Chapter XI (1)

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."

We have no room to multiply passages, and with this ode must conclude our specimens. Garcilaso is a happy type of a Spanish poet; and when we think that such men were the children of the old liberty of Spain, how deeply we must regret the worse than iron rule that blasted the race; while we view in any attempt to regain her ancient freedom, a promise of a new people, to adorn the annals of mankind with all the virtues of heroism and all the elevation of genius.

[Footnote 14: This anecdote is usually told as appertaining to the father of the poet; but the name was assumed by the family at an earlier date. There is a _romance_ introduced in the Guerras Civiles de Granada, commemorating this action. Sedano and Wiffen are the authorities on which this biography is grounded. Bouterwek tells only what Sedano had done before him; in the earlier portion of his work, Sissingularymondi is scarcely more than a rifacciamento of Bouterwek.]

[Footnote 15: "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 joys obscure. * * * * 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."]

[Footnote 16: Wiffen.]

[Footnote 17: Wiffen.]

[Footnote 18: "Por tí el silencio de la selva umbrosa, por tí la esquividad y apartamiento del solitario monte me agradava: por tí la verde hierba, el fresco viento, el blanco lirio y colorada rosa y dulce primavera deseaba. ¡ Ay quanto me engañaba! ¡ Ay quan diferente era, y quan de otra manera lo que en tu falso pecho escondia! bien claro con su voz me lo decia la siniestra corneja, repitiendo la desventura mia. Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo.

¡ Quantas veces durmiendo en la floresta (reputandolo yo por desvarío) ví mi mal entre sueños desdichado! Soñaba, que en el tiempo del estio llevaba, por pasar alli la siesta, á bever en el Tajo mi ganado; y despues de llegado, sin saber de quál arte, por desusada parte y por nuevo camino el agua se iba. Ardiendo yo con la calor estiva, el curso enagenado iba siguiendo del agua fugitiva. Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo. ¿ Tu dulce habla en cuya oreja suena? ¿ Tus claros ojos á quien los volviste? ¿ Por quien tan sin respeto me trocaste? ¿ Tu quebrantada fé dó la pusiste? ¿ Quál es el cuello, que como en cadena de tus hermosos brazos añudaste? No hay corazón que baste, aunque fuese de piedra, viendo mí amada yedra, de mi arrancada, en otro muro asida, y mi parra en otro olmo entretegida, que no se esté con llanto deshaciendo hasta acabar la vida. Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo. * * * Con mi llorar las piedras enternecen su natural dureza, y la quebrantan: los arboles parece que se inclinan: las aves, que me escuchan, quando cantan, con diferente voz se condolecen, y mi morir cantando me adivinan: las fieras, que reclinan in cuerpo fatigado, dejan el sosegado sueño por escuchar mi llanto triste. Tu sola contra mí te endurciste, los ojos aun siquiera no volviendo á lo que tú hiciste. Salid sin duelos lágrimas corriendo."]

[Footnote 19: "Mas ya que á soccorrerme aqui no vienes, no dejes el lugar que tanto amaste; que bien podrás venir de mí segura yo dexaré el lugar dó me dejaste: ven, si por solo este le detienes. Ves aqui un prado lleno de verdura, ves aqui una espesura, ves aqui una agua clara, en otro tiempo cara, á quien de tí con lágrimas me quejo, quiza aqui hallarás, pues yo me al ejo, al que todo mi bien quitarme puede: que pues el bien le dejo, no es mucho que el lugar también le quede. Corrientes aguas, puras, cristalinas: árboles, que os estais mirando en ellas: verde prado, de fresca sombra lleno: aves, que aqui sembrais vuestras querellas: yedra, que por los árboles caminas, torciendo el paso por su verde seno; yo me ví tan ageno del grave mal que siento, que de puro contento con vuestra soledad me recreaba, donde con dulce sueño reposaba: ó con el pensamiento discurria, por donde no hallaba sino memorias llenas de alegria. * * * ¿ Dó están agora aquellos claros ojos, que lleveban tras sí como colgada mi anima, dó quier que se volvian? ¿ Dó está la blanca mano delicada, llena de vencimientos y despojos que de mí mis sentidos la ofrecian? Los cabellos, que vian con gran desprecio al oro, como á menor tesoro. ¿ Adonde están? ¿ Adonde el blanco pecho? dó la coluna, que el dorado techo con presunción graciosa sostenia? aquesto todo agora ya se encierra por desventura mia, en la fria desierta y dura tierra. * * * Una parte guardé de tus cabellos, Elisa, envueltos en un blanco paño, que nunca de mi seno se me apartan: descojolos, y de un dolor tamaño enternecerme siento, que sobre ellos nunca mis ojos de llorar se hartan. Sin que alli se partan con suspiros calientes, mas que la llama ardentes, los enjugo del llanto, ye de consuno casi los paso, y cuento uno á uno: juntándolos con un cordon los ato: tras esto el importuno dolor me deja descansar un rato."]

[Footnote 20: "A LA FLOR DI GNIDO.

Si de mi baja Lira tanto pudiese el son, que en un momento aplacase la ira del animoso viento, y el furia del mar, y el movimiento: y en ásperas montañas, con el suave canto enterneciese las fieras alimañas, los arboles moviese, y al son confusamente los truxese:

No pienses que cantando seria de mí, hermosa Flor de Gnido. el fiero Marte ayrado, á muerte convertido, de polvo, y sangre, y de sudor teñido: ni aquellos capitanes, en la sublime rueda colocados, por quen los Alamanes el fiero cuello atados, y los Franceses van domesticados.

Mas solamente aquella fuerza de tu beldad seria cantada, y alguna vez con ella tambien seria notada el aspereza de que estas armada. Y como pro tí sola y por tu gran valor, y hermosura, convertida in viola, llora su desventura el miserable amante en tu figura.

Hablo de aquel cautivo de quien tener se deve mas cuidado, que está muriendo vivo al remo condenado, en la concha de Venus amarrado. Por ti como, solia, del aspero caballo no corrige la furia y gallardia ni con freno le rige, ni con vivas espuelas ya le aflige.

Por tí, con diestra mano, no revuelve la espada presurosa, y en el dudoso llano huye la polvorosa palestra, come sierpe ponzoñosa. Por tí su blanda Musa, en lugar de la cítara sonante, tristes querellas usa, que con llanto abundante hacen bañar el rostro del amante.

Por tí el mayor amigo to es importuno, grave, y enojoso; y puedo ser testigo que ya del peligroso naufragio fui su puerto, y su reposo. Y agora en tal manera vence el dolor á la razon perdída que ponzoñosa fiera nuca fue aborrecida tanto como yo dél, ni tan temida.

No fuiste tu engendrada, ni producida de la dura tierra: no debe ser notada, que ingratamente yerra quien todo el otro error de sí destierra. Hagate temerosa El caso de Anaxárete, y cobarde, que de ser desdeñosa se arrepintió muy tarde, y asi su alma con su marmol arde.

Estabase alegrando del mal ageno el pecho empedernido, quando abajo mirando, el cuerpo muerto vido del miserable amante alli tendido, y al cuello el lazo atado, con que desenlazó de la cadena el corazón cuitado, que con su breve pena compió la eterna punición agena.

Sintió alli convertirse en piedad amorosa el aspereza. ¡ O tarde arrepentirse! ¡ O, ultima terneza! ¿ como te sucedió mayor dureza? Los ojos se enclavaron en el tendido cuerpo, que alli vieron, los huesos se tornaron mas duros, y crecieron, y en sí toda la carne convirtieron.

Las entrañas eladas tornaron poco á poco en piedra dura: por las venas cuitadas la sangre, su figura iba desconociendo, y su natura. Hasta que, finalmente en duro marmol vuelta, y transformada, hizo de sí la gente no tan maravillada, quanto de aquella ingratitud vengada.

No quieras tu, Señora, de Némesis ayrada las saetas probar por Dios agora; baste que tus perfetas obras, y hermosura a los Poetas den inmortal materia, sin que también en verso lamentable celebren la miseria de algun caso notable, que por tí pase triste y miserable."]

MENDOZA

1500-1575.

The third in this trio of friendly poets was of a very different character. Mendoza was gifted neither with Boscan's mild benevolence nor Garcilaso's tenderness. That he was the friend of these men, and addicted to literature, is his chief praise. Endowed with talents, of a high and haughty disposition, his firmness degenerated into severity, and his valour into vehemence of temper. He was shrewd, worldly and arrogant, but impassioned and resolute. He possessed many of those high qualities, redeeming, while they were stained by pride, which in that age distinguished the Spanish cavalier; for in those days, the freedom enjoyed by the Castilian nobility was but lately crushed, and its generous influence still survived in their manners and domestic habits. It was characteristic of that class of men, that, when Charles V. asked a distinguished one among them to receive the Constable Bourbon in his house, the noble acquiesced in the commands of his sovereign, but announced at the same time, his intention of razing his house to the ground, as soon as the traitor had quitted it.

Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza (and to give him all the titles enumerated by his Spanish biographer), Knight Commander of the Houses of Calatrava and Badajoz, in the order of Alcantara, of the council of Charles V., and his ambassador to Venice, Rome, England, and the council of Trent, captain-general of Siena, and gonfalonier of the holy Roman church, was born in the city of Granada, about the year 1500. He was of noble extraction on both sides,--his father being second count of Tendilla, and first marquis of Mondejar; his mother, donna Francisca Pacheco, daughter of don Juan Pacheco, marquis of Villena. Being the fifth son, Diego was destined for the church, and from his most tender years received a literary education. He was sent to the university of Salamanca, where he studied theology, and became a proficient in the Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic languages, to which he applied himself with diligence. Yet, though a laborious student, gayer literature engaged his attention; and while still at Salamanca, he wrote Lazarillo de Tormes, a tale at once declaratory of the originality of his genius. The graphic descriptions, the penetration into character, the worldly knowledge, the vivacity and humour, bespeak an author of more advanced years. Who that has read it, can forget the proud and poor hidalgo, who shared with Lazarillo his dry crusts; or the seven ladies who had one esquire between them; or the silent and sombre master whose actions were all mysteries, and whose locked-up wealth, used with so much secrecy and discretion, yet brings on him the notice of the inquisition? It is strange that, in after life, Mendoza did not, full of experience and observation, revert to this species of writing. As it is, it stands a curious specimen of the manners of his times, and as the origin of Gil Blas; almost we had said of Don Quixote, and is the more admirable, as being the production of a mere youth.

Mendoza probably found the clerical profession ill-suited to his tastes; he became a soldier and a statesman; and particularly in the latter capacity his talents were appreciated by the emperor Charles V. He was appointed ambassador[21] to Venice; and, in the year 1545, was deputed by his sovereign to attend the council of Trent, where he made a learned and elegant oration, which was universally admired, and confirmed the opinion already entertained of his talents, so that he was first promoted ambassador to Rome, and in 1547, he was named governor and captain-general of Siena. This was a difficult post; and Mendoza unfortunately acquitted himself neither with credit nor success.

Before the imperial and French arms had found in Italy a lists in which to contend, this country had been torn by the Ghibeline and Guelphic factions; and these names remained as watchwards after the spirit of them had passed away. When the French and Spaniards struggled for pre-eminence, the Spaniards, as imperialists, naturally espoused the interests of the Ghibeline cause, to which Siena was invariably a partisan. The Spaniards prevailed. At the treaty of Cambria, the emperor became possessed of acknowledged sway over a large portion of that fair land: over the remainder he exercised an influence scarcely less despotic. Florence, adhering with tenacious fondness to her ancient republican institutions, was besieged: it capitulated, and, after some faint show of temporising on the part of Charles, the chief of the Medici family was made sovereign with the title grand duke.

Siena, Ghibeline from ancient association, and always adhering to the imperial party, was not the less enslaved. Without openly interfering in its institutions, the emperor used his influence for the election of the duke of Amalfi as chief of the republic. The duke, a man of small capacity, was entirely led by Giulio Salvi and his six brothers. This family, thus exalted, displayed intolerable arrogance: it placed itself above the law; and the fortunes, the wives and children, of their fellow-citizens, became the victims.

The Sienese made their complaints to the emperor, on his return from his expedition against Algiers; while, at the same time, Cosmo I., whose favourite object was to possess himself of Siena, declared that the Salvi were conspiring to deliver that town into the hands of the French, and so once more to give that power a footing in Italy. The emperor, roused by an intimation of this design, deputed an officer to reform the government of Siena. A new oligarchy was erected, and the republic was brought into absolute dependence on the commands of the emperor.

Siena was quieted, but not satisfied, while a new treaty between Charles V. and France took from them their hope of recurring to the assistance of the latter. After the peace, don Juan de Luna commanded at Siena, with a small Spanish garrison. But still the seeds of discontent and of revolt, fostered by an ardent attachment to their ancient institutions, lay germinating in the hearts of the citizens. Charles never sent pay to his soldiers: during time of war they lived by booty, in time of peace, by extortion; love of liberty, and hatred of their oppressors, joined to cause them to endeavour to throw off the foreign yoke. On the 6th of February 1545, the people rose in tumult; about thirty nobles were killed, the rest took refuge in the palace with don Juan de Luna. The troops of Cosmo I. hovered on the frontier. He, perhaps, fostered the revolt for his own ends; at least, he was eager to take advantage of it, and wished the Spanish governor to call in his aid to quell it. But don Juan wanted either resolution or foresight; he allowed the Spanish garrison to be dismissed, and, finally, a month afterwards, was forced to quit the town, accompanied by the obnoxious members of the aristocracy.

For sometime Siena enjoyed the popular liberty which they had attained, till circumstances led the emperor to fear that the French would gain power there; and he resolved to reduce the city to unqualified submission. Mendoza was then ambassador at Rome. Charles named him captain-general of Siena, and gave him orders to introduce a Spanish garrison, and even to build a citadel for its protection. Mendoza obeyed: as the subject of a despotic sovereign, he felt no remorse in crushing the liberties of a republic. He did not endeavour to conciliate, nor to enforce respect by the justice of his measures. He held the discontented and outraged citizens in check by force of arms only; disarming them, and delivering them up to the insolence and extortion of the Spanish soldiery. They could obtain no protection against all the thousand injuries, thefts, and murders to which they were subjected. Mendoza, haughty and unfeeling, became the object of universal hatred. Complaints against him were carried to the emperor, and, when these remained without effect, his life was attempted by assassination: on one occasion his horse was killed under him by a musket shot, aimed at himself. But Mendoza was as personally fearless as he was proud; and the sternness that humanity could not mitigate, was not softened by the suggestions of caution.

Affairs of import called him away from his government. On the death of Paul III. his presence was required at Rome to influence the election of a new pope. He left Siena, together with the unfinished citadel and its garrison, under the command of don Juan Franzesi, and repaired to watch the progress of the conclave. Through his intrigues the cardinal del Monte was elected, who took the name of Julian III. The new pope, elected through Spanish influence, adhered to the emperor's interests. He instantly yielded the great point of contention between Paul III. and Charles V., and consented to the restitution of the general council to Trent. Mendoza twice attended this council for the purpose of bringing the cardinals and prelates to a better understanding. On his return the pope named him gonfaloniere of the church; and in this character he subdued Orazio Farnese, who had rebelled. Besides these necessary causes of absence from his government, he was accused of protracting his stay in Rome on account of an amorous intrigue in which he was engaged, and which occasioned a great deal of scandal.

The Sienese were on the alert to take advantage of his absence. The rapacity and ill faith displayed by Mendoza effectually weaned them from all attachment to the imperial cause; and when fresh war broke out between Charles and the French king, the Sienese solicited the aid of the latter to deliver them from a tyranny they were unable any longer to endure. The grand duke of Florence had reason to complain of the Spaniards, and especially of Mendoza, who treated him as the vassal of the emperor; yet he was unwilling that the French should gain footing in Tuscany, and besides hoped to advance his own interests, and to add Siena to his dukedom. He discovered a correspondence between that town and the French, and revealed it to Mendoza, offering the aid of an armed force in the emperor's favour. Mendoza, distrusting the motive of his offers, rejected them. He applied to the pope for assistance; but Julian, offended by his conduct on various occasions, evaded the request and remained neutral. Meanwhile, Mendoza, either ignorant of the imminence of the danger, or despising the power of the enemy, took no active measures to prevent the mischief which menaced his government.

The Sienese exiles assembled together, and put themselves under the command of a leader in the French pay. They marched towards Siena, and arriving before the gates on the evening of the 26th of July 1552, proclaimed _Liberty!_ The people, though unarmed, rose at the cry. They admitted the exiles, and drove the garrison, which merely consisted of 400 soldiers, from the convent of San Domenico, in which they had fortified themselves, and pursued them to the citadel, which was badly fortified and badly victualled. After a few days Franzesi capitulated, and Siena was lost to the emperor. Mendoza was accused of various faults on this occasion; of weakening the garrison, and of not putting, through avarice, the citadel in a state of defence; and, above all, of delay, when he had been warned by Cosmo, and not being on the spot himself to secure the power of his master in the town. These faults, joined to the hatred in which he was held, caused the emperor not long after (1554) to recall him to Spain.

While thus employed in Italy as a statesman and a soldier, his active mind led him also to other pursuits. Many inedited philosophical works of his are to be found in Spanish libraries. He wrote a paraphrase of Aristotle, and a translation into Spanish of the Mechanics of that philosopher; he composed Political Commentaries, and a history of the taking of Tunis. In the library of manuscripts at Florence, Sedano tells us there exists a volume in quarto entitled, "Various Works of D. Diego de Mendoza, ambassador of his majesty to Venice, Turkey, and England." On all occasions he showed himself an enthusiastic lover of learning, and a liberal patron of learned men; as a proof of which the bookseller Paulus Manutius dedicated his edition of Cicero to him. Since the days of Petrarch, no man had been so eager to collect Greek manuscripts. He sent to Greece and Mount Athos to procure them, and even made their acquisition a clause in a political treaty with the Sultan. He thus collected a valuable library, which at his death he bequeathed to Philip II., and it forms a precious portion of the library of the Escurial.

It is, however, as a poet that his name is most distinguished in literature. He was a friend of Boscan, and entered into his views for enlarging the sphere of Spanish poetry by the introduction of the Italian style. Though a hitter enemy to the spirit of liberty in Italy, he could yet appreciate and profit by the highly advanced state of poetry and literature in that country, of which this very spirit was the parent.

It is mentioned in the record of his employments, that he went ambassador to England and Turkey; but it is uncertain at what time these journies were performed; probably before his return to Spain in 1554.

Considerable obscurity is thrown over the latter years of his life. That is, no sufficient pains has been taken to throw light upon them. His manuscript works would, doubtless, if consulted, tell us more about him than is at present known. He devoted a portion of the decline of his life to study and literature; but it would seem that on his return from Italy, he did not immediately retire from active life, as it is mentioned by some of his biographers that he continued member of the council of state under Philip II. and was present at the battle of St. Quentin, fought in 1557. One of the last adventures recorded of him is characteristic of the vehemence of his temper. While at court, he had a quarrel with a noble who was his rival in the affections of a lady. His antagonist, in a fit of exasperation, unsheathed a dagger; but before he could use it, Mendoza seized him and threw him from the balcony where they were standing, into the street below. In all countries in those days, a personal assault within the precincts of a royal court was looked upon as a very serious offence, and Spanish etiquette caused it to be regarded in a still more heinous light. Still Mendoza was not the aggressor: and his punishment was limited to a short imprisonment, where he amused himself by addressing the lady of his love in various redondillas.

Much of the latter part of his life was spent in retirement in his native city of Granada, given up to study and literature. He here composed the most esteemed of his prose works--the "History of the War of the Moriscos in Granada." The style of this work is exceedingly pure. He took the Latin authors Sallust and Cæsar for his models; and being an eye-witness of the events he records, his narrative is highly interesting.

While in Italy, he had written a state paper, addressed to the emperor, dissuading him from selling the duchy of Milan to the pope, which was conceived in so free a style, that Sandoval, in quoting it in his history, believed it necessary to soften its expressions. In the same way this acute observer perceived the faults of the Spanish government against the Moriscos, and alluded to, although he did not dare blame them.

Philip II., a bigoted tyrant, drove this portion of his subjects to despair. Mendoza tells us that just before their revolt, "the inquisition began to persecute them more than ever. The king ordered them to quit the Morisco language, and all commerce and communication one with the other: he took from them their negro slaves, whom they had brought up with the same kindness as if they had been their children: he forced them to cast off their Arab dress, in which they held invested a large capital, and obliged them, at a great expense, to adopt the Castilian costume. He forced the women to appear with uncovered faces, opening all that portion of their houses which they were accustomed to keep closed; and both of these orders appeared intolerable to this jealous people. It was spread abroad also that he intended to possess himself of their children, and to educate them in Castile: he forbade the use of baths, which contributed at once to their cleanliness and pleasure. Their music, songs, feasts, and weddings, held according to their manners and customs, and all assemblies of a joyful nature, were already interdicted; and these new regulations were published without augmenting the guards, without sending troops, without reinforcing the garrisons or establishing new ones."[22]

The effect of such a system on a proud and valorous people, passionately attached to their religion and customs, might be anticipated. The Moors collected arms secretly, and laid up stores in the rugged mountains of the Alpujarra: they chose for king the young Fernando de Valor, descended from their ancient sovereigns, who assumed the name of Aben Humeya. The progress of the revolt, however, met with various checks, and they did not receive the aid they expected from the sultan Selim. Instead, therefore, of taking Granada, their war became guerilla; and the spirit of vengeance incited them to the exercise of frightful cruelties, by way of reprisal, on the Christian prisoners who fell into their hands. An army was sent against them, commanded by don John of Austria, natural son of Charles V..; Mendoza's nephew, the marquis of Mondejar, was one of the principal generals under him: Mendoza, therefore, had full opportunity to learn the details of the war, which terminated in the success of the Spaniards, whose cruelties rivalled those of the unfortunate rebels. The Moriscos were put down by the massacre of several villages, and the selling of the inhabitants of a whole territory into slavery. This total destruction of the Morisco people is described by Mendoza, with a truth that prevented his history from being published until 1610, and even then with great omissions: a complete edition did not appear till 1776.

After a retreat of some years, Mendoza appeared at court again in his old age, at Valladolid: his reputation caused him to be admired as an oracle; his erudition and genius commanded universal respect. He enjoyed these honours but a few months, and died in the year 1575.

There are few men of whom the Spaniards are more proud than Mendoza, whom, to distinguish from other poets of the same name, they usually call the Ambassador. "Most certain it is," says Sedano, "that from the importance and diversity of his employments, he was considered one of the most famous among the many great men which that age produced. His ardent mind was perpetually employed in the support of the glory of his sovereign and the honour of his country; and in all the transactions in which he was employed, his zeal, his integrity, his deep policy, his penetration, and his understanding shone out; and the very faults of which he is accused, must be attributed to the envy and hatred of his enemies."

We may not, perhaps, be ready to echo much of this praise. The oppressor of a free people must always hold an obnoxious position; and when to the severe and unpitying system he adopted towards others, we find that he indulged his own passions even to the detriment of his sovereign's interests, we feel somewhat of contempt mingled with resentment. We are told that in person he was tall and robust, dignified in his deportment, but ugly in the face. His complexion was singularly dark, and the expression of his countenance haughty; his eyes were vivacious and sparkling; and we may believe that his irregular and harsh features were redeemed in some degree by the intellect that informed them.

In judging of him as a poet, he falls far short of Garcilaso; but in some respects he may be considered as superior to Boscan. His short and simple poems, named in Spanish vilancicos, are full of life and spirit, and are fitted to become popular from the simplicity and yet vivacity of their sentiments and versification: they are the sparkling emanations of the passions, expressed at the moment, with all the ardour of living emotion. Indeed, he so far indulged in this sort of composition, tempting to one who feels that he can thus impart, and so perhaps obtain sympathy for, the emotions that boil within him, that most of his smaller poems remain inedited as being too free; the Spanish press never being permitted to put forth works of a licentious nature. His epistles imitated from Horace, want elegance and harmony; but they are forcible, and full of excellent sense and good feeling. He could not rise to the sublime. There is a complimentary ode of his addressed to cardinal Espinosa, on his assuming the hat, for the writing of which, we are told by his secretary, that he prepared by three days' study of Pindar; but it breathes no Pindaric fire; there is bathos rather than height in the similes he makes, drawn from the purple of the cardinal's new dress, and the crimson colours with which the sun invests the empyreum. Mendoza was not an imaginative poet; and it is observable, that when a person, not such by nature, deals in the ideal, the result is rather the ridiculous than the sublime. Acute, earnest, playful, passionate, but neither tender nor sublime, if we except a few of his minor love poems, we read Mendoza's verses rather to become acquainted with the man than seek the soul of poetry in his compositions.

[Footnote 21: The penetration with which Mendoza saw through the lofty pretensions of diplomacy, and the keenness of his observation, which stripped this science of all its finery, is forcibly expressed in one of his epistles, He exclaims--

"O embaxadores, puros majaderos, que si los reges quieren engañar, comiençan por nosotros los primeros. Nuestro major negocio es, no dañar, y jamas hacer cosa, ni dezilla, que no corramos riesgo de enseñar."

O ye ambassadors! ye simpletons! When kings wish to deceive they begin first with us.--Our chief business is to do no harm, and never to do or say anything, that we may not run the risk of making others as wise as ourselves.]

[Footnote 22: Mendoza felt himself obliged in his own person to refrain from all censure on the edicts of his sovereign. But in a speech he introduced after the manner of Sallust, as spoken by one of the chiefs, he conveyed, in forcible terms, his sense of the persecution which the unhappy Moors endured. The conspirator exclaims: "What hinders a man, speaking Castilian, from following the law of the prophet, or one who speaks Morisco from following that of Jesus? They take our children to their congregations and schools, teaching them arts which our ancestors forbade, that purity of the law might not be disturbed nor its truth disputed. We are threatened at every hour that they shall be taken from the arms of their mothers and the bringing up of their fathers, and carried into distant lands, where they will forget our customs, and learn to become the enemies of the fathers who begot them, and the mothers who bore them. We are ordered to cast off our national dress, and to adopt the Castilian. Germans dress after one manner, the French after another, the Greeks after another. The clergy have a peculiar garb--youths one sort of dress--old men another--each nation, and each profession, and each rank, adopts its own style of dress. Yet all are Christians. And we Moors--why do we dress in the Morisco, as if our faith hung in our garb--not in our hearts?"]

LUIS DE LEON

1527-1591.

There is a variety in the physiognomy and character of the poets whose biography is here traced, that renders each in himself highly interesting; our misfortune is that we know so little of them. Sedano bitterly laments the obscurity which wraps the history of the great literary men of Spain, through the neglect of their contemporaries to transmit the circumstances of their lives. We have but slight sketches; yet their works, joined to these, individualise the man, and give animation and interest to very slender details. We image Boscan in his rural retirement, philosophising, book in hand;--revolving in his thoughts the harmonies of verse, conversing with his friends, enjoying with placid smile the calm content, or rather, may we not say, the perfect home-felt, heart-reaching happiness of his married life, which he felt so truly, and describes in such lively colours. Young still, his affections ardent, but concentrated, he acknowledges that serenity, confidence, and sweet future hopes; unreserved sympathy, and entire community of the interests of life, is the real Paradise on earth. Garcilaso, the gallant soldier, the tender poet, the admired and loved of all, is of another character, more heroic, more soft, more romantic. Mendoza, with his fiery eye, his vehement temper, his untamed passions--and these mingled with respect for learning, friendship for the worthy, and talents that exalted his nature to something noble and immortal, despite his defects, contrasts with his friends: and the fourth now coming, Luis de Leon--more earnest and enthusiastic than Boscan--tender as Garcilaso, but with a soul whose tenderness was engrossed by heavenly not earthly love--pure and high-hearted, with the nobility of genius stamped on his brow, but with religious resignation calming his heart,--he is different, but more complete--a man Spain only could produce; for in Spain only had religion such sovereign sway as wholly to reduce the rebel inclinations of man, and, by substituting supernal for terrestrial love, not diminish the fulness and tenderness of passion, but only give it another object. High poetic powers being joined not only to the loftiest religious enthusiasm, to learning, but also the works of this amiable and highly-gifted man are different from all others, but exquisite in their class. We wish to learn more of his mind: as it is, we know little, except that as his compositions were characteristic of his virtues, so were the events of his life of his country.

The family of Luis Ponce de Leon was the noblest in Andalusia. He was born at Granada in the year 1527. It would appear that his childhood was not happy, for in an ode to the Virgin, written when in the dungeons of the inquisition, he touchingly speaks of his abandonment in infancy, saying:--

My mother died as soon as I was born,[23] And I was dedicate to thee, a child, Bequeathed by my poor mother's dying prayer. A second parent thou, O Virgin mild. Father and mother to the babe forlorn; For my own father made me not his care.

It was this neglect, probably, that led him to place his affections on religious objects: and the enthusiasm he felt, he believed to be a vocation for a monastic life. At the age of sixteen, he endued the habit of the order of St. Augustin in the convent of Salamanca, and took the vows during the following year. Enthusiastically pious, but without fanaticism, his heart was warmed only by the softer emotions of religion; love, and resignation, a taste for retirement, and pleasure in fulfilling the duties of his order. His soul was purified, but not narrowed by his piety. He loved learning, and was an elegant classical scholar. Most of his poems were written when young. He translated a great deal from Virgil and Horace, and became imbued by their elegance and correctness. He was celebrated also as a theologian, and he pursued his scholastic studies with an ardour that led him to adorn his religious faith with the imaginative hues of poetry and the earnest sentiments of his heart. He was admired for his learning by his contemporaries, and rose high in the estimation of the scholars of Salamanca, where he resided. At the age of thirty-three, he was made doctor of theology by the university of that town. In the year 1561, he was elected to the chair of St. Thomas, over the heads of seven candidates, by a large majority.

Although his learning, his piety, and the austerity of his life, caused him to be regarded with universal respect, yet he had enemies, the result, probably, of his very excellencies. These took advantage of a slight imprudence he had committed, to plunge him into the most frightful misfortune. He greatly loved and admired Hebrew poetry; and, to please a friend, who did not understand the learned languages, he translated into Spanish, and commented upon, the Song of Solomon. His friend was heedless enough to permit copies to be taken, and it thus became spread abroad. Who was the machinator of the disaster that ensued we are not told; but he was accused before the tribunal of the inquisition of heresy, for disobeying the commands of the church, in translating Scripture into the vulgar tongue. He was seized, and thrown into the prison of the inquisition, at Valladolid, in the year 1572. Here he remained five years, suffering all the hardships of a rigorous and cruel confinement. Confined in a dungeon, without light or space--cut off from communication with his friends--allowed no measures of defence--hope seemed shut out from him, while all means of occupation were denied him.

His pious mind found consolation in religion. He could turn to the objects of his worship, implore their aid, and trust to the efficacy of their intercession before God. Sometimes, however, his heart failed him, and it was complaints rather than prayers that he preferred. His odes to the Virgin were written during this disastrous period; and among them that from which we have already quoted, in which he pathetically describes and laments the extremity of adversity to which he was reduced. The whole ode in Spanish is full of pathos, and gentle, yet deep-felt lamentation, a few stanzas may give some idea of the acuteness of his sufferings. Thus he speaks of the hopeless, lingering evils of his imprisonment:--

If I look back, I feel a wild despair--[24] I shrink with terror from the coming days, For they will mirror but the hideous past; While heavy and intolerable weighs The evil load of all that now I bear; Nor have I hope but it will ever last-- The arrows come so fast; I feel a deadly wound, And, shudd'ring, look around; And as the blood, rushing all warm, doth flow, Behold! another, and another blow! While they who deal to me such fierce annoy. Rejoice to see my woe-- Lamenting still they do not quite destroy!

To what poor wretch did heaven e'er deny Leave to declare the misery he feels? Laments can ease the weight of heaviest chain; But cruel fate with me so harshly deals, Stifling within my lips the gushing cry, So that aloud I never may complain: For, could I tell my pain, What heart were hard enough, Though made of sternest stuff, Tiger or basilisk, or serpent dread, That would not gentle tears of pity shed, Symbols of tender sorrow for my woes? The while by hatred fed, Fate's hostile fury ever fiercer grows.

From living man no comfort reaches me: From me the dearest and most faithful friend Would fly beyond the earth's remotest end, So not to share my hopeless misery! And my sad eyes, where'er I turn my sight, Are strangers to the light. No man that comes anear, My name did ever hear-- So I myself almost myself forget! Nor know if what I was, so am I yet-- Nor why to me this misery befell: Nor can I knowledge get; For none to me the horrid tale will tell. * * * * * *

Wreck'd is my vessel on a shoreless sea, Where there is none to help me in my fear, Where none can stretch a friendly saving hand! I call on men--but there are none to hear; In the wide world there's no man thinks of me; My failing voice can never reach the land! But, while I fearful stand, A blessed, heaven-sent thought, By bitter suffering brought, Bids me, O Virgin! trust to thee alone. Thou never turn'st away from those who cry, Nor wilt thou let thy son, O piteous Mother! miserably die.

My mother died as soon as I was born; And I was dedicate to thee, a little child, Bequeath'd by my poor mother's dying prayer; A second parent thou, O Virgin mild!-- Father and mother to the babe forlorn! For my own father made me not his care:-- And, Lady, canst thou bear A child of thine thus lost, And in such danger tost? To other sorrows art thou not so blind: They waken pity in thy gentle mind, Thou givest aid to every other, To me be also kind; Listen, and save thy son, O piteous Mother!

It could not be, however, but that a heart so truly pious would find relief in prayer, and feel at intervals strong animating confidence in heaven. Thus, in contrast with these laments, we have a description of another mood of mind, which he gives in an epistle to a friend on his liberation. "Cut off," he writes, "not only from the conversation and society of men, but even from seeing them, I remained for five years shut up in darkness and a dungeon. I then enjoyed a peace and joy of mind that I often miss, now that I am restored to light, and the society of my friends."

He was at length liberated. Sedano tells us, that "at last his trial being over, in virtue of the proofs and exculpations which he was enabled to bring in support of his innocence, he was set at liberty at the end of the year 1576, and restored to all his honours and employments." It is some consolation to find that his imprisonment caused great scandal and outcry, and that his liberation was hailed with exultation and delight. The university had, from respect, never filled the professor's chair, vacated during his imprisonment; and, on his return to Salamanca, the most distinguished persons of the town met him on his way, and conducted him thither in triumph.

Few events after this are recorded of his life. He visited Madrid; and the royal council confided to him the task of the revision and correction of the works of St. Theresa de Jesu, which were much mutilated, and of preparing them for the press. About the same time, there was attempted the reform of his order in Portugal, a work of importance and difficulty to the catholic church. The assistance of Luis de Leon was required, and it is supposed that he even made a journey to Portugal for that purpose. In 1591, he was named vicar-general of his province, and soon afterward elected provincial; but he did not long enjoy this honour: nine days after his election he was attacked by some acute malady. The Spanish biographers take pains to assure us of the edifying piety of his end; and we can easily believe that a man who in youth was entirely dedicate to religion, should in the calmness of old age and in the hour of death, reap from his belief the composure of spirit that makes a happy end. He died on the 23d of August 1591; in the sixty-fourth year of his age.

In person, Luis Ponce de Leon is described as of fair height, well-proportioned in person, vigorous and robust. His countenance was manly, and the expression, despite the vivaciousness of his eyes, serious and calm. His mind was ever bent on religious objects: he seems to have forgotten his high birth and the splendour of his name, and to have aspired only to Christian humility. Love of poetry and classical literature were the only objects that ever called his attention from pious contemplations; and these he followed chiefly in his youth. "God gifted him," says Sedano, "with a noble birth he adorned him with understanding and extraordinary talents; he made him the son of a house abounding in riches and prosperity, and bestowed on him religious and literary honours; and it was necessary, for the sake of proving his virtues and purifying his soul, to visit him with the misfortunes belonging to the age in which he lived, proportionate to the greatness of his gifts." Sad as it is to reflect on an age and country in which virtues so exemplary, and talents so exalted, met with unmerited persecution, we are almost glad to find that one of the pillars of the very institutions that exercised such barbarous sway, was visited by its cruelty and injustice, to prove that no obedience and no excellence could shelter even the submissive slaves of despotism from its tyranny. Luis de Leon had indeed a soul at once above submission and suffering. He bowed before a higher than earthly power, and was exalted above persecution through his very humility--a proud humility, mixed with a consciousness of strength and worth. On his liberation from prison, and restoration to his professor's chair, all Salamanca flocked to hear his first lecture, drawn thither by reverence and curiosity. Luis de Leon appeared serene and cheerful, and commenced as if nothing had happened; nor alluded to the long interval, filled with such misery, that had intervened since his last lecture, beginning thus:--"We said yesterday that he had a willow for his symbol, and at its foot a hatchet, with this inscription, 'Through injury and death.' Nobleness, virtue, and generosity spring up under the very attacks of adversity and persecution. A willow the more it is cut, so much the more vigorously does it throw out its shoots; and for this cause has it its name (_salix_) from the vigour with which it sprouts, and the swiftness of its growth."[25] And thus he adopted for his emblem, a pruned tree with the knife at its foot, and the motto "_Ab ipso ferro._"

As a theologian, his works are held in high repute. It is to his praise that, though austere and regular as a monk, he yet studied the liberal arts with assiduity and success. He was well versed in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin, besides being entire master of his native Castilian. His poetry is held in great estimation: the purity and elegance of his style are unsurpassed. Those Spaniards, who are addicted to the tinsel of versification, accuse him of want of loftiness; but nothing can exceed the harmony and flow of his verse, the grace and propriety of his ideas, and the truth and simplicity--the extreme ease and animation, of his style. It is unornamented--but for that very reason, more purely poetic. The most perfect of his compositions is his "Ode to Tranquil Life," in which he dwells with brooding, earnest delight on all the objects, and all the reveries that bless a man, content in solitude. His religious poetry comes less home to our hearts: it is so entirely catholic, but all is marked by enthusiasm and sincerity.

As a translator, he holds a high place; though he may be said rather to paraphrase than translate his models. He thus rendered into Spanish many of the odes of Horace, and various others selected from Pindar, Tibullus, and Theocritus. He translated all the Eclogues of Virgil, and the first book of his Georgies. He tells us, that he endeavoured to make the ancient poets speak as they would have expressed themselves, had they been born in his own age, in Castile, and had written in Castilian. In an inferior poet this attempt had been indiscreet and rash, but Luis de Leon was so much master of style and harmony, that it is impossible to regret the new costume with which he invests our old favourites. He is chiefly blamed because the beauty of his paraphrases is so great: and they have taken such hold of Spanish readers, that they preclude all future attempts at more literal translation. This is of slight import. If the poems he gives us in Castilian are in themselves beautiful, the Spanish reader must be satisfied. A vigorous desire to have a perfect understanding of the originals ought to lead to the study of them in their native language--the only way really to attain it, and, to a Castilian, not a difficult one.

Were there a good translation of the ode

"Que descansada vida,"

we should prefer quoting it, as most characteristic of the peculiar imagery and feeling of the poet. As it is, we are tempted to present Mr. Wiffen's spirited translation of his ode on the Moorish invasion: the animation and fire which it breathes has made it a favourite, and shows that Luis de Leon was confined to didactic subjects rather from choice, than by the necessity or narrowness of his genius.

"As by Tagus' billowy bed,[26] 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 possess'd, Thus the frowning prophet spoke:

'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, Shiver'd sword, and rushing car-- All the frenzy of the field!-- All the anarchy of war!

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

'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!

'For the throne--the hall--the bower-- Murcian lord and Lusian swain-- For the chivalry a 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 Injur'd calls.

'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.

'See their spears the Arabs shake, Smite the wind, the 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, a-lee, Clouds of dust obscure the sun's.

'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 Æolus astern, Fill their deep and daring sails.

'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?

'In the hallow'd 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 scimitar.

'Agony of toil and sweat The sole recompence 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.

'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,-- O loved land! thy doom is seal'd-- Madden--madden in thy chains!'"

[Footnote 23: "Luego como nací, murió mi madre: á tí quedé yo niño encomendado: dejoteme mi madre por tutora: del vientre de mi madre en tí fue echado; murió mi madre, desechóme mi padre, tú sola eres padre y madre ahora."]