Chapter IV: Introduction (2)

'Tis peace that makes a happy life;[13] And that is mine through my sweet wife; Beginning of my soul and end, I've gain'd new being from this friend,-- She fills each thought, and each desire, Up to the height I would aspire. This bliss is never found by ranging; Regret still springs from saddest changing; Such loves and their beguiling pleasures, Are falser still than magic treasures, Which gleam at eve with golden colour, And change to ashes ere the morrow. But now each good that I possess, Rooted in truth and faithfulness, Imparts delight to every sense; For erst they were a mere pretence, And long before enjoy'd they were, They changed their smiles to grizly care. Now pleasures please--love being single-- Evils with its delights ne'er mingle. My bed's become a place of rest, Two souls repose on one soft breast; And still in peace my simple board Is spread, and tranquil feasts afford. Before, to eat I scarce was able, Some harpy hover'd o'er my table, Spoiling each dish when I would dine, And mingling gall with gladsome wine Now the content that foolish I Still miss'll in my philosophy. My wife with tender smiles bestows, And makes me triumph o'er my woes; While with her finger she effaces Of my past folly all the traces, And graving pleasant thoughts instead, Bids me rejoice that I am wed. * * * * And thus, by moderation bounded, I live by my own goods surrounded. Among my friends, my table spread With viands we may eat nor dread; And at my side my sweetest wife, Whose gentleness admits no strife,-- Except of jealousy the fear, Whose soft reproaches more endear. Our darling children round us gather, Children who will make me grandfather. And thus we pass in town our days, Till the confinement something weighs; Then to our village haunt we fly, Taking some pleasant company-- While those we love not never come Anear our rustic leafy home; For better 'tis t' philosophise, And learn a lesson truly wise, From lowing herd and bleating flock. Than from some men of vulgar stock; And rustics, as they hold the plough, May often good advice bestow. Of love, too, we may have the joy-- For Phœbus as a shepherd boy Wander'd once among the clover, Of some fair shepherdess the lover; And Venus wept in rustic bower, Adonis turn'd to purple flower; And Bacchus midst the mountains derar, Forgot the pangs of jealous fear; And nymphs that in the waters play, ('Tis thus that ancient fables say), And dryads fair among the trees, Fain the sprightly fawns would please. So in their footsteps follow we, My wife and I,--as fond and free,-- Love in our thoughts and in our talk, Direct we slow our saunt'ring walk, To some near murm'ring rivulet; Where 'neath a shady beech we sit, Hand clasp'd in hand, and side by side, With some sweet kisses too beside, Contending there, in combat kind, Which best can love with constant mind. As the stream flows among the grass, Thus life's clear stream with us does pass: We take no count of day nor night. While, minist'ring to our delight, Nightingales all sweetly sing, And loving doves, with folded wing, Above our heads are heard to coo; And far's the ill-betiding crow. We do not think of cities then. Nor envy the resorts of men,-- Of Italy, the softer pleasures, Of Asia too, the golden treasures, All these are nothing in our eyes; The while a book beside us lies, Which tells the tales of olden time, Of gods and men the hests sublime,-- Æneas' voyage by Virgil told, Or song divine of Homer old, Achilles' wrath and all his glory, Or wandering Ulysses' story, Propertius too, who well indites, And the soft plaints Catullus writes; These will remind me of past grief, Till, thinking of the sweet relief My wedded state confers on me, My bygone 'scapes I careless eye. O what are all those struggles past, The fiery pangs which did not last, Now that I live secure for aye, In my dear wife's sweet company? I have no reason to repine-- My joys are her's, and her's are mine; Our tranquil hearts their feelings share, And all our pleasures mutual are. Our eyes drink in the shady light Of wood, and vale, and grassy height; We hear the waters as they stray, And from the mountains wend their way, Leaping all lightly down the steep, Till at our feet they murm'ring creep; And fanning us, the evening breeze, Plays gamesomely among the trees; While bleating flocks, as day grows cold, Gladly seek their shelt'ring fold. And when the sun is on the hill, And shadows vast the valleys fill, And waning day, grown near its close, Sends tired men to their repose; We to our villa saunt'ring walk, And of the things we see we talk, Our friends come out in gayest cheer, To welcome us--and fain would hear, If my sweet wife be tired--and smile-- Inviting us to rest the while. Then to sup we take our seat, Our table plentiful and neat, Our viands without sauces drest, Good appetite the healthy zest To fruits we've pluck'd in our own bowers, And gaily deck'd with od'rous flowers. And rustic dainties,--many a one. When this is o'er and supper done, The evening passes swift along, In converse gay and sweetest song; Till slumber, stealing to the eye, Bids us to our couches hie. I will not tell what there we do, Even, dearest friend, to you; Enough that lovers ever share Delights when they together are.

Thus our village life we live, And day by day such joys receive; Till, to change the homely scene, Lest it pall while too serene, To the gay city we remove, Where other things there are to love; And graced by novelty we find The city's concourse to our mind. While our new coming gives a joy, Which ever staying might destroy, We spare all tedious compliment-- Yet courtesy with kind intent, Which savage tongues alone abuse, Will often the same language use. Thus in content we thankful live, And for one ill for which we grieve, How much of good our dear home blesses; Mortals must ever find distresses, But sorrow loses half its weight-- And every moment has its freight Of joy--which our dear friends impart, And with their kindness cheer my heart, While, never weary us to visit, They seek our house when we are in it: If we are out it gives them pain, And on the morrow come again. Noble Dural can cure our sadness, With the infection of his gladness: Augustin too--well read in pages, Productions of the ancient sages, And the romances of our Spain-- Will give us back our smiles again; While he with a noble gravity, Adorned by the gentlest suavity, Recounts us many a tale or fable, Which well to tell he is most able; Serious, mingled with jokes and glee, The which as light and shade agree. And Monleon, our dearest guest, Will raise our mirth by many a jest; For while his laughter rings again, Can we to echo it refrain? And other merriment is ours, To gild with joy the lightsome hours. But all too trivial would it look, Written down gravely in a book: And it is time to say adieu, Though more I have to write to you. Another letter this shall tell, So now, my dearest friend, farewell!

Thus lived Boscan, enjoying all that human nature can conceive of happiness. One of his tasks, after the lamented death of Garcilaso, was to collect his poems, and to publish several in a volume with his own. The date of his death is uncertain: it took place, however, before the year 1543; so that he died comparatively young. In person he was handsome; his physiognomy attractive from the mildness and benevolence it expressed; and his manners distinguished by courtly urbanity and elegance.

As a poet, he does not rank so high as his friend Garcilaso; he is less of a poet, less ideal, less harmonious. His chief praise results from his coming forward as the reformer of Spanish poetry: yet he cannot be considered an imitator of the Italian style which he introduced. It is true he adopted from the Italians their versification and subjects; but nothing can be more essentially different in character and genius. The tender flow of Petrarch, the inimitable mode in which he concentrates his ideas, and presents them to us with a precision yet with grace and ideality, find no competition in Boscan's poems. But there is more simplicity, more of the nerve of aman; less enthusiasm but a plainer and completer meaning in the Spaniard. He is less dreamy--to a certain degree, more common place; but then all is true, heartfelt, and living. We have not Petrarch's diction. Garcilaso de la Vega approached that more nearly; but we have a full and earnest truth that carries us along with it. Take for instance the most perfect of Petrarch's canzone,

"Chiare, fresche e dolci acque,"

and compare it with Boscan's

"Claros y frescos rios,"

written in imitation. The Italian poet invests his love with ideal imagery that elevates its object into something ethereal and goddess-like. How graceful, how full of true poetic fire and love's enthusiasm is that inimitable stanza!--

Still dear to Memory! when, in odorous showers, Scattering their balmy flowers To summer airs, th' o'ershadowing branches bow'd, The while, with humble state, In all the pomp of tribute sweets she sate, Wrapt in the roseate cloud! Now clustering blossoms deck her vesture's hem, Now her bright tresses gem (In all that blissful day, Like burnish'd gold, with orient pearls inwrought): Some strew the turf, some on the waters float! Some, fluttering, seem to say, In wanton circlets tost, "Here Love holds sovereign sway."

Boscan's poem has nothing of the ideal creativeness which sheds a halo round its object, making one feel as if Laura fed upon different food, and had limbs of more celestial texture than other women: but Boscan's sentiments are true to nature. His tenderness is that of a real and fervent lover; without raising her whom he loves into an angel, he gives us a lively and most sweet picture of how his heart was spent upon thoughts of her; and when he tells us that during absence he meditates on what she is doing, and whether she thinks of him, picturing her gesture as she laughs, thinking her thought, while his heart tells him how she may change from gay to sad, now sleeping and now awake, there is, in the place of the ideal, sincerity,--in place of the wanderings of fancy, the fixed earnestness of a fond and manly heart.

Boscan imitated Horace as well as Petrarch. In the epistle from which a passage has been quoted, he abides by the unornamented style of the Latin poet; but he wants his terseness, his epigrammatic turns, his keen observation. His poem is descriptive, and sweetly so, of the best state of man,--that of a happy marriage; but while he presents a faithful picture of its tranquil virtuous pleasures, and imparts the deep serene joy of his own heart, his hues are not stolen from the rainbow, nor his music from the spheres: it is all calm, earthly, unidealised, though not unimpassioned.

One fault Boscan possesses in common with almost all other Spanish poets--he cannot compress: he runs on, one idea suggesting another, one line the one to follow in artless unconstrained flow; but his poetry wants concentration and energy. You read with pleasure, and follow the meanders of his thoughts; they are not wild, but they are desultory; and we are never startled as when reading Petrarch, by the rising, as it were, amidst melodious sounds, of some structure of ideal and surpassing beauty, which makes you pause, imbibe the whole conception of the poet, and exclaim, This is perfection!

[Footnote 11: Widen's Life of Garcilaso de la Vega: who gives us translations of some very pleasing Latin verses by Navagero.]

[Footnote 12: Wiffen's translation of Garcilaso's poems.]

[Footnote 13: Y asi yo por seguir aquesta via, heme casado con una muger que es principio y fin del alma mia. Esta me ha dado luego un nuevo ser, con tal felicidad que me sostiene llena la voluntad y el entender. Esta me hace ver que ella conviene á mi, y las otras no me convenian; á esta tengo yo, y ella me tiene. En mi las otras iban y venian, y a poder de mudanzas a montones de mi puro dolor se mantenian. Eran ya para mi sus galardones como tesoros por encantamientos, que luego se volvian en carbones. Ahora son bienes que en mi siento firmes, macizos, con verdad fundados, y sabrosos en todo el sentimiento. Solian mis placeres dar cuidados y al tiempo que llegaban a gustarse ya llegaban a mi casi dañados. Ahora el bien es bien para gozarse, y el placer es lo que es, que siempre place, y el mal ya con el bien no ha de juntarse. Al satisfecho todo satisface y asi tambien a mi por lo que he hecho quanto quiero y deseo se me hace. el campo que era de batalla el lecho ya es lecho para mí de paz durable dos almas hay conformes en un pecho. La mesa en otro tiempo abominable y el triste pan que en ella yo comia, y el vino que bebía lamentable: infestandome siempre alguna harpia que en mitad del deleyte mi vianda con amargos potages envolvia. Ahora el casto amor acude y manda que todo se me haga muy sabroso, andando siempre todo como anda. De manera, Señor, que aquel reposo que nunca alcance yo por mi ventura con mi filosofar triste y penoso, Una sola muger me le asegura, y en perfeta sazon me da en las manos vitoria general de mi tristura. y aquellos pensamientos mios tan vanos ella los va borrando con el dedo, y escribe en lugar de ellos otros sanos. * * * * Dejenme estar contento entre mis cosas comiendo en compañia mansamente comidas que no sean sospechosas. Conmigo y mi muger sabrosamente esté, y alguna vez me pida celos con tal que me los pida blandamente. Comamos y bebamos sin recelos la mesa de muchachos rodeada; muchachos che nos hagan ser abuelos. Pasarémos asi nuestra jornada ahora en la ciudad, ahora en la Aldea, porque la vida esté mas descansada. Quando pesada la Ciudad nos sea irémos al Lugar con la compaña A donde el importuno no nos vea. Alli se vivira con menos maña, y no habrá el hombre tanto guardarse del malo o del grosero que os engaña. Alli podrá mejor filosafarse, con los bueyes y cabras y ovejas que con los que del vulgo han de tratarse. Alli no serán malas las consejas que contarán los simples labradores viniendo de arrastrar las duras rejas. ¿Será pues malo alli tratar de amores Viendo que Apolo con su gentileza Anduvo enamorado entre pastores? ¿ y Venus no se vió en grande estrecheza por Adonis vagando entre los prados? según la antigüedad asi lo reza? ¿ y Baco no sintió fuertes cuidados por la cuitada que quedó durmiendo en mitad de los montes despoblados? Las ninas por las aguas pareciendo, y entre las arboledas las Driadas se ven con los Faunos rebullendo. Nosotros seguiremos sus pisadas; digo yo y mi muger, nos andaremos tratando alli las cosas namoradas. A do corra algun rio nos iremos, y a la sombra de alguna verde haya a do estemos mejor nos sentaremos. Tenderme ha alli la alda de su saya y en regalos de amor habrá porfia qual de entrambos hará mas alta raya. El rio correrá por do es su via nosotros correremos por la nuestra sin pensar en el noche ni en la dia. El ruiseñor nos cantara a la diestra y vendrá sin el cuerbo la paloma haciendo a su venida alegre muestra. No tendremos envidia al que está en Roma ni a los tesoros de los Asianos, ni a quanto por acá de la India asoma. Tendrémos nuestros libros en las manos y no se cansaran de andar contando los hechos celestiales y mundanos Virgilio a Eneas estará cantando, y Homero el corazón de Aquiles fiero, y el navigar de Ulises rodeando. Propercio vendrá alli por compañero el qual dirá con dulces armonias del arte que a su Cintia amo primero. Catulo acudirá por otras vias, y llorando de Lesbia los amores sus trampas llorará y chocarrerias. Esto me advertirá de mis dolores-- pero volviendo a mi placer presente tendrè mis escarmientos por mejores. Ganancia sacaré del accidente que otro tiempo mi sentir turbava trayendome perdido entre la gente. ¿ Que haré de acordarme qual estaba viendome qual estoy, que estoy seguro de nunca mas pasar lo que pasaba? En mi fuerte estaré dentro en mi muro sin locura de amor ni fantasia que mi pueda vencer con su conjuro. Como digo estarè en mi compañia en todo me hara el camino llano su alegria mezclando con la mia. Su mano me dara dentro en mi mano, y acudirán deleytes y blanduras de un sano corazón en otro sano. Los ojos holgarán con las verduras de los montes y prados que verémos y con las sombras de las espesuras. El correr de las aguas oiremos y su blando venir por las montañas que a su paso vendrán donde estaremos El ayre moverá las verdes cañas y volveran entornes los ganados balando por llegar á sus cabañas. En esto ya que el sol por los collados sus largas sombras andara encumbrando, enviando reposo a los cansados, nosotros nos irémos paseando acia al lugar do está nuestra morada, en cosas que veremos platicando. La compaña saldrá regocijáda a tomarnos entonces con gran fiesta diciendo a mi muger si está cansada. Veremos al entrar le mesa puesta, y todo en buen concepto aparejado como es uso de casa bien compuesta. Despues que un poco habremos reposado sin ver bullir, andar yendo y viniendo, y a cenar non habremos asentado. Nuestros mozos vendrán alli trayendo viandas naturales y gustosas que nuestro gusto esten todo moviendo. Frutas pondrán maduras y sabrosas por nosotros las mas de ellas cogidas, embueltas en mil flores olorosas. Las natas por los platas estendidas acudirán y el blanco requeson, y otras que dan cabras paridas. Despues de esto vendrá el tierno lechon con el conejo gordo, y gazapito, y aquellos pollos que de pasto son. vendrá también alli el nuevo cabrito que a su madre jamas habrá seguido por el tiempo de tierno y de chiquito. Despues que todo esto haza venido, y que nosotros descansadamente en nuestra cena hayamos bien comido, pasaremos la noche dulcemente hasta venir el tiempo que la gana del dormir toma al hombre comunmente. Lo que desde este tiempo alla mañana pasare, pase ahora sin contarse, pues no cura mi pluma de ser vana: basta saver que dos que tanto amarse pudieron, no podran hallar momento en que puedan dejar siempre de holgarse. Pero tornando a proseguir el cuento, nuestro vivir será de vida entera viviendo en el aldea como cuento. Tras esto ya que el corazón se quiera desenfadar con variar la vida tornando nuevo gusto en su manera, a la ciudad será nuestra partida a donde todo nos será placiente con el nuevo placer de la venida. Holgarèmos entones con la gente, y con la novedad de haber llegado trataremos con todos blandamente. Y el cumplimiento que es siempre pesado a lo menos aquel que de ser vano, no es menos enojoso que escusado; Alaballe estará muy en la mano, y decir que por solo el cumplimiento se conserva en el mundo el trato humano. Nuestro vivir asi estará contento, y alcanzaremos mil ratos gozosos en recompensa de un desabrimiento. Y aunque a veces no faltan enojos, todavia entre nuestros conocidos dulces serán mas y los sabrosos. Pues ya con los amigos mas queridos que será el alborozo y el placer y el bullicio de ser recien venidos. Que será el nunca hartarnos de nos ver, y el buscarnos cada hora y cada punto y el pesar de buscarse sin se ver. Mosen Dural alli estera muy junto, haciendo con su trato y su nobleza sobre nuestro placer el contrapunto. Y con su buen burlar y su llaneza no sufrirà un momento tan ruin que en nuestro gran placer muestre tristeza. No faltera Geronimo Augustin con su saber sabroso y agradable, no menos que en romance en el latin: el qual con gravidad mansa y tratable Contando cosa bien por el notadas, nuestro buen conversar hará durable. Las burlas andaran por el mezeladas con las veras asi con tal razon que unas de otras serán bien ayudadas. En esto acudira el buen Monleon con el qual todos mucho holgarèmos, y nosotros y quantos con el son. El nos dirá, y nosotros gustaremos, el reira, y hara que nos riamos, Y en esto enfadarse ha de quanto harémos. Otras cosa habrá que las callamos, porque tan buenas son para hacerse que pierden el valor si las hablamos. Pero tiempo es en fin de recogerse, porque haya mas para otro mensagero, que si mi cuenta no ha de deshacerse no será, y os prometo, este el postrero."]

GARCILASO DE LA VEGA

1503-1536.

A poet of higher merit, a more interesting man, a hero, both in love and war, whose name seems to embody the perfect idea of Spanish chivalry, was Boscan's friend, Garcilaso de la Vega. We possess a translation of his poetry by Mr. Wiffen, who has appended an elaborate life, as elaborate at least as the scanty materials that remain could afford; for these are slight, and rather to be guessed at from slight allusions made by historians, and expressions in his poems, than from certain knowledge; as all that we really learn concerning him is, that he was a gallant soldier and a poet, devoting the leisure he could snatch from the hurry and alarm of war, to the study and composition of poetry, in which art he attained the name of prince, and is, indeed, superior to all the writers of his age in elegance, sweetness, and pathos.

Garcilaso de la Vega was sprung from one of the noblest families of Toledo. His ancestry is illustrious in Spanish chronicles. They were originally natives of the Asturias, and, possessing great wealth, arrived at high honours under various sovereigns. One of them, by name also Garcilaso, received the name of De la Vega, in commemoration of his having slain a gigantic Moor on the Vega or plain of Granada.[14] The miscreant having attached the Ave Maria to his horse's tail, all the knights of Spain were eager to avenge the injury done to our lady. Although a mere youth, Garcilaso triumphed, and was surnamed in consequence De la Vega, and adopted for his device the Ave Maria in a field d'or. The father of the poet, named also Garcilaso, was fourth lord of Los Anos, grand commendary of Leon, a knight of the order of St. James, one of the most distinguished gentlemen of the court of Ferdinand and Isabella. His mother was donna Sancha de Toral, an heiress of a large estate in Leon,--a demesne, it would seem, where the poet passed his earlier days; for the fountain which ornaments it still goes by his name, and is supposed to be described in his second eclogue.[15] These eclogues were written at Naples; it may, therefore, be a piece of fond patriotism in the Spaniard, that attributes this description to a fountain in his native woods; but there is a pleasure in figuring the boy-poet loitering beside its pure waters, and so filling his imagination with images presented by its limpid waves and the surrounding scenery, that, in after years and in a foreign country, he could fondly dwell upon and reproduce them in his verse.

Garcilaso was born at Toledo in 1503, being a few years younger than the emperor Charles V. When, on his accession to the throne, that prince visited the Spain he was called by right of birth to reign over, Garcilaso was only fifteen. We are told, however, that his skill in martial and gymnastic exercises made him early a favourite with his sovereign, and he soon entered on that warlike career destined to prove fatal to him. His poetic tastes, also, were developed while still a youth. He was passionately fond of music, and played with extreme sweetness on the harp and guitar.

The accession of Charles V. was signalised in Spain by disaster. The death of cardinal Ximenes deprived the youthful sovereign of his most illustrious counsellor, though perhaps of one he would have neglected. His Flemish courtiers attained undue influence, and a nefarious system of peculation was carried on,--the treasures of Spain being exported to Flanders, which the Spaniards regarded with alarm and indignation. The election of Charles to the imperial crown and his intended departure for Germany was the signal of resistance. This is the more deserving of commemoration in these pages, as the elder brother of Garcilaso took a distinguished part on the popular side.[16] He was candidate for the distinction of captain-general of the Germanada or Brotherhood (an association, at first sanctioned by Charles, for the purpose of maintaining the privileges of the people), and even elected such, till a popular revolt reversed his nomination in favour of the heroic Padilla. Not less heroic, however, was don Pedro, and in the cortes he boldly confronted the king, and declared that he would sooner be cut in pieces, sooner lose his head, than yield the good of his country to the sovereign's arbitrary will. Of such gallant stuff was the Spanish courtier made, till Charles's wars drained the country of her most valiant spirits, and the cruel share of the Inquisition ploughed up, and as it were sowed with salt, the soil, originally so fertile in genius and heroism. Don Pedro remained true to his cause to the last, though he did not carry his views so far as Padilla; and thus escaped the martyrdom of this generous patriot. The conduct of Charles in publishing a general pardon, on his return to Spain, is among the few instances he has given of magnanimity. His reply to a courtier who offered to inform him where one of the rebels lay concealed, deserves repetition from the grandeur of soul it expressed. "I have now no reason," he said, "to be afraid of that man, but he has cause to shun me; you would do better, therefore, in telling him that I am here, than in informing me of the place of his retreat."

War being soon after declared against France, Italy became the seat of the struggle. Garcilaso, though little more than eighteen, commenced his career of arms in this campaign. He was present at the battle of Pavia, and so distinguished himself, that he shortly after received the cross of St. Jago from the emperor in reward of his valour.

It would appear, that after this battle Garcilaso returned for a time to his native country. Since it was soon after, that Boscan, falling in with Andrea Navagero, ambassador from Venice to the Spanish court, in 1525, resolved on imitating the Italian poetry--as is recorded in his life,--and Garcilaso was his adviser and supporter. At the age of four-and-twenty, in the year 1528, he married Doña Elena de Zuniga, a lady of Arragon, maid of honour to Leonora, queen of France,--a happy marriage--from which sprung three sons.

On the invasion of Hungary by Solyman, in 1532, the emperor repaired to Vienna to undertake the war in person. The campaign was carried on without any action of moment; but Garcilaso was engaged in various skirmishes, and saw enough of war to fill him with horror at its results.

At this time, however, he fell into disgrace at court. One of his cousins, a son of don Pedro Lasso, aspired clandestinely to the hand of donna Isabel, daughter of don Luis de la Cueva, maid of honour to the empress. We are ignorant of the reason wherefore Charles was opposed to this marriage, and the consequent necessity of carrying on the amour secretly. Garcilaso befriended the lovers. The intrigue being discovered, the emperor was highly incensed; he banished the cousin, and exiled Garcilaso to an island of the Danube, an imprisonment which he commemorates in an ode, of which we may quote some stanzas from Mr. Wiffen's translation, which characterise the disposition of the man; no courtier or man of the world he, repining at disgrace and disappointment; but a poet, ready to find joy in solitude, and to adorn adversity with the rainbow hues of the imagination.

"TO THE DANUBE.

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. 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, while I Know well that if I die 'twill be because I wish to die. * * * * * 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 the desert sand, Since they upon thy willowed shore must drift, where'er they are, Their relics let the kind blue waves with murmured hymns inter. 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 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."

It is not known how long his exile endured, but certainly not long; he was recalled, and attended the emperor in his expedition against Tunis.

The son of a potter of Lesbos, turning corsair, raised himself to notice and power under the name of Barbarossa. He possessed himself of Algiers by treachery, and then, protected by the grand signor, he attacked Tunis, and drove out the king Muley Hassan. Muley solicited the aid of the emperor, and Charles, animated by a desire to punish a pirate whose cruelties had desolated many a Christian family, put himself at the head of an armament to invade Tunis. Barbarossa exerted himself to defend the city, and, in particular, fortified the citadel, named Goletta, and garrisoned it with 6000 Turks. Immediately on landing, the emperor invested the city; sallies and skirmishes became frequent, in one of which Garcilaso was wounded in the face and hand. Goletta fell, despite the vigorous defence; but Barbarossa did not despair: he assembled an army of 150,000 men, and, confiding in numbers, resolved to offer battle to the Christians. Garcilaso served on this occasion in a division of the imperial army, commanded by the marquis de Mondejar, a division at first left as a rear guard, but ordered afterwards to advance to support some newly raised Spanish regiments commanded by the duke of Alva. The marquis de Mondejar was badly wounded and carried from the field; Garcilaso, seeing the danger to which the troops were exposed in the absence of the general, rushed forward to support them by the example of his valour. His gallantry had nearly proved fatal: he was wounded and surrounded, and must have been slain, but for a Neapolitan noble, Federigo Carafa, who rescued him at the peril of his life. By great efforts he succeeded in dispersing the multitude, and bore him back in safety, half spent with toil, thirst, and loss of blood.[17] The day ended in the defeat of Barbarossa; Muley Hassan was restored to his throne; and Charles returned to Italy in triumph.

After this expedition, Garcilaso spent some time at Naples and Sicily. During his residence there, he is said to have written his eclogues and elegies, which are the most beautiful of his poems. There is something so truly poetic in the site, the clime, the atmosphere of Naples, that the most prosaic spirit must feel its influence. There Petrarch was examined by king Robert, and declared worthy of the laurel crown; there he delivered that oration on poetry that won the king to admire the heretofore neglected art, and inspired the young Boccaccio with that enthusiastic love for the Muses, which lasted to his dying day. There (and Garcilaso seems to have felt deeply the influence of these poets) Virgil and Sannazar wrote. The Spanish poet particularly loved and admired Virgil. Imbued by his spirit, he emulated his elegance and harmony, while he surpassed him in tender pathos.

One of his elegies to Boscan is dated from the foot of Etna. It does not rank among the best of his poems; but it is agreeable to preserve proofs of friendship between these gifted men. It a little jars, however, with our feelings, that he in it alludes to some lady of his love, though he was now married; however, there is a sort of poetic imaginative hue thrown over this elegy, which permits us to attribute his love complaints rather to the memory of past times and the poetic temperament, than to inconstancy of disposition. Garcilaso's poetry is refined and pure in all its sentiments, though full, at the same time, of tenderness. I subjoin a few stanzas from the elegy in question, such as give individuality and interest to the character of the poet:--

"Boscan! here where the Mantuan has inurned Anchises' ashes to eternal fame, We, Cæsar's hosts, from conquests are returned; Some of their toils the promised fruit to claim-- Some to 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 find. * * * * Yet leave I not the Muses, but the more For this perplexity with them commune, And with the charm of their delicious love 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. * * * * But how, O 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.

O fierce--O rigorous--O 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. * * * * 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 heart, and light thy laurelled name."

It may be supposed, that the learned Italians of those days welcomed a spirit congenial to their own, and were proud of a poet who transferred to another language that elegance of style and elevated purity of thought, the original growth of their native land. Cardinal Bembo thus writes of him to a friend, in a letter dated 15th of August, 1535:--"Signor Garcilaso is indeed a graceful poet, and his 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 other nations who are considered masters of poetry. I am not surprised that the marquis del Vasto has wished to have him with him, and that he holds him in great affection."

Among cardinal Bembo's Latin letters, there is one to Garcilaso, full of compliments, which show the high esteem in which he was held. "From the verses which you have sent me, I am happy to perceive, first, how much you love me, since you are not one who would else flatter with encomiums, nor call one dear to you whom you have never seen; and, secondly, how much you excel in lyric compositions, in splendour of genius, and sweetness of expression.--You have not only surpassed 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 invite 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 from 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; and 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 glory.

"There is, however, another circumstance which greatly increases the honour 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 that 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 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."

Garcilaso did not, however, long enjoy the leisure that he so well employed. Charles V., whose great ambition was to crush the power of France, and to possess himself of a portion of that kingdom, was resolved to take advantage of the disastrous issue of Francis I.'s attempt upon the duchy of Milan, and rashly determined to invade a country whose armies, however he might meet victoriously in other fields, he could not hope to vanquish in their own. He entered France from the south; and recalling Garcilaso, conferred on him an honourable command over eleven companies of infantry. Leaving Naples to join this expedition, he traversed Italy, and from Vaucluse wrote an epistle to Boscan in a fighter and gayer style than is usual with him; while he dwells with affectionate pleasure on the the of friendship that united them, saying, among other things,--

"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 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 thou may'st now 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! Embrace Dural 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."

To the period of this campaign Wiffen is inclined to attribute the composition of his third eclogue which, in point of merit, is the second, and which was avowedly written during a war--for, as he says,--

"'Midst arms--with scarce one pause from bloody toil, When war's hoarse trumpet breaks the poet's dream, Have I there moments stolen, oft claimed."

This expedition was disastrous in itself and fatal to the poet. An invading army is necessarily abhorred by all; and while it inflicts, also suffers the utmost horrors of war. The French general wisely acted on the defensive, and, having laid the country waste, left famine and disease to win the game. The emperor, unsuccessful in his attempts upon Marseilles and Arles, was obliged to retreat through a country roused to exasperation by the ills it had endured. His army, in consequence, was exposed to a thousand disasters, while the very peasants, hanging on its rear, or lying in ambush, cut off the stragglers, and disputed the passage of every defile. On one occasion, at Muy near Frejus, the imperialists were held in check by a party of fifty rustics, who, armed with muskets, had thrown themselves into a tower, and harassed them on their passage. The emperor ordered Garcilaso to attack and carry it with his battalion. Eager in his obedience, Garcilaso led the way to scale the tower. The peasants observing that he wore a gaily embroidered dress over his armour, fancied that it was the emperor himself, and marked him out for destruction. He was the first to mount the ladder; a block of stone rolled from the battlements, struck him on the head and beat him to the ground. He was carried to Nice; but no care could avail to save him: he lingered for twenty days, and then died, November, 1536, at the age only of thirty-three. He showed, we are told, no less the spirit of a Christian in his death, than of a soldier in the hour of peril. His death was universally lamented; and the emperor displayed his sense of the loss he had sustained, by causing all the peasants who survived the taking of the tower, twenty-eight in number, to be hanged. Such a token of respect would scarcely soothe the ghost of the gentle poet; but it was in accordance with the spirit of the times. The body was interred at first in the church of Saint Dominique at Nice; but two years afterwards was removed to the tomb of his ancestors in a chapel of the church of San Pedro Martyr de Toledo.

Garcilaso is always represented as the model of a young and gallant soldier, adorning his knightly accomplishments with the softer graces of a poet; as an imaginative enthusiast, joining sentiment to passion, and softening both by the elegancies of refinement. His tall figure was symmetrical in its proportions, and his mien was dignified. There was a mingled seriousness and mildness in the expression of his face, enlivened by sparkling eyes, and dignified by an expansive forehead. He was a favourite with the ladies, while he enjoyed the friendship and esteem of many excellent men. Wiffen takes pleasure in adopting the idea of doctor Nott, and likening him to our noble poet, lord Surrey. He left, orphaned by his death, three sons and a daughter. His eldest son incurred a similar fate with himself. He enjoyed the favour of the emperor, but fell at the battle of Ulpiano, at the early age of twenty-four. His second son, Francisco de Guzman, became a monk, and enjoyed a reputation as a great theologian. The youngest Lorenzo de Guzman, inherited a portion of his father's genius, and was esteemed for his talent. He scarcely made a good use of it, since he was banished to Oran for a lampoon, and died on the passage. The only daughter of the poet, donna Sancha de Guzman, married D. Antonio Portocarrero de Vega.

We turn, however, to Garcilaso's poetry as his best memorial and highest merit, at least that merit which gives him a place in these pages. When we remember that he died at thirty-three, we must regard his productions rather in the light of promise, than of performance. His muse might have soared higher, and taken some new path: as it is, he ranks high as an elegiac poet, and the first that Spain has produced. The most perfect of his poems is his second eclogue. Mr. Wiffen has succeeded admirably in transfusing, in some of the stanzas, a portion of the pathos and softness of the original. Emulating Virgil in his refinement and dignity, Garcilaso surpassed him in tenderness; and certainly the expression of regret and grief was never more affectingly and sweetly expressed than in the laments that compose this eclogue.

The poem commences with the poet speaking in his own person. He introduces the personages of the eclogue: Salicio, who laments the infidelity of his lady; and Nemeroso, who mourns the death of his. It is supposed that, under the name of Salicio, Garcilaso personifies himself, and commemorates the feelings which he experienced, when suffering from the inconstancy of a lady whom he loved in his youth.

Nothing can exceed the living tenderness of the deserted shepherd's complaints; and we feel as if the tone of fond grief could go no further, till the interest becomes heightened by the more touching nature of Nemoroso's laments: under this name it is said that Garcilaso introduced Boscan. Boscan was a happy husband and father. In his epistle to Mendoza, he mentions his former passions as a troubled dream, where all seemed love, but was really hate; and he does not allude to the death of any object of his affections. Mr. Wiffen, with the natural fondness of a translator and an antiquarian, delights in putting together the scattered and half lost fragments of his poet's life, and to eke out the history of his mind by probable conjecture, and is inclined to believe that Boscan was intended, and that being dear friends, Garcilaso pleased his imagination and heart, in making them brother shepherds in his verses. It is an agreeable idea, and not improbable: the reader may believe according as his inclinations leads him.

But not to linger longer on preliminary matter, we select the most beautiful stanzas of the eclogue, which will confirm to the Spanish reader the opinion that Garcilaso is the most harmonious, easy, elegant, and tender poet Spain ever produced: soft and melancholy, he never errs, except in sometimes following the fashion of his country in reasoning on his feelings, instead of simply declaring them. Such fault, however, is not to be found in the following verses, wherein Salicio complains of his Galatea's inconstancy, recalling the while the dear images of her former tenderness.

"Through thee the silence of the shaded glen,[18] Through thee the horror of the lonely mountain, Pleased me no less than the resort of men: The breeze, the summer wood, the 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. O how completely was I in all this Myself deceiving! O 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! 't is 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 the 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!'t is 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 takes 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 got 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; 't is 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 even once turning thy 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 detain 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."

The impatience natural to the resentment of inconstancy ruffles though it does not distort these sweet stanzas. But there is more of soft melancholy in Nemoroso, more of the entire melting of the heart in sad unavailing regret.