Chapter X: Part I: I (4)

As heroes these the vulgar choose,
If not as gods, but I refuse
Such homage for the mind;
And in Bellona’s doubtful strife,
Where fortune’s angry frowns are rife,
There heroes seek to find.

O! true of heart, and brave as true!
Illustrious Clio, turn thy view
Afar the vast seas o’er;
For deeds, in spite of fate abhorr’d,
Than these more worthy to record
Ne’er pass’d thy view before.

To abase the wealthy Gades, see,
From haunts of deep obscurity,
The fellest Fury rise!
And from her direful hand launch’d forth,
Transform’d the forests of the North,
She floating walls supplies.

Her envy is the city fair
Of Hercules, so proudly there,
Couch’d on the Atlantic gates;
Girt by the sea, that from the west
Comes fraught with gold, and her behest
Before her bending waits.

With venal aid of hate assists
Unfruitful England, throne of mists,
Whose fields no sun behold;
Which Flora with false smile has clad
In sterile green, where flowers look sad,
And love itself is cold.

Greedy the poison gold to seize,
They with the monster Avarice,
The peace of Spain abhor;
And by their horrid arts increased,
Turn ev’n the treasures of the East
To instruments of war.

Their proud Armada, which the main
Tosses to heaven, or threats in vain
To engulf, they mustering show:
Ye suffer it not, ye pupils brave
Of the Basans, and to the wave
Launch yours to meet the foe.

As by conflicting winds close driven,
The dark clouds o’er the vault of heaven
Across each other fly;
And troubling mortals with the roar,
The electric fluids flashing o’er
Dispute the sway on high,

So from both sides the battle roll’d,
The sails their wings of flame unfold,
And ship to ship they close;
Combined, O! day of hapless fame,
Four elements with man proclaim
The unequal war that rose.

Who in the whirlwind of dense smoke,
To Mars that in fit incense woke,
From hollow ordnance sent,
With iron flames, a countless host,
Sounds that unhinging shaking cross’d
The eternal firmament,--

Who in that lake of fire and blood,
Midst crashing masts and raging flood
Of havoc and its train,--
Who by the light the picture shows,
May not your blood-stain’d brows disclose,
O! noble chiefs of Spain?

With crimson dyed, or with the brand
Of sulphurous powder, firm ye stand,
As in the conflict dire,
The sacrilegious giants rear’d,
Serene the shining gods appear’d,
Midst rolling clouds of fire.

Shouts forth your courage hoarsely high
Bellona’s metal roar, the cry
The combat to inflame;
Nor fear ye mortals, when ye view
The streams of blood the waves imbue,
Your prowess that proclaim.

With iron clogg’d the air, the breath
Is drawn each with a dart of Death,
Whose skeleton immense
Rises exulting o’er the scene,
To see such fury rage, and glean
His devastation thence.

O! how he crops youth’s fairest flowers,
Or grief o’er life for ever lowers!
See there for vengeance strains
One arm for one that off is torn,
Or when away the head is borne,
Erect the trunk remains.

But, ah! what fiery column broke
There to the wind, and mid dense smoke
Then to the abyss down threw
Heads, bodies, arms and woods confused,
And hands yet with the swords unloosed
They for their country drew!

Struck by the sound groans Trafalgar;
Olympus shakes as in the war
The savage Titans waged,
When through the waves their forges roll’d
Ætna, Vesuvius, and untold
Volcanoes burning raged.

Trembling the monsters of the deep
Against each other beating, sweep
Off to the Herculean Strait;
In horror heaven is clouded o’er,
Lashing the seas the north winds roar,
In shame infuriate.

Of its own rage, the foaming brine,
Is born the tempest, fearful sign
Of more disastrous night;
Mars at the view restrains his cry;
Bark Scylla and Charybdis high,
The fiends whom wrecks delight.

Swift as a thunderbolt ye come,
The unhappy relics to consume
Of fire, ye winds and waves!
O, Night! who may thy fearfulness,
Thy vast amount of woes express,
Without the tear it craves!

Yield to the cruel element
At length the ships, that long unbent
Its haughtiest rage defied;
Men sink yet living, and for e’er
Closes o’er them their sepulchre,
The insatiable tide.

Save him, Minerva! who around
From East to West, the earth’s wide bound,
Was happier once thy care!
Urania, this thy votary save!
O, Love! how many fond hearts crave
That one’s last sigh to share!

Some to their much-loved country swim,
That horror-struck retires, and dim
In quicksands seems to fly;
Hid by the waves them death unveils,
And to the wreck’d-worn seamen’s wails
They only fierce reply.

Never may Time, in his long flight,
Join day more terrible and night:
But who in such a strife,
Who constant overcame such fate,
Where may we danger find so great
For dauntless heart in life?

O, Clio! where? yet midst that rage,
With golden pen and deathless page,
Thou lovest the brave to greet;
Gravina, Alava, each name
Write, and Escanio’s, echoes fame
Olympic will repeat.

And others, but my voice repels
The love that in my memory dwells;
O, Cosmo! hard thy lot!
O, Muses! him the laurels give,
Whose friend is only left to live,
And weep him unforgot.

Tried adverse fortune to endure,
Your valour proved sublime and pure,
O, Mariners of Spain!
Your life your country’s shield and strength,
Defended and avenged at length,
She will be yet again.

The Lion and the Eagle yet
May have them Neptune’s arm abet,
Now England’s slave and boast;
Who from her lofty poops shall view
Your troops resistless pouring through
In torrents on her coast.

Suffice it now, as tribute paid,
Her great Chief’s death; the Thames to shade,
Doubling with grief her gloom:
That cover’d thus with honour’d scars,
She sees you wait, in happier wars,
The combat to resume.

Ye go, as on the Libyan shore
The lion walks, that fiercely tore
The hunter’s cunning snare;
That not ingloriously o’erborne,
Calmly and fear’d, though bleeding, worn--
Regains his sandy lair.

THE PARTING.

Sylvia! the cruel moment’s near,
When I must say farewell!
For hark! the cannon’s sounds we hear
Of my departure tell.
Thy lover comes to give thee now
The last adieu, and part!
With sorrow overcast his brow,
And sorrowful his heart.

Come, object of my love divine!
Reach me those beauteous arms:
Would fate my happy lot assign
My home and rest thy charms,
The blow that threatens its decree
To give, I should not meet;
For sooner then than part, ’twould see
Me dying at thy feet.

O! had our passion equal force,
Or been of equal growth,
The grief of absence might its course
Divide between us both!
But thou a face indifferent,
Or pleased, dost give to view,
Whilst I have not ev’n breath content
To say to thee, Adieu.

A gentle river murmuring by,
In calmness bathes the plain,
And of its waters the supply
Sees beauteous flowers attain;
In silence thou, my lonely grief,
Dost bathe my wretched breast,
And Sylvia’s pity in relief
For me canst not arrest.

But what, my Sylvia, dost thou say?
What means that tender sigh?
Why do I see, mid tears that stray,
Shine forth thy beaming eye?
As opens to the sun opposed
On some clear day the cloud,
And his rays make the drops disclosed
To sparkle as they flow’d.

On me dost thou those languid eyes
Turn with that tender gaze?
Loses thy cheek its rosy dyes,
Nor beauty less displays?
Thy ruby lips a moment brief
Thou opest, and sorrow seals!
How fair the very show of grief
Itself in thee reveals!

Insensate! how I wildly thought
My bitter griefs would gain
Some ease, if thou wert also taught
A portion of my pain!
Pardon the error that deceived,
O, Sylvia! I implore;
Me more thy sorrow now has grieved,
Than thy disdain before.

My bliss! I pray no more to swerve!
Calm those heart-breaking pains:
Thy grief to have, does not deserve
All that the world contains.
May all life’s hours, in calm serene,
Be ever pass’d by thee;
And all that darker intervene
Reserved alone for me!

For me, whose lonely wretched doom
By heaven has been decreed
To bear fate’s cruelty and gloom,
Wherever it may lead.
But not on thee, so lovely born,
Form’d of a power divine,
To hold ev’n fate a subject sworn
To every will of thine.

Whilst thou my absence mayst lament,
Thy comfort mayst descry,
By fate a thousand lovers sent
More to thy choice than I.
Some one she pleases me above
To favour chance may show;
But one to love thee as I love,
That none can ever know.

’Twas not thy graces won my heart,
Nor yet thy faultless face;
But ’twas some sympathy apart
I might from birth retrace.
I long a picture loved to draw
Of charms I fancied true,
And thy perfections when I saw,
The original I knew.

No traveller upon the ground
By sudden lightning thrown,
The blow could more at once confound,
Left helpless and alone,
Than I to see that beauteous brow,
In hapless love was lost;
At thy feet forced at once to bow,
To adore whate’er the cost.

But I depart, alas! the pain
No words can e’er express;
Heaven only knows it that can scan
The inmost heart’s recess;
And saw the hours of deep delight,
So full now long pass’d by,
That all my wishes’ utmost height
Heap’d up could satisfy.

Now while the breezes fair avail,
The waves are gently stirr’d,
And of the mariners the hail
Confused afar is heard:
Now from the deep’s tenacious hold
The anchor’s fangs they heave,
And all conspiring are enroll’d
Me swifter death to give.

Now with a vacillating foot
The slender boat I tread,
Soon destined from the bank to shoot,
As to the great bark sped.
Sylvia, in this sad moment’s pause,
O! what a mournful crowd
Of thoughts around thy lover close,
To assault him and o’ercloud!

The sweet requital in return
Thou givest my love I know;
And kind remembrances discern
All thy affections show;
Whilst here each proof assures me well
That naught thy heart can move;
But in my absence, who can tell
If thou wilt faithful prove?

For those divine attractions whence
Now all my joys arise,
Perhaps may fate the cause dispense
Of all my miseries;
And whilst I absent and forlorn
My pledges lost deplore,
Some rival gains of me in scorn
The enchantments I adore!

But no, my bliss, my glory! ne’er
Were given the winds in vain
Those vows, which envied me to share
The universe my gain.
Let us time’s tyranny defy,
And distance, constant thus
Remaining in that changeless tie,
That then united us.

When rises first the beamy sun,
When sets his beauteous ray,
When moon and stars their courses run,
On thee my thoughts will stay.
From that enchanting form my heart
No moment will be free;
And traitress thou, when I depart
Wilt ne’er ev’n think of me!

At lonely hours across my thought
Gulf’d in the ocean vast,
The scenes to memory will be brought
With thee I saw and pass’d.
Then will my sorrows make me feel
My lot more dark to be,
And thou more cruel than the steel
Wilt ne’er ev’n think of me!

“There first her matchless form I saw;
There first my faith I swore;
And from her flattering lips could draw
The happy ‘Yes’ they wore!”
As these reflections by me file,
Rise griefs in like degree;
And thou, who knows, if thou the while
Wilt e’er ev’n think of me?

Then as I hours of glory call
Those when I thee beheld;
And of my griefs the sources all
When from thy sight repell’d;
A thousand times the thoughts enhance
The doom ’tis mine to see,
Meanwhile who knows, if thou perchance
Wilt e’er ev’n think of me?

When in the heavens I view unfurl’d
The awful signs arise,
With which the Ruler of the world
Poor mortals terrifies;
When sounds are in the deepest caves
Of horrid thunderings nigh,
And of the seas the troubled waves
Rage furiously on high;

When by the south wind is impell’d
The proud Tyrrhenian main,
As if from its deep bosom swell’d
To assault the starry train;
When the despairing steersman turns
To prayer, instead of skill,
Seeing his bark the ocean spurns
The plaything of its will;

Amid the hoarse and troubled cries
The people raise around,
While shines the sword before their eyes
Of death, to strike them bound;
Ev’n then will I my love’s farewell
In that dark hour renew,
And to the winds my sighs shall tell--
Sylvia! my life, Adieu!

VI.

MANUEL JOSÈ QUINTANA.

Connecting the present age of modern Spanish poetry with that of the past generation, by a happily protracted existence, as well as by the style and tone of his writings, the venerable subject of this memoir still survives, to close a life of active usefulness in a healthy and honoured old age.

Quintana was born at Madrid, the 11th April, 1772, of a respectable family of Estremadura. He received his primary education in classical learning at Cordova, whence he proceeded to Salamanca, and graduated there in canon and civil law. In this university he had the advantage of studying under Melendez Valdes, by whom he was soon favourably noticed, and was made known to the illustrious Jovellanos, by whose counsels also he had the good fortune to be assisted. Thus his natural disposition for the study of elegant literature was encouraged, both by precept and example, under two such able directors, to take a higher course than the mere study of law, for which profession he was destined.

Having been admitted an Advocate of the Supreme Court, he has held various appointments, as fiscal of the tribunal of commerce, and censor of theatres; afterwards chief clerk of the Secretary-General to the Central Junta of Government, secretary of decrees and interpretation of languages, member of the censorship to the Cortes, and of the commission for the formation of a new plan of education. In the last, he was charged with the duty of drawing up a report of all the works on the subject presented to the government, which was, in 1835, approved of by the Cortes.

In the two former of these employments he was interrupted by the French invasion, when he took an active part against the invaders. Receiving afterwards the other offices mentioned, he wrote many of the proclamations and other addresses which were put forth on the part of the national government, during the struggle for independence. Throughout those eventful times, he was in the most advanced rank of the party that advocated constitutional rights, so that when Ferdinand VII. returned to the possession of absolute power, in 1814, he was, amongst the proscribed, made a prisoner, and confined in the castle of Pamplona.

There he was kept six years, without being allowed to communicate with his friends, or make use of his pen. On the constitutional government becoming re-established, he was released, and restored to his offices as secretary for the interpretation of languages, and member of the board of censors. In 1821, the directorship-general of public education having been formed, he was made president, until 1823, when the constitution was again set aside, and he was again deprived of his employments.

Hereupon Quintana retired to Estremadura to his family, and lived there till the end of 1828, when he was permitted to return to Madrid, to continue his labours and literary studies. The following year he was named member of the board for the museum of natural sciences, and in 1833 was re-established in his former employment, as secretary for interpretations for which his knowledge of the French, English and other languages rendered him qualified, and also reappointed president of the council of public instruction. He was shortly after appointed preceptor to her present Majesty, Queen Isabel II., and although ever maintaining strong liberal principles, has been since, under the administration of Narvaez, named a senator of the kingdom.

Quintana first appeared as an author in 1795, when he published a small volume of poems, among which was an Ode to the Sea, considered one of his best compositions. The greater part, however, of them were of unequal merit, and those have been omitted in subsequent editions: the next one was published in 1802, and it has been reprinted with additions several times. The best and most complete edition of his poetical works was published at Madrid, in 1820, in two volumes, entitled, ‘Poems, including the patriotic odes and tragedies, the Duke of Viseo, and Pelayo.’ Of this edition five or six surreptitious reprints have been made at Bordeaux and elsewhere, the laws regarding copyright having only lately been made accordant with justice in Spain as regards authors, though they do not yet extend them protection against piratical republications from abroad.

The tragedy of the ‘Duke of Viseo,’ imitated from the English, the ‘Castle Spectre’ of Lewis, was brought forward in 1801, and that of ‘Pelayo’ in 1805. The latter, on a favourite subject of their ancient history, was received with much favour by his countrymen, as were also many of his patriotic odes and poems, written in a spirit accordant with the national feeling. Most of these were at the time inserted in two periodical works he had under his direction; the first, ‘Variedades de Ciencias, Literatura y Artes,’ and the second, the ‘Seminario Patriotico,’ which was of a political character, and established to promote, and sustain the spirit of independence, against the French invasion.

Beyond his original poems, Quintana has done an important service to Spanish literature by publishing ‘A Collection of select Spanish Poetry,’ altogether in six volumes, Madrid, 1830-33, with critical and biographical notices, reprinted in Paris by Baudry, 1838. These notices are written in a tone of great impartiality and fairness, and are preceded by a Dissertation, as an Introduction, on the History of Spanish Poetry, which, written as it is with eminent ability, Mr. Wiffen has shown great judgement in translating, prefixed to his very correct and elegant version of the works of Garcilasso de la Vega, London, 1823. Besides this valuable collection of Spanish poetry, Quintana has favoured the public with a work in three volumes,--‘Lives of celebrated Spaniards,’ of which the first volume was published in 1807, the other two in 1830 and 1833 respectively.

The first volume, which has been translated into English by Mr. Preston, London, 1823, contains the lives of the earlier heroes of Spanish history,--the Cid Campeador, Guzman the Good, Roger de Lauria, the Prince of Viana, and Gonzalo de Cordova; all bearing impressions of the enthusiastic and poetic feelings, characteristic of the comparatively youthful period of life at which they were written. It was Quintana’s intention to have proceeded with a series of like biographies; but the subsequent public events, in which he had to take so active a part, interrupted the task, and when he resumed it, after the lapse of twenty years, it was under the influence of other feelings. He then proceeded principally with the lives of persons distinguished in American history; the second volume containing those of Vasco Nunez de Balboa and Francisco Pizarro; and the third volume those of Alvaro de Luna, and Bartolome de las Casas. Of these two volumes, the former has been translated into English by Mrs. Hobson, Edinburgh, 1832; and of the third a translation has been announced, London, 1851; both, and the latter especially, well deserving of study.

In the first volume, treating of heroes, whose history, almost lost in the obscurity of remote times, might be considered among the fabulous legends prevailing everywhere in the first formations of society, it seemed only appropriate to give a colouring of poetry, to characters of whose actions nothing could be judged, except by their outward bearing. But in the others he could write as a philosophic historian, inquiring into the motives of actions, and teaching lessons of public morality by individual examples. The life of Alvaro is thus particularly interesting, depicting the caprices of fortune, as they affect

The wish indulged in courts to shine,
And power too great to keep or to resign.

In the other lives he maintains the high tone of feeling shown in his beautiful Ode to Balmis, the philanthropic introducer of vaccination into America, where the ravages of the disease, so graphically described by Humboldt, had made this benefit more peculiarly desirable.

The generous sentiments expressed in this ode are such as to do honour not only to Quintana, but also to the nation, where they are in the present generation adopted, as we find them repeated emphatically by so popular a writer as Larra. More than thirty years had elapsed after writing that ode, when Quintana, in the Life of the enthusiastic Las Casas, proved his consistency of character and principles, by maintaining them in a work of historical character, as he had done in poetry in his youth.

In the prologue to the third volume he says, “The author will be accused of little regard for the honour of his country, when he so frankly adopts the sentiments and principles of the Protector of the Indians, whose imprudent writings have been the occasion of so much opprobrium, and of subministering such arms to the detractors of Spanish glories. But neither the extravagance or fanatical exaggerations of Las Casas, nor the abuse which the malignity of strangers have made of them, can erase from deeds their nature and character. The author has not gone to imbibe them from suspicious fountains; nor to judge them as he has done, has he regarded other principles than those of natural equity, or other feelings than those of his own heart. Documents carefully appended for this purpose, and the attentive perusal of Herrera, Oviedo, and others our own writers as impartial and judicious as those, give the same result in events and opinions. What then was to be done? To deny the impressions received, and repel the decision which humanity and justice dictate, on account of not compromising what is called the honour of the country? But the honour of a country consists in actions truly great, noble and virtuous of its inhabitants; not in gilding with justifications, or insufficient exculpations, those that unfortunately bear on themselves the seal of being iniquitous and cruel. To strangers who to depress us, accuse us of cruelty and barbarity in our discoveries and conquests of the New World, we might reply with other examples on their own part, as or more atrocious than ours, and in times and under circumstances sufficiently less excusable.…

“The great glories and usefulnesses, which result from extended conquests and dominations, are always bought at a great price, whether of blood, or violence, or reputation and fame: unhappy tribute to be paid even by nations the most civilized, when the impulse of destiny bears them to the same situation. Glorious, without doubt, was for us the discovery of the New World! But at what cost was it bought! For myself what affects me, leaving apart as not required here the question of the advantages which Europe has derived from that singular event, I will say, that wherever I find, whether in the past or the present, aggressors and aggrieved, oppressors and oppressed, on no account of ulterior utility, nor even of national consideration, am I able to incline myself to the former, or to fail in sympathizing with the latter. I may have put therefore into this historical question more entireness and candour than is commonly expected, when referring to our own conduct, but no odious prejudices, nor an inclination to injure or detract. Let us everywhere give some place in books to justice, now that unfortunately it is wont to have so little left it in the affairs of the world.”

Holding such high opinions in all his writings, it may be seen that the youth of Spain cannot have a better guide to take for private study than those writings, the best preparatives for honourable exertion in life; and Quintana’s own history shows, that whatever misfortunes may befall any one individually, he does not labour or suffer in vain, who labours or suffers honestly in a just cause. In another part of the same prologue, Quintana says of his own lot, “Of this variety of circumstances and continued alternations, from good to ill, and from ill to good, not small has been the part fallen to the author of this work. Drawn by the force of events from his study and domestic lares, flattered and excessively exalted now, afterwards borne down and contemned, falling into imprisonment and proceeded against capitally, destined to a long and perhaps indefinite detention, deprived during it of communications and even of his pen, released from it, when he least hoped, to rise and prosper, and descending again soon to be endangered, he has experienced all, and nothing now can be to him new. Let it not be supposed from this that he puts it forth here as a merit, and less, that he presents it in complaint. For of whom should I complain? Of men? These in the midst of my greatest calamities, with very few exceptions, have shown themselves constantly regardful, benevolent, and even respectful towards me. Of fortune? And what pledges had she given me to moderate for me the rigour with which she treated the rest? Were they not of as much or more value than I? Political and moral turbulences are the same as the great physical disorders, in which the elements becoming excited, no one is sheltered from their fury.”

Resigning himself thus to his fate, Quintana seems to have learned the philosophical secret of preserving his equanimity in all the vicissitudes of life, to the enjoyment of a tranquil old age. The privilege of attaining this is a favour to every one, to whom it is granted; but its highest enjoyments must be consequent only on a life of active usefulness, with a conscience void of offence. The man of cultivated mind, who has been called upon to do or to suffer more than others his fellows in the turmoils of the world, may then be supposed to receive his greater reward in the remembrances of scenes, happier perhaps in the retrospect than in the reality, which may have given them even the semblance of a longer existence. As perspectives appear lengthened, according to the number and variety of objects that intervene to the view, so life itself may appear to have been longer or shorter, according to the memory and character of events witnessed in its course. Described as a person of athletic form, yet unbowed by the burden of fourscore years, Quintana, as before observed, still survives, to receive the honour justly due to him for his honourable exertions through life, the remembrances of which may thus give him more pleasurable enjoyments, than can be supposed to fall to the lot of ordinary mortals.

As a poet, if a foreigner may be allowed to express an opinion, for which he has no native authority to adduce, Quintana may be said to be more eloquent than poetical. As Quintilian said of Lucan, both also natives of Spain, “ut dicam quod sentio, magis oratoribus quam poetis annumerandus.” Quintana’s eloquence consists in earnestness more than in flights of fancy. His favourite subjects were the glories of his country; and his patriotic odes, in which he endeavoured to incite his countrymen to imitate the examples of their forefathers, have been pronounced his best compositions. He has as a poet paid his tribute of admiration to beauty and the arts; but his whole soul seems to be poured forth when pathetically mourning over the dimmed glories of his country, as when at the thought “of our miserable squadrons flying before the British,” he turns to the Padillias and Guzmans of former days, “when the Spaniard was master of half of Europe, and threw himself upon unknown and immense seas to give a new world to men.”

As a patriotic poet Quintana has been compared to Beranger, and is said to have had the same power over the minds of his countrymen. If the parallel be correct, it may be curious to consider how characteristically these two poets appeal to the feelings of their admirers; one by songs and incidents, which though often trivial, yet speak to the heart in its most sensitive points, while the other proceeds to the same object by martial odes of commanding austerity. Besides the Ode to Balmis, the other one in this work, on the Battle of Trafalgar, has been chosen for translation, as most likely to interest the English reader, though it may not be in itself so much to be admired as some others of his poems. The reader will perhaps observe a constrained style in it, even beyond that of translation,--sentiments forced, as if the subject had not been taken voluntarily. It must not therefore be looked upon as a favourable specimen of Quintana’s genius, like the Ode to Balmis, which more fully shows the character of his mind.

Quintana, more than other poets of his time, has written in one style of verse, as in imitation of the Pindaric ode, or of our Gray and Dryden. Thus with free metres and often unfettered by rhyme, he has a staid measured tone, well suited to the subjects he has generally adopted. They are considered in Spain as of an elegiac character; and as accordant with them, they have fallen in the translation into the form of our elegies, or the heroic lines with alternate rhymes, the style of verse which Dryden, a high authority on such a question, pronounced “the most magnificent of all the measures which our language affords.”

Much as Quintana has published, both of his own works and of the works of others, for the advancement of sound learning and moral instruction, we have still great cause to regret that the circumstances of the times in which he has lived have prevented him from publishing more. Not only has he been interrupted in the course of those instructive biographies, of which we have such valuable beginnings, but we might have hoped, if he had lived in more peaceful times, that he would have given the world some work, of a character more distinctively his own, to place his name still higher in the history of elegant literature. It was one of the maxims of the wise Jovellanos, “that it was not sufficient for the purposes of good government to keep the people quiet, but that they ought to be kept contented.” Without this condition the other cannot be expected; and for all public commotions, therefore, the rulers are always most responsible, as unmindful of this truth. The greatest evil is, when the whole literary world has thus also further cause to complain of their misdeeds, as affecting those who were endowed with talents of a higher order, such as to make all men interested in their well-being. It is to be hoped that we are now, under the benignant reign of Isabel the Second, entitled to expect a more liberal government, and the advent of a still brighter æra for the literature of Spain.

Taking the space of eighty years, as comprehending the period during which modern Spanish poetry has been peculiarly distinguished for superior excellence, we may now make a further division of this period, into the former and latter parts of it. All the poets, whose lives we have hitherto traced, wrote their principal works previously to the year 1810; after which time we have a succession of writers, whose genius may perhaps be found to take a yet wider range of thought and feeling, consequent on the extended field of knowledge, which later events presented to their observation.

MANUEL JOSÈ QUINTANA.

TO THE SPANISH EXPEDITION FOR THE PROMOTION OF VACCINATION IN AMERICA, UNDER DON FRANCISCO BALMIS.

Fair Virgin of the world, America!
Thou who so innocent to heaven display’st
Thy bosom stored with plenty’s rich array,
And brow of gentle youth! Thou, who so graced
The tenderest and most lovely of the zones
Of mother Earth to shine, shouldst be of fate
The sweet delight and favour’d love it owns,
That but pursues thee with relentless hate,
Hear me! If ever was a time mine eyes,
When scanning thy eventful history,
Did not burst forth in tears; if could thy cries
My heart e’er hear unmoved, from pity free
And indignation; then let me disclaim’d
Of virtue be eternally as held,
And barbarous and wicked be one named
As those who with such ruin thee assail’d.

In the eternal book of life are borne,
Written in blood, those cries, which then sent forth
Thy lips to Heaven, such fury doom’d to mourn,
And yet against my country call in wrath.
Forbidding glory and success attend
The fatal field of crimes. Will they ne’er cease?
Will not the bitter expiation end
Sufficed of three eventful centuries?
We are not now those who on daring’s wing,
Before the world, the Atlantic’s depths disdain’d,
And from the silence found thee covering,
That fiercely tore thee, bleeding and enchain’d!

“No, ye are not the same. But my lament
Is not for this to cease: I could forget
The rigours which my conquerors relent,
Their avarice with cruelties beset:
The crime was of the age, and not of Spain.
But when can I forget the evils sore
Which I must miserably yet sustain?
Among them one, come, see what I deplore,
If horror will not you deter. From you,
Your fatal ships first launch’d, the mortal pest,
The poison that now desolates me flew.
As in doom’d plains by ruthless foes oppress’d,
As serpent that incessantly devours,
So ever from your coming, to consume
Has it raged o’er me. See here, how it lowers!
And in the hidden place of death and gloom,
Buries my children and my loves. Affords
Your skill no remedy? O! ye, who call
Yourselves as of America the lords,
Have pity on my agony. See, fall
Beneath your insane fury, not sufficed
One generation, but a hundred slain!
And I expiring, desolate, unprized,
Beseech assistance, and beseech in vain.”

Such were the cries that to Olympus rose,
When in the fields of Albion found remote,
Variola’s fell havocs to oppose,
Kind Nature show’d the happy antidote.
The docile mother of the herd was found
Enrich’d with this great gift; there stored attent
Where from her copious milky founts around
She gives so many life and aliment.
Jenner to mortals first the gift reveal’d:
Thenceforward mothers to their hearts could press

Their children without fear to lose them heal’d;
Nor fear’d thenceforward in her loveliness
The maiden, lest the fatal venom spoil
Her cheek of roses, or her brow of snow.
All Europe then is join’d in grateful toil,
For gift so precious and immense to know,
In praises loud to echo Jenner’s name;
And altars to his skill to raise decrees,
There to long ages hallowing his fame,
Beside their tutelar divinities.

Of such a glory at the radiant light,
With noble emulation fill’d his breast,
A Spaniard rose,--“Let not my country slight,”
He cried, “on such a great occasion’s test,
Her ancient magnanimity to employ.
’Tis fortune’s gift discovering it alone;
That let an Englishman his right enjoy.
Let Spain’s sublime and generous heart be shown,
Giving her majesty more honour true,
By carrying this treasure to the lands
Which most the evil’s dire oppressions knew.
There, for I feel a deity commands,
There will I fly, and of the raging wave
Will brave in bearing it the furious strife;
America’s infested plains to save
From death, as planting there the tree of life.”
He spoke, and scarcely from his burning lip
These echoes had beneficently flowed,
When floating in the port, prepared the ship,
To give commencement to so blest a road,
Moved spreading her white canvas to the air.
On his fate launch’d himself the aëronaut.
Waves of the sea, in favouring calmness bear,
As sacred, this deposit to be brought
Through your serene and liquid fields. There goes
Of thousand generations long the hope;
Nor whelm it, nor let thunder it oppose;
Arrest the lightning, with no storms to cope,
Stay them until that from those fertile shores
Come forth the prows, triumphant in their pride,
That fraught remote with all their golden stores,
With vice and curses also come allied.

Honour to Balmis! O, heroic soul!
That in such noble toil devotest thy breath,
Go fearless to thy end. The dreadful roll
Of ocean always hoarse, and threatening death;
The fearful whirlpool’s all-devouring throat,
The cavern’d rock’s black face, where dash’d by fate,
Break the wreck’d barks, the dangers they denote
Greatest are not most cruel thee that wait.
From man expect them! Impious, envious man,
In error wrapped and blind, will prove him bent,
When hush’d against thee is the hurricane,
To combat rough the generous intent.
But firmly and secure press forward on;
And hold in mind, when comes for strife the day,
That without constant, anxious toil, can none
Hope glory’s palms to seize, and bear away.

At length thou comest; America salutes
Her benefactor, and at once her veins
The destined balm to purify deputes.
A further generous ardour then regains
Thy breast; and thou, obedient to the hand
Divine that leads thee, turn’st the sounding prow
Where Ganges rolls, and every Eastern land
The gift may take. The Southern Ocean now
Astonished sees thee, o’er her mighty breast
Untiring passing. Luzon thee admires,
Good always sowing on thy road impress’d:
And as it China’s toilsome shore acquires,
Confucius from his tomb of honour’d fame,
If could his venerable form arise,
To see it in glad wonder might exclaim,
“’Twas worthy of my virtue, this emprise!”

Right worthy was it of thee, mighty sage!
Worthy of that divine and highest light,
Which reason and which virtue erst array’d
To shine in happier days, now quench’d in night.
Thou, Balmis! never mayst return; nor grows
In Europe now the sacred laurel meet
With which to crown thee. There in calm repose,
Where peace and independence a retreat
May find, there rest thee! where thou mayst receive
At length the august reward of deeds so blest.
Nations immense shall come for thee to grieve,
Raising in grateful hymns to Heaven address’d
Thy name with fervorous zeal. And though now laid
In the cold tomb’s dark precincts thou refuse
To hear them, listen to them thus convey’d
At least, as in the accents of my Muse.

ON THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR.

Not with an easy hand wills Fate to give
Nations, or heroes, power and renown:
Triumphant Rome, whose empire to receive
A hemisphere submissively bow’d down,
Yielding itself in silent servitude,
How often did she vanquish’d groan? repell’d
As she her course of loftiness pursued!
Her ground to Hannibal she scarcely held;
Italian blood of Trevia the sands,
And wavy Thrasymenus deeply dyed,
And Roman matrons the victorious bands
Of Cannæ nigh approaching them descried,
As some portentous comet fearful lower.
Who drove them thence? Who from the Capitol
Turn’d on the throne, that founded Dido’s power,
The clouds that threaten’d then o’er them to roll?
Who in the fields of Zama, from the yoke
They fear’d, with direful slaughter to set free,
At length the sceptre of great Carthage broke,
With which she held her sovereignty, the sea?

Unswerving courage! that alone the shield
That turns adversity’s sharp knife aside:
To joy turns sorrow; bids despair to yield
To glory, and of fortune learns to guide
The dubious whirlwind, victory in its train;
For a high-minded race commands its fate.
O, Spain! my country! covering thy domain,
The mourning shows how great thy suffering state;
But still hope on, and with undaunted brow,
From base dejection free, behold the walls
Of thy own lofty Gades, which avow
Thy strength, though fate them now awhile appals;
Which though affrighted, blushing in their shame,
As bathing them around the waves extend,
Yet loud thy sons’ heroic deeds proclaim,
Far on the sounding billows they defend.

From the proud castled poop that crowns his high
Indomitable ship, the Briton round
Look’d, on his power and glory to rely,
And boastful cried, “Companions renown’d!
See, there they come: new trophies to attain
Wait your unconquer’d arms; the feeble pines
That Spain prepares for her defence in vain:
Fate from our yoke exemption none assigns.
We are the sons of Neptune. Do they dare
To plough the waves before us? Call to mind
Aboukir’s memorable day! to share
Another such a triumph: let us find
One moment as sufficing us to come,
To conquer, and destroy them. Grant it me,
Kind fate! and let us crown’d with laurels home
Our wealthy Thames again returning see.”

He spoke, and spread his sails. With swimming prows
Opening the waves, they follow him elate,
Conquerors of winds and waves. With dauntless brow
The Spaniards view them, and in calmness wait,
Contemning their fierce arrogance, and high
Their bosoms beating with indignant rage.
Just anger! sacred ardour! “There come nigh
Those cruel foes, who hasten war to wage,
And spill our blood, when we reposed secure
Beneath the wings of peace. They who are led
By avarice vile; who friendship’s laws abjure;
Who in their endless tyranny o’erspread
Would hold condemn’d the seas; who to unite,
As brothers, pride and insolence of power
With treachery and rapacity delight;
Who”--but with mantle dark night brings the hour
To enwrap the world. Wandering round the shrouds
Are frightful shades, dire slaughter that portend
And fearful expectations raise. Through opening clouds
The day displays the field, where wildly blend
Fury and death; and horrid Mars the scene
Swells loud with shouts of war, upraised in air
His standard high. To answer intervene
From hollow brass the mortal roarings glare.
The echo thunders, and the waves resound,
Dashing themselves in rage to Afric’s shore:
In conflict fly the ships to ships around,
By rancour moved. Less violent its store
Of heap’d-up ice in mountains, the South Pole
Emits immense, loud thundering through the waves
To glide, and on the adventurous seaman roll.
Nor with less clamour loosen’d from their caves
Rush the black tempests, when the East and North,
Troubling the heavens enraged in furious war,
And dire encounter, all their strength put forth,
And shake the centre of the globe afar.

Thrice the fierce islander advanced to break
Our squadron’s wall, confiding in his might:
Thrice by the Spanish force repulsed, to shake
His hopes of victory he sees the fight.
Who shall depict his fury and his rage,
When with that flag before so proud he saw
The flag of Spain invincible engage?
’Tis not to skill or valour to o’erawe,
Solely he trusts to fortune for success.
Doubling his ships, redoubling them again,
From poop to prow, from side to side to press,
In an unequal fight is made sustain
Each Spanish ship a thousand, thousand fires;
And they with equal breath that death receive
So send it back. No, not to my desires,
If heaven would grant it me, could I achieve
The task that day’s heroic deeds to tell,
Not with a hundred tongues; hid from the sun
By smoke, Fame’s trumpet shall their praises swell,
And bronze and marble for their names be won.

At length the moment comes, when Death extends
His pale and horrid hand, to signalize
Great victims. Brave Alcedo to him bends,
And nobly Moyua, with Castanios, dies.
And Alcalà, Churruca, also ye!
Of Betis and Guipuzcoa the pride.
O! if Fate knew to spare, would it not be
Enough to soothe, upon your brows allied
Minerva’s olive with Mars’ laurels seen?
From your illustrious and inquiring mind
What could the world, or stars, their mysteries screen?
Of your great course the traces left behind
The Cyclades are full, nor less the seas
Of far America. How seeks to mourn,
New tears from her sad heart her grief to appease,
The widow’d land such heroes from her torn;
And still she sheds them o’er your cruel fate.
O! that ye two could live, and I in place
Of grief, of sorrowing song, to consecrate
To you the funeral accents that I raise,
Might have opposed my bosom to the stroke,
And thus my useless life my country give!
That I might thus your cruel lot revoke,
To bear the wounds, so that ye two might live!
And she might proudly raise her front anew,
Victorious crown’d with rays of glory bright,
Her course ’gainst arduous fortune to pursue,
Triumphant in your wisdom and your might.

Yet fell ye not, ye generous squadrons! there,
Without revenge and slaughter. Spreading wide,
Rivers of English blood your powers declare.
And Albion also horror-struck descried
Mountains of bodies weigh, a heavy pile,
On her so proud Armada. Nelson, too!
Terrible shade! O, think not, no, that vile
My voice to name thee, e’er an insult threw
On thy last sigh. As English I abhor,
But hero I admire thee. O, thy fate!
Of captive ships a crowd, the spoils of war,
The Thames awaits, and now exults elate
To hail with shouts the conqueror’s return!
But only pale and cold beholds her Chief!
Great lesson left for human pride to learn,
And worthy holocaust for Spanish grief.

Yet still the rage of Mars impels the arm
Of destiny; mow’d down unnumber’d lives.
By fury launch’d, voracious flames alarm;
On every side planks burning. Loosely drives
Each ship a fierce volcano; blazing high
Through the wide air ’tis raised, and thrown again
With horrid bursting in the seas to lie,
Engulf’d. Do other havocs yet remain?
Yes, for that Heaven, displeased to see such foes,
Bids the inclement north winds rise to part
The furious combatants, and day to close
In stormy night. ’Tis order’d, and athwart
They throw themselves the miserable barks,
Lashing the waves on high with cruel wings.
As each this new unequal combat marks
For ruin, falls the mast, and over swings
Trembling beneath the assault. The hulls divide,
And where the gaping seams the waves invite,
They enter, while the dying Spaniards cried,
“O! that we were to perish, but in fight!”

In that remorseless conflict, high in air,
Then shining forth their glorious forms display’d
The mighty champions, who of old to bear
The trident and the spear, supreme had made
Before the Iberian flag the nations bow.
There Lauria, Trovar, and Bazan were seen,
And Aviles, their brother heroes now
Of Spain to welcome, and in death convene.
“Come among us,” they cried, “among the brave
You emulate. Already you have gain’d
Your fair reward. The example that you gave
Of valour, Spain in constancy sustain’d
Her warriors shows, inciting to prepare
For other conflicts they undaunted greet.
Look to the city of Alcides! there
Gravina, Alavà, and Escanio meet!
Cisneros and a hundred more combine
There in firm column, with proud hopes to bless
Our native land. Come, fly ye here, and shine
In heaven their stars of glory, and success.”