, though
employed upon lowly subjects, never sinks into poverty or meanness; he
is full of the lights, the colours, and ornaments which the place and
subject require; and not satisfied often with the mere production of his
sentiments, he amplifies, he compounds, he illustrates them with
admirable elegance, yet not without suffering his wealth of ideas
frequently to run into diffuseness. He had at his command a rich variety
of significant words, which he sometimes selects and combines with so
much skill, that the beauty of the words gives splendour to their
disposition, and the lucidness of disposition lustre to the words; yet,
in some cases, it must be acknowledged, there is too much involution in
the structure of his sentences. His feelings and sentiments are either
new, or if common, set forth in a certain manner of his own, which makes
them seem so. The passages he translates from other authors seem
introduced from no ostentation of classical pride, but simply to effect
the intention he has in view, and are inlaid with so much art that it
becomes a question whether they give or receive the ornament. The
flowers with which he sprinkles his poetry seem to spring up
spontaneously, the lights he introduces to fall like unconscious
sunshine to adorn the spot where he has placed them. His versification,
simple, clear, and flowing, has a purity, music, and dignity of numbers,
that ever and anon seems to bring upon the ear the mellifluous majesty
of Virgil: he tempers the gravity of his style with such a continuous
sweetness as to form in their union a harmony equally proportioned. The
pause of his verses is always full of beauty, the closing melody of the
sentence gratifying the reader as he rests. With all his delicacy of
expression and artful sweetness, he has remarkable pliancy and ease; his
only constraint is that which he himself imposes, when, abandoning his
natural tone of thought, he becomes a sophist on his feelings, and
consents to surprise by ingenuity when he should affect by tenderness.
Tender, however, he always is in an eminent degree, whenever he ceases
to reason on his sensations, and gives himself up without reserve to the
promptings of his native sensibility. His first eclogue breathes
throughout a spirit of melancholy tenderness that speaks eloquently to
the imagination and the heart. Under the name of Salicio he
unquestionably introduces himself, and I cannot help thinking that the
shepherd's beautiful lament over the inconstancy of his mistress owes
half its sweetness and pathos to his own remembrances of the lady whom
he loved in youth. There is a truth and a warmth of expression in the
feelings that could originate alone from real emotion: nothing can excel
the touching beauty of some of the descriptions.

      "In the charmed ear of what beloved youth
      Sounds thy sweet voice? on whom revolvest thou
      Thy beautiful blue eyes? on whose sworn truth
      Anchors thy broken faith? who presses now
      Thy laughing lip, and hopes thy heaven of charms,
      Locked in the embracings of thy two white arms?
      Say thou, for whom hast thou so rudely left
      My love, or stolen, who triumphs in the theft?
      I have not yet a bosom so untrue
      To beauty, nor a heart of stone, to view
      My darling ivy, torn from me, take root
      Against another wall or prosperous pine,
      To see my virgin vine
      Around another elm in marriage hang
      Its curling tendrils and empurpled fruit,
      Without the torture of a jealous pang,
      Ev'n to the loss of life."

The song and sorrow of Salicio seem to carry our interest to the
highest point; but the lamentations of Nemoroso[AM] surpass them in depth
of regret, and in the greater variety of sentiments and images with
which the emotions are illustrated. The whole eclogue is in fact full
of poetry, and from the elegance of its language, its choice imagery,
its soft sweet harmony, and the pastoral air that pervades it, it must
be pronounced the first composition of its class, not only in Castilian
but Italian poetry. Almost equally admirable, though different in
character, is the third eclogue. It does not appeal so to the heart, it
is less eloquent, but it is characterised by a finer fancy, a yet more
classical taste, and a more continuous harmony; and being written in
octaves, though octaves are perhaps somewhat too sounding for a
pastoral, succeeds in gratifying the ear by its periodical reposes, as
well as by its music. In the whole compass of poetry, I do not remember
a more delicate image than the following:--

      "All with dishevelled hair were seen to shower
        Tears o'er the nymph, whose beauty did bespeak
      That Death had cropt her in her sweetest flower,
        Whilst youth bloomed rosiest in her charming cheek;
      Near the still water, in a cypress bower,
        She lay amongst the green herbs, pale and meek,
      Like a white swan that, sickening where it feeds,
      Sighs its sweet life away amidst the reeds."

The second eclogue is decidedly inferior to the other two; it is justly
to be censured for its heterogeneous character, its unsatisfactory
conclusion, and its great lengthiness;[AN] but it abounds with beautiful
passages, and the poet's description of the sculptures on the Urn of
Tormes, an elegant conception, however unsuitably introduced, is given
with an almost lyrical spirit that half redeems the fault of the
episode. Finally, something very like the light romantic touch of
Lorraine in his delicious landscapes, is to be met with in the pastoral
poetry of Garcilasso; the same freshness, the same nature, the same
selection of luxuriant images, and harmony of hues. His elegies are less
perfect of their kind; with somewhat of the softness and philosophy of
Tibullus, they are too frigid and verbose. That to the Duke of Alva,
principally translated from Fracastor, has however many touches of
sensibility; and a few stanzas, charged with poetical fire, might be
selected from that to Boscán; though from the excessive and unnatural
refinement of thought it presents upon the whole, it is what I might
have been excused the trouble of translating, if the omission would not
have rendered the volume incomplete. The same fault of frigidity and
overmuch refinement of thought, though variously modified, applies to
many of his sonnets; others are free from all affectation, and of
singular beauty. His odes are more uniformly excellent. In the last of
them, Garcilasso shows some approach to a sublimer height than he had
yet aspired to; his lyre assumes in its tones somewhat of the fervid
grandeur that was soon to be exhibited in the lyric poetry of Torquato
Tasso. In this the shades are darker, the colours more burning, the
thoughts, if I may so say, more gigantic than in any other of his poems
whatever; yet I cannot consider, the prolonged personification of
Reason, and of its combat with the passions, which indeed both Boscán
and he are apt to dilate upon till they displease by their monotony, as
the product of a pure taste. I am aware that Muratori, 'suono
magnifico,' praises this ode for the very thing I am condemning;[AO] I
shall therefore forbear, in deference to his authority, to say more; I
will only remark that this example from Garcilasso comes opportunely for
the illustration of his theory on the personification of speculative
thoughts, and that on this account he may have looked upon the ode with
a somewhat more favourable eye than his judgment would otherwise have
allowed him to do. He must have admitted that though personification
gives life and action to images that would else strike the fancy but
feebly, the same artificially extended through a whole cancion, offends
as something too unnatural to be reconciled to the mind, even by the
beautiful expressions in which it may be clothed. But whatever
difference of opinion may exist on this, there can be but one sentiment
on the merit of the Ode to the Flower of Gnido. Elegance, delicacy,
harmony, and lyrical spirit, are all combined in its composition, and
fully authorize the opinion of Paul Jovius, that it has the sweetness of
the odes of Horace; an opinion confirmed by the praises of our own
countryman, Sir William Jones. Had Garcilasso written nothing else, this
graceful composition would have sufficed to give his name all the
immortality that waits upon the lyre: it shows with what success he had
studied the classics of antiquity, and how deeply his mind was imbued
with their spirit. This pervading spirit it is that has advanced
Garcilasso to the distinction of being entitled the most classical of
all the Spanish poets; and although from their not having received his
last polish, and from the unfavourable circumstances under which they
were written, his poems may present some defects unpleasing to the
cultured minds of a more refined age, such blemishes can be allowed to
subtract neither from this classical reputation, nor from the deserved
admiration with which their many beauties must be regarded, and the
genius that could give at once, amid the tumult of the camp, to Spanish
poetry a consideration, and to Spanish language a charm, which in other
countries, are commonly communicated by many, in the slow course and
literary ease of years.

The Works of Garcilasso have engaged in their illustration the talents
of three distinguished Commentators. The first comment that appeared was
Fernando de Herrera's, published at Seville in 1580, in small 4to.
Living, as Herrera evidently did, in habits of intimacy with
Portocarrero, it is much to be regretted that he did not increase the
value that was attached to his work by that full account of the life of
Garcilasso which he had so favourable an opportunity of obtaining. He
excuses himself from the task by the observation, that it would require
a mind more at leisure than his was, and one gifted with a happier
style of writing; but the world would probably, with very great
willingness, have given up a part of his commentary, turning as it often
does upon idle disquisitions, to have had its curiosity gratified on the
private habits of his author; whilst the Lyrist of the battle of Lepanto
should have known that the disclaiming of a style sufficiently elegant,
was a species of mock-modesty that would not pass wholly uncensured by
posterity. In the year 1612, Sanchez, better known under the Latin name
Brocensis, the most learned grammarian of Spain, published at Madrid in
12mo. his commentary, under the title of 'Obras del excelente Poeta
Garcilasso de la Vega; con anotaciones y emiendas del Maestro Francisco
Sanchez, Catedratico de retorica de Salamanca.' His illustrations,
however, were principally restricted to a restoration of the text, for
which he deserves very high praise, and to point out in his author the
passages imitated or translated from other writers, an elucidation
rather curious than useful, as a poet's works will of themselves, to
every scholar

                    whisper whence they stole
      Their balmy spoils,

whilst his blind admirers will be apt to quarrel with an exposition
that may seem at first sight to detract something from the merit of
their idol. Thus Sanchez, on the publication of his comments, was
assailed by the small wits of the day with much severity, and some
smartness, as will be seen by the following

SONNET

_Against the Annotations of Master Sanchez, found in the house of a
Knight of Salamanca._

      They have discovered a rare theft; the thief,
      One Garcilasso's taken at his tricks,
      With three silk canopies and pillows six,
      Stolen from Queen Dido's bed; young Cupid's sheaf
      Of darts; the shuttle of the Fates; but chief,
      Three most somniferous kegs of Lethe wine,
      And his own lady's golden clasp, a sign
      Of turpitude that staggers all belief.
      For full seven years the sly Arcadian
      Has been at work; on shops of Tuscan ware, he
      Made some attempts too--Bembo's and Politian's:
      'Tis pitiful to hear the' unhappy man,
      His feet fast in the stocks of Commentary,
      Declaim against these tell-tale rhetoricians.

On the back of this paper, Sanchez wrote a reply.

      Poets are found whose fame we may immerse
      In Lethe's wave, who to make up some sonnet
      Stuff it with pillows till we slumber on it;
      And have recourse for rhymes for their lame verse,
      To the sad shuttle of the Fates, or worse,
      Young Cupid's darts; whose lines have no more sense
      Than their own lady's golden clasp: yet hence
      Will they denounce our comments for a curse
      On Garcilasso, without knowing why
      Barking like curs; amusing 'tis to see
      The sapient animals, with long sharp teeth
      And short dull wits, far falser than the sly
      Quick fidgetings of horses, to get free
      Of half the imposed light load they bend beneath.

The third annotator is D. Thomas Tamaio de Vargas. His edition was
published in 24mo. at Madrid, in the year 1622: his comments, filled
with Greek and Latin, with the opinions of Rabbi Onkelos and St.
Cyprian, and quotations from Geronymo Parabosco, Boethius and Arnobius,
seem to have been written rather to show his learned reading than to
clear up any obscurity he might find in his author: affixed to his
volume is a 'Life of Garcilasso gathered from his writings,' which is
necessarily meagre and unsatisfactory. Don Nicolas de Azara, the elegant
translator of Middleton's life of Cicero, has also illustrated
Garcilasso, whose MSS. are deposited in the library of the Escurial.

The commendations which Garcilasso bestowed on cotemporary talent, were
echoed back with equal admiration and sincerity by them and by
succeeding geniuses. Of the Italians, Tansillo has written two sonnets
in his praise, Minturno two sonnets, Marino a madrigal; Camoens
celebrates him in his letters, Guillaume de Salluste in his poems. Of
his own nation, besides a host of writers whose names Vargas chronicles
with a jealous care, Herrera, Villegas, and Góngora, Cristoval de
Figueroa, Medina, and Barahono de Soto, wrote Spanish verses, Pachecho
and Giron, Latin verses to his memory. The Abbé Conti has translated
with fidelity and grace several of his poems into Tuscan,[AP] and Mr.
Walpole published, some few years ago, an English translation of the
First Eclogue, under the title of "Isabel, with other poems translated
from the Spanish;" which however I have not been able to meet with, as
the author is understood to have called it in from circulation. Mr.
Nott, the industrious commentator and accomplished scholar, in his Works
of Surrey and Wyatt, pays an elegant tribute to the talents of
Garcilasso, and draws a happy parallel between him and our Surrey.
"They both," he observes, "glowed with a generous love of enterprise,
and both were distinguished by their military ardour in the field. They
both devoted the short intervals of their leisure to the improvement of
their native tongue; they both formed themselves on Virgil and the
Italian school; both had minds susceptible of love and friendship; both
were constant in their attachments; both died immaturely, and left in
the bosoms of the good and learned unavailing regret at their untimely
loss."[AQ] Yet with this regret the good and the learned may blend the
happier feeling of dignified delight. There is no stain on the treasures
they have left. The talents with which they were gifted, were properly
cultivated; the instruments of music which they touched with so much
tenderness, were wreathed around with none but innocent flowers--were
devoted alone to the gratification of the generous sensibilities of our
nature. Not a single string of those they struck, had in its sound the
dissonance of vice--that one grand discord, which not the harmonies of
all the others can in the ear of true Taste ever overpower. Let this be
their most successful title to applause; there can be no nobler aim
marked out for young genius, in an age when the sister-melodies of
Virtue and the Lyre are in danger of becoming, like Helena and Hermia,
separate and estranged, than the ambition to have it said of him in
after days: 'he had nothing to reproach himself with in his devotion to
the Muses; he sang like Surrey and Garcilasso de la Vega.'


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote U: The author of that very delightful old work, half romance,
half history, Las Guerras Civiles de Granada, whence Bishop Percy
translated the ballad, "Gentle river, gentle river," has introduced
amongst others a _Romance_ which perpetuates this action; only that he
attributes it to the father of Garcilasso the poet, saying that it was
performed by that personage in his youth, during the siege of Granada by
Ferdinand and Isabella. But this is evidently a great mistake, as the
surname De la Vega is ascribed to the family in chronicles of a far
earlier time. This contradiction could not escape Lord Holland's
perspicacity; he makes mention of it in his life of Lope de Vega, but
seems somewhat disposed to doubt the truth of the story altogether, as
it is related, he observes, of another knight, with little variation, in
the Chronicle of Alonzo the Eleventh. But I would say, with great
deference to the judgment that dictated this remark, that the popular
ballads of a nation generally take their rise from some event of
commanding interest, universally recognised at the time as true, and
like our own beautiful ballad of Chevy Chase, perpetuate the memory
thereof to long posterity, with the authority and assuredness of
history. The language of this ballad, it is true, precludes us from
giving it a date of greater antiquity than the author of the above
imaginative work; and it may be rational to suppose that finding a
Garcilasso at the siege of Granada, he chose to embellish his book as
well as his hero, by ascribing to him the deed, known either from its
mention in the chronicle or from current tradition. But a full
confirmation of the truth of the story is, I think, to be found in the
family arms; they bear, _or_, the words AVE MARIA, GRACIA PLENA, per
pale in letters _azure_; and the house of Mendoza show the same words in
their scutcheon, only per pale a bend dexter, assumed, I am inclined to
think, on the marriage of D. Diego Hurtado de Mendoza with Leonora de la
Vega. I at one time thought that the incident specified in the Chronicle
of Alonzo the Eleventh, might refer to the Garcilasso so favoured by
that monarch, more particularly as Mariana gives him the surname; but
subsequent research satisfies me in ascribing it to his son, which I do
on the authority of Sandoval. Appended to the Chronicle of Alonzo the
Wise in the British Museum, is a work by this historian with MS. notes
of his own, under this title: Genealogies de algunos grandes Cavalleros
que florecieron en tiempo de Don Alonzo VII. Emperador de España. Cuyos
descendientes ay oy dia A. D. 1600, por Fr. Prudencio de Sandoval,
predicador de la orden de San Benito. His words I have translated in the
text, and there is a MS. note in the margin to much the same effect. I
should have been glad to give the incident alluded to by Lord Holland,
but the chronicle I consulted was printed so villanously in Gothic type,
that it is little wonder I missed finding it: the reader may not however
be displeased to see a translation of the Romance.[3]]

[Footnote V: Don Nicolas Antonio: Bibliotheca Hispana. Art. Garcias
Lassus.]

[Footnote W: Don T. Tamaio de Vargas. Anotaciones, p. 45.]

[Footnote X: Pelegrin. Hispania Bibliotheca, p. 579.]

[Footnote Y: Sandoval: Historia de Carlos V. vol. i. fol. 428.]

[Footnote Z: Sandoval, l. v. fol. 211.]

[Footnote AA: Sandoval, lib. v. fol. 214, 274.]

[Footnote AB: Sismondi, Histoire des Républiques Italiennes, t. xv. p.
47.]

[Footnote AC: June 11th, 1525.]

[Footnote AD: Naugerii Opera; Viaggio in Ispagna, p. 352.]

[Footnote AE: Las Obras de Boscán y algunas de Garcilasso de la Vega,
1547.]

[Footnote AF: Herrera. Anotaciones, fol. 15.]

[Footnote AG: Jovii Fragmentum, p. 119, 120. Brit. Mus.]

[Footnote AH: Lettere di M. Pietro Bembo, vol. i.]

[Footnote AI: Petri Bembi Epistolæ, lib. vi.]

[Footnote AJ: Bellaii Comment. lib. vi. p. 277.]

[Footnote AK: Imhof. Histoire de Trente Fam. d'Espagne, p. 131.]

[Footnote AL: There is a copy of this first edition in the British
Museum, printed in old English characters.]

[Footnote AM: It was supposed originally that Nemoroso was intended to
represent Boscán, and that the word was formed from an allusion to his
name, Bosque--_nemus_, as that of Salicio is an anagram of Garcilasso.
Herrera was the first that combated this opinion, applying the name to
Don Antonio de Fonseca, the husband of Donna Isabel Freyre, who died in
childbed. [Anotaciones, p. 409, 410.] From that time this became the
prevailing supposition, till D. Luis Zapata in his Miscellanea affirmed,
in contradiction of it, that Antonio de Fonseca was at no time intimate
with Garcilasso, whilst Boscán had been the suitor, or servidor of Donna
Isabel before her marriage, to whom it is highly probable the verses in
the first book of his poems were addressed, beginning--

      "Señora Doña Isabel,
      Tan cruel
      Es la vida que consiento,
      Que no mata mi tormento," &c.

For my own part, setting aside the circumstance that Nemoroso, in the
second eclogue, in describing the urn of Tormes passes a handsome eulogy
on Boscán, a circumstance which does not necessarily enter into the
consideration, I am inclined to believe that it was Boscán who was
signified, and moreover, that the eclogue was designed to commemorate
the sadness they both felt in the memory of their first loves.]

[Footnote AN: To obviate as much as possible the effect of this error, I
have divided it into three _silvas_, a term quite common in Spanish, and
which in a scholar's ear may, as applied to the divisions of an eclogue,
have a better grace than any other that could be adopted.]

[Footnote AO: "Questa battaglia sensibile tra la Ragione e il Senso, mi
fa pur sovvenire d' alcuni bellissimi versi di Garcilasso de la Vega,
uno de piu riguardevoli poeti della Spagna. Racconta egli in una sua
Canzone, come senza avvedersene s' innamorò:

      Estava yo a mirar, i peleando
      En mi defensa mi Razon estaba," &c.
                   _Della Perfetta Poesia Italiana._]

[Footnote AP: Scelta di Poesie Castigliane tradotte in verso Toscano, e
illustrate dal Conte Giovambatista Conti. 3 Tomi. Madrid, 1782.]

[Footnote AQ: Vol. i. p. cclxv.]



VERSES ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASSO.


BOSCÁN, ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASSO.

_Garcilasso, que al bien siempre aspiraste._

      1.
      Tell me, dear Garcilasso, thou
        Who ever aim'dst at Good,
      And in the spirit of thy vow
        So swift her course pursued,
      That thy few steps sufficed to place
      The angel in thy loved embrace,
        Won instant, soon as wooed,--
      Why took'st thou not, when winged to flee
      From this dark world, Boscán with thee?

      2.
      Why, when ascending to the star
        Where now thou sitt'st enshrined,
      Left'st thou thy weeping friend afar,
        Alas, so far behind!
      Oh, I do think, had it remained
      With thee to alter aught ordained
        By the Eternal Mind,
      Thou wouldst not on this desert spot
      Have left thy other self forgot.

      3.
      For if through life thy love was such,
        As still to take a pride
      In having me so oft and much
        Close to thy envied side--
      I cannot doubt, I must believe
      Thou wouldst at least have taken leave
        Of me, or if denied,
      Have come back afterwards, unblest
      Till I too shared thy heavenly rest.


VILLEGAS, IN PRAISE OF GARCILASSO.

_Si al apacible viento._

      1.
      To the soft wind, the' eternal guest
        Of these delicious skies,
      Thou yet, sweet lute, hast been but prest
      In beauty's cause, at love's behest,
        To sing of bright blue eyes.

      2.
      But leave these idle themes, and sound
        His glory to the stars,
      Whose footsteps ranged on classic ground,
      Till Garonne saw him deal around
        The battle-bolts of Mars.

      3.
      Woe to the heart of Aquitaine!
        Woe to the men she bred!
      When, sheathed in steel, with fierce disdain,
      He loosed a stream in every vein,
        And dyed her ramparts red.

      4.
      But, freed from war, he bound his brow
        With myrtle leaves again,
      To Venus paid a votary's vow,
      And hymned her birth, assuming now
        The falchion, now the pen.

      5.
      Sweet as the swan, when death was nigh,
        On Danube's willowed banks,
      He held the waters roaring by,
      With magic of his melody,
        Congealed in crystal ranks.

      6.
      Long, long that tune the stream shall keep,
        And whisper as it flows;
      Let Love too tell in murmurs deep
      The noble words she heard him weep,
        For well those words she knows.

      7.
      Well as his song, grave, tender, sweet,
        Beneath the beechen shade,
      The wild brook babbling at his feet,
      When he bewailed the chaste deceit
        Of his beloved maid.

      8.
      But hush the chords, for there, ah there,
        Salicio too grew mute,
      And broken-hearted with despair
      For the too false, forsaking fair,
        Hung up his useless lute!


FLORENCIO ROMANO, ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASSO.

_Chi audace osera mai tue lodi sparte?_

      1.
      What daring hand may hope to raise
        To thee the double trophy due,
      Whom not alone the poet's bays
        Distinguished, but the warrior's too?
      What tributary voice in one
      Collect thy various praises? None.

      2.
      In thy melodious verse, where yet
        Thy spirit breathes, thy glory glows,
      Immortal shalt thou live, till set
        The stars in darkness whence they rose.
      Shower, virgins, shower with sad concern,
      Wild thyme and rose-leaves round his urn!

      3.
      Whilst I his glories, dumb with grief,
        Point to the frequent passer-by,
      Worthy the blazoning bas-relief,
        The sculptured bust, the speaking die:
      'Lo! 'midst green ivies, flowers, and palms,
      Lasso's hushed lyre and rusting arms!'


HERRERA, ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASSO.

_Musa, esparze purpureas frescas flores._

      1.
      With purple flowers, oh Muse, each morn,
        The freshest flowers in bloom,
      Scattered with pious hands, adorn
        Thy Lasso's holy tomb;
      In grief for the lamented dead,
      Thy golden tresses, Venus, spread
        Dishevelled;--mourn his doom,
      His timeless doom, ye little Loves,
      In concord with your Mother's doves!

      2.
      As burns the bird whose perished frame
        Arabian herbs inter,
      Your broken bows give to the flame
        With rosemary and myrrh;
      And oh, for his lamented sake,
      Apollo, to thy temples take
        The wreath of funeral fir,
      And sadly to the solemn string
      His glory and thy sorrows sing!

      3.
      His name, Parnassus, whose proud song,
        Pure, sweet, and tender, gave
      Fame to thy rosy peaks, prolong
        Through each revering cave;
      Lasso, through whose harmonious shell
      Tagus rich Tiber does excel,
        And Arno's purer wave,--
      For whose hushed voice a nation grieves,
      Lies dead amidst green amaranth leaves!



THE WORKS OF GARCILASSO.

ECLOGUES.

      _Dum sint volucres_, LASSE, _Cupidines,
      Dum cura dulcis, dum lachrymæ leves,
        Blandæque amatorum querelæ,
        Silvicolis amor et magistris;
      Vivent labores, et numeri tui,
      Dulcesque cantus; nec fuga temporis
        Obliviosi, nec profani
        Vis rapiet violenta Fati:
      Sive è supremis axibus ætheris
      Nos triste vulgus despicis, aureâ
      Seu fistulâ doces Elisam
        Elysias resonare sylvas._



[Illustration]

ECLOGUE I. TO DON PEDRO DE TOLEDO, VICEROY OF NAPLES.


SALICIO, NEMOROSO.

      The sweet lament of two Castilian swains,
      Salicio's love and Nemoroso's tears,
      In sympathy I sing, to whose loved strains
      Their flocks, of food forgetful, crowding round,
      Were most attentive: Pride of Spanish peers!
      Who, by thy splendid deeds, hast gained a name
      And rank on earth unrivalled,--whether crowned
      With cares, ALVANO, wielding now the rod
      Of empire, now the dreadful bolts that tame
      Strong kings, in motion to the trumpet's sound,
      Express vicegerent of the Thracian God;
      Or whether, from the cumbrous burden freed
      Of state affairs, thou seek'st the echoing plain,
      Chasing, upon thy spirited fleet steed,
      The trembling stag that bounds abroad, in vain
      Lengthening out life,--though deeply now engrossed
      By cares, I hope, so soon as I regain
      The leisure I have lost,
      To celebrate, with my recording quill,
      Thy virtues and brave deeds, a starry sum,
      Ere grief, or age, or silent death turn chill
      My poesy's warm pulse, and I become
      Nothing to thee, whose worth the nations blaze,
      Failing thy sight, and songless in thy praise.
      But till that day, predestined by the Muse,
      Appears to cancel the memorial dues
      Owed to thy glory and renown--a claim
      Not only upon me, but which belongs
      To all fine spirits that transmit to fame
      Ennobling deeds in monumental songs,--
      Let the green laurel whose victorious boughs
      Clasp in endearment thine illustrious brows,
      To the weak ivy give permissive place,
      Which, rooted in thy shade, thou first of trees,
      May hope by slow degrees
      To tower aloft, supported by thy praise;
      Since Time to thee sublimer strains shall bring,
      Hark to my shepherds, as they sit and sing.
        The sun, from rosy billows risen, had rayed
      With gold the mountain tops, when at the foot
      Of a tall beech romantic, whose green shade
      Fell on a brook, that, sweet-voiced as a lute,
      Through lively pastures wound its sparkling way,
      Sad on the daisied turf Salicio lay;
      And with a voice in concord to the sound
      Of all the many winds, and waters round,
      As o'er the mossy stones they swiftly stole,
      Poured forth in melancholy song his soul
      Of sorrow with a fall
      So sweet, and aye so mildly musical,
      None could have thought that she whose seeming guile
      Had caused his anguish, absent was the while,
      But that in very deed the unhappy youth
      Did, face to face, upbraid her questioned truth.

SALICIO.

      More hard than marble to my mild complaints,
      And to the lively flame with which I glow,
      Cold, Galatea, cold as winter snow!
      I feel that I must die, my spirit faints,
      And dreads continuing life; for, alienate
      From thee, life sinks into a weary weight,
      To be shook off with pleasure; from all eyes
      I shrink, ev'n from myself despised I turn,
      And left by her for whom alone I yearn,
      My cheek is tinged with crimson; heart of ice!
      Dost thou the worshipped mistress scorn to be
      Of one whose cherished guest thou ever art;
      Not being able for an hour to free
      Thine image from my heart?
      This dost thou scorn? in gentleness of woe
      Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
        The sun shoots forth the arrows of his light
      O'er hills and valleys, wakening to fresh birth
      The birds, and animals, and tribes of earth,
      That through the crystal air pursue their flight,
      That o'er the verdant vale and craggy height
      In perfect liberty and safety feed,
      That with the present sun afresh proceed
      To the due toils of life,
      As their own wants or inclinations lead;
      This wretched spirit is alone at strife
      With peace, in tears at eve, in tears when bright
      The morning breaks; in gentleness of woe,
      Flow forth my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
        And thou, without one pensive memory
      Of this my life, without the slightest sign
      Of pity for my pangs, dost thou consign
      To the stray winds, ungrateful, every tie
      Of love and faith, which thou didst vow should be
      Locked in thy soul eternally for me?
      Oh righteous Gods! if from on high ye view
      This false, this perjured maid
      Work the destruction of a friend so true,
      Why leave her crime of justice unrepaid?
      Dying I am with hopeless, sharp concern;
      If to tried friendship this is the return
      She makes, with what will she requite her foe?
      Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
        Through thee the silence of the shaded glen,
      Through thee the horror of the lonely mountain
      Pleased me no less than the resort of men;
      The breeze, the summer wood, and lucid fountain,
      The purple rose, white lily of the lake,
      Were sweet for thy sweet sake;
      For thee the fragrant primrose, dropt with dew,
      Was wished when first it blew!
      Oh how completely was I in all this
      Myself deceiving! oh the different part
      That thou wert acting, covering with a kiss
      Of seeming love, the traitor in thy heart!
      This my severe misfortune, long ago,
      Did the soothsaying raven, sailing by
      On the black storm, with hoarse sinister cry,
      Clearly presage; in gentleness of woe,
      Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
        How oft, when slumbering in the forest brown,
      (Deeming it Fancy's mystical deceit,)
      Have I beheld my fate in dreams foreshown!
      One day, methought that from the noontide heat
      I drove my flocks to drink of Tagus' flood,
      And, under curtain of its bordering wood,
      Take my cool siesta; but, arrived, the stream,
      I know not by what magic, changed its track,
      And in new channels, by an unused way,
      Rolled its warped waters back;
      Whilst I, scorched, melting with the heat extreme,
      Went ever following in their flight, astray,
      The wizard waves; in gentleness of woe,
      Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
        In the charmed ear of what beloved youth
      Sounds thy sweet voice? on whom revolvest thou
      Thy beautiful blue eyes? on whose proved truth
      Anchors thy broken faith? who presses now
      Thy laughing lip, and hopes thy heaven of charms,
      Locked in the' embraces of thy two white arms?
      Say thou, for whom hast thou so rudely left
      My love, or stolen, who triumphs in the theft?
      I have not yet a bosom so untrue
      To feeling, nor a heart of stone, to view
      My darling ivy, torn from me, take root
      Against another wall or prosperous pine,
      To see my virgin vine
      Around another elm in marriage hang
      Its curling tendrils and empurpled fruit,
      Without the torture of a jealous pang,
      Ev'n to the loss of life; in gentle woe,
      Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
        What may not now be looked for to take place
      In any certain or uncertain case?
      What are too adverse now to join, too wild
      For love to fear, too dissonant to agree?
      What faith is too secure to be beguiled?
      Matter for all thus being given by thee.
      A signal proof didst thou, when, rude and cold,
      Thou left'st my bleeding heart to break, present
      To all loved youths and maids
      Whom heaven in its blue beauty overshades,
      That ev'n the most secure have cause to fear
      The loss of that which they as sweet or dear
      Cherish the most; in gentleness of woe,
      Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
        Thou hast giv'n room for hope that now the mind
      May work impossibilities most strange,
      And jarring natures in concordance bind;
      Transferring thus from me to him thy hand
      And fickle heart in such swift interchange,
      As ever must be voiced from land to land.
      Now let mild lambs in nuptial fondness range
      With savage wolves from forest brake to brake;
      Now let the subtle snake
      In curled caresses nest with simple doves,
      Harming them not, for in your ghastly loves
      Difference is yet more great; in gentle woe,
      Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
        My dairies always with new milk abound,
      Summer and winter, all my vats run o'er
      With richest creams, and my superfluous store
      Of cheese and butter is afar renowned;
      With as sweet songs have I amused thine ear
      As could the Mantuan Tityrus of yore,
      And more to be admired; nor am I, dear,
      If well observed, or so uncouth or grim,
      For in the watery looking-glass below
      My image I can see--a shape and face
      I surely never would exchange with him
      Who joys in my disgrace;
      My fate I might exchange; in gentle woe,
      Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
        How have I fallen in such contempt, how grown
      So suddenly detested, or in what
      Attentions have I failed thee? wert thou not
      Under the power of some malignant spell,
      My worth and consequence were known too well;
      I should be held in pleasurable esteem,
      Nor left thus in divorce, alone--alone!
      Hast thou not heard, when fierce the Dogstar smites
      These plains with heat and drouth,
      What countless flocks to Cuenca's thymy heights
      Yearly I drive, and in the winter breme,
      To the warm valleys of the sheltering south?
      But what avails my wealth if I decay,
      And in perpetual sorrow weep away
      My years of youth! in gentleness of woe,
      Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
        Over my griefs the mossy stones relent
      Their natural durity, and break; the trees
      Bend down their weeping boughs without a breeze,
      And full of tenderness, the listening birds,
      Warbling in different notes, with me lament,
      And warbling prophesy my death; the herds
      That in the green meads hang their heads at eve,
      Wearied, and worn, and faint,
      The necessary sweets of slumber leave,
      And low, and listen to my wild complaint.
      Thou only steel'st thy bosom to my cries,
      Not ev'n once rolling thine angelic eyes
      On him thy harshness kills; in gentle woe,
      Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
        But though thou wilt not come for my sad sake,
      Leave not the landscape thou hast held so dear;
      Thou may'st come freely now, without the fear
      Of meeting me, for though my heart should break,
      Where late forsaken I will now forsake.
      Come then, if this alone detains thee, here
      Are meadows full of verdure, myrtles, bays,
      Woodlands, and lawns, and running waters clear,
      Beloved in other days,
      To which, bedewed with many a bitter tear,
      I sing my last of lays.
      These scenes perhaps, when I am far removed,
      At ease thou wilt frequent
      With him who rifled me of all I loved;
      Enough! my strength is spent;
      And leaving thee in his desired embrace,
      It is not much to leave him this sweet place.
        Here ceased the youth his Doric madrigal,
      And sighing, with his last laments let fall
      A shower of tears; the solemn mountains round,
      Indulgent of his sorrow, tossed the sound
      Melodious from romantic steep to steep,
      In mild responses deep;
      Sweet Echo, starting from her couch of moss,
      Lengthened the dirge, and tenderest Philomel,
      As pierced with grief and pity at his loss,
      Warbled divine reply, nor seemed to trill
      Less than Jove's nectar from her mournful bill.
      What Nemoroso sang in sequel, tell
      Ye, sweet-voiced Sirens of the sacred hill!
      Too high the strain, too weak my groveling reed,
      For me to dare proceed.

NEMOROSO.

      Smooth-sliding waters, pure and crystalline!
      Trees, that reflect your image in their breast!
      Green pastures, full of fountains and fresh shades!
      Birds, that here scatter your sweet serenades!
      Mosses, and reverend ivies serpentine,
      That wreathe your verdurous arms round beech and pine,
      And, climbing, crown their crest!
      Can I forget, ere grief my spirit changed,
      With what delicious ease and pure content
      Your peace I wooed, your solitudes I ranged,
      Enchanted and refreshed where'er I went!
      How many blissful noons I here have spent
      In luxury of slumber, couched on flowers,
      And with my own fond fancies, from a boy,
      Discoursed away the hours,
      Discovering nought in your delightful bowers,
      But golden dreams, and memories fraught with joy!
        And in this very valley where I now
      Grow sad, and droop, and languish, have I lain
      At ease, with happy heart and placid brow;
      Oh pleasure fragile, fugitive, and vain!
      Here, I remember, waking once at noon,
      I saw Eliza standing at my side;
      Oh cruel fate! oh finespun web, too soon
      By Death's sharp scissors clipt! sweet, suffering bride,
      In womanhood's most interesting prime,
      Cut off, before thy time!
      How much more suited had his surly stroke
      Been to the strong thread of my weary life!
      Stronger than steel, since in the parting strife
      From thee, it has not broke.
        Where are the eloquent mild eyes that drew
      My heart where'er they wandered? where the hand,
      White, delicate, and pure as melting dew,
      Filled with the spoils that, proud of thy command,
      My feelings paid in tribute? the bright hair
      That paled the shining gold, that did contemn
      The glorious opal as a meaner gem,
      The bosom's ivory apples, where, ah where?
      Where now the neck, to whiteness overwrought,
      That like a column with genteelest scorn
      Sustained the golden dome of virtuous thought?
      Gone! ah, for ever gone
      To the chill, desolate, and dreary pall,
      And mine the grief--the wormwood and the gall!
        Who would have said, my love, when late through this
      Romantic valley, we from bower to bower
      Went gathering violets and primroses,
      That I should see the melancholy hour
      So soon arrive that was to end my bliss,
      And of my love destroy both fruit and flower?
      Heaven on my head has laid a heavy hand;
      Sentencing, without hope, without appeal,
      To loneliness and ever-during tears
      The joyless remnant of my future years;
      But that which most I feel,
      Is to behold myself obliged to bear
      This condemnation to a life of care;
      Lone, blind, forsaken, under sorrow's spell,
      A gloomy captive in a gloomy cell.
        Since thou hast left us, fulness, rest, and peace
      Have failed the starveling flocks; the field supplies
      To the toiled hind but pitiful increase;
      All blessings change to ills; the clinging weed
      Chokes the thin corn, and in its stead arise
      Pernicious darnel, and the fruitless reed.
      The enamelled earth, that from her verdant breast
      Lavished spontaneously ambrosial flowers,
      The very sight of which can soothe to rest
      A thousand cares, and charm our sweetest hours,
      That late indulgence of her bounty scorns,
      And in exchange shoots forth but tangled bowers,
      But brambles rough with thorns;
      Whilst with the tears that falling steep their root,
      My swollen eyes increase the bitter fruit.
        As at the set of sun the shades extend,
      And when its circle sinks, that dark obscure
      Rises to shroud the world, on which attend
      The images that set our hair on end,
      Silence, and shapes mysterious as the grave;
      Till the broad sun sheds once more from the wave
      His lively lustre, beautiful and pure:
      Such shapes were in the night, and such ill gloom
      At thy departure; still tormenting fear
      Haunts, and must haunt me, until death shall doom
      The so much wished-for sun to re-appear
      Of thine angelic face, my soul to cheer,
      Resurgent from the tomb.
        As the sad nightingale in some green wood,
      Closely embowered, the cruel hind arraigns
      Who from their pleasant nest her plumeless brood
      Has stolen, whilst she with pains
      Winged the wide forest for their food, and now
      Fluttering with joy, returns to the loved bough,
      The bough, where nought remains:
      Dying with passion and desire, she flings
      A thousand concords from her various bill,
      Till the whole melancholy woodland rings
      With gurglings sweet, or with philippics shrill.
      Throughout the silent night she not refrains
      Her piercing note, and her pathetic cry,
      But calls, as witness to her wrongs and pains,
      The listening stars and the responding sky.
        So I in mournful song pour forth my pain;
      So I lament,--lament, alas, in vain--
      The cruelty of death! untaught to spare,
      The ruthless spoiler ravished from my breast
      Each pledge of happiness and joy, that there
      Had its beloved home and nuptial nest.
      Swift-seizing death! through thy despite I fill
      The whole world with my passionate lament,
      Impórtuning the skies and valleys shrill
      My tale of wrongs to echo and resent.
      A grief so vast no consolation knows,
      Ne'er can the agony my brain forsake,
      Till suffering consciousness in frenzy close,
      Or till the shattered chords of being break.
        Poor, lost Eliza! of thy locks of gold,
      One treasured ringlet in white silk I keep
      For ever at my heart, which, when unrolled,
      Fresh grief and pity o'er my spirit creep;
      And my insatiate eyes, for hours untold,
      O'er the dear pledge will, like an infant's, weep:
      With sighs more warm than fire anon I dry
      The tears from off it, number one by one
      The radiant hairs, and with a love-knot tie;
      Mine eyes, this duty done,
      Give over weeping, and with slight relief
      I taste a short forgetfulness of grief.
        But soon, with all its first-felt horrors fraught,
      That gloomy night returns upon my brain,
      Which ever wrings my spirit with the thought
      Of my deep loss, and thine unaided pain;
      Ev'n now, I seem to see thee pale recline
      In thy most trying crisis, and to hear
      The plaintive murmurs of that voice divine,
      Whose tones might touch the ear
      Of blustering winds, and silence their dispute;
      That gentle voice (now mute)
      Which to the merciless Lucina prayed,
      In utter agony, for aid--for aid!
      Alas, for thine appeal! Discourteous power,
      Where wert thou gone in that momentous hour?
        Or wert thou in the grey woods hunting deer?
      Or with thy shepherd boy entranced? Could aught
      Palliate thy rigorous cruelty, to turn
      Away thy scornful, cold, indifferent ear
      From my moist prayers, by no affliction moved,
      And sentence one, so beauteous and beloved,
      To the funereal urn!
      Oh, not to mark the throes
      Thy Nemoroso suffered, whose concern
      It ever was, when pale the morning rose,
      To drive the mountain beasts into his toils,
      And on thy holy altars heap the spoils;
      And thou, ungrateful! smiling with delight,
      Could'st leave my nymph to die before my sight.
        Divine Eliza! since the sapphire sky
      Thou measurest now on angel-wings, and feet
      Sandalled with immortality, oh why
      Of me forgetful? Wherefore not entreat
      To hurry on the time when I shall see
      The veil of mortal being rent in twain,
      And smile that I am free?
      In the third circle of that happy land,
      Shall we not seek together, hand in hand,
      Another lovelier landscape, a new plain,
      Other romantic streams and mountains blue,
      Fresh flowery vales, and a new shady shore,
      Where I may rest, and ever in my view
      Keep thee, without the terror and surprise
      Of being sundered more!
        Ne'er had the shepherds ceased these songs, to which
      The hills alone gave ear, had they not seen
      The sun in clouds of gold and crimson rich
      Descend, and twilight sadden o'er the green;
      But noting now, how rapidly the night
      Rushed from the hills, admonishing to rest,
      The sad musicians, by the blushful light
      Of lingering Hesperus, themselves addressed
      To fold their flocks, and step by step withdrew,
      Through bowery lawns and pastures wet with dew.



[Illustration]

ECLOGUE II.


SILVA I.

ALBANIO. SALICIO.

ALBANIO.

      Temperate, when winter waves its snowy wing,
      Is the sweet water of this sylvan spring;
      And when the heats of summer scorch the grass,
      More cold than snow: in your clear looking-glass,
      Fair waves! the memory of that day returns,
      With which my soul still shivers, melts, and burns;
      Gazing on your clear depth and lustre pure,
      My peace grows troubled, and my joy obscure;
      Recovering you, I lose all self-content:
      To whom, alas, could equal pains be sent!
      Scenes that would soothe another's pangs to peace,
      Add force to mine, or soothe but to increase.
      This lucid fount, whose murmurs fill the mind,
      The verdant forests waving with the wind,
      The odours wafted from the mead, the flowers
      In which the wild bee sits and sings for hours,
      These might the moodiest misanthrope employ,
      Make sound the sick, and turn distress to joy;
      I only in this waste of sweetness pine
      To death! oh beauty, rising to divine!
      Oh curls of gold! oh eyes that laughed with light!
      Oh swanlike neck! oh hand as ivory white!
      How could an hour so mournful ever rise
      To change a life so blest to tears and sighs,
      Such glittering treasures into dust! I range
      From place to place, and think, perhaps the change,
      The change may partly temper and control
      The ceaseless flame that thus consumes my soul.
      Deceitful thought! as though so sharp a smart
      By my departure must itself depart:
      Poor languid limbs, the grief is but too deep
      That tires you out! Oh that I could but sleep
      Here for awhile! the heart awake to pain,
      Perchance in slumbers and calm dreams might gain
      Glimpse of the peace with which it pants to meet,
      Though false as fair, and fugitive as sweet.
      Then, amiable kind Sleep, descend, descend!
      To thee my wearied spirit I commend.

SALICIO.

            How highly he may rate
            His fortunate estate,
        Who, to the sweets of solitude resigned,
            Lives lightly loose from care,
            At distance from the snare
        Of what encumbers and disturbs the mind!
            He sees no thronged parade,
            No pompous colonnade
        Of proud grandees, nor greedy flatterers vile,
            Ambitious each to sport
            In sunshine of a court;
        He is not forced to fawn, to sue, to smile,
        To feign, to watch of power each veering sign,
      Noticed to dread neglect, neglected to repine.
            But, in calm idlesse laid
            Supine in the cool shade
        Of oak or ilex, beech or pendant pine,
            Sees his flocks feeding stray,
            Whitening a length of way,
        Or numbers up his homeward-tending kine:
            Store of rich silks unrolled,
            Fine silver, glittering gold,
        To him seem dross, base, worthless, and impure;
            He holds them in such hate,
            That with their cumbrous weight
        He would not fancy he could live secure;
        And thinking this, does wisely still maintain
      His independent ease, and shuns the shining bane.
            Him to soft slumbers call
            The babbling brooks, the fall
        Of silver fountains, and the unstudied hymns
            Of cageless birds, whose throats
            Pour forth the sweetest notes;
        Shrill through the crystal air the music swims;
            To which the humming bee
            Keeps ceaseless company,
        Flying solicitous from flower to flower,
            Tasting each sweet that dwells
            Within their scented bells;
        Whilst the wind sways the forest, bower on bower,
        That evermore, in drowsy murmurs deep,
      Sings in the silent ear, and aids descending sleep.
        Who breathes so loud? 'Tis strange I see him not;
      Oh, there he lies, in that sequestered spot!
      Thrice happy you, who thus, when troubles tire,
      Relax the chords of thought, or of desire!
      How finished, Nature, are thy works! neglect
      Left nought in them to add to, or perfect.
      Heightening our joy, diminishing our grief,
      Sleep is thy gift, and given for our relief;
      That at our joyous waking we might find
      More health of body and repose of mind:
      Refreshed we rise from that still pause of strife,
      And with new relish taste the sweets of life.
      When wearied out with care, sleep, settling calm,
      Drops on our dewless lids her soothing balm,
      Stilling the torn heart's agonizing throes,
      From that brief quiet, that serene repose,
      Fresh spirit we inspire, fresh comfort share,
      And with new vigour run the race of care.
      I on his dreams will gently steal, and see
      If I the shepherd know, and if he be
      Of the unhappy or contented class:
      Is it Albanio slumbering there? Alas
      The unhappy boy! Albanio, of a truth;
      Sleep on, poor wearied, and afflicted youth!
      How much more free do I esteem the dead,
      Who, from all mortal storms escaped, is led
      Safe into port, than he who living here,
      So noble once, and lively in his cheer,
      Cast by stern fortune from his glorious height,
      Has bid a long, long farewell to delight!
      He, though now stript of peace, and most distressed,
      Was once, they say, most blissful of the blest,
      In amorous pledges rich; the change how great!
      I know not well the secret of his fate;
      Lycid, who knew the tale, sometime ago
      Told me a part, but much remains to know.

ALBANIO.

      Is it a dream? or do I surely clasp
      Her gentle hand, that answers grasp for grasp?
      'Tis mockery all! how madly I believed
      The flatterer sleep, and how am I deceived!
      On swift wings rustling through the ivory door,
      The vision flies, and leaves me as before,
      Stretched lonely here; is't not enough, I bear
      This grievous weight, the living soul's despair;
      Or, to say truly, this uncertain strife,
      And daily death of oft-renewing life!

SALICIO.

      Albanio, cease thy weeping, which to see,
      Grieves me.

ALBANIO.

      Who witnesses my weeping?

SALICIO.

                                            He
      Who by partaking will assuage the smart.

ALBANIO.

      Thou, my Salicio? Ah, thy gentle heart
      And company in every strait could bring
      Sweet solace, once; now, 'tis a different thing.

SALICIO.

      Part of thy woes from Lycid I have heard,
      Who here was present when the' event occurred;
      Its actual cause he knew not, but surmised
      The evil such, that it were best disguised.
      I, as thou know'st, was in the city, bent
      On travelling then, and only heard the' event
      On my return; but now, I pray relate,
      If not too painful, specially, the date,
      The author, cause, and process of thy grief,
      Which thus divided will find some relief.

ALBANIO.

      Relief is certain with a friend so sure,
      When such the sickness as admits of cure;
      But this, this pierces to my marrow! Still,
      Our shared pursuits by fountain, grove, and hill,
      And our vowed friendship to thy wishes win
      My else-sealed lips;--yet, how shall I begin?
      My soul, my brain, with clouds is overcast,
      At but the mere remembrance of the past--
      The alarm, the mortal wound, the sudden pain,
      Then every earlier feeling felt again,
      Linked with the blighted present, all prevail,
      And, like a spectre, scare me from the tale.
      But yet, methinks, 'twere wisdom to obey,
      Lay bare the wound, and sorrowing bleed away
      From anguish and from life; and thus, dear friend,
      From the commencement to the fatal end,
      My woes will I relate, without disguise,
      Though the sad tale my soul reluctant flies.
      Well have I loved, well shall love, whilst the ray
      Of life celestial lights this coil of clay,
      The maid for whom I die! No free-will choice,
      No thoughtless chase at Folly's calling voice
      Led me to love, nor, oft as others aim,
      With flattering fancies did I feed the flame;
      But from my tenderest infancy, perforce,
      Some fatal star inclined me to its course.
      Thou know'st a maiden, beautiful and young,
      From my own ancestors remotely sprung,
      Lovelier than Love himself; in infancy
      Vowed to Diana of the woods, with glee,
      Amidst them, skilled the sylvan war to wage,
      She passed the rosy April of her age:
      I, who from night till morning, and from morn
      Till night, to challenge of the sprightly horn,
      Followed the inspiring chase without fatigue,
      Came by degrees in such familiar league
      With her, by like pursuits and tastes allied,
      I could not stir an instant from her side.
      Hour after hour this union stricter grew,
      Joined with emotions precious, pure, and new:
      What tangled mountain has been left untraced
      By our swift feet? What heath, or leafy waste
      Of forests, has not heard our hunting cry?
      What babbling echo not been tired thereby?
      Ever with liberal hands, when ceased our toils,
      To the chaste patron who decreed our spoils,
      We heaped the holy altars, talking o'er
      Past risks, now offering of the grisly boar
      The grim and tusked head, and nailing now
      The stag's proud antlers on the sacred bough
      Of some tall pine; and thus when evening burned,
      With grateful, happy hearts, we home returned;
      And when we shared the quarry, never went
      From us one word or look of discontent.
      Hunting of all kinds charmed, but that the most
      Of simple birds, snared ever with least cost
      Of toil; and when desired Aurora showed
      Her rosy cheeks, and locks like gold that glowed,
      With dew impearling all the forest flowers,
      Away we passed to unfrequented bowers,
      In the most secret valley we could find,
      Shut from the tread and talk of humankind;
      Then, binding to two lofty trees, unseen,
      Our tinctured webs of very perfect green,
      Our voices hushed, our steps as midnight still,
      We netted off the vale from hill to hill;
      Then, fetching a small compass, by degrees
      We turned toward the snares, and shook the trees,
      And stormed the shadiest nooks with shout and sling,
      Till the whole wood was rustling on the wing:
      Blackbirds, larks, goldfinches, before us flew,
      Distracted, scared, not knowing what to do.
      Who shunned the less, the greater evil met,
      Confusedly taken in the painted net;
      And curious then it was to hear them speak
      Their griefs with doleful cry and piercing shriek;
      Some--for the swarms were countless--you might see
      Fluttering their wings and striving to get free,
      Whilst others, far from showing signs of rage,
      In dumb affliction drooped about the cage;
      Till, drawing tight the cords, proud of the prey
      Borne at our backs, we took our homeward way.
      But when moist autumn came, and yellow fell
      The wild-wood leaves round bowerless Philomel;
      When August heats were past, a different sport,
      But no less idle, we were wont to court,
      To pass the day with joy; then, well you know,
      Black clouds of starlings circle to and fro:
      Mark now the craft that we employed to snare
      These birds that go through unobstructed air.
      One straggler first from their vast companies,
      Alive we captured, which was done with ease;
      Next, to its foot a long limed thread we tied,
      And when the passing squadron we descried,
      Aloft we tossed it; instantly it mixed
      Amongst the rest, and our success was fixed;
      For soon, as many as the tangling string,
      Or by the head, or leg, or neck, or wing,
      In its aërial voyage twined around,
      Flagged in their strength, and fell towards the ground,
      Yet not without long strugglings in their flight,
      Much to their mischief, and to our delight.
      Useless to it was the prophetic croak
      Of the black rook in the umbrageous oak;
      When one of them alive, as oft occurred,
      Fell in our hands, we made the captive bird
      Decoy to many a captive; to a plain
      Spacious, and sowed perchance with winter grain,
      Where flocks of rooks in company resort,
      Our prize we took, and instant to the sport.
      By the extreme points of its wings, to ground,
      But without breaking them, the bird we bound;
      Then followed what you scarce conceive; it stood
      With eyes turned upward, in the attitude
      Of one that contemplates the stars; from sight
      Meanwhile we drew, when, frantic with affright,
      It pierced the air with loud, distressful cries,
      And summoned down its brethren from the skies.
      Instant a swift swarm which no tongue could name,
      Flew to its aid, and round it stalking came.
      One, of its fellow's doom more piteous grown
      Than cautious or considerate of its own,
      Drew close--and on the first exertion made,
      With death or sad captivity it paid
      For its simplicity; the pinioned rook
      So fast clung to it with the grappling-hook
      Of its strong claws, that without special leave
      It could not part: now you may well conceive
      What our amusement was to see the twain,
      That to break loose and this fresh aid to gain,
      Wrestling engage; the quarrel did not cool
      Till finished by our hand, and the poor fool
      Was left at mournful leisure to repent
      Of the vain help its thoughtless pity lent.
      What would'st thou say, if, standing centinel
      With upraised leg when midnight shadows fell,
      The crane was snared betwixt us? Of no use
      Was its sagacious caution to the goose,
      Or its perpetual fame for second-sight
      Against the snares and stratagems of night.
      Nought could its strength or sleight at swimming save
      The white swan, dwelling on the pathless wave,
      Lest it by fire, like Phaëton, should die,
      For whom its shrill voice yet upbraids the sky.
      And thou, sad partridge, think'st thou that to flee
      Straight from the copse secures thy life to thee?
      Thy fall is in the stubble! On no bird,
      No beast, had nature for defence conferred
      Such cunning, but that by the net or shaft
      It fell, subdued by our superior craft.
      But were I each particular to tell
      Of this delightful life, the vesper bell
      Would sound ere it was done: enough to know
      That this fond friendship, this divine-faced foe,
      So pure from passion, undisturbed by fears,
      To different colour changed my rising years.
      My ill star shone; the spirit of unrest,
      And love, excessive love, my soul possessed;
      So deep, so absolute, I no more knew
      Myself, but doubted if the change were true.
      Then first I felt to mingle with the stir
      Of sweet sensations in beholding her,
      Fearful desires that on their ardent wings
      Raised me to hope impracticable things.
      Pain for her absence was not now a pain,
      Nor even an anguish brooding in the brain,
      But torment keen as death--the ceaseless smart
      Of fire close raging in the naked heart.
      To this sad pass I gradually was brought
      By my ill star, and ne'er could I have thought
      Its baneful power reached farther, were it not
      Proved but too surely by my present lot,
      That, when compared with these, my former woes
      Might be considered as a sweet repose.
      But here 'tis fit the hated tale that swells
      My soul with grief, and thrills the tongue that tells,
      Should find a close, nor sadden, though it sears
      Albanio's memory, kind Salicio's ears.
      Few words will speak the rest;--one hour, but one--
      Wrecked my last joy, and left me quite undone.

SALICIO.

      If, my dear friend, you spoke with one who ne'er
      Had felt the dangerous flame, the restless care,
      The bitter-sweets of love which thus you feel,
      Wisdom it were the sequel to conceal:
      But if I share the sorrows of thy breast,
      Why as a stranger hide from me the rest?
      Think'st thou that I on my part do not prove
      This living death, this agony of love?
      If skilled experience should not wholly end
      Thy heavy grief, the pity of a friend,
      Himself sore wounded by the marksman's dart,
      Will fail not to at least assuage the smart.
      Since, then, I candidly disclose my share
      In such concerns (and even yet I bear
      Marks of the arrow), it is quite unkind
      To be so shy: whilst thou hast life, thy mind
      Should cherish hope; I may, as Love's high priest,
      Counsel some cure, or weep with thee at least.
      No harm can come from subjecting thine ear
      To the kind counsels of a friend sincere.

ALBANIO.

      Thou would'st that I should fruitlessly contend
      With one who must o'ercome me in the end.
      Love wills my silence, nor can I commence
      The tale requested without great offence:
      Love chains my tongue, and thus--indeed, indeed--
      Spare me, I feel that I must not proceed.

SALICIO.

      What obstacle forbids thee to reveal
      This ill to one who surely hopes to heal
      In part the wound?

ALBANIO.

                         Love, love that doth deny
      All comfort,--Love desires that I should die;
      Knowing too well that for a little while
      The mere relation would my grief beguile,
      More swiftly to destroy, the God unjust
      Has now deprived my bosom of the gust
      Which late it had, to candidly avow,
      And thus conclude its sorrows; so that now
      It neither does become thy truth to seek
      For farther knowledge, nor myself to speak,--
      Myself, whom fortune has alone distressed,
      And who alone in dying look for rest.

SALICIO.

      Who is so barbarous to himself as e'er
      To' entrust his person to a murderer's care,
      His treasures to the spoiler! Can it be,
      That without discomposure thou canst see
      Love make in frolic, for a flight of skill,
      Thy very tongue the puppet of his will?

ALBANIO.

      Salicio, cease this language; curb thy tongue;
      I feel the grief, the insult, and the wrong:
      Whence these fine words? what schoolman did commit
      To thee this pomp of philosophic wit,
      A shepherd of the hills? with what light cheer
      The careless lip can learn to be severe,
      And oh, how easily a heart at ease
      Can counsel sickness to throw off disease!

SALICIO.

      I counselled nothing that deserved to call
      An answer from thee of such scorn and gall:
      Merely I asked thee--ask thee to relate
      What it is makes thee so disconsolate.
      I shared thy joy, and can I fail to be
      Touched with thy grief? be free with me, be free.

ALBANIO.

      Since I no longer can the point contest,
      Be satisfied--I will relate the rest;
      One promise given, that when the tale is done,
      Thou wilt depart, and leave me quite alone;
      Leave me alone, to weep, as eve declines,
      My fatal loss amid these oaks and pines.

SALICIO.

      Well! though thy wisdom I cannot commend,
      I will prove more a fond than faithful friend;
      Will quit the place, and leave thee to thy woes:

ALBANIO.

      Now then, Salicio, hear what I disclose;
      And you, the Dryads of this leafy grove,
      Where'er you be, attend my tale of love!
        I have already told the prosperous part,
      And if in peace I could have fixed my heart,
      How happy had I been; but the desire,
      The constant striving to conceal my fire
      From her, alas! whose sweet and gentle breath
      But fanned it, brought me to the gates of death.
      A thousand times she begged, implored to know
      What secret something vexed my spirit so;
      In my pale aspect she too plainly read
      Grief of some sort, and gaiety was fled;
      Thus would she say, thus sue to me, but sighs
      And tears of anguish were my sole replies.
      One afternoon, returning from the chase
      Fatigued and fevered, in the sweetest place
      Of this wide forest, even where now we sit,
      We both resolved our toil to intermit.
      Under the branches of this beech we flung
      Our limbs at ease, and our bent bows unstrung.
      Thus idly lying, we inspired with zest
      The sweet, fresh spirit breathing from the west.
      The flowers with which the mosses were inlaid,
      A rich diversity of hues displayed,
      And yielded scents as various; in the sun,
      Lucid as glass, this clear, shrill fountain shone,
      Revealing in its depth the sands like gold,
      And smooth, white pebbles whence its waters rolled;
      Nor goat, nor stag, nor hermit, nor the sound
      Of distant sheepbells, broke the stillness round.
      When with the water of the shaded pool
      We had assuaged our thirst, and grew more cool,
      She, who with kind solicitude still kept
      The' intent to know why I so often wept,
      With solemn prayers adjured me to confess
      The cause or object of my sore distress;
      And if 'twas love, not to be swayed by shame,
      But own it such, and write the lady's name;
      Vowing that as she always from her youth
      Had shown me an affection full of truth,
      So in this instance she with pure good-will
      Would aid my views, and prove a sister still.
      I, who no longer could my soul contain,
      Yet dared not openly the truth explain,
      Told her that in the fountain she might read
      Her name whose beauty made my bosom bleed.
      Her eager mind was instant on the wing,
      She rose, she ran, and looked into the spring,
      But seeing only her own face there, blushed
      With maiden shame, and from the water rushed,
      Swift as if touched with madness, not a look
      She deigned me, but her way disdainful took,
      And left me murmuring here, till life shall fail,
      My rash resolve for ever to bewail.
      My folly I accused--all, all engrossed
      In vain reflections on the' advantage lost.
      Thus grew my grief; thus fatally misled,
      What sighs did I not breathe, what tears not shed;
      For countless hours stretched here I lay, with eyes
      Rigidly fixed upon the vacant skies;
      And as one grief in hand another brought,
      The ceaseless tear, the phantasies of thought,
      The frequent swoon, remorse for felt offence,
      Regret, despair, the senselessness of sense,
      And a benumbing consciousness of pain
      Perpetual, almost, almost whirled my brain.
      I know not how I found my friends, nor what
      Led my stray footsteps homeward to my cot;
      I only know four suns had risen and past,
      Since fasting, sleepless, motionless, aghast,
      I had lain here; my herds too had been left
      All this long time, of wonted grass bereft;
      The calves that lately frisked it o'er the field,
      Finding their udders no refreshment yield,
      Lowing complained to the unheeding skies;
      The woods, alone considerate of their cries,
      Rebellowing loudly, gave back the lament,
      As though condoling with their discontent.
      These things yet moved me not; the many--all
      In fact, that now upon me came to call,
      Were frightened with my weeping; rumour led,
      And curious wonder, numbers to my shed;
      The shepherds, herdsmen, pruners of the vines,
      Anxious to serve me, with sincerest signs
      Of pity, pleaded, prayed me to declare
      The cause of my mad grief and deep despair;
      Stretched on the earth, to them my sole replies
      Were broken groans, fast tears, and fiery sighs;
      Or if at times I spoke, one answer came
      From my wild lips--the same, and still the same:
      "Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore,
      Soon will you sing, 'Albanio is no more!'
      This little comfort I at least shall have,
      Though I be laid within the wormy grave,
      Sad you will sing, 'Albanio is no more,'
      Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore!"
      The fifth night came: my ill star then inspired
      My brain to dare what had been long desired--
      The shuffling off life's load, and out I rushed
      With wild resolve--creation all was hushed;
      Through the dusk night I hurried to descry
      Some lonely spot where I might fitly die.
      As chance would have it, my faint footsteps drew
      To a high cliff which yet far off I knew,
      As pendant o'er the flood, scooped into caves
      By constant sapping of the restless waves.
      There, as I sate beneath an elm, o'erspent,
      A sudden ray returning memory lent:
      I once, with her, had to the neighbouring trees
      Come at midnoon to take the cooling breeze.
      On this my fancy fixed; the thought like balm
      Assuaged my frenzy, and I grew more calm.
      And now the dawn with roses had begun
      To pave the path of the resplendent sun,
      To which the green trees bowed, and, woke from rest,
      The smiling Ocean bared her heaving breast;
      When, as the melancholy swan, that feeling
      Life's latest anguish o'er her spirit stealing,
      Sings with her quivering bill and melting breath,
      Sad, but most sweet, the lullaby to death;
      So I, in equal pain and sickness lying,
      The immortal passing, and the mortal dying,
      Took my last farewell of the skies and sun,
      In passionate laments that thus might run:
      "Oh! fierce as Scythian bears in thy disdain,
      And as the howling of the stormy main
      Deaf to my plaints, come, conqueress, take thy prey,
      A wretched frame fast hastening to decay!
      I faint--I die, and thus will put an end
      To thy dislike; no longer shall offend
      The' enamoured breast where thy dear beauty lies,
      My mournful face, rash lips, or weeping eyes.
      Then thou, who in my lifetime scorned to move
      One step to comfort me, or even reprove,
      Stern to the last,--then thou wilt come, perchance,
      And as thine eyes on my cold relics glance,
      Repent thy rigour, and bewail my fate;
      But the slow succour will have come too late.
      Canst thou so soon my long, long love forget,
      And in a moment break without regret
      The bond of years? hast thou forgotten too
      Childhood's sweet sports, whence first my passion grew,
      When from the bowery ilex I shook down
      Its autumn fruit, which on the crag's high crown
      We tasted, sitting, chattering side by side?
      Who climbed trees swinging o'er the hoarse deep tide,
      And poured into thy lap, or at thy feet,
      Their kernelled nuts, the sweetest of the sweet?
      When did I ever place my foot within
      The flowery vale, brown wood, or dingle green,
      And culled not thousand odorous flowers to crest
      Thy golden curls, or breathe upon thy breast?
      You used to swear, when I was absent far,
      There was no brightness in the morning star,
      For you no sweetness in the noon's repose,
      Taste in the wave, nor fragrance in the rose.
      Whom do I wail to? Not a single word
      Is heard by her by whom it should be heard.
      Echo alone in pity deigns to hear me,
      And with her mimic answers strives to cheer me,
      Remembering sweet Narcissus, and the pain
      Which she herself endured from shy disdain;
      But ev'n kind Echo pity deems a fault,
      Nor stands revealed within her hollow vault.
      Spirits! if such there be, that take the care
      Of dying lovers, and attend their prayer,
      Or personal genius of my life! receive
      The words I utter, ere my soul takes leave
      Of its frail tenement! oh Dryades!
      Peculiar guardians of these verdant trees,
      And you, swift-swimming Naiads who reside
      In this my native river! from the tide
      Upraise your rosy heads, if there be one
      That sighs, and weeps, and loves as I have done;
      That I, white Goddesses, may have to say--
      Though my weak plaints and unmelodious lay
      Moved not one human eye to pitying tears,
      The mournful dirge could touch diviner ears.
      Oh fleet-foot Oreads of the hills! who go
      Chasing through chestnut groves the hart and roe,
      Leave wounding animals, draw near, and scan
      The last convulsions of a wounded man!
      And you, most gracious Maidens, that amid
      The night of woods till summer noons lie hid,
      Then, crowned with roses, issue from your oaks,
      Your white breasts covered with your golden locks;
      Sweet Hamadryads! hear my plaints forlorn,
      And if with angry Fate ye are not sworn
      Against me, to the causes of my death
      Give celebration and perpetual breath.
      Oh wolves! oh bears! that in the deep descents
      Of these o'ershaded caves to my laments
      Are listening now, as oft my flute could move
      Your shaggy ears, and lull you into love,
      Repose in peace! farewell each high-browed mountain!
      Green crofts, farewell! Adieu thou fatal fountain!
      Still waters, foaming streams, and you, ye strong
      Sonorous cataracts, farewell! live long,
      Long ages after me, and as ye sweep
      To pay rich tribute to the hoary deep,
      Oft sound my sad voice through the stony vales;
      Oft to the traveller tell autumnal tales
      Of him whose tuneful ditties charmed of old
      Your living waves, rejoicing as ye rolled;
      Who watered here his heifers, day by day,
      And crowned with wreaths of laurel and of bay,
      The brows of his strong bulls:"--and saying this,
      I rose, from that tremendous precipice
      To fling myself, and clambered up the hill
      With hasty strides, and a determined will;
      When lo! a blast sufficient to displace
      The huge sierra from its stable base,
      Arose and smote me to the earth, where long
      I lay astonished from a stroke so strong.
      But when at length I came to recollect,
      And on the marvel seriously reflect,
      I blamed my impious rashness, and the crime
      That sought to end before the destined time,
      By means so terrible, my life of grief,
      Though harsh, determinate, though bitter, brief.
      I have since then been steadily resigned
      To wait for death, when mercilessly kind
      It comes to free me from my pangs; and now,
      See how it comes! Though heav'n did not allow
      Me to find death, the assassin is left free
      To find, and shake his fatal dart o'er me.--
      I have now told thee the true cause, the cross
      Occurrence, pain, and process of my loss;
      Fulfil thy promise now, and if thou art
      Indeed my friend, as I believe, depart;
      Nor give disturbance to a grief so deep--
      Its only solace is the wish to weep.

SALICIO.

              On one point only now
              Would I remark, if thou
      Would'st not imagine it was meant to' advise;
              I'd ask thee, what can blind
              So utterly thy mind,
        And warp thy judgment in so strange a wise,
              As not at once to see
              Instinctively, that she
        Who so long charmed thee with her grateful smile,
              With, or without regret,
              Can never all forget
        Your past fond friendship in so short a while;
        How dost thou know but that she feels no less
      Grief for her own coy flight, than pain for thy distress?

ALBANIO.

              Cease, flattering sophist, cease
              This artificial peace,
        Nor with false comfort make my sufferings more;
              Or I, far, far exiled,
              Must seek some hideous wild
        Where human footstep never stamped the shore.
              She is entirely changed
              From what she was, estranged
        From all kind feelings; this too deemest thou,
             Howe'er thy lips unwise
             With rhetoric would disguise
        The fatal truth, or seem to disallow;
        But thy dear sophistry indulge alone,
      Or for more credulous ears reserve it; I am gone!

SALICIO.

              All hope of cure is vain,
              Till less he dreads the pain
        Of the physician's probe;--here then alone,
              Indulging his caprice,
              I'll leave him, till disease
        Has passed its raging crisis, and is grown
              More tractable, until
              The storm of a self-will
        So passing strong, has raved itself to rest:
              And to yon bower of birch
              I'll meanwhile pass, in search
        Of the sweet nightingale's secreted nest;
        And, beautiful Gravina, it shall be
      Thine for one rosy kiss: I know the ivied tree.

[Illustration]


ECLOGUE II.

SILVA II.

CAMILLA. ALBANIO. SALICIO. NEMOROSO.

CAMILLA.

      Echo the sound did much misrepresent,
      If this is not the way the roebuck went
      After 'twas struck; how swift it must have fled,
      And with what strength, considering how it bled!
      So deep the bearded shaft transfixed its side,
      That the white feather was alone descried;
      And now the search of what eludes my sight
      Tires me to death. It can't have stretched its flight
      Beyond this valley; it must surely be
      Here, and perhaps expiring! oh that she,
      My Lady of the Groves, would of her pack
      Lend me a hound to follow up the track,
      The whilst I sleep away the hours of heat
      Within these woods!--Oh visitants most sweet!
      Fresh, amorous, gentle, flavourous breezes, blow
      In deeper gusts, and break this burning glow
      Of the meridian sun! at length, I pass
      My naked soles upon the cold green grass;
      Thy sylvan toils this raging noon commit
      To men, Diana, whom they best befit!
      For once I dare thy horn to disobey;
      Thy favourite chase has cost me dear to-day.
      Ah my sweet fountain! from what paradise
      Hast thou too cast me by a mere surprise?
      Know'st thou, clear mirror, what thy glass has done?
      Driven from me the delightful face of one,
      Whose kind society and faith approved
      I now no less desire than then I loved,
      But not as he supposed; God grant that first
      Her heart may break, ere vowed Camilla burst
      The virgin band that binds her with the maids
      Of dear Diana, and her sacred shades!
      With what reluctance thought renews the sense
      Of this sad history, but the youth's offence
      Exculpates me; if of his absence I
      Were the prime cause, I would most willingly
      Myself condemn, but he, I recollect,
      Both wilful was, and wanting in respect.
      But why afflict myself for this? I yet
      Would live contented, and the boy forget.--
      These clear cool springs a lulling murmur make,
      Here will I lie, and my sweet siesta take;
      And when the sultry noon is over, go
      Again in search of my rebellious roe:
      Still 'tis a mystery and surprise to me
      With such a wound how it so far could flee!

ALBANIO.

      Methought, or frolic fancy must delight
      With false presentments to deceive my sight,
      I saw a wood-nymph, gliding through the groves,
      Reach the near fountain; haply, if she loves,
      She may advise me of some charm, may name
      Some dear deceit to ease this painful flame:
      No given advice but aggravates my grief,
      If 'tis in discord with my own belief,
      And to the hopeless harm can none accrue:
      Oh holy Gods! what is it that I view?
      Is it a phantom changed into the form
      Of her whose beauty makes my blood run warm?
      No, 'tis herself, Camilla, sleeping here;
      It must be she--her beauty makes it clear!
      But one such wonder Nature wished to make,
      Then broke the die for admiration's sake.
      How could I then suppose her not the same,
      When Nature's self no second such can frame!
      But now, though certain is the bliss displayed,
      How shall I venture to awake the maid,
      Dreading the light that lures me to her side?
      And yet--if only for the pleasing pride
      Of touching her, methinks that I might shake
      This fear away; but what if she should wake?
      To seize and not to loose her--soft! I fear
      That daring act might make her more austere;
      Yet, what is to be done? I wish to reach
      My former seat beneath the shady beech,
      And hers is slumber deep as death; she lies,
      How beautifully blind! the bee that flies
      Near her, the quarrelling birds, that old sweet tune
      Hummed by the spring, all voices of the noon
      Tease, but disturb her not; her face is free--
      A charming book--to be perused by me,
      And I will seize the' occasion; if the boughs
      In being parted should from slumber rouse,
      Strong to detain her I am still, though not
      As when we last were seated on this spot:
      Oh hands, once vigorously disposed to end me!
      See you how much your power can now befriend me?
      Why not exert it for my welfare!--small
      The risk--one effort will suffice for all.

CAMILLA.

      Aid me Diana!

ALBANIO.

                                Stir not! from my hold
      Thou canst not break; but hear what I unfold.

CAMILLA.

      Who would have told me of so rude a stroke?
      Nymphs of the wood, your succour I invoke!
      Save me, oh save! Albanio, this from thee?
      Say, art thou frenzied?

ALBANIO.

                              Frenzy should it be,
      That makes me love--oh more than life,--the cause
      Of all my grief, who scorns me and abhors.

CAMILLA.

      I ought, methinks, to be abhorred by thee,
      To make thy speeches with thy deeds agree;
      To seek to treat me so, at such a time!
      Outrage on outrage heaping, crime on crime.

ALBANIO.

      I commit outrage against thee! May I
      In thy disgrace, my dear Camilla, die,

CAMILLA.

                                             Hast thou not
      Infringed our friendship on this very spot,
      Seeking to turn it by a course amiss
      From placid thoughts?

ALBANIO.

                            Oh holy Artemis!
      Must the distraction of a single hour
      Whole years of fond attention overpower,
      When, too, repentance mourns the fault, and when--

CAMILLA.

      Ah, this is always the sly way with men!
      They dare the crime, and if the' event goes wrong,
      Cry your forgiveness with the meekest tongue.

ALBANIO.

      What have I dared, Camilla?

CAMILLA.

                                  It is well;
      Ask these dumb woods, this fountain, it shall tell;
      There it remains in face of the pure skies,
      The living witness of thy wrong device.

ALBANIO.

      If death, disgrace, or pain can expiate
      My fault, behold me here prepared to sate
      Thy anger to the full.

CAMILLA.

                             Let go my wrist!
      Scarce can I breathe; let go, I do insist!

ALBANIO.

      Much, much I fear that thou wilt take the wing
      Of the wild winds, and flee.

CAMILLA.

                                   Fear no such thing!
      With pure fatigue I am quite overcome;
      Unhand me! Oh, my dislocated thumb!

ALBANIO.

      Wilt thou sit still, if I my grasp forego,
      Whilst by clear reasons I proceed to show
      That without any reason thou with me
      Wert wroth?

CAMILLA.

                  A pretty reasoner thou wilt be!
      Well, free me that I may.

ALBANIO.

                                Swear first in sooth,
      By our past friendship and our bygone youth.

CAMILLA.

      Soothly I swear by the pure law sincere
      Of our past friendship, to sit down and hear--
      Thy chidings, sure enough; to what a state
      Hast thou reduced my hand in this debate
      By thy fierce grasp!

ALBANIO.

                           To what a state hast thou
      Reduced my soul by leaving me till now!

CAMILLA.

      My golden clasp, if that be lost--woe's me!
      Unlucky that I am! 'tis gone, I see,
      Fallen in this fatal vale! what mischief more?

ALBANIO.

      I should not wonder if it dropped before,
      In the deep Vale of Nettles.

CAMILLA.

                                   I desire,
      Where'er it dropped, to seek it.

ALBANIO.

                                       That will tire
      Still more my dear Camilla; leave that toil!
      I'll find the clasp; I cannot bear the soil
      Should scorch my enemy's white feet;--

CAMILLA.

                                             Well, well,
      Since you're so good--behold that beechen dell
      In sunshine, look straight forward, there, below;
      A full round hour I've there been spending:

ALBANIO.

                                                  So!
      I see it now; but meanwhile pray don't go.

CAMILLA.

      Swain, rest assured that I will die before
      Thy apprehending hands affright me more.

ALBANIO.

      Ah, faithless nymph! and is it in this mode
      Thou keep'st thy plighted oath? Oh heavy load
      Of curst existence! oh false love, to cheer
      My drooping soul with hopes so insincere!
      Oh painful mode of martyrdom! oh death,
      Cool torturer, slow to claim my hated breath!
      You give me cause to call high Heaven unjust;
      Gape, empty earth, and repossess the dust
      Of this rebellious body, which debars
      The swift-winged soul from soaring to the stars!
      I, I will let it loose; let them that dare
      Resist--resist me?--of themselves take care,
      It much concerns them! Can I not fulfil
      My threats? die, go--here--there--where'er I will,
      Spirit or flesh?

CAMILLA.

                       Hark! he desires to do
      Himself some mischief; my worst fears were true,
      And his mind wanders.

ALBANIO.

                            Oh that here I had
      The man whose malice seems to drive me mad!
      I feel discharged of a vast weight! it seems
      I fly, disdaining mountains, woods, and streams,
      My farm, flock, field, and dairy! Are not these
      Feet? yes, with them I fly where'er I please.
      And now I come to think, my body's gone;
      It is the spirit I command alone.
      Some one has stolen and hid it as I gazed
      On the clear sky, somewhat too much amazed;
      Or has it stayed behind asleep? I swear
      A figure coloured like the rose was there,
      Slumbering most sweetly; now, if that should be
      My shape--no, that was far too fair for me.

NEMOROSO.

      Poor head! I would not give a coin of brass
      For thy discretion now.

ALBANIO.

                              To whom, alas,
      Shall I give notice of the theft?

SALICIO.

                                        'Tis strange,
      And passing sad, to see the utter change
      In this once sprightly youth, with whom we two,
      My Nemoroso, have had much to do;
      Mild, pleasant, good, wise, sociable, and kind,
      The sweetest temper and sincerest mind.

ALBANIO.

      I will find witness, or small power is left
      Me 'gainst the man that did commit the theft,
      And though my body's absent, as a foe
      Will drive him on to death; ah, dost thou know
      Aught of the thief, my gentle fountain fair?
      Speak, if thou dost! so may the swart star ne'er
      Sear thy fresh shades, or scorch thy silver spring,
      But still green fairies round thee dance and sing.
      There stands a man at bottom of the brook,
      With laurel crowned, and in his hand a crook
      Shaped like mine own, of oak: ho! who goes there?
      Answer, my friend! Heaven help me! I declare
      Thou' art deaf or dumb, some mortal foe I fear
      To life's humanities; holla! give ear;
      I am a disembodied soul; I seek
      My body, which, in a malicious freak,
      Some cruel thief has stol'n, it much has stirred me;
      Deaf or not deaf I care not--have you heard me?
      O gracious God! either my wayward brain
      Wanders, or I behold my shape again;
      Ha, my loved body! I no longer doubt thee,
      I clearly see thy image; whilst without thee
      I have been most unhappy--come, draw nigher,
      End both thy exile and my lorn desire.

NEMOROSO.

      I much suspect that his continual thought
      And dreams of death, have in his fancy wrought
      This pictured separation.

SALICIO.

                                As in sleep,
      Ills which awake perpetually we weep,
      Fraught with the grief that haunts the soul, remain,
      And print their shadowy species on the brain.

ALBANIO.

      If thou art not in chains, come forth to' endow
      Me with the true form of a man, who now
      Have but the title left; but if thou' art bound
      By magic art, and rooted to the ground,
      I pray thee speak! for if my piteous pleading
      Should fail to touch the ear of Heaven unheeding,
      I to the bowers of Tartarus will depart,
      And storm fierce Pluto's adamantine heart,
      As for his absent consort, unalarmed,
      Did the fond lover, who with music charmed
      Hell's grisly maids, and hushed, sweet harmonist,
      The raging snakes that round their temples hissed!

NEMOROSO.

      With what good arguments does he enforce
      His mad opinions!

SALICIO.

                        The accustomed course
      Of ingenuity awhile holds on,
      When genius fails, and apprehension's gone;
      Thus, though now frenzied, still a lucid vein
      Runs through the dark ideas of his brain,
      Having been what we knew him once.

NEMOROSO.

                                         No more,
      Praise him not to me, for my heart runs o'er
      With grief to see him in so lost a strait.

ALBANIO.

      I was considering what a painful state
      This strange, sad exile is; for, to my mind,
      Nor woods, nor oceans warred on by the wind,
      Nor moated towers, nor mountains, pathless proved,
      Nor others' sweet society beloved,
      Cuts us asunder, but a slender wall
      Of water, lucid, but preventing all
      The blissful union we desire so much;
      For from that surface where we all but touch
      Thou never dost depart, and seemest never
      Satiate with gazing, by each fond endeavour
      Of becks, and smiles, and gestures, signifying
      Desire of junction, duteous, but denying;
      Brother, reach out thy arm, that we may shake
      Hands like good friends, and for past friendship's sake,
      Once more embrace! ha! mock'st thou me? dost thou
      Fly from me thus? 'tis acting not, I vow,
      As a friend should; I from the fountain's froth
      Am dripping wet, and thou, too, art thou wroth--
      Poor Sir Unfortunate? ha! ha! how swift
      Thy--what is it? thy figure thou dost shift;
      Ruffled, disturbed, and with a writhen face!
      That this unlucky thing now should take place!
      I was consoled in seeing so serene
      Thy amorous image and thy smiling mien.
      No happy thing with me will now endure!

NEMOROSO.

      Nothing at least that will thy frenzy cure.

SALICIO.

      Let us depart; fresh furies now begin
      To storm his soul.

ALBANIO.

                         Oh heav'n! why not leap in,
      And reach the centre of the fountain cold?

SALICIO.

      What foolish fancy's this, Albanio? hold!

ALBANIO.

      Oh the clear thief! but how? what? is it well
      To' invest thyself with my secreted shell
      Of flesh, before my face? oh insolence!
      As if I were a block devoid of sense
      And common feeling; but this hand shall slay,
      And pluck thy daring spirit out.

SALICIO.

                                       Away!
      Come thou; I am not equal to the task
      Of mastering him.

NEMOROSO.

      What would'st thou?

SALICIO.

                                            Canst thou ask,
      Kinsman unkind, what would I? disengage
      My hand and throat, if his malicious rage
      Give me but power.

NEMOROSO.

                         Act no such petty part;
      Thou canst but do thy duty where thou art.

SALICIO.

      Is this a time for pleasantry and play?
      Sport'st thou with life? come instantly, I pray!

NEMOROSO.

      Anon: I'll stand awhile aloof, and see
      How from a madcap thou thyself canst free.

SALICIO.

      Alas! I strike for self-defence.

ALBANIO.

                                       Although
      You die--

NEMOROSO.

      It is too true; madman, let go!

ALBANIO.

      I'll end him; but one moment let me be.

NEMOROSO.

      Off, off this instant!

ALBANIO.

      Why, how harm I thee?

NEMOROSO.

      Me? not in any wise.

ALBANIO.

                           Then homeward turn,
      And meddle not in what you've no concern.

SALICIO.

      Ha, madman! pinion him and hold him tight,
      For mercy's sake; I'll do for thee, sir knight!
      Hold fast his elbows whilst the cord I tie;
      Sound of the switch perchance may terrify
      His proud soul to submission.

ALBANIO.

                                    Noble lords,
      If I be still, will you put up your swords?

SALICIO.

      No.

ALBANIO.

      Would you kill me?

SALICIO.

      Yes.

ALBANIO.

                                  A harmless gnat!
      Look how much higher this rock is than that.

NEMOROSO.

      'Tis well; he shortly will forget his vaunt.

SALICIO.

      Soft; for 'tis thus they use such minds to daunt.

ALBANIO.

      What! lashed and pinioned?

SALICIO.

      Hush, give ear.

ALBANIO.

                                                 Woe's me!
      Dark was the hour when first I strove with thee,
      So harsh thou smitest; were we not before
      As brothers fond; shall we be such no more?

NEMOROSO.

      Albanio, friend beloved, be silent now;
      Sleep here awhile, and move not.

ALBANIO.

                                       Knowest thou
      Any news of me?

SALICIO.

      Mad, poor fool!

ALBANIO.

                                      Agreed.
      Soft, for I sleep.

SALICIO.

      Indeed dost thou?

ALBANIO.

                                           Indeed!
      Sound as the dead! what motion do I make?
      Only observe me.

SALICIO.

                       Hush! the wand I shake
      Shall pay the price of thy rebellious will,
      If thou unclose an eye.

NEMOROSO.

                              He is more still
      And tranquil than he was: Salicio,
      What are thy thoughts; can he be cured, or no?

SALICIO.

      To use all gentle methods that may tend
      Or to the life or health of such a friend,
      Is our just duty.

NEMOROSO.

                        Hark then for a space
      To what I say; a singular strange case
      Will I relate, of which--but let that pass--
      I both the witness and the subject was.
      On Tormes' banks, the sweetest stream of Spain,
      Mild, sacred, clear, extends a spacious plain,
      Green in mid-winter, green in autumn, green
      In sultry summer as in spring serene;
      At the far end of which, the eye's delight,
      Charming in form, and of a pleasing height,
      A hill o'erlooks the scene, whose wood-crowned crest
      Fair towers surmount, whereon heaven seems to rest:
      Towers of strange beauty, not so much admired
      For their fine structure, although Toil has tired
      Thereon his curious chisel, as renowned
      For their grand Lords by glory haloed round.
      All that is deemed desirable and great
      May there be found, rank, wisdom, virtue, state,
      The gifts of Nature, and the stores of Art,
      Whatever Taste can wish, or Power impart.
      There, dwells a man of genius, whose rare touch
      Of the melodious lyre and pipe is such
      As ne'er to satiate with its notes of grace
      And flavourous tones, the Spirit of the place.
      On Trebia's field stood his paternal home,
      Trebia the red, the' Aceldama of Rome,
      And still, though numerous years have intervened,
      The favourite refuge of the same fierce fiend--
      Of war, whose crimson sword its turf has stained,
      Its green bowers ravaged, its pure waves profaned.
      He, seeing this, abandoned it to find
      Some scene more suited to his gentle mind:
      Good fortune led his footsteps to the hall
      Of ALBA, so that splendid seat they call,
      SEVERO him; the God of wit and light
      Pours all his rays on his sciential sight.
      He, when he wills, by signs and murmured spells,
      Can curb the swiftest, mightiest stream that swells;
      Change storms to golden calms, change night to noon,
      Bid thunders bellow, and pluck down the moon,
      If to his signals she will not reply,
      And check the car that whirls her through the sky.
      I fear, should I presume to speak in praise
      Of all his power and wisdom, I should raise
      His wrath, but this I must declare, above
      All other things, the pangs of slighted love
      He in an instant cures, removes the pain,
      Converts impassioned frenzy to disdain,
      Sadness to smiles, and on the soul's tuned keys
      Rewakes its old familiar melodies.
      I shall not know, Salicio, I am sure,
      To tell the means and method of my cure,
      But this I know, I came away quite sound,
      Pure from desire, and vigorous from my wound.
      I well remember that by Tormes' stream
      I found him rapt in some pathetic theme,
      Singing in strains whose sweetness might imprint
      The soul of feeling in a heart of flint:
      When me he saw, divining my desire,
      He changed the mode, and rectified his lyre;
      The praise of liberty from love he sings,
      And with a sprightlier spirit smites the strings;
      Reflected in his song, I stand confest
      The slave of sense, and alien from all rest,
      Shamed and surprised, till--how shall I explain
      That strange effect?--the fascinating strain
      The tincture takes of medicine, which, in brief,
      Flows through my veins, and, grappling with my grief,
      Roots out the venom: then was I as one
      Who all night long o'er break-neck crags has run,
      Not seeing where the path leads, till at last
      Light dawns, and looking back, the perils passed
      Rush on his sight, now so distinctly kenned,
      The mere idea sets his hair on end:
      So thunderstruck stood I, nor to this day
      Can I, without a shudder of dismay,
      Eye my past danger; my new scope of sight
      Presented all things in their proper light,
      And showed what I before with such a gust
      Had grasped for gold, to be but worthless dust.
      Such was the talisman, and such the skill
      With which that ancient sage uncharmed my will;
      My mind its native liveliness regained,
      And my heart bounded as from bonds unchained.

SALICIO.

      Oh fine old age! ev'n fruitful in thy snows,
      That to the soul thus bring'st its lost repose,
      Weaning the heart from love, the ungentle gust
      That blasts our hopes, or weds them with the dust.
      Merely from that with which thou hast amazed
      My ear, I feel strong wishes in me raised,
      To see and know him.

NEMOROSO.

                           Does thy wonder mount
      So high, Salicio, at this poor account?
      More could I say, if I were not afraid
      To tire thy patience.

SALICIO.

                            What is this thou' hast said,
      Unthinking Nemoroso? Can there be
      Aught half so charming, half so sweet to me,
      As listening to thy stories? Tell me more
      Of sage Severo; tell me, I implore.
      Nought interrupts the tale; our flocks at rest,
      The fresh soft wind comes whispering from the west;
      Sweet weeps the nightingale in song that moves
      In amorous hearts the sadnesses she proves;
      The turtle murmurs from her elm; the bee
      Hums; the shy cuckoo shouts from tree to tree;
      The wood a thousand flowers presents; the flowers
      A thousand hues; and, hung with nodding bowers,
      This babbling fountain with its voice invites
      To social ease and interchanged delights.


ECLOGUE II.

SILVA III.

NEMOROSO. SALICIO.

NEMOROSO.

      Hark then awhile, and I will tell of things
      Strange and amazing: Spirits of these springs,
      Nymphs, I invoke you! Silvans, Satyrs, Fauns,
      That haunt the glens, the greenwoods, and the lawns!
      Sweet from my lips let each clear accent part,
      All point or grace, all harmony or art,
      Since neither pastoral pipe, Arcadian quill,
      Nor syrinx sounds in concord with my will.
      To such rare heights Severo's powers aspire,
      His chanted verse and smooth harmonious lyre
      Can stay fleet whirlwinds in their mid career,
      His golden words and messages to hear,
      And make them from austere, rebellious lords,
      Obsequious slaves to dance around his chords
      In voluntary song; old Tormes knows
      His incantation, and, commanded, shows
      The Senior all his secrets: once he led
      The mighty master to his fountain-head,
      And showed him where mid river-flowers and fern
      He lies, incumbent o'er a crystal urn;
      On this he saw a thousand things embossed,
      Foreseen, and sculptured with surprising cost;
      With so divine a wit the sage has wrought
      This vase, each object seems instinct with thought.
      On every side the figured bas-reliefs
      Depict the deeds and virtues of the chiefs,
      Who by illustrious titles dignified,
      And ruled the tract through which his waters glide.
        There the brave youth, DON GARCIA, stood confessed
      By his disdainful mien, dilated chest;
      He 'gainst a wise and potent king that held
      His sire in bondage, gallantly rebelled,[7]
      Each bold retainer summoning, to aid
      His pious aims; with him the God pourtrayed
      His son, who showed, whilst earth enjoyed his light,
      At court a Phoebus, and a Mars in fight:
      Young though he seemed, he promised in his look
      Supreme success in all he undertook;
      Ev'n in his youth, upon the Moors he dealt
      Severe rebukes, and made his puissance felt;
      And as the chieftain of the Christian band,
      Confirmed his heart and exercised his hand.
      Elsewhere, with more assured renown, and now
      With more of manhood on his martial brow,
      He harassed the fierce Franks: sublime he stood
      To sight, his armours red with hostile blood.
      Long in the straitened siege had he sustained
      The woes of want; no measure now remained,
      But through the breaches of the rending wall
      In furious sally on the foe to fall.
      What numbers died that day beneath his spear!
      What other numbers fled like hunted deer!
      No pictured tale, no sculptured argument,
      No poet's flame could fitly represent
      How fierce FADRIQUE smote them as they fled,
      The chaser's rage, and the pursued one's dread.
        Near him is seen in bold relief his son,
      DON GARCIA, equalled upon earth by none,
      Unless by his Fernando! who could view
      The ardent light of his dear beauty, who
      The expression of his frank fair countenance,
      Nor own his grandeur in that single glance?
      Alas! in cruelty the Furies hurled
      War's fires abroad, and snatched him from the world,
      The world so happy in his light! sad Spain,
      Thy weeping eyes how oft didst thou in vain
      Roll toward Gelves! Acting his sad part,
      The youth is sculptured with such lively art,
      That should you see it, you would say each stroke
      Was fraught with life, and that the crystal spoke.
      The broad sands burned, the sun of bloody red,
      His soldiers round him fell down faint or dead;
      With earnest vigilance he only cursed
      That dull delay, and reckless as at first,
      Praised glorious death; when suddenly the sound
      Of Illa Allah shook the skies, the ground
      Rang with strong trampling, and a dusty host
      Of fierce barbarians the young chief enclosed;
      But he, nought daunted, cast to them his gage,
      In generous frenzy of audacious rage,
      And bore up bravely, making many pay
      The price of their temerity; these lay
      In deep disorder, some whose vital threads
      He had already slit, with cloven heads,
      Wallowing in blood; some silent dying; some
      Yet breathing free, not wholly overcome,
      Showed palpitating bowels, strangely gored
      By the deep gashes given by his sharp sword.
      But Fate was in the conflict, and at last,
      Deaf with the din, his spirits failing fast,
      Pierced through with thousand swords, and craving grace
      For all his sins, he laid his pallid face
      On the burnt soil, and sighed away, forlorn,
      His soul of beauty like the rose of morn,
      That smit by the hot season, sickening grieves,
      Hangs its gay head, and pales its crimson leaves;
      Or as a lily which the passing share
      Leaves cruelly cut down, whereby its fair
      Transparent hue, though not all perished, now
      That its maternal earth neglects to throw
      Juice through its veins, fades soon as noontide tells
      Her wonted rosary on its dewy bells;
      So on the mimic sands, in miniature,
      Shows thy fair face, fresh rose, white lily pure!
        Next a strange sculpture draws and so detains
      The' observer's notice, that he entertains
      No curiosity aught else to view,
      How wild soe'er, or beautiful, or new.
      The three sweet Graces there are seen pourtrayed
      With Phidian skill, transparently arrayed;
      One only garment of celestial white
      Veils their soft limbs, but shuts not out the sight.
      Drawn are they cheering, strengthening for the throe,
      A noble lady in her hour of woe.
      Soon the dear infant is seen born; ne'er smiled
      The ripening moon upon a lovelier child;
      Upon his little cradle, overspread
      With flowers, the name of DON FERNANDO'S read.
        From sweetly singing on the shady crown
      Of Pindus, the Nine Lights of life come down;
      And with them Phoebus, rosy and unshorn,
      Goes, like the moon amidst the stars of morn,
      With graceful step; arriving, they confess
      His charms, and long and tenderly caress.
      Elsewhere winged Mercury is drawn beholding
      Mars, the plumed warrior, cautiously enfolding
      The new-born infant in his rude embrace,
      Soon giving courteous and respectful place
      To Venus, smiling at his side; in turn
      She kissed his cheek, and from a golden urn
      Sprinkled Elysian nectar o'er the boy
      With lavish hand, and fond familiar joy:
      But Phoebus from her arms the child displaced,
      And gave the office to his sisters chaste.
        They were delighted with the sweet employ;
      Time waves his wings, the babe becomes a boy,
      Rising and flourishing in youthful grace,
      Like a tall poplar in a shady place.
      Talents he showed untaught, and undisguised
      Gave now such proofs of genius, as surprised
      The associate nymphs, and they the boy consigned
      To one of blameless life and cultured mind,
      Who to the world might make more manifest
      The rich endowments which the child possessed;
      An ancient man, whose face, ungiven to guile,
      Expressed severeness sweetening to a smile,
      Received the youth; Severo, when his gaze
      Fell on this form, stood spell-bound with amaze;
      For as within a looking-glass he viewed
      Himself depicted, air, age, attitude,
      All were conformable, just so he trod,
      So looked, so greeted; turning to the god,
      He saw him smiling at his frank surprise;
      "And why this so great wonder?" Tormes cries;
      "Seem I so ignorant as not to' have known,
      Ere to thy yearning mother thou wert shown,
      That thou wouldst be, when future suns should shine,
      The wise Director of his soul divine?"
      The Ancient, with deep joy of wonder bred,
      His eager eyes upon the picture fed.
        Next, as his looks along the sculptures glanced,
      A youth with Phoebus hand in hand advanced;
      Courteous his air, from his ingenuous face,
      Informed with wisdom, modesty, and grace,
      And every mild affection, at a scan
      The passer-by would mark him for a man,
      Perfect in all gentilities of mind,
      That sweeten life and harmonize mankind.
      The form which lively thus the sculptor drew,
      Assur'd Severo in an instant knew,
      For him who had by careful culture shown
      Fernando's spirit lovely as his own;
      Had given him grace, sincerity, and ease,
      The pure politeness that aspires to please,
      The candid virtues that disdain pretence,
      And martial manliness, and sprightly sense,
      With all the generous courtesies enshrined
      In the fair temple of Fernando's mind.
      When well surveyed, his name Severo read,
      "BOSCÁN!!" whose genius o'er the world is spread:
      In whose illumined aspect shines the fire
      That, streamed from Delphos, lights him to the lyre,
      And warms those songs which with mankind shall stay,
      Whilst endless ages roll unfelt away!
        More ripeness marked the youth, as to his rules
      Listening, he culled the learning of the schools;
      These left at length, he in gymnastic games,
      War's mimic symbols, strives with youths, whose names
      Had never else been known to after years
      In the wide world; the tilt of canes and spears,
      Wrestling, the course, the circus, toil and dust,
      Gave his arm skill, and made his limbs robust.
        Next, amorous Venus shows her rosy face,
      Seizing his hand, she leads him for a space
      From the severe gymnasium, and aside
      Points out his fault with all a lecturer's pride;
      Tells him how ill he acts; that some few hours
      The roughest soldier wreathes his sword with flowers,
      And that in endless turmoil so to waste
      The May of life was treason to good taste.
      Entering a myrtle bower, she shows him, laid
      Midst leaves and violets blue, a slumbering maid:
      Flushed was her cheek, and as she slept she smiled,
      As some delightful dream her brain beguiled:
      He saw, the crimsoning cheek his passion spoke;
      The bowers they rustled, and the nymph awoke.
      Smit with her beauty, he desired to wed
      The enchanting shape--the Goddess shook her head--
      As if she feared the parties to unite;
      He gazed--he gazed, insatiate with the sight!
      From her dear side he could not, could not move,
      Wept on her neck, and vowed eternal love.
        Next, angry Mars, imperious to behold,
      Advancing, gave the youth a crown of gold:
      Threatening the illustrious youth, a knight was seen,
      Of a fierce spirit and insulting mien.[8]
      In cautious wise beneath the setting moon
      They timed their steps, and met on a pontoon;
      Well had the sculptor shadowed out the fight,
      His clouding crystal spoke the noon of night.
      Mars was their umpire; he condemned the foe,
      And placed his crown upon the conqueror's brow;
      Graced with the gold, the hero shone from far,
      As in blue heaven the beautiful bright star
      That ushers in Aurora: thence his name
      Spreads to all parts, and gathers greater fame.
        Soon other happier arts he meditates
      To steal from death, elusive of the Fates,
      Much of himself, and live admired, unfled,
      When the blind vulgar might lament him dead.
      Hymen came moving to the crotal's clash,
      His right foot sandalled with a golden sash;
      A choir of virgins sing; on dancing feet
      They part alternate, and alternate meet;
      Then softly lay upon the bridal couch
      A blushing girl, whom Venus did avouch
      To be the same that, bowered in myrtles deep,
      Erst smiled so sweetly in her dreaming sleep--
      A dream as sweetly realized! she showed
      Worthy the youth on whom she was bestowed;
      Her pillow bore the words, impaled in flame,
      DONNA MARIA ENRÍQUEZ, her name;
      Anxious to be admitted, scarce the choir
      Of nymphs could check Fernando's forward fire:
      At length he was received, and left beside
      His virtuous, pure, and beautiful young bride.
        Elsewhere, on one foot standing, never stable,
      Capricious Fortune did the sculptor fable,
      Calling to Don Fernando that he led
      A life of idleness, and now must tread
      A toilsome path, but she would be his guide,
      And venture first: he with her wish complied,
      Made her his boon companion, and pursued
      Her who, unveiled, as beautiful is wooed,
      But, veiled from sight, deemed fearful, nothing worth,
      Virtue her name, the rarity of earth!
        Whom does she guide along with equal pace,
      But him whom thus her beauty leads to face
      Each fresh fatigue, for glory to aspire,
      And scorn the chains of delicate desire.
      The mighty Pyrenees, which seem to shoot
      To heaven their summit as to hell their root,
      They traversed in mid-winter; white the snow
      Colours the clime, and mute the torrents flow
      Under cold crystal bridges that confine
      Their tides, smooth sliding through the frozen mine;
      Whilst, if a blast but stirs the pines, they bend,
      And with the weight of ices crashing rend.
      Through all they strive, nor will be held at bay
      Or by the length or wildness of the way.
      By constant toil the hero makes advance,
      Till the gained summit shifts the scene to France;
      His swiftness Fame renewed--his spirits cheered,
      On flying wings beside him she appeared,
      And signified, in act and attitude,
      That the hill-tracks would soon become less rude.
        Of various guides the Duke selected one,
      And on they rode beneath the mounting sun;
      Faint wax their horses, but they reached at last
      The walls of Paris, and its portals passed.
      There the gaunt form of Sickness stands to sight,
      The healthy duke assisting to alight;
      Touched by her hand, his colour seems to fade,
      He droops, he faints, and sickens to a shade.
        Soon, crossing from a shady thicket green,
      The form of Esculapius might be seen
      With balms and herbs, nor did he slack his tread
      Till he arrived beside Fernando's bed:
      With his right foot he entered, and at length
      Restored the patient to his usual strength.
      His way he took where white-wall'd convents shine,
      And reached the passage of the lucid Rhine.
      The rich romantic river on its breast
      Received him, glorying in so great a guest,
      And called to mind the hour when to the same
      Embarking point the Latin Cæsar came.
      He seemed not scanty of his waves, but swelled
      Floods like a sea, and the light bark impelled,
      Which flying left behind green viny bowers,
      High castled crags, and old romantic towers.
      Blythely his impulse the swift bark obeyed,
      And passed the spot where erst a ravished maid,
      And thousand virgins with her, stained the sod
      With blood, recorded in the book of God.
      The espoused pure virgin, Ursula, was seen
      Casting her dying eyes to heaven serene,
      The tyrant looking on, who, at a word,
      From breast to beauteous breast the sword transferred.
        Thence through wide Germany he shaped his way
      To where in doubt the Christian army lay,
      Till to his sight the rapid Danube gave
      His affluent floods; he launched upon the wave.
      From the spurned shore the refluent currents strong
      Winged through cleft crags his bounding boat along,
      Whilst the strained oars with forcible descent
      Raised showers of silver wheresoe'er it went:
      On--on like lightning was it seen to fly,
      Its very motion sculptured to the eye.
        The heroic duke, a little farther on,
      Was pictured disembarked at Ratisbon,
      Where for the Imperial crown on every hand
      War had convoked the magnates of the land.
      Amidst his peers and princes Charles was placed,
      Our Spanish Cæsar, and the duke embraced,
      Charmed with his coming; all in pleased surprise
      Fixed on Fernando their saluting eyes,
      And the same instant they perceived him, grew
      Sure of the victory when the trumpet blew.
        With much vain-glory, haughtiness of mien,
      And barbarous boasting, the Grand Turk was seen,
      Armed, and in rich costume; pitched far and wide
      Near weeping Hungary was his camp descried.
      So strange a multitude o'erspread the plain,
      That scarce the region could the host contain,--
      A host so vast, the country, you would think,
      Would fail for pasture, and the stream for drink.
        Cæsar, with pious zeal and valiant soul,
      These hosts despised, and bade his flags unrol;
      His tribes convoked, and shortly you might see
      An army form--bold, resolute, and free;
      See various nations in one camp combined,
      Various in speech, but influenced by one mind.
      They swarmed not o'er the land in such parade
      Of numbers as the Moslem, but displayed
      That which these failed to show--a brave freewill,
      Faith, courage, firmness, discipline, and skill.
      Them with a generous zeal, by apt applause,
      Fernando heartens in the common cause,
      That numbers of them in his views took part,
      Won to his flag with admirable art.
      The fierce yet docile German he addressed
      In his own style, and so to all the rest
      Conformed in custom, humour, mood, and tongue,
      Grave with the age'd and sprightly with the young,
      That the phlegmatic Fleming would have said,
      In Lisle or Antwerp he was born and bred,
      In Spain the excelling Spaniard; the astute
      Italian marks him, with amazement mute,
      His nation's ease so well he seems to hit,
      Her past proud valour, and her modern wit.
      He seems in him to see arise again
      Rome's last, sole hope, the youth who passed to Spain,
      And closed her long, long warfare in the fall
      Of rival Carthage and grim Hannibal,
      Whose crimson sword, to Nemesis devote,
      So oft was pointed at her naked throat.
        Next sickening Envy on the crystal stood,
      Severely sculptured, adverse to his good,
      Gathering against Fernando, face to face,
      The unfavoured faction, loud for his disgrace.
      With them she armed, but in all points, with pain,
      Found her arts baffled and her influence wane.
      He with mild tongue and with extended hands
      The tumult hushed of the censorious bands,
      And by degrees soared with so high a flight,
      The eyes of Envy could not reach his height,
      So that successless, blinded by the blaze
      Of his clear virtue, she her passion sways,
      And forces her proud self, in suppliant weed,
      On earth to kneel, and for forgiveness plead.
      The monster's spoils he carelessly received,
      And, from these rude anxieties relieved,
      Walked in the cool serene of eve beside
      The lonely stream, and near its tossing tide
      Encountered Cæsar, full of doubt and care
      For the success of the approaching war;
      Since, though he banished sadness, still the thought
      Of the vast stake he ventured, with it brought
      Wish for wise counsel; this the duke bestowed;
      They there agreed on a convenient mode
      To' obstruct the plans of Solyman, destroy
      His high-raised hopes, and blast his promised joy.
        Their counsels ended, weary they repose
      On the green turf, and as their eyelids close,
      Hear the dim Danube's voice, so it might seem,
      Murmur approval of their golden scheme.
      Then to the pausing eye the chisel gave
      The clear stream's Genius issuing from the wave,
      Aged, on tiptoe moving mute, with reeds
      And willows crowned, and robed in sea-green weeds;
      He in that sleep uncertain showed them clear
      All that concerned their ends; it would appear
      That this sweet idlesse crossed their good, for swift
      (As though some precious gem or cherished gift
      Was burning in the flames) they start, they rise,
      With terror touched and a divine surprise;
      Divine surprise, that ceasing leaves behind
      Hope to the heart, and gladness to the mind.
      The stream without delay appeared to urge
      The chiefs aboard, and smoothed its eddying surge,
      That the Armada which it had to guide
      O'er its broad waters might more gently glide.
      What favour to the fleets its Genius bore,
      Was seen in the calm wave and feathering oar.
        With admirable speed you next might mark
      A well-ranged army instantly embark;
      The sturdy movement of dipt oars, combined
      With little hindrance from the wave or wind,
      Swift through the deep sonorous waters works
      That fleet, obnoxious to the tyrant Turks.
        No human artist could, though born to' excel,
      Have framed a picture which expressed so well
      The fleet, the host, the speed, the waves' rich fret;
      Scarce in the forge at which the Cyclops sweat,
      And, tired, change arms at every hammering blow,
      Could their grand Master have expressed it so.
      Through the clear current who had seen them bear,
      Would on that missal have been apt to swear
      That the sharp prows provoked the blue profound,
      And clove the billows with a silver sound;
      Grey foam before, bright bubbles danced behind;
      Anon the banners, trembling in the wind,
      Mimicked the moving waters; on the coast
      Like living things appeared the adverse host,
      Shy and incredulous, which, filled of late
      With barbarous scorn and haughtiness sedate,
      Thought not to meet with men that would prevent
      Their march; ours, piqued by such injustice, went
      Measuring their way so furiously and wroth,
      That the whole stream fermented into froth.
        The other host, affrighted at the view,
      From tent to tent in wild distraction flew,
      Eager to gather from the public breath
      The' unknown intelligence of life or death;
      Like a vast stream by wintry breezes crost,
      Through bones and marrow ran an icy frost,
      Till, the whole camp in uproar, each one placed
      His hopes of safety in immediate haste.
        The camp is raised in tumult; on their way
      They march, they speed in shameful disarray;
      Leaving behind in terror, unconcealed,
      Their gold and jewels strewed o'er all the field.
      The tents wherein sloth, murder, revelling,
      And rape, found place with each unholy thing,
      They part without; armed steeds run masterless;
      On their scared lords the scared dependants press;
      Whilst the fierce Spaniard, hovering round their rear,
      Strains the red sword, and shakes the lifted spear.
        Cæsar is seen attempting to restrain
      Fernando, ardent above all to stain
      His sword in unbelieving blood; with bold
      And eager action, not to be controlled,
      He struggles with the king; as the fierce hound
      Of generous Erin, on the spring to bound
      After the bristly boar, restricted, whines,
      And quarrels with the leash that scarce confines
      His passionate desire and fleet-foot flight,
      Which makes his master draw the string more tight--
      So, imaged to the life, contending stand
      The fixt to fly, the settled to withstand;
      So Cæsar curbs, just so Fernando grieves,
      As whoso views them at a glance perceives.
        Next on the clear pictorial urn is feigned
      Victory, contented with the laurels gained;
      Cæsar embraced--unthinking, without check,
      She throws her arm around Fernando's neck;
      He turns away with spleen but ill concealed,
      And mourns the easy triumphs of the field.
        A foreign car does next the crystal grace,
      Filled with the spoils of the barbaric race,
      And in accompaniment the sculptured seals
      Of conquest, captives fettered to the wheels,--
      Mantles, and purple silks of various realms,
      Brast lances, crescents, gonfalons, and helms,
      Light vant-braces, cleft shields, turbans emblazed
      With gems, and swords, into a trophy raised,
      Shine forth, round which, as with one heart and voice,
      Cities and nations gather and rejoice.
        The Tyrrhene next was whitening with the sails
      Of the vast ships blown home by willing gales;
      Glorious, renowned, with foamy prows they sweep,
      And like majestic fishes swim the deep.
      Till greenly crowned with laurel, they at last
      In Barcelona Bay glad anchor cast.
      Thence, promised vows fulfilled, with offered prayers
      And consecrated spoils, the duke prepares
      To hurry instant, glowing with the fire
      Of amorous hope and long-chastised desire.
      He passes Catalonia, leaves behind
      The towns of Arragon, and swift as wind,
      Without alighting, ever with his heel
      Striking his courser, treads in sweet Castile.
      To home's near joys--his lady's wished embrace,
      He yields his heart--he reserenes his face,
      And from his eyes and from his thought drives far
      Death, dangers, doubts, vexations, wounds, and war.
      Then, held alone by ecstasy in thrall,
      The crystal shows him in his happy hall.
      On tiptoe meeting him, with many a kiss,
      His wife, half dubious of so great a bliss,
      Flings round his neck with all the wife's delight
      Her well-shaped arms, so delicately white,
      And smiling strains him to her heart, whilst rise
      Unconscious tears to her rejoicing eyes;
      Those lucid eyes that the clear sun outshine,--
      Glittering they gush, and make them yet more fine.
        With her beloved Fernando, earth again,
      The field, the stream, the mountain, and the plain,
      Were deeply,--in her view, divinely blessed,
      And under various modes their bliss expressed;
      More lofty rise the walls; the breathing bowers
      Of lovelier colours pour forth sweeter flowers;
      Tormes himself is pictured in the tale,
      With all his Naiads, pouring through the vale
      In greater affluence his abundant streams;
      With stags the face of the green mountain teems,
      Roebucks and fallow deer, that sportive browze
      The savoury herb, or crop the leafy boughs;
      More verdant spreads the plain, extending even
      Till her charmed eye beholds it blend with heaven;
      And heaven is hers, deep joy, and deeper peace,
      A joy whose sense exaggerates all it sees,
      Full of his presence of whose praise earth sings,
      And glorying Valour tells immortal things.
        This saw Severo palpably and clear,
      They were no dreams, no fictions; should'st thou hear
      His tale, thou would'st religiously believe
      The truth of it, as though thou didst perceive
      Thyself the sculptures; as the urn he eyed,
      He vows he in the forms such force descried--
      That had even life been given to what were wrought,
      They could not look more animate with thought.
      What to the mind or eye obscure remained,
      The courteous River lucidly explained.
      "He, the young chieftain of that army," said
      The God, "from pole to pole his rule shall spread;
      And that his glorious deeds, when by thy lyre
      Divinely hymned, mankind may more admire,
      Know that these many acts, these perils sought,
      And victories won by him, shall all be wrought,
      With every deed with which the vase is rife,
      Within the first five lustres of his life;
      Now thou hast all foreseen, go forth--the Urn
      To its accustomed place I must return."
        "Yet first," Severo said, "to me unfold
      What that may be which blinds me to behold,
      Which glitters on the shaded crystal bright
      As a red comet in the noon of night?"
      "More knowledge, friend, than Heav'n metes out to man,"
      Said he, "can ne'er be conquered by his scan;
      If I not clearly picture that which draws
      Thy notice thus, thou art thyself the cause;
      For whilst a veil of flesh your spirit shrouds,
      A thousand things are circumfused with clouds,
      Which mock the curious eyes that would inquire
      Into their secrets; with inferior fire
      I could not work them: know then (to thy ear
      I well may trust it) that what glitters here
      With an excess so radiant, hue so warm,
      That the dazed vision fails to fix its form,
      Is what Fernando's hand and soul sublime
      Shall gloriously perform in after-time;
      Deeds which, compared with what he yet has done,
      Are as a sparkling star or summer sun
      To an obscure low vapour; thy weak view
      Is not sufficient for such warmth of hue,
      Till grown accustomed to the gaze; to him
      Who long has languished in a dungeon dim,
      Sunshine is agony--so thou, who caged
      In depths of gross obstruction wert engaged
      In contemplating one that might appear,
      The differing native of a lovelier sphere,
      Must not much wonder that thy shrinking sight
      Was dazzled by such luxury of light.
      But see, within my waves the sun's bright eye
      Closes--is closed--ere thou canst make reply!"
      Thus saying--with a pleasant parting look,
      The Senior by the hand Severo shook.
      Oh wonderful! the waves where the sun sank
      Were on each side restricted in a rank,
      And, deep albeit before, did now disclose
      The bed between them, and as high they rose,
      Deepening the part near which the prophet stood,
      He gave a spring, and leaped into the flood;
      White flew the foam to heaven, and loud to land
      Roared the stirred waters mixed with golden sand.
        In a new science versed, Severo grey
      Was for collecting without vain delay
      Its fruits for future hope, and unbesought
      Wrote down the' events exact as Tormes taught;
      And though he well might judge my mind would fail
      To apprehend aright the' impressive tale,
      Yet not for this did he refuse to' unrol
      For my survey the strange prophetic scroll;
      Insatiably I read, yet thou, sweet friend,
      Art wondering when the tale will have an end.

SALICIO.

              No! ravishment is mine
              At this strange tale divine,
        So well set forth by thy enchanting tongue;
              Within my breast I felt,
              Long as thine accents dwelt
        On the rare virtues of a prince so young,
              My throbbing heart beat higher,
              And glow with the desire
        To contemplate him present--the foretold
              Of Fame, whose visnomy,
              Though absent from mine eye,
        By thy divine account I now behold:
        Who but must wish to see the storied scrolls,
      Since o'er the lively urn the silent billow rolls!
              After what thou hast told,
              Religiously I hold
        The opinion that Severo's powers can shed
              Light on the clouded brain,
              Albanio's frenzy chain,
        Health to the sick, and almost to the dead
              Give being; it is just
              We put our perfect trust
        In him to whom such secrets were revealed,
              As one whose skilful hand
              Disorders can withstand,
        Bid ev'n disease itself fresh vigour yield,
        And by his subtle wisdom quickly raise
      To bloom whatever droops, or sickens, or decays.

NEMOROSO.

      To this result since thine opinions tend,
      Salicio, what with our distracted friend?

SALICIO.

      Act a friend's part; take presently our course
      From hence, and ere his frenzy gathers force
      Or from indulgence or delay, present
      Our patient to Severe:

NEMOROSO.

                                      I consent.
      We on the morrow, ere the clear warm ray
      Of the arising sun is seen to play
      Upon the purple hills, will go; and sure
      I feel, his skill will work an easy cure.

SALICIO.

      Fold now the flock, for from the mountain's head
      Cool airs descend, and longer shadows spread.
      Look round, and see how from the farms whereto
      Those labourers trudge, the calm smoke, rising blue,
      Curls in a column to the rosy sky!
      Seek with our flocks the usual vale, whilst I
      Attend the youth--since he has lain so long
      In quiet swoon, his fit cannot be strong.

NEMOROSO.

      If thou should'st first reach home, go not to bed,
      But speed the supper, and see Lyca spread
      The cloth--'tis much if yet her fire's alight:

SALICIO.

      I will; I will; unless in my despite
      Albanio hurl me down some breakneck dell:
      Farewell, dear friend!

NEMOROSO.

      Salicio, friend, farewell!



[Illustration]

ECLOGUE III. TO THE LADY MARIA DE LA CUEVA, COUNTESS OF UREÑA.


TYRRENO. ALCINO.

      The pure ambition and sincere desire,
        Most beautiful Señora, that whilere
      Was wont my soul in secret to inspire,
        To sing thy beauty, wit, and virtue rare,
      Spite of strong Fortune, that unstrings my lyre,
        And turns to other paths my steps of care,
      Glows, and shall glow within me, whilst the flame
      Of soul lights up this perishable frame.

      I fancy even, that after life this flow
        Of song shall live; that when my heart grows chill,
      And my lips cease to call, in joy or woe,
        Eolian murmurs to my pastoral quill,
      Freed from its narrow cell my ghost shall go
        O'er the dark river, celebrating still
      Thy glorious name, and curbing with the sound
      Oblivion's waters, slowly stealing round.

      But Fate, not satisfied with crossing, rives me
        From every good; grief but to grief gives place;
      Now from my country, from my love she drives me,
        Now proves my patience in a thousand ways;
      But what I feel more, is that she deprives me
        Of these fond papers where my pen thy praise
      Inscribes, and in their room nought, nought supp'ies
      But fruitless cares and mournful memories.

      Yet, let her try her utmost force, my heart
        She shall not change; the world shall never say
      She moves me to forsake so sweet an art;
        In poesy's still walks, embowered with bay,
      Apollo and the Nine shall yet impart
        Leisure, and life, and language, to display
      The least of thine accomplishments, the most
      My feeble powers can ever hope to boast.

      Let it not irk thee if I sing meanwhile
        The scenes and sylvans thou hast loved, nor deem
      Ill of this untrimmed portion of my style,
        Which once thy goodness held in kind esteem;
      Midst arms--with scarce one pause from bloody toil,
        Where war's hoarse trumpet breaks the poet's dream,
      Have I these moments stolen, oft claimed again,
      Now taking up the sword, and now the pen.

      To the wild music of my oaten reed
        Listen thou then, though, naked and ungraced
      With ornamental touches, it indeed
        Is all unmeet to strike thine ear of taste;
      But oft pure thoughts from artless lips succeed,
        Chaste witnesses of sentiments as chaste,
      To win the will, and pleasure more impart
      Than all the' elaborate eloquence of art.

      I, for this cause, though others failed my theme,
        Merit thine ear; the gift which at thy feet
      I cast, receive with favour; I shall deem
        Myself, sweet friend, enriched by the receipt.
      Of four choice Nymphs that from loved Tagus' stream
        Proceed, I sing; Phyllodoce the sweet,
      Dynamene, fair Clymene, and last,
      Nyse, in loveliness by none surpassed.

      In a sweet solitude beside the flood,
        Is a green grove of willows, trunk-entwined
      With ivies climbing to the top, whose hood
        Of glossy leaves, with all its boughs combined,
      So interchains and canopies the wood,
        That the hot sunbeams can no access find;
      The water bathes the mead, the flowers around
      It glads, and charms the ear with its sweet sound.

      The glassy river here so smoothly slid
        With pace so gentle on its winding road,
      The eye, in sweet perplexity misled,
        Could scarcely tell which way the current flowed.
      Combing her locks of gold, a Nymph her head
        Raised from the water where she made abode,
      And as the various landscape she surveyed,
      Saw this green meadow, full of flowers and shade.

      That wood, the flowery turf, the winds that wide
        Diffused its fragrance, filled her with delight;
      Birds of all hues in the fresh bowers she spied,
        Retired, and resting from their weary flight.
      It was the hour when hot the sunbeams dried
        Earth's spirit up--'twas noontide still as night;
      Alone, at times, as of o'erbrooding bees
      Mellifluous murmurs sounded from the trees.

      Having a long time lingered to behold
        The shady place, in meditative mood,
      She waved aside her flowing locks of gold,
        Dived to the bottom of the crystal flood,
      And when to her sweet sisters she had told
        The charming coolness of this vernal wood,
      Prayed and advised them, to its green retreat
      To take their tasks, and pass the hours of heat.

      She had not long to sue,--the lovely three
        Took up their work, and looking forth descried,
      Peopled with violets, the sequestered lea,
        And toward it hastened: swimming, they divide
      The clear glass, wantoning in sportful glee
        Through the smooth wave; till, issuing from the tide,
      Their white feet dripping to the sands they yield,
      And touch the border of that verdant field.

      Pressing the' elastic moss with graceful tread,
        They wrung the moisture from their shining hair,
      Which, shaken loose, entirely overspread
        Their beauteous shoulders and white bosoms bare;
      Then, drawing forth rich webs whose spangled thread
        Might in fine beauty with themselves compare,
      They sought the shadiest covert of the grove,
      And sat them down, conversing as they wove.

      Their woof was of the gold which Tagus brings
        From the proud mountains in his flow divine,
      Well sifted from the sands wherewith it springs,
        Of all admixture purified and fine;
      And of the green flax fashioned into strings,
        Subtile and lithe to follow and combine
      With the bright vein of gold, by force of fire
      Already drawn into resplendent wire.

      The subtile yarn their skill before had stained
        With dyes pellucid as the brightest found
      On the smooth shells of the blue sea, engrained
        By sunbeams in their warm and radiant round:
      Each nymph for skill in what her fingers feigned,
        Equalled the works of painters most renowned,--
      Apelles' Venus, or the famous piece
      Wherein Timanthes veils the grief of Greece.

      Phyllodoce, who of that beauteous band
        Was for her majesty considered queen,
      Had figured with a bold and dexterous hand
        The river Strymon: on one side were seen
      Green plains, on the reverse, a mountain grand
        And savage, where no human foot had been,
      Until the sweet, sad melodist of Thrace
      Charmed with his lyre the' inhospitable place.

      Beauteous Eurydice was pictured, stung
        In her white foot by the small snake that lay
      Collecting venom, closely coiled among
        The herbs and flowers that blossomed in her way;
      She was discoloured as the rose, yet young,
        Plucked out of season, waning to decay:
      And in her rolling eyes the soul divine
      Seemed on the wing to quit its charming shrine.

      Broidered at length the history was told
        Of her fond lord; how, daring to descend
      To the pale king of ghosts, by love made bold,
        He the lost lady by his lyre regained;
      How, mad once more her aspect to behold,
        He turned, again to lose her, and arraigned--
      Ever arraigned to mountain, cave, and spring,
      The cruel terms, and unrelenting king.

      Dynamene with no less skill and grace
        Adorned the tale her fancy had designed;
      She drew robust Apollo, to the chase
        In echoing woods exclusively resigned;
      But soon revengeful Love, reproached as base,
        Changed the blythe scene; with grief Apollo pined;
      The God had pierced him with his gold-tipt shaft,
      And clapped his wings, and at his victim laughed.

      Daphne with long dishevelled hair was hieing
        So without pity to her tender feet,
      O'er briers and rocks, that fond Apollo, sighing,
        Seemed in the chase to move with steps less fleet,
      For her sweet sake; he following, she still flying,
        Thus the race held; he, flushed with amorous heat;
      She, cold as though she froze beneath the dart
      Of hatred lodged in her disdainful heart.

      But at the last her arms increase and shoot
        Into stiff boughs; those tresses turn to leaves,
      That wont the palm of splendour to dispute
        With the fine gold, whilst to the mountain cleaves
      In thousand tortuous roots each lily foot;
        Her frantic lover the swift change perceives;
      Looks her late features in the tree to find,
      And clasps and kisses the yet panting rind.

      Blending the radiant threads and sparkling wire
        With the most exquisite address and skill,
      Of beeches, oaks, and caverns hung with brier,
        Rapt Clymene pourtrayed a mighty hill,
      Where ran a boar whose red eye darted fire,
        With gnashing teeth--all eagerness to kill
      A youth who in his hand a boar-spear shook,
      Handsome in form, and spirited in look.

      Anon the boar was dying of a wound
        From the too valiant and adventurous youth,
      And he himself lay stretched upon the ground,
        Gored by the outrageous brute's avenging tooth;
      His sunbeam-tinted tresses drooped unbound,
        Sweeping the earth in negligence uncouth;
      The white anemonies that near him blew
      Felt his red blood, and red for ever grew.

      This spoke the youth Adonis, and close by
        Venus accordingly was seen to grieve;
      Viewing the deep wound in his snowy thigh,
        She o'er him hung, half dying, to receive,
      Lip fondly pressed to lip, the last faint sigh
        Of that sweet spirit that was wont to give
      Life to the form for which, in blest accord,
      She walked the world, and held high heaven abhorred.

      White-bosomed Nyse took not for her theme
        Memory of past catastrophes, nor twined
      In her fine tissue aught that poets dream
        In antique fable, for her heart inclined
      To the renown of her dear native stream;
        The glorious Tagus therefore she designed,
      There where he blesses with his sinuous train
      The happiest of all lands, delightful Spain!

      Deep in a rocky valley was compressed
        The wealthy river, winding almost round
      A mountain, rushing with impetuous haste,
        And roaring like a lion as it wound;
      Mad for its prey, high flew its foaming crest;
        But it was labour lost, and this it found;
      For soon, contented with its wrack, the wave
      Lost its resentment, and forgot to rave.

      On the high mountain's airy head was placed
        Of ancient towers a grand and glorious weight;
      Here its bare bosom white-walled convents graced,
        There castles frowned in old Arabian state;[9]
      In windings grateful to the eye of taste,
        Thence the smooth river, smilingly sedate,
      Slid, comforting the gardens, woods, and flowers,
      With the cool spray of artificial showers.

      Elsewhere, the web, so richly figured o'er,
        Showed the fair Dryads issuing from a wood,
      With anxious haste all tending to the shore,
        The grassy margin of the shaded flood;
      In sable stoles, with aspect sad, they bore
        Baskets of purple roses in the bud,
      Lilies and violets, which they scattering poured
      On a dead nymph whom deeply they deplored.

      All with dishevelled hair were seen to shower
        Tears o'er the nymph, whose beauty did bespeak
      That death had cropt her in her sweetest flower,
        Whilst youth bloomed rosiest in her charming cheek:
      Near the still water, in a myrtle bower,
        She lay amongst the green herbs, pale and meek,
      Like a white swan that, sickening where it feeds,
      Sighs its sweet life away amidst the reeds.

      One of the Goddesses whose charms outshined
        Her sisters, charming though they were, whose vest
      Disordered, whose pale face, and eyes declined,
        The deep affliction of her soul expressed,
      Was duteously engraving on the rind
        Of a fair poplar, separate from the rest,
      The lovely nymph's memorial epitaph,
      Which thus, deciphered, spoke on her behalf.

      "ELIZA I, whose name the vocal grove,
        Whose name the mountain murmurs through its caves,
      In faithful record of the grief and love
        Of Nemoroso, as for me he raves,
      Calling ELIZA in loud shrieks that move
        Responding Tagus, whose sonorous waves
      Bear my name with them toward the Lusian sea,
      Where heard, I trust, and reverenced it will be."

      Last on this web, which we divine might deem,
        Figured the history at full was found,
      That on the banks of this romantic stream
        Of Nemoroso was so far renowned;
      For all sweet Nyse knew, and in his theme
        Of sorrow took an interest so profound,
      That as his exclamations reached her ears,
      A thousand times she melted into tears.

      And that the mournful theme might not avail
        To be resounded in the woods alone,
      But with o'ermastering tenderness prevail
        Where'er in Tethys the blue wave is blown,
      Therefore it was fond Nyse wished the tale
        Of the lost nymph should in her web be shown,
      And publish thus her beauty and his love
      Through the moist kingdoms of Neptunian Jove.

      With these fair scenes and classic histories
        The webs of the four sisters were inlaid,
      Which sweetly flushed with variegated dyes,
        In clear obscure of sunshine and of shade,
      Each figured object to observant eyes
        In rich relief so naturally displayed,
      That, like the birds deceived by Zeuxis' grapes,
      It seemed the hand might grasp their swelling shapes.

      But now the setting sun with farewell rays
        Played on the purple mountains of the west,
      And in the darkening skies gave vacant place
        For Dian to display her silver crest;
      The little fishes in her loving face
        Leaped up, gay lashing with their tails the breast
      Of the clear stream, when from their tasks the four
      Arose, and arm in arm resought the shore.

      Each in the tempered wave had dipt her foot,
        And toward the water bowed her swanlike breast,
      Down to their crystal hermitage to shoot,--
        When suddenly sweet sounds their ears arrest,
      Mellowed by distance, of the pipe or flute,
        So that to listen they perforce were prest;
      To the mild sounds wherewith the valleys ring,
      Two shepherd youths alternate ditties sing.

      Piping through that green willow wood they roam
        Amidst their flocks, which, now that day is spent,
      They to the distant folds drive slowly home,
        Across the verdurous meadows, dew-besprent;
      Whitening the dun shades, onward as they come,
        Clear and more clear the fingered instrument
      Sounds in accord with the melodious voice,
      And cheers their task, and makes the woods rejoice.

      These shepherd youths were wealthy of estate,
        And skilled in singing above all that feed
      Their flocks along the stream,--Tyrreno that,
        Alcino this was named; their years agreed;
      One was their taste; prepared now to debate
        The palm of pastoral music they proceed;
      In turn the voice, in turn the pipe they try,
      One sings, and one makes apposite reply.

TYRRENO.

      Oh gentle Flerida! more sweet to me
        And flavourous than the grape, than milk more white,
      And far more charming than a flower-filled lea,
        When April paints the landscape with delight;
      If the true love Tyrreno bears to thee
        Thou dost with equal tenderness requite,
      Thou to my fold wilt surely come, before
      The reddening orient tells that night is o'er.

ALCINO.

      Beautiful Phyllis, who so stern as thou!
        May I to thee be bitterer than the broom,
      And severed from thee, sorrow like the bough
        Stript of its leaves before the tree's in bloom,
      If the grey bat that flits around me now
        More hates the light, and more desires the gloom,
      Than I to see this day of anguish o'er,
      To me much longer than a year before!

TYRRENO.

      As Spring, attended by the laughing Hours,
        After long storm is wont to reappear,
      When the mild Zephyr, breathing through the bowers,
        Brings back its former beauty to the year,
      And goes enamelling the banks with flowers,
        Blue, white, and red, all eyes and hearts to cheer;
      So when returning Flerida is seen,
      My heart too gladdens, and my hope grows green.

ALCINO.

      Have ye the fury of the wind beheld,
        When down the rough Sierra's crags it shoots,
      How it hurls down the reverend rocks of eld,
        And tears the quivering pines up by the roots,
      Nor thus content, how with its pride upswelled,
        It loudly with the frightful sea disputes?
      Less fierce this rage is of the wind-borne Jove,
      Than Phyllis angry at Alcino's love.

TYRRENO.

      The vine and olive flourish; the green lea
        Yields plenteous pasture for the flocks at morn;
      Mountains the goats, the blossom feeds the bee,
        And Ceres joys amidst the growing corn:
      Where'er my Flerid looks, it seems to me
        That generous Plenty pours forth all her horn;
      But if she take away her smiling eyes,
      The landscape weeps, and nought but briers arise.

ALCINO.

      The field, the flock, with barrenness oppressed,
        Pines fast away, each living thing conceives
      Corruption, mildew--Ceres' fatal pest--
        Poisons the grass and taints the wheaten sheaves;
      The bird abandons its dismantled nest,
        That was hedged in before with lively leaves;
      But if sweet Phyllis chance to pass that way,
      The flock revives, and all again looks gay.

TYRRENO.

      For Daphne's laurel Phoebus gave his voice,
        The towering poplar charmed stern Hercules,
      The myrtle sweet, whose gifted flowers rejoice
        Young hearts in love, did most warm Venus please;
      The lithe green willow is my Flerid's choice,
        She gathers it amidst a thousand trees:
      Thus laurel, poplar, and sweet myrtle now,
      Where'er it grows, shall to the willow bow.

ALCINO.

      All know that in the woods the ash reigns queen,
        In graceful beauty soaring to the sky,
      And that in grandeur and thick shade the green
        And lofty beech all sylvans does outvie;
      But whoso sees the beauty of thy mien,
        Thy comely shape and austere dignity,
      Will own, fair Phyllis, that thy charms impeach
      The ash's grace and grandeur of the beech.

      Thus sang the youths in challenge and reply,
        And having finished now their rural hymn,
      With blythe attention to their charge apply,
        Pacing with faster steps the pastures dim;
      The Sisters, hearing now the rumour nigh,
        Threw themselves forth into the stream to swim;
      The shaded waves with froth were whitened o'er,
      And murmurs spread along the silent shore.

[Illustration]



ELEGIES AND EPISTLES.

[Illustration]



ELEGY I. TO THE DUKE OF ALVA,

ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER, DON BERNARDINO DE TOLEDO.


        Although this heavy stroke has touched my soul
        With such regret, that I myself require
        Some friend my deep depression to console,
        That my spent fancy may afresh respire;
        Yet would I try, if chance the' Aonian choir
        Give me the requisite assistance, just
        To strike a little comfort from the lyre,
        Thy frenzy to assuage, revive thy trust,
      And raise once more thy head and honours from the dust.

        At thy distress the pitying Muses weep;
        For neither, as I hear, when suns arise,
        Nor when they set, giv'st thou thy sorrows sleep,
        Rather by brooding o'er them as one dies,
        Creat'st another, with disordered eyes
        Still weeping, that I fear to see thy mind
        And spirit melt away in tears and sighs,
        Like snows on hill-tops, which the rainy wind
      Moaning dissolves away, and leaves no trace behind.

        Or if by chance thy wearied thought finds rest
        For a few moments in desired repose,
        'Tis to return to grief with added zest;
        In that short slumber thy poor brother shows
        Pallid as when he swooned away in throes
        From his sweet life, and thou, intent to lift
        His dear delusive corse, dost but enclose
        The vacant air; then Sleep revokes her gift,
      And from thy waking eye the mimic form flies swift.

        Yet cherishing the dream, with sense at strife,
        Thyself no more, thou anxiously look'st round
        For that beloved brother, who through life
        The better portion of thy soul was found,
        Which, dying, could not leave it wholly sound;
        And thus, forlorn, distracted, dost thou go,
        Invoking him in shrieks and groans profound,
        How changed in aspect! hurrying to and fro,
      As mad Lampecia erst beside the fatal Po.

        With the like earnest exclamations, she
        Her Phaëton bewailed; "wild waves, restore
        My poor lost brother, if you would not see
        Me too die, watering with my tears your shore!"
        Oft, oh how oft, did she the stream implore!
        How oft, revived by grief, her shrieks renew!
        And oh, as oft, that active frenzy o'er,
        Whispering, 'twas all she could, green earth adieu,
      Pale on the poplar shore her faded foliage strew.

        Yet, I confess, if any accident
        In this for-ever shifting state should bend
        The noble soul so loudly to lament,
        It were the present, since a mournful end
        Has thus deprived thee of so dear a friend,
        (Not a mere brother) one who not alone
        Shared thy deep counsels, taught thee to unbend,
        And knew each secret that to thee was known;
      But every shade of thought peculiarly thine own.

        In him reposed thy honourable, discreet,
        And wise opinions, used but as the case
        Chimed with his own; in him were seen to meet
        Thy every virtue, excellence, and grace,
        With lovely light, as in a crystal vase
        Or glassy column, whose transparence shows
        All things reflected in its lucid face,--
        Sunlight, gem, flower, the rainbow, and the rose,
      Clear in its vivid depth plays, sparkles, smiles, or glows.

        Oh the dark doom, the miserable lot
        Of human life, that through such trouble flies!
        One storm comes threatening ere the last's forgot,
        Fast as one ill departs, severer rise;
        Whom has not war snatched from our weeping eyes!
        Whom has not toil worn out! who has not laved
        In blood his foeman's sword! who not seen rise
        A thousand times the phantom he has braved,
      But by hair-breadth escapes miraculously saved!

        To many, oh how many, will be lost
        Home, son, wife, memory, undistracted brain,
        And fortune unincumbered! of this cost,
        What rich returns, what vestiges remain?
        Fortune? 'tis nought; fame? glory? victory? gain?
        Distinction? would'st thou know, our history read;
        Thou wilt there find that our fatigue and pain,
        Like dust upon the wind is driven with speed,
      Long ere our bright designs successfully proceed.

        Invidious Death oft from the unripe ear
        Gathers the grain; but in this cruel turn,
        Not satisfied with being but so severe,
        Has neither spared his youth, nor our concern;
        Who could have prophesied a stroke so stern!
        Whom had not hope deceived, alas, to vow
        That one so virtuous from the dreary urn
        Was surely charmed by that ingenuous brow,
      O'er which the furrowing years had not yet driven their plough!

        Yet is it not his losses, but our own
        That we should weep; remorseless Death has made
        A thousand clear discoveries, he has shown
        Long life a torment, joy a posting shade,
        And youth, grace, beauty, gems but to be paid,
        Poor Nature's tax, at his tyrannic shrine;
        Yet could not Death so far thy form degrade,
        But that, when life itself was past, each line
      Should yet of beauty speak, and workmanship divine.

        'Tis true, it was a beauty unattended
        By the rose-hues which Nature with such skill
        Had with the virgin lily's whiteness blended
        During thy life; the Spoiler had turned chill
        The flame that tempered its chaste snows, but still
        'Twas beauty most emphatic! thou didst rest
        Calm and composed, as though 'twas but thy will
        To sleep; a smile upon thy lips impressed
      Told of the life to come, and spoke thy spirit blest.

        What will the mother of thy love do now,
        Who loved thee as her soul? ah me, I hear
        The sound of her laments! what shrieks avow
        Her agony! shrieks ringing far and near,
        Which thy four sisters echo back, whose drear
        Distress augments her grief; I see them go,
        Forlorn, distracted, scattering o'er thy bier
        Of their long ravished locks the golden flow,
      Outraging every charm in concord with her woe.

        I see old Tormes, full of sad concern,
        With his white choir of nymphs forsake the waves,
        And water earth with tears; not o'er his urn
        Couched in the sweet cool of moist shady caves,
        But on hot summer sands outstretched, he braves
        The flaring sunbeams; flung abandoned down,
        He with hoarse groans for Bernardino raves;
        The yellow daffodils his locks that crown,
      Tears with his tangled beard, and rends his sea-green gown.

        His weeping Nymphs stand round him, unadorned,
        Uncombed their yellow tresses; weep no more,
        Your radiant eyes sufficiently have mourned,
        Beauteous frequenters of the reedy shore!
        With more availing sympathy restore
        The mother, standing on distraction's verge;
        Soon shall the dear chaste relics you deplore,
        Inurned in marble, sleep beside your surge,
      And your melodious waves prolong my funeral dirge.

        And you, Nymphs, Satyrs, Fauns, that in green bowers
        Live free from care, search each Sicilian steep
        For salutary herbs and virtuous flowers,
        To cure Fernando of a grief so deep;
        Search every secret shade, as when you peep
        After the lightfoot nymphs, and bounding go
        O'er vales and rocks, so may they when asleep
        You in their solitudes surprise them, show
      Kind as yourselves can wish, and with like fervour glow.

        But thou, Fernando, thou whose deeds both past
        And recent, deeds which to a loftier aim
        Oblige thee to aspire, such splendour cast,
        Consider where thou art! for if the name
        Which thou, the great and glorified of Fame,
        Hast gained among the nations, find its date,
        Thy virtue somewhat must relax, and blame
        Be thine; and not to brave the storms of fate
      With a serene resolve consists not with the Great.

        Not thus the shaft, shot by some fatal star
        In its due course, should pierce the noble soul;
        Ev'n if the heavens should in the dreadful jar
        Of maddening elements together roll,
        And fall in fragments like a shrivelled scroll,
        It should be crushed rather than entertain
        Dejection; crags conduct to the high goal
        Of immortality, and he whom pain
      Leads to decline the' ascent, can ne'er the crown attain.

        Call it not stern: for nature's due relief,
        To human weakness freely I concede
        The natural tears of overflowing grief,
        But the excess which would delight to feed
        On its own vitals, and indulged proceed
        To all eternity, I must assail;
        And Time at least, who lessens in his speed
        All mortal things beside, if reason fail,
      Should o'er thy grief at length be suffered to prevail.

        Hector was not for ever so lamented
        By his sad mother, or his more sad sire,
        But when the fierce Achilles had relented
        To his submissive tears, at his desire
        Yielding the corse, and when funereal fire
        Those dear devoted relics had possessed,
        The shrieks they silenced of the Phrygian choir,
        Their own acute soliloquies suppressed,
      Stifled the rising groan, and soothed their sighs to rest.

        Venus, in this point human, what did she
        Not feel, perceiving forest, field, and flower,
        Flushed with her darling's blood! but taught to see
        That clouding her bright eyes with shower on shower
        Of tears, might harm herself, but had no power
        To purchase her beloved boy's return
        From ruthless Proserpine's Cimmerian bower,
        She dried her eyes, subdued her vain concern,
      And with calm hand entwined her myrtles round his urn.

        And soon with light and graceful steps once more
        Idalia's verdurous paradise she pressed,
        Her usual ornaments and garlands wore,
        And round her clasped her beauty-breathing cest;
        The winds in wanton flights her locks caressed,
        And with fresh joy her looks and rosy bloom
        All ocean, earth, and sky divinely blessed:
        So look I forward to see thee resume
      Wisely thy firmness past, and banish fruitless gloom.

        Let thy desire to reach the skies, where care,
        And death, and sorrow lose their dues, suffice
        Without fresh instance; thou wilt notice there
        How little Death has hurt the memories
        Of his illustrious victims; cast thine eyes
        Whither Faith calls thee, where the ransomed soul
        Rests purified by fire, not otherwise
        Than was Alcides, to its heavenly goal
      When his purged spirit flew from Oeta's topmost knowl.

        Thus he for whom such thousand tears are shed,
        Who by a difficult and arduous way
        Was from his mortal stains refined, is fled
        To realms of glory, whence in broad survey
        He sees blind mortals in the dark, astray,
        And pitying, musing on these pangs of ours,
        Joys to have spread his wings abroad, where day,
        Day without night, leads on immortal hours,
      And Bliss his sapphire crown wreathes round with amaranth flowers.

        He Heaven's pure crystalline walks hand in hand
        With his brave grandsire and his sire renowned,
        The image of their virtues; to the band
        Of angels, pleased they point each radiant wound;
        This high reward his heroism has found,
        The only vengeance granted in the skies
        To earthly foes; the ocean flowing round
        This globe of ours--the globe itself he eyes,
      And learns its petty toys and trifles to despise.

        He there beholds the mystic glass which shows
        The past, the present, and the future joined;
        He sees the period when thy life shall close;
        He sees the place to thee in heaven assigned;
        Thrice happy soul, freed from the affections blind
        With which on earth so fruitlessly we yearn!
        Who liv'st in peace and blessedness enshrined,
        And shalt live long as, lit at love's bright urn,
      With fire of joy divine celestial spirits burn.

        And if kind heaven the wished duration lend
        To this my sorrowing Elegy, I vow
        Whilst shade and sunlight o'er the world extend
        Their robes of gloom or glory, whilst winds bow
        The woods, whilst lions haunt the mountain's brow,
        Or fish the ocean, long as oceans roll,
        The world shall sing of thee; since all allow
        That one so young, enriched with such a soul,
      Will ne'er again be seen from Pole to sparkling Pole.



ELEGY II. TO BOSCÁN, WRITTEN AT THE FOOT OF MOUNT ETNA.


        Boscán! here, where the Mantuan has inurned
        Anchises' ashes to eternal fame,
        We, Cæsar's hosts, from conquest are returned,
        Some of their toils the promised fruits to claim--
        Some who make virtue both the end and aim
        Of action, or would have the world suppose
        And say so, loud in public to declaim
        Against such selfishness; whilst yet, heaven knows,
      They act in secret all the meanness they oppose.

        For me, a happy medium I observe;
        For never has it entered in my scheme
        To strive for much more silver than may serve
        To lift me gracefully from each extreme
        Of thrifty meanness, thriftless pride; I deem
        The men contemptible that stoop to use
        The one or other, that delight to seem
        Too close, or inconsiderate in their views:
      In error's moonlight maze their way both worthies lose.

        But whither rove I? I stand pledged to send
        An elegy, and find my language fast
        Sliding toward satire; I correct, sweet friend,
        My wandering course; and prosecute at last
        My purpose, whither thou must know the past
        Has ever led, and where the present still
        Leads Garcilasso: on the green turf cast,
        Here, midst the woods of this stupendous hill,
      On various things I brood, not unperplexed by ill.

        Yet leave I not the Muses, but the more
        For this perplexity with them commune,
        And with the charm of their delicious lore
        Vary my life, and waste the summer noon;
        Thus pass my hours beguiled; but out of tune
        The lyre will sometimes be, when trials prove
        The anxious lyrist: to the country soon
        Of the sweet Siren shall I hence remove,
      Yet, as of yore, the land of idlesse, ease, and love.

        There once before my troubled heart found rest
        With the sad turtle; but it is not now
        So much by sadness as chill fear possessed,
        Which, shooting through my veins, I know not how
        To' endure and still exist; did sadness bow
        My spirit but as then, 'twere a mere name;
        Short absence from one's love, I even allow,
        Enlivens life; slight water poured on flame
      Brightens its blaze--in love short absence does the same.

        But if much water on the flame is shed,
        It fumes, it hisses, and the splendid fire
        Decays into dark ashes; absence spread
        Into great length, so deals with the desire
        Kindled by love, and o'er the smouldering pyre
        Of passion coldness creeps: I only wrong
        This one result; the love that would expire
        With all else lives in me, and, short or long,
      Absence augments my ills, and makes desire more strong.

        And reason, it might almost be presumed,
        Confirms the paradox thus made of me,
        And me alone; for doomed, as I was doomed
        By heaven to love's sweet fires eternally,
        Absence to quench the flame should also be
        Infinite without end, unlimited
        In its duration--a most startling plea,
        True though it is, for absence can but spread
      Through life, which finite is--it not disturbs the dead.

        But how, oh how shall I be sure, that here
        My evil Genius, in the change I seek,
        Is not still sworn against me? this strong fear
        It is that chills my heart, and renders weak
        The wish I feel to visit that antique
        Italian city, whence my eyes derive
        Such exquisite delight, with tears they speak
        Of the contrasting griefs my heart that rive,
      And with them up in arms against me here I strive.

        Oh fierce--oh rigorous--oh remorseless Mars!
        In diamond tunic garmented, and so
        Steeled always in the harshness that debars
        The soul from feeling! wherefore as a foe
        Force the fond lover evermore to go
        Onward from strife to strife, o'er land and sea?
        Exerting all thy power to work me woe,
        I am so far reduced, that death would be
      At length a blessed boon, my refuge, fiend, from thee!

        But my hard fate this blessing does deny--
        I meet it not in battle; the strong spear,
        Sharp sword, and piercing arrow pass me by,
        Yet strike down others in their young career,
        That I might pine away to see my dear
        Sweet fruit engrossed by aliens who deride
        My vain distress; but whither does my fear
        And grief transport me without shame or pride?
      Whither I dread to think, and grieve to have descried?

        Where the seen evil (from despair's revealings
        Being already lost) can ne'er augment
        My pain a tittle; such are now my feelings--
        Yet if, when come, it should unveiled present
        Its face of horror, what I now lament
        Would gain in brightness; I should always feel
        Grateful to Fortune, if she would consent
        Merely on what my anxious fears reveal
      Of pictured ills in store, to' affix her final seal.

        It is, I know, the way to soothe the heart
        With self-deceit, and dwell alone thereon,
        As the sick man to whom true friends impart
        His hopeless state, and warn him that anon
        His failing, fluttering spirit must be gone,
        Soothed by his wife's fond clamours that his case
        Is not so bad, to fresh assurance won,
        Casts at the word his eyes on her dear face,
      And glad at heart expires, endeavouring her embrace.

        'Tis wise--'tis well; thus Garcilasso too
        Will leave each dark reflection, and rely
        On Hope's gay dreams, no matter false or true,
        And in his dear deceit contented die.
        Since the clear knowledge that my end is nigh
        Can never cure the ill, I too will play
        With death, and as lost patients when they try
        Warm baths, and perish in unfelt decay,
      From love and life alike most sweetly faint away.

        But thou, who in thy villa, blest with all
        That heart can wish, look'st on the sweet sea-shore,
        And undistracted, listening to the fall
        And swell of the loud waves that round thee roar,
        Gatherest to thy already rich scrutoire,
        Fresh living verses for perpetual fame,
        Rejoice! for fires more beauteous than of yore
        Were kindled by the Dardan prince, inflame
      Thy philosophic breast, and light thy laurelled name.

        Fear not that Fortune with thwart blast will e'er
        Vex thee--these lucid fires will calmness shed
        On her wild winds; for me, I well see where
        She forces me along, not to the dead,
        For that is my desire; my hope is fed
        By a deceit most slight, which does but just
        Endure, whilst if I weave not the thin thread
        Day after day, it breaking leaves my trust
      Past fresh revival fallen, and darkening into dust.

        This sole return my servitude obtains
        From stepdame Fortune, that she should deny
        Her common changes in the griefs and pains
        That vex my being; whither shall I fly,
        A moment to shake off the misery
        That loads my heart? alas, it is decreed
        That distance to my anguish should supply
        No rest, no ease, but that where'er I speed,
      My arm from cankering chains should never more be freed!

        If where the burning sun his splendour flings
        On the scorched sands of Africa the wild,
        Nurse of all venomous and savage things,
        Or where his fire is quenched by ices piled
        On ices to the clouds, where flower ne'er smiled,
        Nor save the hoarse blast aught endured the clime,
        I by imperious Fortune were exiled,
        There to consume my melancholy time,
      Smit by the' unshadowed blaze, or rained on by the rime;--

        There, with his icy hand Fear still would seize
        On my sad heart, and here, mid silent snows,
        Where the sharp wind seems ev'n the stars to freeze,
        Curdling to ice the flood that swiftest flows;
        Ev'n here, I know that I could interpose
        No screen to shield me from the vivid fire
        Wherein chastised my ardent spirit glows,
        Wasting away I trust by slow desire,
      And thus 'twixt clashing ills distractedly expire.



EPISTLE TO BOSCÁN.


      Who loves like me for his friend's eye to frame
      Thoughts even on things that have no Spanish name,
      Can never want materials for his sheet,
      Clothed in a style brief, simple, easy, neat,
      And chaste in ornament, as best befits
      The chitchat writing of familiar wits.
      Amidst the' advantage which with other things
      To minds like ours perfected friendship brings,
      Is this same careless freedom which one gains
      From the nice pomp of ceremonial chains.
      Thus free, thus easy, I proceed to tell
      In the first place, that I'm arrived--and well
      As one can be, who in a time so brief
      Has rid the distance noted over-leaf.
      A looser rein I give, as I proceed,
      To my winged fancy than my trotting steed;
      At times it bears me onward by a way
      So smooth and pleasant, with a step so gay,
      As makes me quite forget my past fatigues;
      At times o'er ruts so rough, by such long leagues,
      That in the present pain I lose no less
      The vexing thought of undergone distress;
      But times there are again, when I create
      A middle course, both temperate and sedate,
      When taste and temper, scene and season suit
      With the ingenious thought and nice dispute.
        Thus as I musing rode one day, and thought
      On his endowments who so well has taught
      The paths to friendship,[AR] almost instantly
      My thoughts, beloved Boscán, recurred to thee,
      And feelings rose, which singular appear,
      At least to me, which therefore thou shalt hear.
      Whilst much reflecting on the sacred tie
      Of our affection which I hold so high,
      The' exchange of talent, taste, intelligence,
      Shared gifts and multiplied delights which thence
      Refresh our souls in their perpetual flow--
      There nothing is that makes me value so
      The sweetness of this compact of the heart,
      Than the affection on my own warm part.
      Such force it has, that (not disparaging
      The other pleasures that from friendship spring)
      The aid--the advantage each to each has dealt,
      With this alone my soul has seemed to melt,
      And I well know that I am otherwise
      Influenced in this than by the joys that rise
      From things as useful; seeing then the' effect
      So strong within me, led me to reflect
      And search into the cause; I have thus traced
      The pleasure, profit, ornament, and taste
      Which the blest chain of love to me imparts,
      (The chain some Angel tangled round our hearts)
      To their true source, as things that do not mount
      From me, but tell alone to my account;
      But love itself (whence all things may have birth)
      When it is seen to furnish aught of worth
      To thee, dear friend, joy, taste, or benefit,
      Is the grand reason of my valuing it
      Above all selfish interests, as it is
      More godlike to bestow imparted bliss,
      Than to receive it; thus the loving makes
      My good--a good that of no ill partakes.
        Such were my thoughts. But oh, how shall I set
      Fully to view my shame and my regret,
      For having praised so at a single glance
      The roads, the dealings, and hotels of France!
      Shame--that with reason now thou may'st pronounce
      Myself a fabler, and my praise a bounce;
      Regret--my time so much to have misused
      In rashly lauding what were best abused;
      For here, all fibs apart, you find but jades
      Of hacks, sour wines, and pilfering chambermaids,
      Long ways, long bills, no silver, fleecing hosts,
      And all the luxury of lumbering posts.
      Arriving too from Naples by the way,
      Naples,--the choice, the brilliant, and the gay!
      I left no treasure buried there, except
      You say that's buried which I might have kept;
      Embrace Durál[10] for me, nor rate my Muse:
      October twelfth, given forth from sweet Vaucluse,
      Where the fine flame of Petrarch had its birth,
      And where its ashes yet irradiate earth.


FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote AR: ARISTOTLE: Ethici, lib. viii. c. 3.]



ODES AND SONGS.

[Illustration]



I. TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO[11].


      1.
      Had I the sweet resounding lyre,
        Whose voice could in a moment chain
      The howling wind's ungoverned ire,
        And movement of the raging main,
        On savage hills the leopard rein,
      The lion's fiery soul entrance,
        And lead along with golden tones
        The fascinated trees and stones
      In voluntary dance;

      2.
      Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gnide,
        It e'er should celebrate the scars,
      Dust raised, blood shed, or laurels dyed
        Beneath the gonfalon of Mars;
        Or, borne sublime on festal cars,
      The chiefs who to submission sank
        The rebel German's soul of soul,
        And forged the chains that now control
      The frenzy of the Frank.

      3.
      No, no! its harmonies should ring
        In vaunt of glories all thine own,
      A discord sometimes from the string
        Struck forth to make thy harshness known
        The fingered chords should speak alone
      Of Beauty's triumphs, Love's alarms,
        And one who, made by thy disdain
        Pale as a lily clipt in twain,
      Bewails thy fatal charms.

      4.
      Of that poor captive, too contemned,
        I speak,--his doom you might deplore--
      In Venus' galliot-shell condemned
        To strain for life the heavy oar.
        Through thee no longer as of yore
      He tames the unmanageable steed,
        With curb of gold his pride restrains,
        Or with pressed spurs and shaken reins
      Torments him into speed.

      5.
      Not now he wields for thy sweet sake
        The sword in his accomplished hand,
      Nor grapples like a poisonous snake,
        The wrestler on the yellow sand:
        The old heroic harp his hand
      Consults not now, it can but kiss
        The amorous lute's dissolving strings,
        Which murmur forth a thousand things
      Of banishment from bliss.

      6.
      Through thee, my dearest friend and best
        Grows harsh, importunate, and grave;
      Myself have been his port of rest
        From shipwreck on the yawning wave;
        Yet now so high his passions rave
      Above lost reason's conquered laws,
        That not the traveller ere he slays
        The asp, its sting, as he my face
      So dreads, or so abhors.

      7.
      In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide,
        Thou wert not cradled, wert not born,
      She who has not a fault beside
        Should ne'er be signalized for scorn;
        Else, tremble at the fate forlorn
      Of Anaxárete, who spurned
        The weeping Iphis from her gate,
        Who, scoffing long, relenting late,
      Was to a Statue turned.

      8.
      Whilst yet soft pity she repelled,
        Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride,
      From her friezed window she beheld,
        Aghast, the lifeless suicide;
        Around his lily neck was tied
      What freed his spirit from her chains,
        And purchased with a few short sighs
        For her immortal agonies,
      Imperishable pains.

      9.
      Then first she felt her bosom bleed
        With love and pity; vain distress!
      Oh what deep rigours must succeed
        This first sole touch of tenderness!
        Her eyes grow glazed and motionless,
      Nailed on his wavering corse, each bone
        Hardening in growth, invades her flesh,
        Which, late so rosy, warm, and fresh,
      Now stagnates into stone.

      10.
      From limb to limb the frosts aspire,
        Her vitals curdle with the cold;
      The blood forgets its crimson fire,
        The veins that e'er its motion rolled;
        Till now the virgin's glorious mould
      Was wholly into marble changed,
        On which the Salaminians gazed,
        Less at the prodigy amazed,
      Than of the crime avenged.

      11.
      Then tempt not thou Fate's angry arms,
        By cruel frown or icy taunt;
      But let thy perfect deeds and charms
        To poets' harps, Divinest, grant
        Themes worthy their immortal vaunt;
      Else must our weeping strings presume
        To celebrate in strains of woe,
        The justice of some signal blow
      That strikes thee to the tomb.



II. TO HIS LADY.


      1.
      If e'er in howling deserts wide, unhabitable lands,
      Distressed by equatorial suns and solitary sands;
      Or heaped with pathless snows untrod but by the hoarse bleak
          blast,
      By any accident or change of fortune I were cast,
      And knew that in that wilderness, that world of fire or frost,
      Thy cruel frowns awaited me at every tract I crossed,
      Still would I on in search of thee, through simoom, sand, and
          sleet,
      Till by unintermitted toil stretched dead before thy feet.

      2.
      Let now thy pride and coyness end, since ended is the strength
      Of him on whom they were discharged, be satisfied at length
      That Love, since he desires that all his votaries should enjoy
      Their life, and act as safety bids, is angry with the coy;
      Time must pass on, remorse will come for treatment so severe,
      Anguish and shame remain for thee, I know it and I fear;
      For though I sorrow for myself, since thou must bear a part
      For thy disdains, these sorrows pierce more sensibly my heart.

      3.
      Thus go my hours increasing still materials for regret,
      Which, ev'n as though my bitter cup were not o'erflowing yet,
      In nothing serves me, but to show as in a lucid glass,
      The ruined state in which I stand--the perils that I pass.
      Heaven grant that this may profit me to think of some remead,
      As I behold thee ever bent to break the bruised reed;
      Here am I pointing out to thee the symptoms of my death,
      Whilst like the fatal bird thou sitt'st, and steal'st away my
          breath!

      4.
      If paleness past, unconscious sighs breath'd forth for thy stern
          sake,
      And the long silence I have kept, have had no power to wake
      In thee one touch of tenderness, not ev'n enough to raise
      The recollected sense that I had ever met thy gaze,
      Let my deep sufferings now at length from this time forth suffice,
      Making me understand that 'twas my contrast in thine eyes,
      My sickness rather than thy scorn that kept my suit at bay,
      So will my grief become my good, and sickness prove my stay.

      5.
      ODE! thou hast nothing more to do with me in bale or bliss,
      Treat me as one unknown, with her it will not be amiss;
      If fearful of offending me, oh seek not to persuade
      By citing more my griefs, by them was all this mischief made.



III. TO HIS LADY.


      1.
      Given up to my fate, shunning notice, I go
        To the woods that first offer their glooms to my eye;
      Scattering through them a thousand lamentings of woe
        To the wind, on whose wings they but wander to die.
      Though thine ear they deserve not, I cannot but sigh
        To behold them go ruined the very same way
      They would take if redressed, to me back they must fly,
        Where, alas, they for ever and ever will stay!

      2.
      But what shall I do, Lady? where for relief
        Can I turn, if thou fail'st my kind angel to be,
      Or whose aid will avail me in seasons of grief,
        If my mournful complaints find not pity in thee?
      Thou alone hold'st my soul so enchanted--I know
        From my plaints that thou always turn'st smiling away,
      Yet still I adore and plain to thee, as though
        Thou would'st really care aught if I perished to-day.

      3.
      I appeal to the trees that o'ershadow the dell;
        They have heard what from thee I conceal, and their tongue,
      If it can give account of distraction, will tell
        What I murmured their green summer branches among.
      But who can speak calmly my grief? let them then
        Wrong me not, fear no longer my speech shall repress;
      Who from year to year's end would consent to complain,
        Without hope or expectance of any redress?

      4.
      But redress is refused with such cruel commands,
        As were never imposed upon any before,
      For if others have ceased setting forth their demands,
        Weeping only in secret the evils they bore,
      It will hardly have been without some slight relief
        To their pangs, but with me pain so melts into pain,
      That my fancy ev'n fails to set bounds to my grief,
        So I still suffer that which I cannot explain.

      5.
      If e'er through my long brief of wrongs and defeats,
        I at any time chance my regards to extend,
      It is only by dealing in brilliant deceits,
        That my still cherished cause I can hope to defend.
      But thy quick expositions--one dim frown of pride,
        One warm blush of resentment cuts short my defence,
      And, outpleaded, I turn from thy beauty to chide,
        If not curse both my want of perception and sense.

      6.
      Yet what harm have I done thee? what wrong? not a shade!
        Save that--Anger herself might forgive me the sin--
      I have wished myself ruined, if only, stern maid,
        To take vengeance on thee, tyrannising within.
      SONG of sorrow, go forth! I've already said more
        Than they charged me, yet less than I trusted to say;
      Let them ask me no further, lest further the store
        Of my Lady's defects in my wrath I betray.



IV. WRITTEN IN EXILE.


      1.
      With the mild sound of clear swift waves the Danube's arms of foam
      Circle a verdant isle which Peace has made her chosen home;
      Where the fond poet might repair from weariness and strife,
      And in the sunshine of sweet song consume his happy life.
      Here evermore the smiling Spring goes scattering odorous flowers,
      And nightingales and turtle-doves in depth of myrtle bowers,
      Turn disappointment into hope, turn sadness to delight,
      With magic of their fond laments, which cease not day nor night.

      2.
      Here am I placed, or sooth to say, alone, 'neath foreign skies
      Forced in arrest, and easy 'tis in such a paradise
      To force a meditative man, whose own desires would doom
      Himself with pleasure to a world all redolence and bloom.
      One thought alone distresses me, if I whilst banished sink
      'Midst such misfortunes to the grave, lest haply they should think
      It was my complicated ills that caused my death, when I
      Know well that if I die 'twill be because I wish to die.

      3.
      My person's in the power and hands of him who can require,
      And at his sovereign pleasure do what else he may desire,
      But he shall ne'er have power to force my discontents to stay,
      Whilst nothing more of me than this is subject to his sway.
      When now the' inevitable doom shall come, my fatal hour,
      And find me in the self-same place, the prisoner of his power,
      Another thing more keen than death it is will deal the blow,
      As whosoever has endured the like too well must know.

      4.
      Idle it were at greater length on such a theme to speak,
      Since my necessity is strong, and hopeless all I seek,
      Since in the course of one short hour was all this ruin sent,
      Since upon that the tears and toils of my whole life were spent.
      And at the finish of a course like this, shall they presume
      To scare me? let them know that now I cannot face my doom
      But without dread, that Fortune when she caused to disappear
      In one day all my happiness, grudged ev'n to leave me fear.

      5.
      River divine, rich Danube! thou the bountiful and strong,
      That through fierce nations roll'st thy waves rejoicingly along,
      Since only but by rushing through thy drowning billows deep,
      These scrolls can hence escape to tell the noble words I weep,
      If wrecked in undeciphered loss on some far foreign land,
      They should by any chance be found upon thy desert sand,
      Since they upon thy willowed shore must drift, where'er they err,
      Their relics let the kind blue waves with murmured hymns inter.

      6.
      Ode of my melancholy hours! last infant of my lyre!
      Although in booming waves it be thy fortune to expire,
      Grieve not, since I, howe'er myself from holy rites debarred,
      Have seen to all that touches thee with catholic regard.
      Less, less had been thy life if thou hadst been but ranked among
      Those without record that have risen and died upon my tongue;
      Whose utter want of sympathy and haughtiness austere
      Has been the cause of this, from me thou very soon shalt hear!



V. THE PROGRESS OF PASSION FOR HIS LADY.


      1.
      Once more from the dark ivies my proud harp!
      I wish the sharpness of my ills to be
      Shown in thy sounds, as they have been shown sharp
      In their effects; I must bewail to thee
      The occasions of my grief, the world shall know
      Wherefore I perish, I at least will die
      Confessed, not without shrift:
      For by the tresses I am dragged along
      By an antagonist so wild and strong,
      That o'er sharp rocks and brambles, staining so
      The pathway with my blood, it rushes by,
      Than the swift-footed winds themselves more swift;
      And to torment me for a longer space,
      It sometimes paces gently over flowers,
      Sweet as the morning, where I lose all trace
      Of former pain, and rest luxurious hours;
      But brief the respite! in this blissful case
      Soon as it sees me, with collected powers,
      With a new wildness, with a fury new,
      It turns its rugged road to repursue.

      2.
      Not by my own neglect into such harm
      Fell I at first, 'twas destiny that bore,
      And gave me up to the tormenting charm,
      For both my reason and my judgment swore
      To guard me as in bygone years they well
      Had guarded me in seasons of alarm;
      But when past perils they compared with those
      They saw advancing, neither could they tell
      Or what to make of such unusual foes,
      How to engage with them, or how repel;
      But stared to see the force with which they came,
      Till, spurred on by pure shame,
      With a slow pace and with a timid eye,
      At length my Reason issued on the way,
      And more and more as the fleet foe drew nigh,
      The more did aggravating doubt display
      My life in peril; dreading lest the die
      Of that day's battle should be lost, dismay
      Made the hot blood boll in my veins, until,
      Reclaimed, it sank into as cold a chill.

      3.
      I stood spectator of their chivalry;
      Fighting in my defence, my Reason tired
      And faint from thousand wounds became, and I,
      Unconscious what the insidious thought inspired,
      Was wishing my mailed Advocate to quit
      The hopeless quarrel,--never in my life
      Was what I wished fulfilled with so much ease,
      For, kneeling down, at once she closed the strife,
      And to the Lady did her sword submit,
      Consenting she should have me for her slave,
      As Victory urged, to slaughter or to save,
      Whichever most might please.
      Then, then indeed I felt my spirit rise,
      That such unreasonable conditions e'er
      Had been agreed to; anger, shame, surprise,
      At once possessed me, fruitless as they were;
      Then followed grief to know the treaty done,
      And see my kingdom in the hands of one
      Who gives me life and death each day, and this
      Is the most moderate of her tyrannies.

      4.
      Her eyes, whose lustre could irradiate well
      The raven night, and dim the mid-day sun,
      Changed me at once by some emphatic spell
      From what I was--I gazed, and it was done.
      Too finished fascination! glassed in mine,
      The glory of her eyeballs did imprint
      So bright a fire, that from its heat malign
      My sickening soul acquired another tint.
      The showers of tears I shed assisted more
      This transformation; broken up, I found,
      Was my past peace and freedom, in the core
      Of my fond heart, an all-luxuriant ground,
      The plant whereof I perish struck its root
      Deep as its head extended high, and dense
      As were its melancholy boughs; the fruit
      Which it has been my wont to gather thence,
      Sour is a thousand times for one time sweet,
      But ever poisonous to the lips that eat.

      5.
      Now, flying from myself as from a curse,
      In search of her who shuns me as a foe,
      I speed, which to one error adds a worse;
      And in the midst of toil, fatigue, and woe,
      Whilst the forged irons on my bound limbs ring,
      Find myself singing as of old, but oh
      How soon are checked the causeless songs I sing,
      If in myself I lock my thoughts! for there
      I view a field where nought but brambles spring,
      And the black nightshade, garlanding despair.
      Hope in the distance shows me, as she flies,
      Her fluttering garments and light step, but ne'er
      Her angel face,--tears rush into my eyes
      At the delusion, nor can I forbear
      To call her false as the mirage that kills
      The thirsty pilgrim of the sandy waste,
      When he beholds far-off, 'twixt seeming hills,
      The stream he dies to taste;
      With eager eye he marks its lucid face,
      And listens, fancying that he heard it roar,
      But when arrived in torment at the place,
      Weeps to perceive it distant as before.

      6.
      Of golden locks was the rich tissue wove
      Framed by my sympathy, wherein with shame
      My struggling Reason was entrapped like Love
      In the strong arms of Appetite, the fame
      Whereof drew all Olympus to regard
      The Fire-God's capture; but 'twere out of place
      For me this capture to go gaze, debarred
      Of that whereby to contemplate the case.
      So circumstanced I find myself! the field
      Of tournament is cleared, the foe descried,
      Alarmed I stand, without or spear or shield,
      Closed are the barriers, and escape denied.
      Who at my story is not terrified!
      Who could believe that I am fallen so low,
      That to the grief I hurry from, my pride
      Is oft-times found so little of a foe,
      That at the moment when I might regain
      A life of freedom, I caress my chain,
      And curse the hours and moments lately lent
      To freer thoughts, as mournfully mis-spent.

      7.
      This fancy is not always paramount,
      For of a brain so wild the phantasies
      Sleep not a moment; Grief at times will mount
      The throne of Slavery, and her sceptre seize,
      So that my fancy shrinks as from its place,
      To shun the torture of its frightful face.
      There is no part in me but frenzied is,
      And wailed by me in turn; on my wild track,
      Afresh protesting at the blind abyss,
      I turn affrighted back.
      Not urged by reason, not by judgment, this
      Discretion of the mind is wholly lost;
      All is become a barrenness or blot,
      But this one grief, and ev'n the rising ghost
      Of dead joy, gliding by, is heeded not;
      I keep no chronicle of by-gone bliss,
      But feel alone, within my heart and brain,
      The fury and the force of present pain.

      8.
      In midst of all this agony and woe
      A shade of good descends my wounds to heal;
      Surely, I fancy, my beloved foe
      Must feel some little part of what I feel.
      So insupportable a toil weighs down
      My weary soul, that did I not create
      Some strong deceit, of power to ease the weight,
      I must at once die--die without my crown
      Of martyrdom, a registered renown,
      Untalked of by the world, unheard, unviewed!
      And thus from my most miserable estate
      I draw a gleam of good.
      But soon my fate this train of things reverses,
      For if I ever from the storm find peace,
      Peace nurtures fear, and fear my peace disperses,
      Swift as a rainbow arched o'er raging seas;
      Thus from the flowers which for a space console,
      Springs up the serpent that devours my soul.

      9.
      Ode! if men, seeing thee, be seized with fright
      At the caprice, inconstancy, and shock
      Of these conflicting fancies of my brain,
      Say that the cause thereof--tormenting pain,
      Is stable, fixt, and changeless as a rock.
      Say thou, that its fierce might
      So storms my heart that it must yield, ere long,
      Ev'n to a foe more terrible and strong;
      To him, from whom all cross themselves--to save;
      The Power whose home is in the lonely grave!



SONNETS, ETC.

[Illustration]



I.


      When I sit down to contemplate my case,
      And to review the stages of the way,
      I find from where my steps went first astray,
      They might have lost me in a darker maze:
      But when these memories pass, around I gaze,
      And wonder whence could come a doom so dark;
      I know I die, and suffer more to mark
      My care conclude with my concluding race.
      Yes, die I will, and so my spirit free
      From her who well will know to' undo and slay me
      If so she wishes,--such her wish will be,
      For since my own will does to death betray me,
      Hers, which is less my friend, must compass too
      My death--if not, what is it she will do?



II.


      At length into thy hands I come--to die;
      For sure I am that ev'n the poor relief
      Of lightening with laments my weight of grief,
      Is a desire thy rigour will deny.
      How my life has so long been borne, or why
      So guardedly sustained, I cannot tell,
      Unless for proof how willingly and well
      The sword will act that cuts so firm a tie.
      My tears have fallen where barrenness and drought
      Small fruit have yielded, let what I have wept
      For thee suffice--their wasted springs have kept
      Pace with my pining; but if still you crave
      Tears, cruel Lady, be they henceforth sought
      Where the yew weeps o'er Garcilasso's grave!



III.


      Awhile my hopes will tower aloft in air
      On cheerful wings, till, weary with their flight,
      They fall relaxed from their Icarian height,
      And leave me on the surges of despair.
      This change from bliss to ruin who could bear?
      Oh wearied heart! in this thy dark estate
      Of wretchedness be vigorous and elate,--
      Calms follow storms, and frowning ends in fair.
      By force of arm myself will undertake,
      Though fraught with danger and alarming ill,
      To break a barrier none beside would break;
      Death--durance--nought shall countervail my will,
      To come to thee, my Beauty, saved or lost,
      Or as a living form, or naked ghost!



IV.


      Lady, thy face is written in my soul,
      And whensoe'er I wish to chant thy praise,
      On that illumined manuscript I gaze,
      Thou the sweet scribe art, I but read the scroll.
      In this dear study all my days shall roll;
      And though this book can ne'er the half receive
      Of what in thee is charming, I believe
      In that I see not, and thus see the whole
      With faith's clear eye; I but received my breath
      To love thee, my ill Genius shaped the rest;
      'Tis now that soul's mechanic act to love thee,
      I love thee, owe thee more than I confessed;
      I gained life by thee, cruel though I prove thee;
      In thee I live, through thee I bleed to death.



V.


      By rugged ways I reach towards a bourn
      Which awes me not, and if I strive to slack
      My usual pace, or for a change draw back,
      There am I dragged with cruel unconcern;
      But still, with death at hand, for life I yearn,
      And seek fresh means my footsteps to reverse;
      I know the better, I approve the worse,
      Either from evil custom, or the stern
      Fatality of woe. Yet, my brief time--
      The wandering process of my wayward years
      Alike in manhood as in early prime,--
      My will (with which I war not now) in fact,
      Sure Death, whose peaceful slumber dries all tears,
      Make me not care the harm to counteract.



VI.


      He who has lost so much, stern Deity,
      Can lose no more! oh Love, let what has past
      Suffice thee--let it profit me at last
      Ne'er to have shrunk from thy supreme decree.
      On the white walls of thy pure sanctuary
      My pictured tablets and dank robes I hung,
      Ev'n as a shipwrecked solitary, flung
      Safely ashore from thy tempestuous sea.
      Then vowed I never more to trust the bliss,
      At my command and option, to the guile
      Of such another syren, but from this
      How shall vows save me? in the risk I run
      I break no vow, for neither is her smile
      Like others' smiles, nor in my power to shun.



VII.


      From that illumined face, pure, mild, and sweet,
      A living spirit in keen lightning flies;
      And by perception of my eager eyes,
      I feel it stays not till their orbs repeat
      Its ardour; blandly on the track they meet,
      Which my charmed spirit, winged with warmth, pursues,
      Undone, and clamouring for the good it views:
      When absent, Memory in her holy heat
      Paints its passed beauty, till my soul will glow,
      Thinking it real, and divinely stirred,
      On tiptoe fly to its embrace, but meeting
      Nought but repulse from its angelic foe,
      Whose aspect guards the gate, it dies with beating
      Its heart against it, like a captive bird.



VIII.


      If I live on, dear Lady, in the void
      Caused by your absences, I seem to' offend
      Him who adores you, and to discommend
      The bliss that in your presence I enjoyed.
      Soon by another thought am I annoyed--
      If I of life despair, I forfeit too
      The good I hope for in beholding you;
      By ills so varying is my peace destroyed.
      My feelings in this variance all take part
      So fiercely, that I know not what decreed
      Me to such grievances--I never look
      On their dissensions without swift rebuke,
      But night and day they war with nicest art.
      And in my ruin are alone agreed.



IX.


      Oh lovely gifts, by me too fatal found!
      Lovely and dear indeed whilst Heaven was kind;
      In mine immortal memory ye are joined,
      And sworn with her to give my dying wound;
      Who would have said, sweet seasons past, when crowned
      With the ecstatic hope your emblems lent,
      That one day you would have to represent
      Despair so dark, affliction so profound?
      Since in an hour ye made unpitying theft
      Of those Elysian dreams, do not deny
      To take as well the sorrow you have left;
      Else, can I but suspect ye raised so high
      My youthful joys, to wish that I should die
      Midst mournful memories of the bliss bereft!



X.


      In order to restrain this mad desire,
      Impossible and rash, and thus to miss
      The fall from danger's crag, ah, if for this
      My proud thoughts, blind with what they most admire,
      Still fail to see what safety would require,
      Me as I am, too timid or too bold,
      In such confusion that I dare not hold
      The reins of that which sets my soul on fire;
      What can it serve to see the pictured tale
      Of him who, falling with scorched wings, gave name
      And celebration to the Icarian seas;
      Or that where (poplars now) seven maids bewail
      Their Phaëton's past frenzy, and the flame
      Whose rage the' Italian waves could scarce appease?



XI.


      Strange icy throes the arms of Daphne bind,
      Which shoot, and spread, and lengthen into boughs;
      And into green leaves metamorphosed shows
      The head whose locks, wooed by the summer wind,
      Made the fine gold seem dim; the rigorous rind
      Clothes the soft members that still pant; her feet,
      Snowy as swift, in earth fast rooted meet,
      By thousand tortuous fibres intertwined.
      The author of an injury so great,
      With virtue of his tears this laurel fed,
      Which flourished thus, perpetual greenness keeping;
      Oh fatal growth! oh miserable estate!
      That from his weeping each fresh day should spread
      The very cause and reason of his weeping.



XII.


      As a fond mother, whose sick infant lies
      Weeping, importunate for what she knows
      If giv'n will double all his pangs and woes,
      In tenderest mercy his desire denies;
      Till, moved to pity by his streaming eyes,
      She can withstand no longer, but in haste
      Submits the flavourous mischief to his taste,
      And seals his ruin, though she stills his cries;
      So to my sick and frenzied thoughts that yearn
      And plead to me for thee, I would deny
      The fatal fruit with merciful concern;
      But night and day they murmur, weep, and pine,
      Till I, alas, consent to soothe their cry,
      Forgetful of their death, and ev'n of mine!



XIII.


      If lamentations and complaints could rein
      The course of rivers as they rolled along,
      And move on desert hills, attired in song,
      The savage forests, if they could constrain
      Fierce tigers and chill rocks to entertain
      The sound, and with less urgency than mine,
      Lead tyrant Pluto and stern Proserpine,
      Sad and subdued with magic of their strain;
      Why will not my vexatious being, spent
      In misery and in tears, to softness soothe
      A bosom steeled against me? with more ruth
      An ear of rapt attention should be lent
      The voice of him that mourns himself for lost,
      Than that which sorrowed for a forfeit ghost!



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

_Who died of the Pestilence at Naples, in the twentieth year of his age,
serving in the army of the Emperor against the French._


      Neither the odious weapons of the Gaul,
      In anger brandished at my breast, nor sleet
      Of poisonous arrows, than the winds more fleet,
      Shot by the warders of the mounted wall,
      Nor skirmish, nor the roaring thunderball--
      The dreadful counterpart of those above,
      Forged by Vulcanian artifice, when Jove
      In wrath would the rebellious world appal--
      Could for a single moment haste my death,
      Though much I braved the risks of cruel war;
      But 'twas the fatal air bereaved my breath,
      In one short day, and to thine urnless hand,
      Parthenope, consigned my ashes--far,
      Alas! so far from my dear native land!



XV.


      Fate! in my griefs sole agent, how have I
      Felt thy harsh rule! my vine, with hurtful hand,
      Thou hast cut down, and scattered on the sand
      Both flower and fruit; in little compass lie
      My loves--the joys of summers far-flown by--
      And every happier expectation turned
      To scornful ashes, which, though scarce inurned,
      Hear not the wrath and clamour of my cry.
      The tears which thou to-day hast seen me shower
      On this lone sepulchre, receive, receive!
      Though there they may be fruitless, till the hour
      When the brown shadows of an endless eve
      Shall shroud these eyes, which saw on earth thy power,
      Leaving me others which thou canst not grieve.



XVI.


      Thinking the path I journeyed led me right,
      I have fallen on such mishap, that not the pleas
      Of fancy, nor the wildest images
      Can for an instant minister delight.
      The green field seems a desert,--starry night
      Obscure--the sprightliest conversation dead--
      Sweet music harsh, and my most favourite bed
      Of odorous violets, the hard field of fight.
      Of sleep--(if sleep I have) that part alone
      Visits my weary soul, which surely is
      The frightful synonym of death, and last,
      I deem, whate'er may be my spirit's tone,--
      Ere half run out its sands of weariness,
      Each passing hour still heavier than the past.



XVII.


      If I am wax to thy sweet will, and hence
      Sun myself only in thy sight, (and he
      Who views thy radiance uninflamed, must be
      Void of all feeling) whence, Señora, whence
      Rises a circumstance, whose strange offence
      Against the laws of reason, had it been
      Less seldom proved on me--less seldom seen,
      Had led me to mistrust my very sense--
      Whence comes it, that far-off I am inflamed
      And kindled by thy aspect, even until
      My melting heart its fervour scarce sustains,
      Whilst if encountered near by thine untamed,
      Untameably bright eye, an instant chill
      Makes the blood curdle in my crimson veins?



XVIII. TO JULIO CÆSAR CARACCIOLA.


      Julio! when weeping I have left the friend
      That never leaves my thought, the better part
      Of my cleft soul, that like another heart
      Did life and strength to my existence lend,
      After my sum of bliss I seem to send
      An eye of strict inquiry, and so fast
      Find it consuming, that I fear at last
      Peace must depart, and ev'n existence end.
      And in this fear my tongue strives to converse
      With thee, dear friend, of that remembered day,
      When I began, sad wanderer to thy shrine
      Of beauty, from my own far, far away,
      News of thy soul to send in plaintive verse,
      And learn from thee intelligence of mine.



XIX.


      So strongly are the cruel winds combined
      My ruin to concert, that they disperse
      My tender fancies soon as framed, and worse,
      Leave all my keen anxieties behind,
      That like tenacious ivies darkly twined
      Round some old ruin, fix their vigorous root
      Deep in my heart, and their wild branches shoot
      O'er all the fond affections of my mind.
      Yet on the other hand I murmur not,
      Now that the winds in their tempestuous strife
      Have stolen my bliss, that thus my sorrows stay;
      I rather gather comfort from the thought;
      For in the process of so hard a life,
      They lessen the long toil and weary way.



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


      Illustrious Marquis, on whom Heaven showers down
      All the bliss this world knows! if to the light
      Of thy resplendent valour--to the height
      Whereto the voice of thy sublime renown
      Calls me, I climb, as to the flaming crown
      Of some stupendous mountain, thou shalt be
      Eternal, peerless, sole, and I through thee
      Scornful of winged Time's destructive frown.
      All that we wish from heaven, and gain on earth,
      Are in thy high perfections met; in short,
      Thou art the unique wonder, at whose birth
      Her world of bright conceptions Nature scanned,
      Singled the best, and with Dædalian hand,
      Thrice livelier than her cast the statue wrought.



XXI.


      With keen desire to see what the fine swell
      Of thy white bosom in its core keeps shrined,
      If the interior graces of the mind
      Its outward shape and loveliness excel,
      I have my sight fixed on it; but the spell
      Of its voluptuous beauty holds mine eyes
      In such enchantment, that their curious spies
      Pass not to mark the spirit in its cell,
      And thus stay weeping at the portal, made
      To grieve me by that hiding hand which even
      Holds its own bosom's beauty unforgiven;
      So I behold my hope to death betrayed,
      And love's sharp lances, rarely known to fail,
      Serve not to pierce beyond its muslin mail.



XXII.


      As, love, the lily and purpureal rose
      Show their sweet colours on thy chaste warm cheek,
      Thy radiant looks, angelically meek,
      Serene the tempest to divine repose,
      And as thy hair, which for its birthright chose
      The opal's dye, upon the whitest neck
      Waved by the winds of heaven without a check,
      In exquisite disorder falls and flows;
      Gather the rich fruit of thy mirthful spring,
      Ere angry Time around thy temples shed
      The snows of hasting age; his icy wing
      Will wither the fresh rose, however red;
      And changing not his custom, quickly change
      The glory of all objects in his range.



XXIII.


      Prostrate on earth the lofty column lies,
      That late sustained my life; oh how much joy,
      How many hopes did one dark day destroy!
      And on the wind each blest idea flies.
      How sure to fail is Fancy, when she tries
      To build aught durable for me! fresh woes
      Come with the force of persecuting foes,
      And like abandoned things my hopes chastise:
      Oft times I yield, yet oft my tyrants face,
      With a new fury that might break in twain
      A mountain placed to bar my way--impell'd
      By the desire some day to turn again--
      Turn to behold her loveliness and grace,
      Whom it were better ne'er to have beheld.



XXIV. FROM AUSIAS MARCH.[AS]


      Love! I have dressed myself in robes of white,
      Shaped by thy scissors; as I put them on,
      I find them loose and easy, but anon
      They grow uneasy, cumbersome, and tight.
      After consenting with a child's delight
      To wear them, such repentance has possessed
      My soul, that oft, by pure impatience pressed,
      I try to tear them off in thy despite.
      But who can free himself from such a suit,
      When his thwart nature has become thereto
      Conformed? if of my reason any part
      Remains unparalyzed, it has not heart
      To abet my cause, for in this stern dispute
      Of circumstance, it knows it would not do.


FOOTNOTE:

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



XXV. TO BOSCÁN.


      Boscán, you are now revenged upon my play
      Of past severe unkindness, who reproved
      The tenderness of that soft heart which loved
      With such excessive warmth; now, not a day
      Passes, but for the things I used to say
      With so much rudeness, I myself chastise;
      Still, times there are when I at heart despise,
      And blush for the abasement I betray.
      Know that, full grown, and armed against desire,
      With my eyes open I have vailed my plume
      To the blind boy you know,--but soft, my lute,
      Never, oh never did man's heart consume
      In so divine and beautiful a fire;
      If you her name solicit, I am mute.



XXVI.


      Wild doubts, that floating in my brain delight
      To war with my fond feelings, tempesting
      In your suspicious flight with angry wing
      My melancholy bosom, day and night!
      Now is my force of mind extinguished quite,
      And all resistance, vain is my lamenting,--
      Vanquished, I yield myself at length, repenting,--
      E'er to have striven in such a hopeless fight.
      Bear me to that lone tower whose gate alarms
      The quick,--my death I saw not graven there,
      Blindness has sealed my eyes till now; my arms
      I cast aside; since their misfortunes bar
      Help from the unhappy--the proud pomp prepare,
      And hang my spoils on your triumphal car!



XXVII.


      Within my spirit was conceived in train
      Of amiable esteem a love most sweet,
      Whose birth, with all the joy with which men greet
      Their first-born's birth, long wished for, but in vain,
      I hailed,--but soon from it was born a bane
      Which has entirely conquered that fond flight
      Of feeling, and transformed my first delight
      Into sharp rigour and tormenting pain.
      O cruel grandson, that to thy meek sire
      Giv'st life, yet strik'st thy mournful grandsire dead,
      Why so unlike thy parent! what black scowl
      Wear'st thou, stern Jealousy, beneath thy cowl,
      When ev'n thine own fierce mother, Envy dire,
      Shrieks to behold the monster which she bred!



XXVIII.


      I am for ever bathed in tears, I rend
      The air with sighs, and suffer more from dread
      To tell thee 'tis through thee I have been led
      To such a state that, seeing where I tend,
      And the long distance I have come, sweet friend,
      In following thee, if I desire to leave
      The vain pursuit, my heart sinks to perceive
      The way behind me lengthening without end.
      And if I wish to reach the onward height,
      Sad thoughts of those who in the wilderness
      Have fallen, at every step awake my fear;
      Now above all things then I need the light
      Of hope, by which I have been wont to steer
      Through the dim tract of thy forgetfulness.



XXIX.


      Past now the countries of the Midland Main,
      Wretched--I lose the bliss of former times,
      Borne farther every day from Christian climes,
      Realms, customs, tongues, and from my native Spain.
      And now despairing to return again,
      I muse on remedies of fancied power;
      The most assured one is the fatal hour
      That will conclude at once my life and pain.
      I should be charmed from whate'er ills close o'er me,
      With seeing you, Lady, or might hope to be,
      If I could hope without the certainty
      Of losing what I hope; but not seeing you,
      Save death, I see no remedy before me,
      And if death be one, it will fail me too.



XXX. TO BOSCÁN, FROM GOLETTA.


      Boscán! the sword, the shout, and trumpet shrill
      Of Mars, who, watering with his own red blood
      The Lybian soil in this tremendous feud,
      Makes our green Roman laurel flourish still,--
      Have to my memory brought the ancient skill,
      And old Italian valour, by whose force
      All Africa was shook, from the coy source
      Of Nile's young fountain to far Atlas' hill.
      Here, where the steady Roman's conquering brand
      And fiery torch tipt with licentious flame,
      Have left poor Carthage nothing but a name,
      Love with his whirling thoughts on every hand
      Wounds and inflames me in his fearful sway,
      And I in tears and ashes waste away.



XXXI.


      I thank thee, Heaven, that I have snapt in twain
      The heavy yoke that on my neck I wore,
      And that at length I can behold from shore,
      Void of all fear, the black tempestuous main;
      Can see, suspended by a slender chain,
      The life of lovers who enchanted rest
      In error, slumbering upon Beauty's breast,
      To warning deaf, and blinded to their bane.
      So shall I smile when mortals are undone,
      Nor yet be found so cruel to my kind
      As may appear,--I shall but smile as one
      To health restored, whom sickness long confined,
      Not to see others suffering, but to see
      Myself from similar afflictions free.



XXXII. TO MARIO GALEOTA.

WRITTEN FROM GOLETTA.


      My friend, ungrateful Love, who well must know
      With what pure constancy my faith I keep,
      Exerting his base pride, which is to heap
      Upon his dearest friend his heaviest woe,--
      Fearing that if I write, and publish so
      His deeds, his grandeur I abate, his force
      Not equalling his spite, has had recourse
      To the fierce intervention of my foe;
      And in the noble part with which I wield
      The sword, and that which gives intelligence
      Of our conceptions, I have wounded been;
      But I will take good care that the offence
      Shall cost the offender dear, now I am healed,
      Offended, free, and for repayment keen.



XXXIII.


      My tongue goes as grief guides it, and I stray
      Already in my grief without a guide;
      We both must go, howe'er dissatisfied,
      With hasty step in an unwished-for way.
      I, but companioned by the dark array
      Of images that frenzy does create,
      And that, as forced along by grief to state
      A thousand things it never wished to say.
      The law to me is most severe--it knows
      My innocence, yet makes not mine alone,
      But others' faults, my torturers! why should I
      Smart for the madness of my tongue, when woes
      Beyond endurance lift the lash on high,
      And Reason trembles on her tottering throne?



XXXIV.


      Entering a valley in a sandy waste
      Which none was journeying save myself alone,
      A dog I noticed, which with piteous tone
      In disconcerted grief the wild sands paced;
      Now to the sky it howled, its way now traced
      Snuffing the dew, now ran, now turned, now stayed,
      And its concern by every mark betrayed
      Of desolate delay or restless haste.
      It was that it had missed its lord that morn,
      And felt the separation; mark the pain
      Of absence! Much did its distraction move
      My pity, and 'have patience, poor forlorn,'
      I cried--'I, thy superior, from my love
      Am absent too, yet my regret restrain.'



XXXV.


      Loud blew the winds in anger and disdain,
      And raged the waves, when to his Sestian maid,
      Leander, ardent of her charms, essayed
      For the last time to swim the stormy main.
      Conquered with toil, o'erwearied, and in pain,
      More for the bliss which he should lose by death,
      Than sorrowful to breathe out his sweet breath
      On the vext surge he buffeted in vain,--
      Feebly, 'twas all he could, the dying boy
      Called to the waves, (but never word of woe
      Was heard by them) "if me you must destroy,
      This melancholy night, look not so stern;
      Vent as you will your rage on my return,
      But spare, kind waters, spare me as I go!"



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


      Lady, whose name to high Cardona brings
      Fresh praise, whose talents and fair deeds require
      Immortal accents from Minturno's lyre,
      Tansillo's harp, and polished Tasso's strings;
      If force, if fire, if spirit whilst he sings,
      Fail not at need thy Lasso's Spanish lute,
      Through thee I shall arrive, with daring foot,
      At Helicon's steep crown and sky-born springs,
      By dulcet sounds that might the waves command,
      Accomplishing with ease the ambitious aim:
      By ways a wilderness till now, the land
      Of storied valour, of romantic fame,
      And Tagus, rolling o'er a golden sand,
      Pay happy tribute to thy noble name.



XXXVII.


      Fair Naiads of the river, that reside
      Happy in grottos of rock crystal veined
      With shining gems, and loftily sustained
      On columns of pure glass! if now ye glide
      On duteous errands, or weave side by side
      Webs of fine net-work, or in groups remove
      To hear and tell romantic tales of love,
      Of Genii, Fays, and Tritons of the tide,--
      Awhile remit your labours, and upraise
      Your rosy heads to look on me--not long
      Will it detain you. Sweet'ners of my song!
      For pity hear me, watering as I go
      With tears your borders, and for such short space,
      In heavenly notes sing solace to my woe!



TO HIS LADY, HAVING MARRIED ANOTHER.


      1.
      To love thee, after what thy vow,
      Slighting my truth, has made thee now,
      Must be a crime, but one, false fair,
      Which thou wilt have to expiate, where
      None will know thee for having known
      So ill the heart thou leavest lone.

      2.
      Loving so passionately thy free
      Seducing smile, I thought to be
      Lost, but not guilty; but, alas,
      By all I am, by all I was,
      'Tis proved too surely, to my cost,
      I guilty am, as well as lost!

      3.
      Oh that I loved not with the zeal
      Thou'rt but too well assured I feel!
      That I exultingly might say,
      'Tis joy to think that thou wilt pay,
      In unknown modes of future woe,
      For what none save ourselves shall know.



TO THE SAME.


      1.
      I will now cease, nor ruffle more
        Thy beauteous cheek with speech so free;
      My silent dying shall restore
        Its peace, and mutely speak for me.

      2.
      I have already deeply erred
        In saying what were best unsaid,
      Thy gentle heart I have but stirred,
        Not staunched a single wound that bled.

      3.
      Henceforth I heave no fruitless sighs,
        No tears but unseen tears I shed;
      The injured heart that silent dies,
        Has that which speaks in Injury's stead!



ON A DEPARTURE.


      1.
      Perhaps the youth who seemed so cold
        In leaving thee so soon, to seek
      Scenes where he will no more behold
        Thy lustrous eye and smiling cheek,
      Yet loved thee much,--the hope to meet
      Once more, makes ev'n departure sweet.

      2.
      It is not possible that one
        Like him considerate--Love forbid!
      Thinking he knew thee, could have known,
        Enchanted mortal, what he did,
      When he empowered thee thus to weave
      His joy and grief the self-same eve.

      3.
      He took perhaps the readiest way
        He could have done thy worth to know;
      From thy fine face and finer play
        Of wit he could not, could not go,
      And seeing thee but once, remain
      Content to see thee ne'er again.



TO A LADY,

_Who threw to Garcilasso whilst walking with a friend, her spindle, and
the net she had begun to weave, saying it was all the work she had done
that day._


      1.
      Lady! from this net and coil
        We must gather, that you cast
      From you, in an hour, the toil
        Of the four and twenty past.

      2.
      If at passers-by you send
        The fair work your fingers do,
      How think you to discommend
        That which others weave for you!



FROM OVID.


      1.
      Since I have lost my bridal name,
        Sichæan Dido, when the gloom
      Of death has quenched my vital flame,
        Be this the legend on my tomb:

      2.
      "The worst of Trojans gave, alas,
        The cruel cause--the sword unjust;
      Poor Dido, brought to life's last pass,
        Could furnish nothing but the thrust!"



COMMENT ON THIS TEXT:

      "_Why, what calumnious charge is this
        That you against him would advance?
      All that the good knight did amiss
        Was, that he ever joined the dance._"


      Count they then this a great offence?
        I do not think it such; his sin
      Is quite excused by the defence
        That 'twas the woman drew him in.
      She, she it was that caused his fall
        More, much more than the having set
      His mind upon surpassing all
        In the fantastic pirouette.[12]



TO FERNANDO DE ACUÑA.


      Whilst thou, Fernando, strikest from thy strings
      The illustrious deeds of heroes and of kings,
      Whilst men, whilst Gods stand spellbound at thy strain
      Of barbarous nations tamed by sceptred Spain,--
      From Pindus' sacred crown and tuneful falls,
      Thee with sweet words Calliope thus calls:
      "Hail, youth, whose temples, late alone entwined
      By Mars' red hand, now bays Phoebean bind!
      This grants Apollo, this the God of wine,
      The lightfoot Nymphs, and whole harmonious Nine,
      That with the kings that to thy lyric fire
      Owe half their fame, thyself that smit'st the lyre,
      Shall unborn nations join--admire, and praise,
      And no dark night succeed thine endless days."[13]



APPENDIX.


I. _Page_ 15.

PRAISE OF LITTLE WOMEN.

      I wish to make my preaching short, as all good things should be,
      For I was always fond, I own, of a short homily;
      Of little women, and in courts of law a most brief plea;
      Little well said makes wise, as sap most fructifies the tree.

      His head who laughs and chatters much, the moon I'm sure must
          sway,
      There's in a little woman love--nor little, let me say;
      Some very tall there are, but I prefer the little,--nay,
      Change them, they'd both repent the change, and quarrel night and
          day.

      Love prayed me to speak well of all the little ones--the zest
      They give, their noble qualities, and charms:--I'll do my best;
      I _will_ speak of the little ones, but don't think I'm in jest;
      That they are cold as snow, and warm as fire, is manifest.

      They're cold abroad, yet warm in love; shy creatures in the
          street;
      Good-natured, laughing, witty, gay, and in the house discreet,--
      Well-doing, graceful, gentle, kind, and many things more sweet
      You'll find where you direct your thoughts,--yes, many I repeat.

      Within a little compass oft great splendour strikes the eyes,
      In a small piece of sugar-cane a deal of sweetness lies;
      So to a little woman's face a thousand graces rise,
      And large and sweet's her love; a word's sufficient for the wise.

      The pepper-corn is small, but yet, the more the grain you grind,
      The more it warms and comforts; so, were I to speak my mind,
      A little woman, if (all love) she studies to be kind,
      There's not in all the world a bliss you'll fail in her to find.

      As in a little rose resides great colour, as the bell
      Of the small lily yields a great and most delightful smell,
      As in a very little gold exists a precious spell,
      Within a little woman so exceeding flavours dwell.

      As the small ruby is a gem that clearly does outshine
      For lustre, colour, virtues, price, most children of the mine,
      In little women so worth, grace, bloom, radiancy divine,
      Wit, beauty, loyalty, and love, transcendently combine.

      Little's the lark, the nightingale is little, yet they sing
      Sweeter than birds of greater size and more resplendent wing;
      So little women better are, by the same rule,--they bring
      A love more sweet than sugar-plums or primroses of spring.

      The goldfinch and Canary-bird, all finches and all pies,
      Sing, scream, or chatter passing well--there's quaintness in
          their cries;
      The brilliant little paroquet says things extremely wise;
      Just such a little woman is, when she sweet love outsighs.

      There's nothing that with her should be compared--'tis
          profanation;--
      She is a walking Paradise, a smiling consolation,
      A blessing, pleasure, of all joys a sparkling constellation,
      In fact--she's better in the proof than in the salutation!

      Small women do no harm, kind things, though they _may_ sometimes
          call
      Us angry names, hard to digest; men wise as was Saint Paul
      Say, of two evils choose the least,--by this rule it must fall,
      The least dear woman you can find will be the best of all!


II. _Page_ 36.

THE PROPHECY OF TAGUS.

      1.
      As by Tagus' billowy bed
        King Rodrigo, safe from sight,
      With the Lady Cava fed
        On the fruit of loose delight;
      From the river's placid breast
        Slow its ancient Genius broke;
      Of the scrolls of Fate possessed,
        Thus the frowning prophet spoke:

      2.
      "In an evil hour dost thou,
        Ruthless spoiler, wanton here!
      Shouts and clangours even now,
        Even now assail mine ear;
      Shout, and sound of clashing shield,
        Shivered sword and rushing car,--
      All the frenzy of the field!
        All the anarchy of war!

      3.
      Oh what wail and weeping spring
        Forth from this, thine hour of mirth,
      From yon fair and smiling thing,
        Who in evil day had birth!
      In an evil day for Spain
        Plighted is your guilty troth!
      Fatal triumph! costly gain
        To the sceptre of the Goth!

      4.
      Flames and furies, griefs and broils,
        Slaughter, ravage, fierce alarms,
      Anguish and immortal toils
        Thou dost gather to thine arms,--
      For thyself and vassals--those
        Who the fertile furrow break,
      Where the stately Ebro flows,
        Who their thirst in Douro slake!

      5.
      For the throne--the hall--the bower--
        Murcian lord and Lusian swain,
      For the chivalry and flower
        Of all sad and spacious Spain!
      Prompt for vengeance, not for fame,
        Even now from Cadiz' halls,
      On the Moor, in Allah's name,
        Hoarse the Count--the Injured calls.

      6.
      Hark, how frightfully forlorn
        Sounds his trumpet to the stars,
      Citing Afric's desert-born
        To the gonfalon of Mars!
      Lo, already loose in air
        Floats the standard, peals the gong;
      They shall not be slow to dare
        Roderick's wrath for Julian's wrong.

      7.
      See, their spears the Arabs shake,
        Smite the wind, and war demand;
      Millions in a moment wake,
        Join, and swarm o'er all the sand:
      Underneath their sails the sea
        Disappears, a hubbub runs
      Through the sphere of heaven alee,
        Clouds of dust obscure the sun's.

      8.
      Swift their mighty ships they climb,
        Cut the cables, slip from shore;
      How their sturdy arms keep time
        To the dashing of the oar!
      Bright the frothy billows burn
        Round their cleaving keels, and gales
      Breathed by Eolus astern,
        Fill their deep and daring sails.

      9.
      Sheer across Alcides' strait
        He whose voice the floods obey,
      With the trident of his state,
        Gives the grand Armada way.--
      In her sweet, subduing arms,
        Sinner! dost thou slumber still,
      Dull and deaf to the alarms
        Of this loud inrushing ill?

      10.
      In the hallowed Gadite bay
        Mark them mooring from the main;
      Rise, take horse, away! away!
        Scale the mountain, scour the plain!
      Give not pity to thy hand,
        Give not pardon to thy spur,
      Dart abroad thy flashing brand,
        Bare thy fatal scimeter!

      11.
      Agony of toil and sweat
        The sole recompense must be
      Of each horse and horseman yet,
        Plumeless serf and plumed grandee.
      Sullied in thy silver flow,
        Stream of proud Sevilla, weep!
      Many a broken helm shalt thou
        Hurry to the bordering deep.

      12.
      Many a turban and tiar,
        Moor and Noble's slaughtered corse,
      Whilst the Furies of the war
        Gore your ranks with equal loss!
      Five days you dispute the field;
        When 'tis sunrise on the plains--
      Oh loved land! thy doom is sealed,
        Madden, madden in thy chains!"


III. _Page_ 101.

"The king fortified his camp according to the rules of art, and in a
single night a town was built, consisting of four streets in the form of
a cross, with as many gates; and from the centre, where the streets
crossed each other, all the town might be viewed at the same time. The
plan was undertaken and completed by four Grandees of Castile, every one
furnishing his share, and the whole was encircled with wooden bulwarks
covered with waxen cloth, which resembled a strong wall. Towers and
bastions were also fabricated, to appear as if built by regular
machinery. In the morning, the Moors were prodigiously astonished to see
a town so near Granada, fortified in so formidable a manner. When it was
finished, the king granted it the rights of a city, naming it Santa Fé,
and endowed it with many privileges, which it enjoys to the present day.
It is recorded in the next ballad:--

      Built is Santa Fé; its bulwarks
        With much waxen cloth o'erlaid,
      And within shine tents unnumbered,
        Tents of silk and gold brocade.

      Dukes, and lords, and noble captains,
        Famed for valour, heroes all,
      Here are brought by King Fernando,
        To effect Granada's fall.

      When, behold, a Moor at daybreak,
        Of tall stature meets their sight,
      Mounted on a noble charger,
        Spotted o'er with flakes of white.

      On it comes with cleft lips chafing
        High against the rider's rein,
      Whilst the Moor at all the Christians
        Grinds his teeth in fell disdain.

      Underneath his robes of scarlet,
        White, and blue, a shirt of mail
      Fortifies his heart most strongly,
        Should a thousand darts assail.

      Two strong swords of tempered metal
        Grace his thigh, his hands a spear
      And tough target in Morocco
        Made, and purchased passing dear.

      This gruff dog, in dreadful mockery,
        To his horse's tail had tied
      The adored AVE MARIA,
        As was but too soon descried.

      At the camp arrived, he shouted,
        "Who will so fool-hardy be
      As to fight me? I defy you
        All,--come one, come two, come three!"

      Out the Alcayde of Los Doncelos,
        Out the Count of Cabra stept,
      Both brave men, whose active falchions
        In the scabbard seldom slept.

      Out came Gónzalo Fernandez,
        Out Martin Galindo came,
      With the bold Portocarrero,
        Palma's lord of mickle fame.

      Out he stept too who so frankly
        Fetched the glove midst lions thrown,
      Frankly fetched it forth, the gallant
        Manuel Ponce de Leon.

      With them ev'n King Don Fernando
        Rides, exclaiming, "Forward, ho!
      Soon we'll teach the ruffian whether
        We dare fight with him or no!"

      On they rode, rejoiced to hear him
        Praise his vassals so, and each
      Begged that he that useful lesson
        To the infidel might teach.

      Garcilasso too, a stripling
        Brave and daring, with great glee
      Rode with them, and begged the battle,
        Begged it on his bended knee.

      "You're too young, good Garcilasso,
        You're yet much too young to die;
      There are numbers in my kingdom
        Fitter far the fight to try."

      Deeply vexed at this refusal,
        Much confused the youth withdrew,
      But put on strange arms in secret,
        So that none his person knew.

      On a coal-black steed, with ventail
        Down, he pricks to meet the Moor,
      And says to him--"Level lances
        Quickly; thou shalt see, be sure,

      "If our noble king has gentles
        Bold enough to tilt with thee;
      I'm the least of all, yet beard thee,
        Beard thee by that king's decree."

      Soon as seen, the bluff Moor scorned him,
        Saying, "Pray go back again;
      I'm accustomed to do battle,
        Not with boys, but bearded men:

      "Pray go back, and let some other
        Who has passed his teens, advance!"
      Garcilasso, stung with fury,
        Spurred his steed, and couched his lance.

      He a glorious stroke has dealt him!
        On his helm red sparkles burn;
      Like a thunderbolt the Paynim
        Wheels, the insult to return.

      Striking, stricken; stricken, striking;
        Thus the round of combat ran;
      Garcilasso, though an infant,
        Showed the metal of a man.

      He at length beneath the armpit
        Dealt the Moor a mortal wound:
      From his saddle fell the giant,
        Pale and groaning to the ground.

      Garcilasso, quick alighting
        From his horse, approached the foe,
      Cut his head off, and in triumph
        Hung it at his saddle-bow.

      Tore away the sacred AVE
        From its former place of shame,
      On his knees devoutly kissed it,
        Kissed the blessed Mary's name.

      On his lance's point he bears it
        For a pendant, mounts his steed,
      With the Moor's in hand, returning,
        All the court applaud the deed.

      Lords, and dukes, and noble captains,
        All were struck with great amaze,
      Whilst the king and queen, with plaudits
        Cheerly urged, repeat his praise.

      Wonder some, and some amazement,
        Kept quite dumb, to see a Childe
      So exceeding young, triumphant
        O'er that big-boned Paynim vilde.

      GARCILASSO DE LA VEGA
        They the youth thenceforward call,
      For his duel in the Vega
        Of Granada chanced to fall.

"The king, and the queen, and all the court, were, as the ballad says,
most astonished at this valiant deed of Garcilasso, and the king
commanded him to place on his arms the words AVE MARIA, with just
reason, for having quitted himself so well upon that ruffian Moor, and
for having cut off his head."--_Hist. de las Guerras Civiles de
Granada_, fol. 454-9.

A manuscript in the Bodleian Library--of _Rawlinson's Collection, No._
43,--says that Garcilasso, at the time this combat took place, was but
eighteen years of age. The manuscript bears this title, 'Armas de los
mas nobles Señores de Castilla, sus nombres, apellidos, casas y rentas;
con algunos puntos de sus hazañas; los Arcobispos, Obispos, Visoreyes y
Embaxadores, Consejos y Inquisiciones, y otras cosas curiosas de aquel
Reyno: en Paris, y compuesto por Ambrosio de Salazar, Secretario
Interprete del Rey Cristianissimo. 1623.' This writer, however, follows
the general error of imputing the action to the father of the poet. His
account of the family arms differs also from Imhof's: according to his
account, they bear, _or_, a castle on a field _vert_, with the words AVE
MARIA, GRACIA PLENA, in letters _azure_: but as this association of
tinct would be false heraldry, it has seemed preferable to follow the
authority of Imhof. It may not be amiss to mention in this place, that
although Garcilasso is said to have been dignified with the cross of the
Order of St. James, the badge represented in paintings of him is that of
the Order of Alcantara.


IV.--_Page_ 124.

The volume of Navagero's writings being but rarely met with, and his
poetical compositions exhibiting much delicacy of thought and elegance
of style, I shall perhaps be doing an acceptable thing in presenting to
the reader a few of his smaller verses. His longer pieces, the pastoral
entitled 'Iolas,' the sapphics 'In Auroram,' and the lines 'In Vancium
vicum Patavinum amænissimum,' are perhaps yet more beautiful in imagery
than those I have selected; but short as these are, they may serve to
show the grounds which his cotemporaries had for the praises they
bestowed upon him.

VOTA AD AURAS.

      Auræ, quæ levibus percurritis aëra pennis,
        Et strepitis blando per nemora alta sono:
      Serta dat hæc vobis, vobis hæc rusticus Idmon
        Spargit odorato plena canistra croco.
      Vos lenite æstum, et paleas sejungite inanes,
        Dum medio fruges ventilat ille die.

TO THE AIRS.

      Gentle airs, that on light wing
      Through the high woods softly sing
      In low murmurs! these sweet wreaths,
      Violets, blue-bells, woodbines, heaths,
      Rustic Idmon loves to throw
      To you thus in handfuls, so
      Temper you the heat of day,
      And the thin chaff blow away,
      When at noon his van again
      Winnows out the golden grain.

THYRSIDIS VOTA VENERI.

      Quòd tulit optata tandem de Leucade Thyrsis
        Fructum aliquem, has violas dat tibi, sancta Venus!
      Post sepem hanc sensim obrepens, tria basia sumsi:
        Nil ultra potui, nam propè mater erat.
      Nunc violas; sed plena feram si vota, dicabo
        Inscriptam hôc myrtum carmine, Diva, tibi:
      'Hanc Veneri myrtum Thyrsis quòd amore potitus
        Dedicat, atque unà seque suosque greges.'

THYRSIS' VOW TO VENUS.

      These violets, holy Power, to thee
        With grateful mind does Thyrsis cast,
      For that from long-loved Leuca, he
        Has gained some fruit of love at last.
      Creeping behind the lilach trees,
        I snatched three kisses, sweet and choice;
      I could no more, for in the breeze
        We surely heard her mother's voice.
      Blue violets now; but, should'st thou grant
        All my heart beats for, Power Divine,
      Engraved with this rude rhyme, a plant
        Of deathless myrtle shall be thine.
      'This myrtle, faithful to his vow,
        Thyrsis to Venus gives, and more,
      Himself and flocks, as tasting now
        Love's gracious sweets, but wished before.'

THYRSIDIS VOTA ET QUERCUI ET SYLVÆ.

      Et quercum, et silvam hanc ante omnia Thyrsis amabit,
        Et certo feret his annua vota die:
      Dum potuit memor esse, quod hâc primum ille sub umbrâ
        Ultima de carâ Leucade vota tulit.

THYRSIS TO THE OAK AND GROVE.

      This green oak and sapling grove
      Before all will Thyrsis love,
      And to them, each May-day, rare
      Tributes of sweet incense bear,
      Long as memory lives to say,
      'Twas upon that happy day
      He first gained, beneath their boughs,
      His dear Leuca's marriage vows.

QUUM EX HISPANICA LEGATIONE IN ITALIAM REVERTERETUR.

      Salve, aura Deûm, mundi felicior ora,
      Formosæ Veneris dulces salvete recessus;
      Ut vos post tantos animi, mentisque labores
      Aspicio, lustroque libens! ut munere vestro
      Sollicitas toto depello e pectore curas!
      Non aliis Charites perfundunt candida lymphis
      Corpora; non alios contexunt serta per agros!

ON HIS RETURN TO ITALY FROM THE SPANISH EMBASSY.

      Hail, dear region of my birth,
      Care of Heaven and pride of earth,
      Sweetest seats of Venus, vale,
      Rock, wood, mountain, hail, all hail!
      Oh with what deep joy I view,
      Gaze at, traverse, talk to you,
      After such laborious hours,
      Mental toils and wasted powers!
      How at sight of you each care
      And vexation melts in air!
      Never may the virgin Graces
      Look in other shady places
      For shy streams to bathe in, ne'er
      Braid with other flowers their hair,
      Than the ones so sweet and dear
      Which I taste so freshly here!

INVITATIO AD AMÆNAM FONTEM.

      Et gelidus fons est, et nulla salubrior unda,
          Et molli circum gramine terra viret;
      Et ramis arcent soles frondentibus alni,
        Et levis in nullo gratior aura loco est;
      Et medio Titan nunc ardentissimus axe est,
        Exustusque gravi sidere fervet ager.
      Siste, viator, iter: nimio jam torridus æstu,
        Jam nequeunt lassi longius ire pedes.
      Accubitu languorem, æstum aurâ, umbrâque virenti,
        Perspicuo poteris fonte levare sitim.

INVITATION TO A PLEASANT FOUNTAIN.

      Cold the fountain is, no wave
      More salubrious, green herbs pave
      All its margin; its thick roof--
      Leaves and boughs--is sunshine proof;
      No where does the Zephyr blow
      Half so pleasantly, and now
      Titan on his mid-day tower
      Scorches forest, field, and flower;
      Rest thee, Traveller, rest thy feet,
      Thou art fainting with the heat,
      And canst walk no farther! here,
      In this babbling fountain clear,
      Thou may'st slake thy thirst, beneath
      These green branches; in the breath
      Of the fresh breeze, dry the dews
      Off thy throbbing brows, and lose
      All thy languor on the bed
      Gadding thyme and mosses spread.

DE CUPIDINE ET HYELLA.

      Florentes dum fortè vagans mea Hyella per hortos
        Texit odoratis lilia cana rosis,
      Ecce rosas inter latitantem invenit Amorem,
        Et simul annexis floribus implicuit.
      Luctatur primò, et contrà nitentibus alis
        Indomitus tentat solvere vincla puer;
      Mox ubi lacteolas, et digna matre papillas
        Vidit, et ora ipsos nata movere Deos,
      Impositosque comæ ambrosios ut sensit odores,
        Quosque legit diti messe beatus Arabs:
      "I," dixit, "mea, quære novum tibi, mater, Amorem,
        Imperio sedes hæc erit apta meo!"

CUPID AND HYELLA.[AT]

      As my Hyella chanced to rove
        Of late her garden grounds, and there,
      Of roses and white lilies wove
        Sweet wreaths to bind her flowing hair;

      Amidst the roses clustering thick,
        She spied young Cupid slumbering sound,
      And with strong chains of woodbine, quick,
        The rosy infant, laughing, bound.

      At first his radiant wings he flapped
        Rebelliously, and strove--in vain--
      Indignant to be so entrapped,
        To break the verdant bonds in twain.

      But when within a little while
        Breasts white as Venus's he saw,
      And looked in her sweet face, whose smile
        The Gods themselves might languish for:

      And when from every braided tress
        The' ambrosial odours he perceived,--
      Rose-odours rich as those which bless
        The Arab when his harvest's sheaved:

      "Go, go," he cried, "Mamma, and seek
        Another LOVE,--my only shrine
      Henceforth shall be this lady's cheek
        And laughing eyes: good b'ye to thine."

AL SONNO.

      Sonno, che all' affannate, e stanche meuti
      D'ogni fatica lor riposo sei,
      Deh moviti a pietà de' dolor miei,
      E porgi qualche pace a miei tormenti!
      Lasso, le notti mie son sì dolenti,
      Che quando più riposo aver devrei,
      Allor più piango, e mi doglio di lei,
      Che sprezza gli angosciosi miei lamenti.
      Tu ch' acqueti ogni pena acerba e rea,
      Vien, Sonno, ad acquetar i miei martiri;
      E vinci quel ch' ogni altro vince, Amore,
      Così sempre sian lieti i tuoi desiri;
      E il sen della tua bella Pasitea
      Sempre spiri d' ambrosia un dolce odore!

TO SLEEP.

      Slumber, blest balm for all the cares that tease
      Sad spirits weary and o'ertoiled, oh deign
      To bring, in kind compassion of my pain,
      A little interval of rest and ease!
      My nights are such, that when I most should seize
      On soft repose, then most I have to weep
      That it disdains to lull my pangs asleep,
      Deaf to my murmured prayers and earnest pleas.
      Come thou who calm'st all agony and woe,
      Come now, calm mine, and conquer him whose power
      Oppresses all beside, fierce Cupid,--so
      Happy be thy desires in bed and bower;
      And wreaths of breathed ambrosia without end,
      Thy beauteous Pasithea's steps attend!


FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote AT: This elegant little piece has been already translated by
Mr. Moore, in the notes to his Anacreon; I should not have thought of
attempting it after him, had not the heroic measure which he has chosen
struck me as less fitted to convey the playfulness of the original than
a lighter, though more diffusive stanza.]


V.--_Page_ 130.

GARCILASSO DE LA VEGA TO THE VERY MAGNIFICENT LADY, THE LADY GERONYMA
PALOVA DE ALMOGAVAR.

If I had not already known the correctness of your ladyship's judgment,
the value which I see you set upon this work would suffice to assure me
of it. But you already stood so high in my opinion, that though I before
considered it excellent on many accounts, my principal reason now for
this consideration is, that you have set your stamp on it in such a
manner, that we might almost say it was your own work, as it is through
you we possess it in the language we best understand. For, so far from
thinking of being able to prevail on Boscán to translate it, I should
not even have dared to ask it of him, well knowing his constant dislike
to the writers of romances, (though this he could scarcely call a
romance) had I not assured myself that, being commanded by your
ladyship, he could not excuse himself. With myself I am extremely well
satisfied, as before the book reached your hands, I esteemed it as it
deserves; whereas had I only become acquainted with its merits, now that
I see you deem them great, I might imagine that I was influenced in my
judgment of it by your ladyship's opinion. But now, I not merely
suspect, but am convinced it is a book that deserves to be commended to
your hands, that it may afterwards without danger go forth into the
world. For it is a most necessary thing wherever there are gentlemen and
ladies of distinction, that they should not only consult whatsoever
serves to increase the point of honour, but guard against every thing
that has a tendency to lessen it: both the one and the other are treated
of in this performance with so much wisdom and address, that it seems to
me there is nothing more to be wished for than to see the whole realized
in some gentleman, and likewise in--I was going to say, some lady, but
I recollected that you were in the world to take me to account for the
idle words. We may moreover remark on this work of Castiglione, that as
highly successful performances always go beyond their promise, so the
Count has laid down the duties of a finished courtier with such absolute
completeness as not to leave one of any rank unacquainted with what he
ought to do and be. So that we may see how much we should have lost in
not possessing it. Nor must we pass over the very essential benefit
rendered to our language by having written in it things so deserving of
perusal; for I know not what misfortune has ever been ours, in scarcely
possessing an author that has written in Castilian any thing but what
might very well be dispensed with,--though this indeed would be
difficult to prove to the satisfaction of those who pore over the
volumes which instruct mankind in slaughter. And well did your ladyship
know what person to fix upon to be your medium in producing this benefit
to all. For notwithstanding it is as difficult a matter, in my judgment,
to translate a book well, as to write it in the first instance, so
admirably has Boscán performed his part, that every time I sit down to
read this work of his, or, to speak more accurately, of yours, it seems
to me to have been written in no other language. Or if at any time I
remember to have read the Italian, my thoughts immediately return to the
pages in my hands. One thing he has guarded against, which very few have
done; he has avoided affectation without incurring the sin of stiffness,
and with great purity of style has made use of expressions especially
polite and agreeable to refined ears, and of words neither novel in
appearance, nor disused amongst the people: he has proved himself also a
very faithful translator, and by not restricting himself to the rigour
of the letter, but to the truth and spirit of the thoughts, has
transfused in his version by a variety of ways, all the force and
ornament of the original. He has thus given every thing so much in the
manner of his author, and has found his author such, that the defenders
of the work may with little trouble answer those who wish in any respect
to carp at its contents. I do not address myself to men whose dainty
ears, amidst a thousand elegant things contained in the volume, are
offended with one or two that may not be quite so good as the rest,
being inclined to think that these one or two are the only points that
please them, whilst they are offended with all the rest; and this I
could prove, if I were inclined, by what they approve in other cases.

We are not, however, to lose time with these captious geniuses, but
referring them to him who himself answers them on these very points, let
us turn to those who with some show of reason might desire satisfaction
in what offends them, where the author treats of all the numerous
methods of saying genteel things, and smart repartees to excite mirth.
Some there are given as specimens, which do not appear to reach the
excellence of others, nor deserve perhaps to be considered as very good
for one who has so admirably treated of the rest; and hence they may
suspect that he has not the great judgment and penetration we ascribe to
him. To this we would answer, that the author's intention was to furnish
a variety of modes of saying graceful things, and hence, that we might
better know the difference between them, he gave an equal variety of
examples: in discoursing on all these many ways, there could not
possibly be so many clever flights in each; some of those therefore
which he gave for examples, of necessity fall short of the merit of
others, and such, I have good reason to believe, without deceiving
himself in the least as to their inferiority, an author of his good
sense considers them; so we see that in this respect also he is free
from blame. I only must plead guilty and deserving of censure, for
having been so tedious in my communication. But these impertinences
really make me angry, and compel me to write so long a letter to so
faultless a personage. I frankly confess that I so greatly envied you
the thanks that are your due in the production of this book, that I
wished, so far as I could, to have myself some concern in it, and for
fear any one should employ himself in translating, that is to say, in
spoiling the original, I earnestly entreated Boscán to print his own
version without delay, in order to stop the hurry which those who write
ill are accustomed to use in inflicting their performances on the
public. And although this translation would give me revenge sufficient
on any other that might be put forth, I am such a foe to contention,
that even this, though attended with no possible danger, would yet annoy
me. For this reason, almost by force, I made him put it to press with
all expedition, and he chose to have me with him at the final polish,
but rather as a mere man of sense than as his assistant in any
emendation. Of your ladyship, I beg that as his book is under your
protection, it may lose nothing for the little part I take in it, since
in return for this act of goodness, I now lay it at your feet, written
in a better character, wherein your name and accomplishments may be read
and admired of all.


VI.--_Page_ 145.

PETRUS BEMBUS GARCILASSO HISPANO, S. P. D.

                                                        _Neapolim._

Ex iis carminibus quæ ad me pridem scripsisti, et quantum me amares,
libentissimè perspexi, qui neque familiarem tibi hominem, neque de facie
cognitum tam honorificè appellavisses, tantisque ornares laudibus; et
quantus ipse esses in lyricis pangendis, quantúmque præstares ingenii
luminibus amabilítatéque scribendi, facilè cognovi. Quorum alterum
ejusmodi est, ut nihil mihi potuerit accidere jucundius. Quid est enim
quod possit cum præstantissimi poetæ amore atque benevolentiâ comparari?
Reliqua enim omnia, quæ et honesta et chara homines habent, unà cum iis
qui ea possident, brevi tempore intereunt: Poetæ uni vivunt, longævique
ac diuturni sunt, eandémque vitam ac diuturnitatem, quibus volunt,
impartiuntur. In altero illud perfecisti, ut non solùm Hispanos tuos
omneis, qui se Apollini Musisque dediderunt, longè numeris superes et
præcurras tuis, sed Italis etiam hominibus stimulum addas, quo magis
magisque se excitent, si modò volent in hoc abs te certamine atque his
in studiis ipsi quoque non præteriri. Quem quidem meum de te sensum
atque judicium, alia tua nonnulla ejusdem generis mihi Neapoli nuper
missa scripta confirmaverunt. Nihil enim legi ferè hâc ætate confectum
aut elegantius, aut omnino probius et purius, aut certè majori cum
dignitate. Itaque quod me amas, mihi verissimè justissimèque lætor; quod
egregius es vir atque magnus, cùm tibi in primis gratulor, tum verò
plurimum terræ Hispaniæ, patriæ atque altrici tuæ, cui quidem est hoc
nomine amplissimus bonæ laudis atque gloriæ cumulus accessurus. Tametsi
est etiam aliud, quod quidem auget magnopere lætitiam ex te conceptam
meam. Nam cùm nuper mecum Honoratus monachus, quem tibi famâ notum esse
video, in eum sermonem esset ingressus, ut quid de tuis carminibus
sentirem, me interrogavisset, ego verò illi meum judicium patefecissem,
quod quidem accidit ei par, atque simillimum suo, (est autem peracri vir
ingenio atque in poeticis studiis pererudito) ea mihi de tuis plurimis
maximisque virtutibus, de morum suavitate, de integritate vitæ, de
humanitate tuâ dixit, quæ amici ei sui per literas significavissent, ut
hoc adderet, omnium Neapolitanorum qui te novissent, sermonibus
attestationibusque confirmari, his temporibus, quibus maximè Italiam
vestræ nationes referserunt, quem omnes planè homines te uno ardentius
amaverint, cuique plus tribuerint, illam ad urbem ex Hispaniâ venisse
porrò nullum. Quamobrem magnum me fecisse lucrum statuo, qui nullo meo
labore in tuam benevolentiam pervenerim, tuque ita me complexus sis, ut
etiam ornes Musæ tuæ præconio tam illustri. Quibus quidem fit rebus, ut
nisi te contrà ipse quamplurimùm et amavero et coluero, hominem profectò
esse me nequaquam putem. Sed amoris erga te mei atque observantiæ
studium, testatum tibi facere hoc ab initio decrevi, ut eundem
Honoratum, de quo suprà commemoravi, qui te impensè diligit, ad teque in
præsentiâ proficiscitur, summâ tibi diligentiâ commendarem. Ut hinc
potissimùm cognosceres, quid de me tibi ipse polliceri possis, cùm me
videas id abs te audere petere, quod mihi esse maximum maximèque
expetendum statuissem. Illius fratrum, hominum innocentium et planè
bonorum patrimonium, quemadmodum nullâ ipsorum culpâ, in Gallici belli
præda fuerit, scire te arbitror; itaque de eo nihil dicam. Nunc autem
cùm hi ab Carolo Imperatore, omnium qui unquam nati sunt, regum atque
principum optimo, injustè amissa repetere statuerint, si te unum ejus
rei adjutorem habebunt, sperant se, quod honestè cupiunt, etiam facilè
consequi posse; ea tua est et apud Imperatorem ipsum gratia, et apud
illos, qui ei charissimi sunt, autoritas, familiaritas, necessitudo.
Quare magnopere te rogo, ut rem suscipias, fratresque illos atque
familiam in pristinum fortunæ statum tuâ curâ procurationeque restituas.
Homines honestissimos tuique studiosissimos tibi in perpetuum devincies;
mihi verò tam gratum feceris, ut illo ipso patrimonio me abs te iri
auctum et ornatum putem. Honoratum enim tam diligo, quàm si mens esset
frater; tanti facio, ut æquè perpaucos; tam illi cupio hâc in re tuo
beneficio et usui et voluptati esse, ut ipse, cujus fratrum interest,
magis idem cupere non possit, aut magis animo laborare, quàm ipse planè
laboro. Sed hunc laborem meum tu, qui me tuâ sponte diligis, dexteritate
illâ tuâ, quâ excellis, et ingenio, quo te charum et peramabilem apud
omnes homines reddis, mihi, ut spero, celeriter eripies. Quod ut facias,
naturæ bonitati ac lenitati confisus tuæ, non jam ut novus tibi amicus
pudenter atque subtimidè, sed quemadmodum veteres necessarii solent,
etiam atque etiam abs te peto. Vale. VII Calend. Septembres. M.D.XXXV.

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


VII. _Page_ 244.

      _He 'gainst a wise and potent king that held
      His sire in bondage, gallantly rebelled._

During one of the many tumults that distracted Castile in the reign of
king D. Juan II. Fernando Alvarez de Toledo, earl of Alva, was seized by
the monarch, and kept close prisoner, under the charge of having
designed to bring in the king of Navarre, though this the people
regarded as a mere invention. Don Garcia, his son, who was afterwards
the first duke of Alva, took up arms to liberate his father, joined the
king of Arragon, and from the castle of Piedrahita, did much harm to the
king of Castile in laying waste the frontier country. Don Fernando
remained, however, in prison till the accession of king Henry, when he
was voluntarily set free by that prince.

D. Fadrique de Toledo, the second duke of Alva, a son of D. Garcia, was
in his youth general of the Christian forces on the frontiers of
Grenada. He greatly signalized himself in the war of Navarre, gathering
a considerable force to co-operate with the English, under the command
of the marquis of Dorset. To secure the pass into France, he crossed the
mountains and took St. John de Pie de Puerto, which commanded the pass
of Valderronças. The king of Navarre succeeded, however, in effecting a
passage with his army through that of Valderronçal, and J. Fernando
Valdez, and other commanders, amongst the mountains, hemmed in the duke
of Alva; but learning that the king of Navarre was marching to invest
Pampluna, the Duke resolved to fling some succour into its citadel, and
leaving the castle of St. John under the command of James de Vera,
sallied out upon Valdez, and killing that general, succeeded, with the
loss of 400 men, in carrying his camp, and relieving Pampluna.

His son, D. Garcia de Toledo, being employed in 1510, with count Pedro
Navarro, in a military expedition on the coast of Africa, passed to the
conquest of the Isle of Gelves, and disembarking his men, penetrated
into the interior of that desert country. It was a season of such
excessive heat, that some of the soldiers dropped dead from thirst, so
that the whole army fell into disorder. D. Garcia and the Count,
however, cheered them on with fond expressions, and such promises as the
necessity of the case required. They issued at length from the sands,
and entering thick groves of palm and olive trees, discovered
unexpectedly some wells of water, with many pitchers and buckets
attached to ropes. The eager desire of every one to drink doubled the
disorder, more particularly as there was no enemy in sight; for the
whole had been arranged by the Moors, who secretly waited in a corner of
the wood, till the appearance of 4,000 foot and 200 horse, when they
rushed upon them with loud outcries, and casting their darts, caused
them to fly in the greatest confusion, although many desired rather to
drink than to fly, or even live. Don Garcia seeing this, alighted, and
with his pike pricked forward many who had, betwixt despair and
faintness, cast themselves on the ground, and with every expression of
military endearment, endeavoured to animate them against the Moors. With
only fifteen around him, he attacked the foe with such brave
impetuosity, that they began to give way, and if at this juncture he had
been supported by the rest, he would assuredly have furnished triumph
instead of tribulation to his country. But whilst Navarro was attempting
to bring back the fugitive troops, the Moors made a fresh attack on his
little band, wounded several, and killed D. Garcia. His death doubled
the terror and distress of all, and notwithstanding that Navarro
implored them with tears to turn their faces, they fled with the utmost
precipitation to their vessels: and hence they still say in Castile,
'_Mother Gelves, the spell-word of misfortune!_'[AU]

The Emperor Charles the Fifth, on the taking of Tunis, discovered
amongst the booty the arms of Don Garcia, and presented them to his
youthful son, afterwards the celebrated duke of Alva. Pointing out to
him the marks of wounds received by his unfortunate parent, he exhorted
him to imitate his valour, but wished him a happier doom. The duke
received these arms with the most lively joy, and caused them to be
transported to Spain, and hung up in the arsenal of the dukes of
Alva.[AV]


FOOTNOTES:

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

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


VIII.--_Page_ 250.

      _Threatening the' illustrious youth, a knight was seen,
      Of a fierce spirit and insulting mien._

It happened that a gentleman of Burgos courted a lady to whom Fernando
of Alva also paid his addresses. It was in the year 1524, when
harquebusses were just coming into use, but they were considered as very
ungentlemanly weapons to do slaughter with, by those who had been
trained to the exercises of the sword. This gentleman boasted that he
was a most excellent firer of the harquebuss, when, being both in the
presence of the lady, Fernando took out his pocket handkerchief, and
putting it to his nose, exclaimed, "What an odious fume of powder there
is in the room!" at which the lady smiled greatly, and the gentleman's
face became overspread with blushes. Taking the duke afterwards aside,
he challenged him to meet him with sword and capa, at a certain hour of
the night, on the bridge San Pablo. The duke arriving, his rival asked
him what arms he brought. "Sword and dagger." "I have but a sword,"
rejoined the gentleman; whereupon the duke threw his dagger into the
river. They fought--were reconciled, and agreed to conceal the duel; but
it soon became the theme of conversation, for on taking up their mantles
from the ground, they chanced to make an exchange; and the duke, paying
no attention to it, appeared in the palace with his opponent's mantle,
upon which were emblazoned the arms of the Order of St. Jago, which led
to a discovery of the whole quarrel.


IX.--_Page_ 274.

The city of Toledo.


X.--_Page_ 302.

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


XI.--_Page_ 305.

_To the Flower of Gnido._

The title of this Ode is derived from a quarter of the city of Naples,
called Il Seggio de Gnido, the favourite abode then of people of
fashion, in which also the lady lived to whom the Ode was addressed.
This lady, Violante San Severino, a daughter of the duke of Soma, was
courted by Fabio Galeota, a friend of Garcilasso, in whose behalf the
poem was written. In the original, Garcilasso plays upon the names of
the parties, comparing the paleness of the lover, not to the lily, but
to the white _violet_, and representing him as a _galley_ slave in the
boat, or, to speak more poetically, the shell in which the Queen of
Beauty at her birth sailed along the ocean. If I have been guilty of
preserving any trace of this idle play upon words, it is only that it
has chimed in necessarily with the sense. Mention is made by Sanchez, of
an elegy addressed by Fabio to Violante, beginning

          Andate senza me, chara Violante?

      Wilt thou then go without me, in thy wrath,
      Dear Violante?

the pathos of which has led me to look for it, but without success, in
various old collections of Tuscan verses.


XII.--_Page_ 369.

_In the fantastic pirouette._

As none of the commentators of Garcilasso offer a word in explanation of
these verses, it was difficult to conceive exactly either to what they
alluded, or what had given rise to them. I find, however, in Boscán who
has written on the same text, a complete elucidation. They were sported
on Don Luis de la Cueva, for dancing in the palace with a lady who was
called La Páxara--_the bird_, probably from the elegance with which she
flew down the dance;[AW] it would appear that D. Luis fell whilst
attempting a difficult step, and that in reply to the universal banter
of the assembly, he had unfortunately said, it was after all no great
crime in him to dance. This seems to have excited great amusement, and
to have set a number of gentlemen, and some titled heads to work, to
write bad verses to prove the contrary. As, however, these verses show
some wit, and at the same time best serve to clear up the obscurity of
my author, I subjoin translations.

THE DUKE OF ALVA.

      Why, what a terrible affair
        Is this! you were too bad by half;
      You've really made it, I declare,
        Your _business_ to make people laugh.
      I'm one who feels it! to see you,
        Of all men, to the Bird advance!
      I counsel you, whate'er you do,
        You take no farther care _to dance_.

GARCILASSO.

      Count they then this a great offence, &c.

THE PRIOR OF SANTISTÉVAN.

      It might not be a first-rate sin,
        But all who dance like this good knight,
      Must pay for it most surely in
        The laugh of even the most polite.
      Let those who wish to dance, not take
        _Him_ for an omen! He advanced,
      And practised--but, for mercy's sake,
        Let not the gallant say _he danced_!

BOSCÁN.

      He touched forbidden fruit--the debt
        Must thus be paid--he danced! and now
      'Tis clear he'll live but by the sweat,
        Henceforth, of his laborious brow.
      Himself he cruelly deceived,
        And well he might, when, countenanced
      By such assurance, he conceived
        We laughed, because he _merely danced_.

D. FERNANDO ALVAREZ DE TOLEDO.

      This gentleman would quite have lost
        His credit in this curious case,
      Had not the little Bird he crossed
        So sweetly sang him into grace.
      But if from this he turns away,
        And shows at all discountenanced,
      I'd wish to comfort him, and say,
        As he says, that _he only danced_!

THE TREASURER OF ALCANTARA.

      All were astonished that the king
        So quickly freed you, but he freed
      You, not to be in that bright ring
        So very forward; no, indeed!
      Right forward has he been, but yet
        Why laugh with such extravagance?
      He _only_ maims a pirouette,
        He _only_ dislocates _a dance_.

D. LUIS OSORIO.

      Know that the laws, to his disgrace,
        Condemn Don Luis now to fall,
      For (only think) he had the face
        To dance in the king's palace-hall!
      Dance with the Bird! oh fatal even!
        And yet, as he seems circumstanced,
      He ought perhaps to be forgiven,
        Since, as he says, _he only danced_.

D. GARCIA DE TOLEDO.

      The Emperor set you free, but not
        Without a rigorous penance had,
      Sentencing you upon the spot
        To dance--it really was too bad!
      All say it was a cruel thing,
        Beyond all mortal sufferance,
      For 'tis not just in any king
        To' oblige his subjects _so to dance_!


FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote AW: Páxaro, or Páxara, is also a cant word, expressing
sharpness or cunning. _Ese es paxaro_, is equivalent with the vulgar
expression, _he is a knowing one_: hence perhaps some of the allusions
that will be found in these jeux d'esprit.]


XIII.--_Page_ 370.

AD FERDINANDUM DE ACUÑA.

      Dum reges, Fernande, canis, dum Cæsaris altam
        Progeniem nostri, claraque facta Ducum,
      Dum Hispanâ memoras fractas sub cuspide gentes,
        Obstupuere homines, obstupuere Dii;
      Extollensque caput sacri de vertice Pindi
        Calliope blandis vocibus hæc retulit:
      Macte puer, geminâ præcinctus tempora lauro
        Qui nova nunc Martis gloria solus eras;
      Hæc tibi dat Bacchusque pater, dat Phoebus Apollo,
        Nympharumque leves, Castalidumque chori,
      Ut, quos divino celebrâsti carmine Reges,
        Teque simul curvâ qui canis alma lyrâ,
      Sæpe legant, laudent, celebrent post fata nepotes,
        Nullaque perpetuos nox fuget atra dies.

This is the only specimen extant of Garcilasso's Latin compositions,
which are spoken of by several writers of his day as marked by extreme
elegance, and amongst others by Tansillo: nor can I close my volume,
written in the hope of placing in the clear light it deserves the merit
of this amiable poet, with more propriety and grace, than by adopting
the words of one who loved him for his virtues, and admired him for his
genius.

      Spirto gentil, che con la cetra al collo,
      La spada al fianco, ogn'or la penna in mano,
      Per sentier gite, che non pùr Hispano,
      Ma Latin pie fra noi raro segnollo!
      Felice voi, ch'or Marte, ed or Apollo,
      Or Mercurio seguendo, fuor del piano,
      V'andate a por del volgo si lontano,
      Che man d'invidia non vi puo dar crollo,--
      Tutte le chiuse vie, sassose, ed erte,
      Che vanno al tempio, ove il morir si spregia,
      Spianate innanzi a voi sono, ed aperte.
      E perchè vadan per la strada egregia
      Vostre virtù d'abito altier coverte,
      Bellezza, e nobiltà l'adorna, e fregia.


THE END.


LONDON: PRINTED BY JAMES MOYES, GREVILLE STREET.



NEW TRANSLATION OF THE

"JERUSALEM DELIVERED."


PROPOSALS FOR PUBLISHING BY SUBSCRIPTION

A NEW TRANSLATION OF TASSO,

In English Spenserian Verse.

BY J. H. WIFFEN,

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

       *       *       *       *       *

     "You will, perhaps, be inclined to laugh at the warmth with
     which I express myself; but I feel that the not having good
     modern translations of ARIOSTO and TASSO is a disgrace to
     our literature, and conceive that we are only debarred from
     this by Mr. Hoole's lumbering vehicle having so long stopped
     the way."--STEWART ROSE'S _Letters from the North of Italy_.

       *       *       *       *       *

At a time rich beyond all former ages but that of ELIZABETH, and
scarcely less prodigal than that in works of imagination; at a period
when our Poetry, following in the steps of our refinement as a nation,
and becoming, from the industry and success with which it is cultivated,
no less the theme of the aged than the passion of the young,--whilst
some superior intellects of the day, in their thirst for distinction,
are spending their great powers on startling and vain experiments, it
were surprising if there were not some more willing to confine their
ambition within the boundaries of classical study, and, tracing the
improvements which English Poetry has undergone in its progress, to the
Tuscan Muses as their principal source, to explore, as their adventure,
the treasures confined under the golden key of Italian language. Never
has the inspiration of those Muses been invoked without the most signal
advantage, not only to our literature, but our language. It softened,
under CHAUCER, the Saxon roughness of our early tongue; it ruled and
regulated the cadences of SURREY and WYATT, till from an uncouth and
often arbitrary metre, our Poetry grew into proportion, harmony, and
grace; it gave to the lyres of SPENSER, MILTON, COLLINS, and GRAY, much
of their compass, richness, and luxury of sound. The advantages have
indeed been such, and of so permanent a nature, as to lead the
historians of our literature to assert, that all the grand renovations
which have been made from time to time in our Poetry, have either
originally sprung from the Italian school, or been promoted by it. Nor
can the increasing taste for Italian literature, spread by the excellent
productions of ROSCOE, FOSCOLO, and MATTHIAS, nor the farther
cultivation and extension of it by Commentators and Translators, lead to
less important results.

But little, however, has yet been accomplished in giving to England the
Poets of Italy; and our writers may with justice observe, that this
neglect is a disgrace to our national literature. If we except the
Amynta of TASSO, recently given in a good translation by Mr. HUNT; if we
except FANSHAW'S old version of GUARINI'S Pastor Fido, so justly
eulogised by Sir JOHN DENHAM, LLOYD'S Alfieri, and the Dante of Mr.
CAREY, where shall we look for adequate pictures of her thousand Spirits
of Song? This deficiency has arisen from neglect, from disdain, from any
thing but inability. What Italy has been in the possession of her
DANTES, her ARIOSTOS, her PETRARCAS, and her TASSOS, England is in her
BYRONS, her SCOTTS, her CAMPBELLS, and her MOORES; not omitting others
that have powers little less, if at all inferior, who might, if they
desired it, by Translations almost as original in composition as are
those glorious types themselves, become at once personifications of
their beauties, and inheritors of their fame. The severe simplicity and
wrathful grandeur of DANTE is already transfused with spirit and
condensity. There is perhaps but one living poet possessed of an equal
versatility of talent, of the same various powers of passionate
description, fancy, wit, and whim, to transfuse the Proteus-spirit of
ARIOSTO, the Prince of Romancers; and but one gifted with an equal
feeling, melody, and charm of language, who could, with a graceful hand,
pour out music and lamentation from the Urn of PETRARCH: but _they_
could do it to the life; nor may it be altogether a vain expectation
that some of their future hours will be consecrated to the service, and
that their names will thus become consociated in immortal brotherhood
with the names of these Patriarchs of Italian verse.

But if the writer does not calculate amiss, it is to a Translation of
TASSO,--of TASSO, who possesses much of the sublimity and fervour, with
nothing of the obscurity of DANTE,--the romance and the picture, the
fantasy and fire of ARIOSTO, without his eccentricity and caprice,--the
melody, tenderness, classical elegance, and transpicuousness of
PETRARCH, without his subtilty: of TASSO,--who, by the specific account
of SERASSI, his best biographer, had passed, at the time when he was
writing, through _one hundred and thirty_ editions, and had been
translated into _twenty_ languages and dialects of Europe, that the
liveliest sympathy is likely to be accorded, and the greatest favour
shown, by a People whose pride must be gratified by the celebrity which
he has given in his Poem to the exploits of their ancestors, with minds
sufficiently imaginative to abandon themselves at will to the spells of
his delightful genius, and with hearts that cannot avoid taking a warm
part in the generous heroism of his Rinaldo and Tancred, in the
enchanting beauty of Armida, and the yet more interesting fortunes of
his sensitive Erminia.

In speaking of the ten former attempts that have been made to give TASSO
an English dress, the writer has no desire to undervalue, or unjustly to
decry them,--they may all have been more or less serviceable: he is
admiringly alive to the harmonies and graces of our most masculine
FAIRFAX, as well as to the stoical fidelity of antique CAREW; but he
cannot be blind to their great defects, still less can he shut his eyes
upon those empiric pretensions and empty performances of the Usurper of
their honours, which have led "the ARIOSTO of the NORTH" (whom Britain
also tenaciously claims for her BOCCACCIO) to observe with his
characteristic truth and humour, that "to rescue this charming Poet from
the _frozen paws_ of poor Mr. HOOLE, would be to do our literature a
service at which he must rejoice." Stimulated by the approbation
accorded by his mighty mind, no less than by that of other literary
characters whom it would be ostentatious to mention, the task commenced
under favourable auspices, and in which great progress is made, will be
prosecuted with the care and devotedness which so exquisite a poet
demands, and the nature of the measure chosen as most true to his
genius, of necessity enforces. It has been observed that Translation is
but little popular in England: to render it so with the mass of readers
it may be requisite to aim at giving it the air and charm of original
composition; but with the very many to whom the Italian poem must be
familiar, it cannot be doubted that their pleasure must be doubled in
having added to their contemplation of the original their criticism of
the artist, more particularly if, as in the fine Translation of
COLERIDGE from SCHILLER,--that criticism should fortunately derive
gratification from his skill. Neither is the ILIAD of POPE unpopular,
nor SOTHEBY'S OBERON, nor any Translator who has trod with freedom and
spirit in the steps of the Master with whom he has endeavoured to
identify himself. But if the _name_ of TASSO should be insufficient to
bespeak attention to a project which cannot be perfected but with great
labour of thought, the Author will look for it in the story and the
subject, and believe it impossible but that those who view with interest
the present exertions of Christian Greece against the Mussulman
Ottomite, will still find emotion and amusement in a transcript, though
it may prove a too unworthy one, of the celebrated pages in which all
Europe stands in banner-array against the despotic Ottomite of the
Middle Ages, in a land full of the most sacred recollections.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Translator submits to the Public the following_

PROPOSALS:

     The "JERUSALEM DELIVERED" to be translated stanza for stanza
     from the original, in the measure of the "FAIRIE QUEENE:" to
     be printed in the finest manner, with a beautiful new type
     cast on purpose for the Work, in Two Volumes Royal Octavo,
     accompanied with a BIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT of the LIFE and
     WRITINGS of TASSO, with his PORTRAIT engraved in the first
     style, and, if the number of Subscribers prove sufficient,
     with other Embellishments.

PRICE TWO GUINEAS,

_To be paid on delivery of the Work._

As the object of the Translator is principally to place a work of some
value in the libraries of men of letters, no more copies of this Edition
will be struck off than are subscribed for: and as the Translation is
now near its completion, those Gentlemen who may be desirous of
possessing copies are requested to forward their names without delay.

     * * * _Names of Subscribers are received by_ HURST,
     ROBINSON, and Co. 90, _Cheapside_, and 8, _Pall Mall_; _Mr._
     HOOKHAM, _Old Bond Street_; TREUTTEL, WURTZ, _and_ RICHTER,
     _Soho Square_; _and by the_ AUTHOR, _Woburn Abbey_. _A List
     of Subscribers will be printed collectively with the
     Volumes, as well as individually after the Dedication leaf._


NAMES OF SUBSCRIBERS ALREADY RECEIVED.

  HIS GRACE the DUKE of BEDFORD, 5 Copies.
  HER GRACE the DUCHESS of BEDFORD.
  Lord William Russell.
  Lord Tavistock.
  Lady Tavistock.
  Lord George William Russell.
  Lord John Russell, 2 Copies.
  Miss Russell.
  Lord Wriothesly Russell.
  Lord Edward Russell.
  Lord C. J. F. Russell.
  Lord Francis John Russell.
  Countess of Jersey.
  Lady Mandeville.
  Sir Matthew Tierney.
  Sir Robert Inglis.
  Lady Inglis.
  Miss M. L. Inglis, Milton-Bryant.
  Hon. Mrs. Douglas, Lower Grosvenor Street.
  Hon. Henry Anson.
  Henry Seymour, Esq. Woburn.
  Benjamin Oakley, Esq. Tavistock Place.
  Miss Hanson.
  Miss Corbet, Acton Reynald Hall.
  Dr. Du Gant, Shrewsbury.
  Samuel Tudor, Esq. Shrewsbury.
  Matthew Webb, Esq. Wellington.
  W. C. Holder, Esq. Taynton House.
  Mr. Thomas Parker, Aspley.
  Mr. Thomas Parker, Woburn.
  Mr. James Hatchard, Pimlico.
  Thomas Gent, Esq.
  W. Chippendall, Esq. Islington.
  John Parry, Esq. Newman Street.
  Mr. G. Sinclair, Abbey Gardens.
  Richard Matthews, Esq. Histon.
  Rob. Moyse, Esq. Denny Abbey.
  Edward Fordham, Esq. Royston.
  Mr. Marshall, Kendal.
  R. A. Reddall, Esq. Woburn.
  John Anster, Esq. Brury, Ireland.
  H. R. H. the PRINCE of DENMARK.
  H. R. H. the PRINCESS of DENMARK.
  Signor Ugo Foscolo.
  Sir Walter Scott.
  Thomas Campbell, Esq.
  Samuel Rogers, Esq.
  Thomas Moore, Esq.
  A. A. Watts, Esq.
  W. Sotheby, Esq.
  Barry Cornwall, Esq.
  Bernard Barton, Esq. Woodbridge.
  Dr. Frederic Thackeray, Cambridge.
  Dr. Thackeray, Bedford.
  John Grant, Esq. Leighton.
  W. Exton, Esq. Leighton, 2 Copies.
  Francis Darby, Esq. Colebrook Dale.
  Richard Darby, Esq. ditto.
  Mr. Thomas Grimes.
  Dr. J. B. Brown, Camden Town.
  Mr. Whitworth, Bedford.
  J. C. Prattent, Esq. Whitehaven.
  Mr. James Bucknall, Ketley.
  Rich. Mountford, Esq. Prior's Lee.
  Joshua Sharpies, Esq. Hitchen.
  Newton Bosworth, Esq. Cambridge.
  J. D. Parry, Esq. Rectory, Woburn.
  T. K. Hall, Esq. Holly Bush, Staffordshire.
  Mr. Charles Fletcher, Nottingham.
  T. B. Whitehurst, Esq. Westoning.
  Mr. Thomas Green, Woburn.
  Mr. Louis Parez, Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square.
  C. H. Smith, Esq. Portland Road.
  Mr. Richter, Soho Square.
  Mr. Joseph Edmondson, Penketh.
  S. Woolriche, Esq.
  G. J. Strutt, Esq. Percy Street.
  Mr. J. D. Basset, Leighton, 2 Copies.
  Miss Whateley.
  James Harvey, Esq. Crayford.
  John Kenyon, Esq. London.
  Mr. F. C. Lewis, Paddington.
  Mr. Triphook, Old Bond Street.
  The Rev. W. Lisle Bowles.
      Rev. Dr. Maltby.
      Rev. Dr. Collyer.
      Rev. George Croly.
      Rev. Thomas Roy, Woburn.
      Rev. Neville White, Norwich.
      Rev. Thomas Raffles, Liverpool.
      Rev. James Reed, Eversholt.
      Rev. John Fisher, Wavendon.
      Rev. Richard Pain, Aspley.
      Rev. M. Castleden, Woburn.
      Rev. T. Belgrave, South Kilworth.
      Rev. W. T. Birds.
  Mr. B. Willmore, Leighton.
  Mr. Richard Oddie, Warrington.
  Miss Taylor, Purle Hall, Batley, near Leeds.
  Mrs. Howard Galton, Spring Hall.
  Joseph Strutt, Esq. Derby.
  Miss Caroline Strutt.
  W. Strutt, Esq. Derby.
  G. B. Strutt, Esq. Belper, near Derby.
  Mr. Lawford, Leighton.
  Thomas Edmonds, Esq. High Wycomb.
  Joseph Beldam, Esq. Royston.
  Miss Lea, Broughton, near Chester.
  W. Jeffery Locket, Esq. Derby.
  Mr. Rich. Ratliffe, Little Brickhill.
  Mr. Benj. Abbot, Bermondsey.
  H. Brandreth, jun. Esq. Middle Temple.
  Mrs. Trowell, Thorn Hill, Derby.
  John Moilliet, Esq.
  Miss Todd.
  The London Literary Society of Friends.
  Henry Corbould, Esq. Crescent Place, Burton Crescent.
  Messrs. Ogle, Duncan, and Co. Paternoster Row, 2 Copies.
  Messrs. Thomas and George Underwood, Fleet Street, 2 Copies.
  Mr. Moyes, Greville Street.
  Henry Harker, Mansfield.
  E. Smith, Fir Vale, near Sheffield.
  C. Ridgway, Leighton.
  Miss Becker.
  Mr. W. Wilson, Nottingham.
  John Sharland, Leighton.


_In Octavo, price 5s. 6d._

JERUSALEM DELIVERED, BOOK FOURTH:

BEING THE SPECIMEN OF AN INTENDED NEW TRANSLATION,

In English Spenserian Verse,

WITH A PREFATORY DISSERTATION ON EXISTING TRANSLATIONS.

BY J. H. WIFFEN.

PUBLISHED BY HURST, ROBINSON, AND CO.

90, CHEAPSIDE, AND 8, PALL MALL.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "There are certain ages in the history of the world, on
     which the heart dwells with interest and affection; but
     there are none which excite our curiosity, our admiration,
     and our love, more intensely than the days of
     chivalry."--CAMPBELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Il existe en Angleterre plusieurs traductions de la Jérusalem Délivrée;
mais elles ont presque toutes de grands défauts. Celle de HOOLE est
sans contredit la plus mauvaise. FAIRFAX en a publié une où l'on
rencontre de très-beaux passages, à côté de choses triviales; il
franchit souvent l'espace qui sépare le sublime du ridicule. M. HUNT a
publié une traduction du poème du TASSE, mais la mesure de vers qu'il a
adoptée ne convient point au poème héroique, et nuit à l'effet général:
on peut aussi lui reprocher d'être diffus, et de ne pas toujours choisir
le tour le plus neuf et le plus concis. M. WIFFEN, si l'on en juge
d'après l'essai qu'il offre au public, est appelé à faire enfin passer
les beautés du poète Italien dans la langue Anglaise. Sa traduction,
élégante et fidèle, a parfois le charme et la magie des vers du TASSE:
on voit qu'il s'est d'abord pénétré des pensées de son modèle, afin de
parvenir à les rendre sans les dénaturer, comme cela n'arrive que trop
souvent aux traducteurs vulgaires."--_La Revue Encyclopédique de Paris_,
Avril, 1822.

"In conclusion, we must state our opinion, that this Specimen is highly
creditable to the taste and talents of Mr. WIFFEN. He possesses strong
powers of versification, which are absolutely necessary to a translator
of TASSO, and he manifests a warm and vigorous imagination. His
acquaintance with poetical phraseology, also, is various and extensive.
A poet himself, he is delighted with his labour, and appears, like
Ariel, to do 'his spiriting gently.' The task which he has undertaken is
most difficult and arduous, on which the highest minds might enter with
diffidence and distrust: but Mr. W. certainly has the power of producing
a work which will be honourable to the literature of his country and to
his own fame; and we hope he may meet with the encouragement which the
attempt deserves."--_Monthly Review_, June, 1821.

"The present Specimen is prefaced by a sensible and liberal criticism on
the merits of those who have preceded the Translator in this great work.
The pretensions of HOOLE, which, to the astonishment of all who are
acquainted with the subject, have been so long suffered to pass
unquestioned, are ably and judiciously exposed; and the version of
FAIRFAX, so much talked of, and so little known, receives the tribute of
praise which is its due, unmixed, however, with any portion of that
slavish admiration which mistakes blemishes for beauties, and want of
taste for exuberance of genius. The result of Mr. WIFFEN'S inquiry is
inevitable--that a new Translation is necessary, and that at present we
possess none which gives any adequate idea of the original. * * * * *
But we must set limits to our extracts. Indeed, we should transcribe the
whole Pamphlet, if we were to show all that has pleased and delighted
us. The whole is splendidly and powerfully written, and the sense and
style of the original scrupulously preserved. Some of the extracts we
have given, beautifully as they are versified, are almost literal
transcripts from TASSO. Most sincerely do we congratulate Mr. WIFFEN on
the success of his labours, and we hope that it will not be long before
he fully realizes the hopes which so promising a specimen must
necessarily excite."--_Monthly Magazine_, April, 1821.

"Upon the whole, we have never met with a translation possessing more of
the spirit and interest of the original; and we can confidently
recommend it to our readers as a work abounding with merit, and likely
to add much to the already well-earned reputation of its author. Mr.
Wiffen possesses a genuine vein of his own, and has given to the present
work a life and intrinsic interest very seldom met with in productions
of this class. He displays a fervency, an enthusiasm, an instinct of
beauty, a seriousness of tone and manner, which accord admirably with
the spirit of his author. We have no hesitation in affirming, that very
many of his stanzas equal the originals in every thing but the language;
and we think we could point out more than one or two that are absolutely
superior."--_Investigator_, April, 1823.


_By the same Author_,

AONIAN HOURS and OTHER POEMS. Price 7s.

JULIA ALPINULA, with the CAPTIVE OF STAMBOUL, and OTHER POEMS. Price 7s.
6d.



Transcriber's Notes:


Words surrounded by _ are italicized.

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

Symbol inverted asterism (three asterisks arranged as inverted triangle)
is presented as * * * (dinkus) in this e-text.

In this book, there are Footnotes (marked with letters) and Endnotes
(marked with numbers). In the original book, the footnotes are located
at the bottom of the relevant pages and the endnotes are located in the
Appendix. In this e-book, the footnotes are relocated to the end of each
chapter.

Obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent
spellings have been kept, including inconsistent use of hyphen (e.g.
"by-gone" and "bygone") and diacritical marks (e.g. "Góngora,"
"Gongora," and "Gongóra).





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Works of Garcilaso de la Vega - With a Critical and Historical Essay on Spanish Poetry and - a Life of the Author" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.