Chapter XV: Part II: VII (5)

In the first volume of poems that Zorrilla published, containing his earliest productions, are to be found all the selections made for translation in this work. They may not be so highly finished as some afterwards published, nor so marked by that distinctive character he has made his own; but they show the first promises of the fruit that was in store, to be afterwards brought to such maturity. As he had scarcely emerged from boyhood when he began to tread the path to fame, his first steps could scarcely fail to betray that sort of uncertainty which attends on all who are going on an unknown road. Thus then through the volume he appears to be seeking a ground whereon to fix his energies and build the temple for his future fame, without being able confidently to fix on any place in preference. His poetry from the first, always sonorous and easy, often evidently spontaneous and true to nature, at times is weak and deficient in the depth of thought that at other times distinguishes it, especially in the compositions of a philosophic cast, which require fuller age and reflection to give them with perfectness. Subject to these remarks, independently of the poems hereafter given in the translations, there are others, ‘To Toledo,’ ‘The Statue of Cervantes,’ ‘The Winter Night,’ more clearly portraying the peculiar character of his poetry as afterwards developed.

In the second volume published about six months afterwards, he seems already to have taken his ground and to proceed with a more decided step. The poem, ‘The Day without Sun,’ is full of poetic vigour and richness of description, and several tales of greater length and legendary character show the bent of his mind and the direction it was in future to take. In the third volume it was reserved for his genius to be fully developed. It opens with a magnificent composition, ‘To Rome,’ in which deep philosophy and reflection are combined with exquisite description, all so clear and distinct as fully to captivate the mind and leave an impression of complete satisfaction. But beyond this it contains the poem ‘To the last Moorish King of Granada, Boabdil the Little,’ which is generally considered his best. He was already recognized as an admirable descriptive poet, but he now proved his power of moving the inmost feelings to be as great as his power of imagination. It is undoubtedly a splendid composition and highly finished, so as to be well worthy of study for the Spanish reader, though too long for translation for this work. The same volume contains another poem, also worthy of mention, ‘To a Skull,’ as written with much force and effect, but in the style of the French imitators of Byron, whom Zorrilla has too much copied, though it must be stated without their affectation and exaggerations.

In the following volumes he continues the course now so markedly his own as a national poet. He avowedly chooses, as becoming him in that character, subjects taken from the traditions and legends current in Spain, and clothing them in glowing language reproduces them to his delighted readers as the dreams and remembrances of their youth. He is especially partial to the tales connected with the Moorish wars, and in so doing, with great poetic effect, always represents the Moors in the most favourable light. Thus he throughout makes them worthy rivals of the Christians, and thereby renders greater the merit of the conquerors. The richness of his diction is truly extraordinary, often so as to make us lose sight of the paucity of ideas contained in his poems, and that those again are too much the same repeated constantly over.

If it was a wonderful and admirable triumph for one so young to achieve by one bound the unqualified commendations of his countrymen, and to sustain the success then acquired by subsequent efforts, we have still to regret that there were evils attending that precocity to prevent his attaining apparently the highest excellence. Perhaps there is no one we can point out as so truly exemplifying the maxim “poeta nascitur.” He was truly born a poet; and though he often writes showing that he had been reading Calderon or some other of the elder writers of Spain, or even some of the French poets, yet he always gives the colouring of his own mind to those imitations so as to make them his own. This often again leads him to a mannerism and repetition of himself; but notwithstanding these faults or occasional errors of carelessness, his compositions always remain uniformly and irresistibly captivating.

Besides his poems, Zorrilla has published upwards of twenty dramatic pieces, some of which have been repeatedly produced on the stage with the fullest success. They are all remarkable for the richness of versification and high tone of poetry which distinguish his lyrical compositions, and, like them, all tend to honour and promote the chivalrous spirit for which the Spanish nation has ever been renowned.

The modern poetry of Spain shows that her nationality is still as distinct, her genius as elevated, and her sense of honour as pure, as in any former period of her history. It shows itself in unison with the spirit that has always animated the people in their public conduct, in their loyalty and devotion, the same now as a thousand years since, making every hill a fortress and every plain a battle-field, to dispute the ground at every foot with the enemy till they were driven from their soil. The poets of Spain have still, as ever, the most stirring tasks before them, to commemorate the glories of their romantic country, and they are worthy of their task.

JOSÈ ZORRILLA.

THE CHRISTIAN LADY AND THE MOOR.

Hastening to Granada’s gates,
Came o’er the Vega’s land,
Some forty Gomel horsemen,
And the Captain of the band.

He, entering in the city,
Check’d his white steed’s career;
And to a lady on his arm,
Borne weeping many a tear,

Said, “Cease your tears, fair Christian,
That grief afflicting me,
I have a second Eden,
Sultana, here for thee.

“A palace in Granada,
With gardens and with flowers,
And a gilded fountain playing
More than a hundred showers.

“And in the Henil’s valley
I have a fortress gray,
To be among a thousand queen
Beneath thy beauty’s sway.

“For over all yon winding shore
Extends my wide domain,
Nor Cordova’s, nor Seville’s lands,
A park like mine contain.

“There towers the lofty palm-tree,
The pomegranate’s glowing there,
And the leafy fig-tree, spreading
O’er hill and valley fair.

“There grows the hardy walnut,
The yellow nopal tall,
And mulberry darkly shading
Beneath the castle wall;

“And elms I have in my arcades
That to the skies aspire,
And singing birds in cages
Of silk, and silver wire.

“And thou shalt my Sultana be,
My halls alone to cheer;
My harem without other fair,
Without sweet songs my ear.

“And velvets I will give thee,
And eastern rich perfumes,
From Greece I’ll bring thee choicest veils,
And shawls from Cashmere’s looms:

“And I will give thee feathers white,
To deck thy beauteous brow,
Whiter than ev’n the ocean foam
Our eastern waters know.

“And pearls to twine amid thy hair,
Cool baths when heat’s above,
And gold and jewels for thy neck,
And for thy lips be--love!”

“O! what avail those riches all,”
Replied the Christian fair,
“If from my father and my friends,
My ladies, me you tear?

“Restore me, O! restore me, Moor,
To my father’s land, my own;
To me more dear are Leon’s towers
Than thy Granada’s throne.”

Smoothing his beard, awhile the Moor
In silence heard her speak;
Then said as one who deeply thinks,
With a tear upon his cheek,

“If better seem thy castles there
Than here our gardens shine,
And thy flowers are more beautiful,
Because in Leon thine;

“And thou hast given thy youthful love
One of thy warriors there,
Houri of Eden! weep no more,
But to thy knights repair!”

Then giving her his chosen steed,
And half his lordly train,
The Moorish chieftain turn’d him back
In silence home again.

ROMANCE. THE WAKING.

No sound is in the midnight air,
No colour in its shade,
The old are resting free from care,
Duenna’s voice is stay’d;
But when all else in slumber meet,
We two are waking nigh,
She on the grated window’s seat,
And at its foot am I.

I cannot see her beaming eyes,
Nor her clear brow above,
Nor her face with its rosy dyes,
Nor yet her smile of love:
I cannot see the virgin flush
That heightens her cheek’s glow,
The enchantments of that maiden blush,
She is but fifteen now.

Nor can my searching eyes behold
Her form scarce wrapp’d about;
Nor from the flowing garment’s fold
Her white foot peeping out;
As on some gentle river’s spring,
To glide the foam between,
Spread forth her snowy floatsome wing,
The stately swan is seen.

Nor can I see her white neck shine,
Or shoulders as they part;
Nor from her face can I divine
Her restlessness of heart;
While like a guard, too watchful o’er,
The grated bars I find;
Audacious love is there before,
Poor virtue is behind.

But in despite of that thick grate,
And shades that round us twine,
I have, my dove, to compensate,
My soul embathed in thine:
My lips of fire I hold impress’d
On thine of roses free;
And well I feel there’s in that breast
A heart that beats for me.

But see along the East arise
The unwelcome god of day,
Enveloped in the humid skies,
The darkness drive away.
And when a maid has watch’d the night,
With gallant by her side,
The bright red dawn has too much light
Its coming to abide!

* * * * *

The smiling morn is shedding round
Its harmony and hues,
And fragrant odours o’er the ground
The breezes soft diffuse:
Robbing the rose, the lily fair,
And cherish’d pinks they fly,
And leave upon the laurels there
A murmur moaning by.

Murmurs the fountain’s freshening spring,
Beneath its crystal veil,
And the angelic turtles sing
Their tender mournful tale;
The love-sick dove the morning light
Drinks with enraptured throat,
Mixing the balmy air so bright
With her unequal note.

Paces the while the noble youth
The garden’s paths along,
And lowly sings, his soul to soothe,
His love-inspiring song;

“O! soundless midnight hour, again
Come with thy kindly shade,
When rest thy old from cares, and when
Duenna’s voice is stay’d;
For then, while they in slumber meet,
We two are waking nigh,
She on the grated window’s seat,
And at its foot am I.”

ORIENTAL ROMANCE,--BOABDIL.

Lady of the dark head-dress,
And monkish vest of purple hue,
Gladly would Boabdil give
Granada for a kiss of you.

He would give the best adventure
Of the bravest horseman tried,
And with all its verdant freshness
A whole bank of Darro’s tide.

He would give rich carpets, perfumes,
Armours of rare price and force,
And so much he values you,
A troop, ay, of his favourite horse.

“Because thine eyes are beautiful,
Because the morning’s blushing light
From them arises to the East,
And gilds the whole world bright.

“From thy lips smiles are flowing,
From thy tongue gentle peace,
Light and aërial as the course
Of the purple morning’s breeze.

“O! lovely Nazarene, how choice!
For an Eastern harem’s pride,
Those dark locks waving freely
Thy crystal neck beside.

“Upon a couch of velvet,
I n a cloud of perfumed air,
Wrapp’d in the white and flowing veil
Of Mahomet’s daughters fair.

“O, Lady! come to Cordova,
There Sultana thou shalt be,
And the Sultan there, Sultana,
Shall be but a slave for thee.

“Such riches he will give thee,
And such robes of Tunisine,
That thou wilt judge thy beauty,
To repay him for them, mean.”

* * * * *

O! Lady of the dark head-dress!
That him a kiss of thee might bless,
Resign a realm Boabdil would!
But I for that, fair Christian, fain
Would give of heavens, and think it gain,
A thousand if I only could.

THE CAPTIVE.

I go, fair Nazarene, tomorrow
To queenly Cordova again;
Then thou, my song of love and sorrow
To hear, no longer mayst complain,
Sung to the compass of my chain.

When home the Christians shall return,
In triumph o’er the Moorish foe,
My cruel destiny wouldst thou learn?
The history of my loves to know,
The blood upon their hands shall show.

Better it were at once to close,
In this dark tower a captive here,
The life I suffer now of woes,
Than that today thou sett’st me clear;
Alas! thou sell’st it very dear.

Adieu! tomorrow o’er, thy slave
May never vex thy soul again,
But vain is all the hope it gave:
Still must I bear the captive’s chain,
Thine eyes my prison still remain.

Fair Christian! baleful is my star;
What values it this life to me,
If I must bear it from thee far?
Nor in Granada’s bowers may be,
Nor, my fair Cordova, with thee?

Today’s bright sun to me will seem
A lamp unseasonably by:
Daughter of Spain, thy beauties gleam
Alone my sun and moon on high,
The dawn and brightness of my sky.

Since then I lose thy light today,
Without that light I cannot live!
To Cordova I take my way;
But in the doom my fortunes give,
Alas! ’tis death that I receive.

A paradise and houri fair
Has Mahomet promised we shall prove:
Aye, thou wilt be an angel there,
And in that blissful realm above
We meet again, and there to love.

THE TOWER OF MUNION.

Dark-shadow’d giant! shame of proud Castille,
Castle without bridge, battlements or towers,
In whose wide halls now loathsome reptiles steal,
Where nobles once and warriors held their bowers!
Tell me, where are they? where thy tapestries gay,
Thy hundred troubadours of lofty song?
Thy mouldering ruins in the vale decay,
Thou humbled warrior! time has quell’d the strong:
Thy name and history to oblivion thrown,
The world forgets that there thou standst, Munion.

To me thou art a spectre, shade of grief!
With black remembrances my soul’s o’ercast;
To me thou art a palm with wither’d leaf,
Burnt by the lightning, bow’d beneath the blast.
I, wandering bard, proscribed perchance my doom
In the bier’s dust nor name, nor glory know;
With useless toil my brow’s consumed in gloom;
Of her I loved, dark dwelling-place below,
Whom I was robb’d of, angel from above,
Cursed be thy name, thy soil, as was my love.

There rest, aye, in thy loftiness,
To shame the plain around,
Warderless castle, matron lone,
In whom no beauty’s found.
At thee time laughs, thy towers o’erthrown,
Scorn’d by thy vassals, by thy Lord
Deserted, rest, black skeleton!
Stain of the vale’s green sward.

Priestless hermitage of Castille,
On thee no banners wave;
Unblazon’d gate, thy pointed vaults
No more their weight can save:
Thou hast no soldier on thy heights,
No echo in thy halls,
And rank weeds festering grow uncheck’d
Beneath thy mouldering walls.

Chieftain dead in a foreign land,
Forgotten of thy race,
While storm-torn fragments from thy brow
Are scatter’d o’er thy place;
And men pass careless at thy feet,
Nor seek thy tale to find;
Because thy history is not read,
Thy name’s not in their mind.

But thou hast one, who in a luckless hour
Inscribed another’s name on thy worn stone:
’Twas I, and that my deep relentless shame
Remains with thee alone.
When my lips named that name, they play’d me false;
When my hands graved it, ’twas a like deceit;
Now it exists not; in time’s impious course
’Twas swept beneath his feet.

And that celestial name,
To time at length a prey,
A woman for my sin,
For a seraph snatch’d away;
The hurricane of life
Has left me, loved one, worse
For my eternal grief,
In pledge as of a curse,
Thy name ne’er from my thoughts to part,
Nor thy love ever from my heart.

THE WARNING.

Yesterday the morning’s light
Shone on thy window crystal bright,
And lightsome breezes floating there
Gave richest perfumes to the air,
Which the gay flowers had lent to them,
All scatter’d from the unequal stem.

The nightingale had bathed his wing
Beneath the neighbouring murmuring spring;
And birds, and flowers, and streamlets gay,
Seem’d to salute the new-born day;
And in requital of the light,
Their grateful harmony unite.

The sun was bright, the sky serene,
The garden fresh and pleasant seen;
Life was delight, and thou, sweet maid,
No blush of shame thy charms betray’d;
For innocence ruled o’er thy breast,
Alike thy waking and thy rest.

Maiden, or angel upon earth,
Thy laugh, and song of gentle mirth,
In heaven were surely heard; thine eyes
Were stars, and like sweet melodies
Thy wandering tones; thy breath perfume,
And dawn-like thy complexion’s bloom.

As phantoms then thou didst not find
The hours pass heavy on thy mind,
A poet, under Love’s decree,
Sang melancholy songs to thee;
And of his griefs the voice they lend
Thou didst not, maiden, comprehend.

Poor maiden, now what change has come
O’er that glad brow and youthful bloom?
Forgotten flower, thy leaves are sere,
Thy fruitless blossoms dried appear;
Thy powerless stem all broken, low,
May to the sun no colours show.

O! dark-eyed maid of ill-starr’d birth,
Why camest thou on this evil earth?
Rose amid tangled briars born,
What waits thee from the world but scorn?
A blasting breath around thee, see,
Thy bloom is gone, who’ll ask for thee?

Return, my angel, to thy sphere,
Before the world shall see thee here:
The joys of earth are cursed and brief,
Buy them not with eternal grief!
Heaven is alone, my soul, secure
The mansion for an angel pure.

MEDITATION.

Upon the obscure and lonely tomb,
Beneath the yellow evening’s gloom,
To offer up to Heaven I come,
For her I loved, my prayer!
Upon the marble bow’d my head,
Around my knees the moist herbs spread,
The wild flowers bend beneath my tread,
That deck the thicket there.

Far from the world, and pleasures vain,
From earth my frenzied thoughts to gain,
And read in characters yet plain
Names of the long since past;
There by the gilded lamp alone,
That waves above the altar stone,
As by the wandering breezes moan,
A light’s upon me cast.

Perchance some bird will pause its flight
Upon the funeral cypress height,
Warbling the absence of the light,
As sorrowing for its loss;
Or takes leave of the day’s bright power,
From the high window of the tower,
Or skims, where dark the cupolas lower,
On the gigantic cross.

With eyes immersed in tears, around
I watch it silent from the ground,
Until it startled flies the sound
The harsh bolts creaking gave;
A funeral smile salutes me dread,
The only dweller with the dead,
Lends me a hard and rough hand, led
To ope another grave.

* * * * *

Pardon, O God! the worldly thought,
Nor mark it midst my prayer;
Grant it to pass, with evil fraught,
As die the river’s murmurings brought
Upon the breezy air.

Why does a worldly image rise
As if my prayer to stain?
Perchance in evil shadow’s guise,
Which may when by the morrow flies
Sign of a curse remain.

Why has my mind been doom’d to dream
A phantom loveliness?
To see those charms transparent gleam,
That brow in tranquil light supreme,
And neck’s peculiar grace?

Not heighten’d its enchantments shine
By pomp or worldly glow;
I only see that form recline
In tears, before some sacred shrine,
Or castle walls below.

Like a forgotten offering lone,
In ruin’d temple laid;
Upon the carved and time-worn stone,
Where fell it by the rough wind thrown,
So bent beneath the shade.

With such a picture in my mind,
Such name upon my ear,
Before my God the place to find,
Where the forgotten are consign’d,
I come, and bow down here.

With eyes all vaguely motionless,
Perhaps my wanderings view
The dead, with horror and distress,
As, roused up in their resting-place,
They look their dark walls through.

’Twas not to muse I hither came
Of nothingness my part;
Nor of my God, but of a name,
That deep in characters of flame
Is written on my heart.

Pardon, O God! the worldly thought,
Nor mark it midst my prayer;
Grant it to pass, with evil fraught,
As die the river’s murmurings brought
Upon the breezy air.

NOTES.

1. Page 3. “Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos.”

This name (pronounced Hovellianos) was formerly written as two distinct names, Jove Llanos, as it is still by several members of the family, one, an Advocate, at present at Madrid, and another the Spanish Consul at Jamaica.

2. Page 3. “An able and distinguished writer,” &c.

Antonio Alcalà Galiano, author also of the able article in the Foreign Quarterly Review on Jovellanos, afterwards mentioned. He was born at Cadiz, in 1789, the son of a distinguished officer in the Spanish navy, who was killed at Trafalgar. In his youth, Alcalà Galiano studied the English language so assiduously as to receive much benefit from his knowledge of it when he had to take refuge in London, on the various political changes that took place in Spain. He then wrote much for the Westminster and Foreign Quarterly Reviews, as well as other publications, and was subsequently named one of the Professors of Languages in the London University. Having returned to Spain, on the death of Ferdinand VII., he was appointed a Minister of State, with the Señor Isturitz, and has held, at various times, several high offices in the government. In the Cortes he was considered one of the most able orators of his time, having been put on a rivalry with Martinez de la Rosa and Argüelles. He has published a few poems, and contributed several valuable papers for the different learned societies of Madrid, besides having written much for the periodicals, according to the continental system for public men seeking to disseminate their opinions. His principal work as an author is a ‘History of Spain.’ Ferrer del Rio says of him, that “he writes Spanish with an English idiom, and though he puts his name to a history of Spain, it seems a translation from the language of Byron.” Few foreigners have ever obtained so complete a knowledge of the English language; in fact his writings in the several reviews might be pointed out as compositions which would do credit to our own best writers. As an instance of his knowledge of the state of literature in England, we may quote a few observations from an article bearing his name in the first number of the Madrid Review. He says, “The Bible and the Plays of Shakespeare, if they may be named together without profanation, are the two works which have most influence on the thoughts of the English;” adding, that “classical literature is there better cultivated than in France, or at least cultivated with more profound knowledge,” deducing the conclusion, “that the English drama is consequently radically different from the French.”

3. Page 11. “Bermudez, his biographer.”

This industrious writer was born at Gijon, in 1749, and died at Cadiz in 1829. He may be termed the Vasari of Spain, as the historian of the artists of his country. His two biographical works, the one on her painters, the other on her architects, are a rich mine of materials. The former was published in six volumes 8vo, in 1800: the latter, in four volumes 4to, was almost the last work on which he was engaged, and did not appear till 1829. Besides these, he was the author of various other publications on the principal edifices in Seville, and had completed a ‘History of the Roman Antiquities in Spain;’ a ‘General History of Painting;’ a work on ‘Architecture,’ and other pieces, which yet remain unedited. As a fellow-townsman, as well as an artist of considerable genius, he was much assisted by Jovellanos, who, when Minister of State, gave him a valuable appointment at Madrid under the government. When that eminent individual fell, his friends had to suffer also, and Cean Bermudez, deprived of his appointment, had to return to Seville, where he instituted a school for drawing. It was no doubt under the feelings of regret, occasioned by the reflection of having his friends involved in his misfortunes, that Jovellanos wrote to him the Epistle selected for translation in this work.

4. Page 16. “Merit of first bringing into favour.”

See Hermosilla, ‘Juicio Critico de los principales Poetas Españoles de la ultima era,’ vol. i. p. 11.

5. Page 18. “Epistle to Cean Bermudez.”

From Works of Jovellanos, Mellado’s edition, vol. iv. p. 226.

6. Page 30. “To Galatea’s Bird.”

From the same, p. 369.

7. Page 32. “To Enarda.--I.”

From the same, p. 368. In submission to the recommendations of several friends to give the original of at least part or the whole of some one poem of each author, from whose works the translations have been made, selections of such as the English students of Spanish literature would probably most desire, are offered for their comparison.

Riñen me bella Enarda
Los mozos y los viejos,
Por que tal vez jugando
Te escribo dulces versos.
Debiera un magistrado
(Susurran) mas severo,
De las livianas Musas
Huir el vil comercio.
Que mal el tiempo gastas!
Predican otros,--pero
Por mas que todos riñan
Tengo de escribir versos.

Quiero loar de Enarda
El peregrino ingenio
Al son de mi zampoña
Y en bien medidos metros.
Quiero de su hermosura
Encaramar al cielo
Las altas perfecciones;
De su semblante quiero
Cantar el dulce hechizo
Y con pincel maestro
Pintar su frente hermosa
Sus traviesos ojuelos,
El carmin de sus labios,
La nieve de su cuello;
Y vàyanse à la … al rollo
Los Catonianos ceños
Las frentes arrugadas
Y adustos sobrecejos,
Que Enarda serà siempre
Celebrada en mis versos.

8. Page 33. “To Enarda.--II.”

From Works of Jovellanos, vol. iv. p. 364.

9. Page 46. “Epistle to Domingo de Iriarte.”

From Works of Tomas Iriarte, 1805, vol. ii. p. 56.

Domingo Iriarte was subsequently much engaged in the diplomatic service of Spain, and signed the treaty of peace with France of 1795, as Plenipotentiary, along with the celebrated M. Barthélemy.

10. Page 50. “But now the confines of,” &c.

The following is the original of this passage:--

Mas ya dexar te miro
Los confines Germanos,
Y el polìtico giro
Seguir hasta los ùltimos Britanos.
Desde luego la corte populosa
Cuyas murallas baña
La corriente anchurosa
Del Tàmesis, la imàgen te presenta
De una nacion en todo bien extraña:
Nacion en otros siglos no opulenta,
Hoi feliz por su industria, y siempre esenta:
Nacion tan liberal como ambiciosa;
Flemàtica y activa;
Ingenua, pero adusta;
Humana, pero altiva;
Y en la causa que abraza, iniqua ó justa
Violenta defensora,
Del riesgo y del temor despreciadora.
Alli serà preciso que te asombres
De ver (qual no habràs visto en parte alguna)
Obrar y hablar con libertad los hombres.
Admiraràs la rapida fortuna
Que alli logra el valor y la eloqüencia,
Sin que ni el oro, ni la ilustre cuna
Roben el premio al mèrito y la ciencia.
Adverteràs el numeroso enxambre
De diligentes y habiles Isleños
Que han procurado, del comercio Dueños
No conocer la ociosidad ni el hambre;
Ocupados en ùtiles inventos
En fàbricas, caminos, arsenales,
Escuelas, academias, hospitales,
Libros, experimentos,
Y estudios de las Artes liberales.
Alli sabràs, en fin, à quanto alcanza
La sabia educacion, y el acertado
Mètodo de patriòtica enseñanza,
La privada ambicion bien dirigida
Al pùblico provecho del Estado;
La justa recompensa y acogida
En que fundan las Letras su esperanza,
Y el desvelo de un pròvido Gobierno
Que al bien aspira, y à un renombre eterno.

This Epistle is addressed to his brother, as the reader may observe, in the second person singular, which, in Spanish, has a tone of more familiarity than in English, and understanding it so intended, I have altered it, in the translation, into our colloquial form of the second person plural.

The above extract is the same in his printed works of both editions; but I have in my possession a collection of his manuscripts, among which is a copy of this Epistle, with several variations, less flattering to England. Had he lived to superintend the second edition, these variations might probably have been adopted in it. They are not, however, of any material variance, but they seem to me to show that his eulogium had not been favourably received in some quarters, and that he had therefore thought it prudent to soften it in preparing for another edition. The publisher of the edition of 1805 does not seem to have been aware of these manuscripts, nor indeed to have taken the trouble of doing more for Iriarte’s memory than merely to reprint the first edition, without even any biographical or critical notice of him or his writings, as he might well have done, Iriarte having been then deceased fourteen years.

For another eloquent and encomiastic description of English usages and institutions, the student of Spanish literature would do well to read a work, published in London in 1834, by the Marques de Miraflores, ‘Apuntes historico-criticos para escribir la Historia de la Revolucion de España.’ This distinguished nobleman was born the 23rd December, 1792, at Madrid, and succeeded to the honours and vast property of his ancient house in 1809, on the death of his elder brother, during the campaign of that year. He has been much engaged in public affairs, having held various offices in the state. He has been twice Ambassador to England; the last time, Ambassador Extraordinary on the coronation of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. The Marques has written several works on political subjects, of which the one above-mentioned is particularly deserving of study.

11. Page 52. “Saying as Seneca has said of yore.”

Stet quicumque volet potens
Aulæ culmine lubrico:
Me dulcis saturet quies.
Obscuro positus loco
Leni perfruar otio.
Nullis notus Quiritibus
Ætas per tacitum fluat.
Sic cum transierint mei
Nullo cum strepitu dies,
Plebeius moriar senex.
Illi mors gravis incubat
Qui notus nimis omnibus
Ignotus moritur sibi.

Thyestes, Act II. The critical reader will observe, that the translation into English has been made from the Spanish rather than the Latin.

12. Page 53. “Fables.”

The Fables translated are numbered respectively III., VIII., XI., LIII. and LIV., in the original collection. The two first, III. and VIII., having been given by Bouterwek as specimens of Iriarte’s style, without any translation, I took them for my first essays, and had already versified them, before finding Roscoe had done the same also in his translation of Sismondi, and it was subsequently to that I became aware of other similar versions. Having, however, made those translations, I have, notwithstanding the others, allowed them to remain in this work. The fable of the Two Rabbits has been selected as particularly noticed by Martinez de la Rosa, and the others almost without cause of peculiar preference. The last one contains an old but good lesson, which cannot be too frequently and earnestly repeated:--

Ego nec studium sine divite venâ
Nec rude quid prosit video ingenium, alterius sic
Altera poscit opem res et conjurat amicè.

13. Page 64. “Iglesias and Gonzalez.”

Diego Gonzalez was born at Ciudad Rodrigo in 1733, and died at Madrid, 1794. Josè Iglesias de la Casa was born at Salamanca in 1753, and died there in 1791. His poems were first published seven years after his death, and have been several times reprinted. The best edition is that of Barcelona, 1820, from which the one of Paris, 1821, was taken. The poems of Gonzalez also were first published after his death, and have been several times reprinted. Both wrote very pleasing verses, and are deservedly popular in Spain.

14. Page 69. “It was for his detractors,” &c.

Hermosilla, author of a work, ‘Juicio Critico de los principales Poetas Españoles de la ultima era,’ published after his death, Paris 1840, gives in it, as Mr. Ticknor pithily observes, “a criticism of the poems of Melendez so severe that I find it difficult to explain its motive;” at the same time that he gives “an unreasonably laudatory criticism of L. Moratin’s works.” Hermosilla appears to have been a man of considerable learning, but little judgement. His criticisms are generally worthless, and the only excuse for him, with regard to his book, is, that he did not publish it. With regard to Melendez, taking every opportunity to depreciate his merits, he is constantly found constrained to acknowledge them, and sometimes even in contradiction to himself. Thus, having several times intimated, as at p. 31, that the erotic effusions of Melendez only were praiseworthy, he says, at p. 297, when speaking of his Epistles, that they are “his best compositions; thoughts, language, style, tone and versification, all in general are good.” In another part he censures Melendez for his poems addressed to different ladies, especially some to ‘Fanny,’ who appears to have been an Englishwoman; and yet those epistles, addressed to her, on the death of her husband, are among the purest and most elegant specimens that can be pointed out of consolation to a mourner. It is but justice to his editor, Salva, to say, that he has expressed his dissent from these criticisms, though he thought proper to publish the work.

15. Page 73. “The Duke de Frias.”

This estimable nobleman, who died in 1850, was descended from the Counts of Haro, one of the three great families of Spain. He was the munificent friend of literary men, and in the case of Melendez extended his protection to the dead, having taken much personal trouble to have his remains removed from the common burying-ground to a vault, where they might not afterwards be disturbed. He also wrote verses occasionally, of which have been preserved, by Del Rio, a ‘Sonnet to the Duke of Wellington,’ and by Ochoa, an ‘Elegy on the Death of his Duchess,’ whose virtues will be found hereafter commemorated by Martinez de la Rosa.

16. Page 76. “Best edition, that by Salvà.”

In taking the edition of 1820 for the text, Salvà, in his edition, has exercised much judgement in giving some of the poems as they were originally published, rather than as Melendez afterwards had left them, weakened by over-correction.

Salvà was in early life distinguished for learning and study, having been, when only twenty years of age, named Professor of Greek in the University of Alcalà de Henares. On the French invasion he returned to his native city Valencia, and engaged in trade as a bookseller, in which occupation he continued in London, when obliged to emigrate hither in 1823, in consequence of his having joined in the political events of the times. He had been, during those events, Deputy from Valencia, and Secretary to the Cortes. In 1830 he transferred his house to Paris, where he continued his pursuits, publishing many valuable works of his own compilation, as a Grammar and Dictionary of the Spanish language, as well as editing and superintending the publication of many other standard works. He closed his useful life, in his native city, in 1850.

17. Page 77. “Juvenilities.”

Works of Melendez, Salvà’s Edition, vol. i. p. 39.

This piece was also taken for translation from Bouterwek, when first entering on a study of Spanish literature. From Bouterwek it was copied by Sismondi, when borrowing, as he did largely, from that compiler; but Mr. Roscoe has not given a translation of this, as he probably found it difficult to do so satisfactorily. It is in fact almost as difficult to translate Melendez as it is to translate Anacreon, their peculiar simplicity and grace being so nearly allied.

18. Page 79. “The Timid Lover.”

Works of Melendez, _ibid._, p. 263.

This poem having been particularly mentioned by Martinez de la Rosa as favourably characteristic of the style of the author, may be considered best to be selected as an exemplification of it. It is what is termed a Letrillia.

EL AMANTE TIMIDO.

En la pena aguda
Que me hace sufrir
El Amor tirano
Desde que te vi
Mil veces su alivio
Te voy à pedir,
Y luego, aldeana,
Que llego ante ti,
Si quiero atreverme
No sè que decir.

Las voces me faltan
Y mi frenesí
Con mìseros ayes
Las cuida suplir
Pero el dios que aleve
Se burla de mi
Cuanto ansio mas tierno
Mis labios abrir
Se quiero atreverme
No sè que decir.

Sus fuegos entonces
Empieza à sentir
Tan vivos el alma
Que pienso morir,
Mis làgrimas corren,
Mi agudo gemir
Tu pecho sensible
Conmueve, y al fin
Si quiero atreverme
No sè que decir.

No lo sè, temblando
Si por descubrir
Con loca esperanza
Mi amor infeliz,
Tu lado por siempre
Tendrè ya que huir:
Sellàndome el miedo
La boca: y asì
Si quiero atreverme
No sè que decir.

Ay! si tu, adorada,
Pudieras oir
Mis hondos suspiros
Yo fuera feliz.
Yo, Filis, lo fuera
Mas, triste de mi!
Que tìmido al verte
Burlarme y reir,
Si quiero atreverme
No sè que decir.

19. Page 81. “My Village Life.”

This and the two following poems are taken from those at pages 94, 110 and 64 of the first volume of the Works of Melendez Valdes; the Disdainful Shepherdess from the one at p. 62 of vol. ii.

20. Page 95. “Merits of their national dramas.”

For an excellent criticism on the Spanish drama, see the article in the twenty-fifth volume of the Quarterly Review.

21. Page 104. “There, says his biographer,” &c.

In the sketch prefixed to the edition by Rivadeneyra, from which the two poems following are taken, at pages 581 and 582. The one to Jovellanos has been justly praised by Mr. Ticknor as one of his best, and from it we may in preference extract the commencement, as an exemplification of his style.

Si, la pura amistad, que en dulce nudo
Nuestras almas uniò, durable existe
Jovino ilustre, y ni la ausencia larga
Ni la distancia, ni interpuestos montes
Y proceloso mar que suena roco,
De mi memoria apartaràn tu idea.

Duro silencio à mi cariño impuso
El son de Marte, que suspende ahora
La paz, la dulce paz. Sè que en obscura
Deliciosa quietud, contento vives,
Siempre animado de incansable celo
Por el pùblico bien; de las virtudes
Y del talento protector y amigo.
Estos que formo de primor desnudos,
No castigados de tu docta lima,
Fàciles versos, la verdad te anuncien
De mi constante fe; y el cielo en tanto
Vuèlvame presto la ocasion de verte
Y renovar en familiar discurso
Cuanto à mi vista presentò del orbe
La varia escena. De mi patria orilla
A las que el Sena turbulento baña,
Teñido en sangre, del audaz Britano
Dueño del mar, al aterido Belga,
Del Rin profundo à las nevades cumbres
Del Apenino, y la que en humo ardiente
Cubre y ceniza à Nàpoles canora,
Pueblos, naciones, visitè distintas
Util sciencia adquirì, que nunca enseña
Docta leccion en retirada estancia,
Que alli no ves la diferencia suma
Que el clima, el culto, la opinion, las artes,
Las leyes causan. Hallaràsla solo
Si al hombre estudias en el hombre mismo.

22. Page 113. “Juan Bautista de Arriaza.”

This poet’s name is pronounced Arriatha; the two poems selected for translation are taken, the first from p. 60 of Book III. of his works, edition of 1829. ‘The Parting, or the Young Sailor’s Farewell,’ from _ibid._, Book I. p. 77.

The eighth stanza, beginning in the translation, ‘With venal aid of hate assists,’ is in the original--

Què de ministros vendes a su encono,
Anglia infecunda! de las nieblas trono,
Campos que el sol no mira,
Que en sonrisa falsa, Flora reviste
De esteril verde, en que la flor es triste,
Y Amor sin gloria espira.

Which stanza is thus translated by Maury:--

Combien te sied le mal, Angleterre inféconde,
Amante de vapeurs, jeteé où l’œil du monde
Te regarde si peu!
Champs où la brume arrose une oiseuse verdure,
Où Flore est sans gaieté, l’automne sans parure,
L’Amour sans traits de feu!

Of thirty-three stanzas in the original, Maury has only taken fifteen for his translation, and of ‘The Parting’ he has only taken eighteen out of twenty-five. The four concluding stanzas are in the original--

Crisol de adversidad claro y seguro
Vuestro valor probò sublime y puro,
O Marinos Hispanos!
Broquel fue de la patria vuestra vida
Que al fin vengada y siempre defendida
Serà por vuestras manos.

Rinda al Leon y al Aguila Neptuno
El brazo tutelar, con que importuno
Y esclavo al Anglia cierra:
Y ella os verà desde las altas popas
Lanzar torrentes de invencibles tropas
Sobre su infausta tierra.

Bàsteos, en tanto, el lùgubre tributo
De su muerte Adalid doblando el luto
Del Tàmesis umbrio,
Que, si, llenos de honrosas cicatrices
Se os ve, para ocasiones mas felices
Reservar vuestro brio.

Sois cual leon, que en Libico desierto
Con garra atroz, del cazador experto
Rompiò asechanza astuta;
Que no inglorioso, aunque sangriento y laso
Temido si, se vuelve paso à paso
A su arenosa gruta.

23. Page 145. “Described by Humboldt.”

Political Essay on New Spain, Book II. chapter 5.

24. Page 145. “So popular a writer as Larra.”

Mariano Josè de Larra was born at Madrid, 24th March, 1809. His father had joined the French army as a medical officer, and after the peace went to France, taking his son with him, where he forgot his native language, so that he had to learn it as a novice on his return to Spain. It is not improbable that his education in that country, where also he passed some time subsequently, gave Larra’s mind that tendency for scepticism and perverted feeling which led to his miserable end. From his earliest years he showed great aptitude for learning, and had studied the Greek, English and Italian languages, before he went to Valladolid to prepare for the profession of the law. After a short residence there, he went to Valencia on some disappointment he suffered, which, to one of his temperament, seemed a greater misfortune than what perhaps any other person would have considered it. At Valencia he obtained employment in a public office, which, however, did not suit his taste, and having then married, he returned to Madrid and determined to write for the public. His first efforts were not successful, and have not been subsequently reprinted with his works, but after a short time he began writing a series of essays on passing events, under the signature of Figaro, which at once attained great popularity. He also wrote several plays and a few poems, which, as written by Figaro, were favourably received. But the essays, under that title, were the foundation of his popularity. They were in the style of our essayists of the reign of Queen Anne, containing criticisms, and sketches of manners and characters, written in a style of great ease and elegance, marked with much wit and humour, as well as vigour. These works have been very many times reprinted in Spain, and also in France and South America. The student who wishes to form a correct style in learning Spanish, cannot do better than take Larra for a model. By his writings he had attained a respectable place in literary society, and it was understood that his fortunes were thereby also in a state of competence. He was, however, possessed of an ill-regulated mind and headstrong passions, so that, as it seems intimated, baffled in some object of unlawful desire, he put an end to his existence by a pistol shot the 13th February, 1837.

In his review of Quintana’s Life of Las Casas, he unreservedly subscribes to all the sentiments therein expressed.

25. Page 160. “From the proud castled poop,” &c.

Se alzò el Breton en el soberbio alcazar
Que corona su indòmito navio;
Y ufano con su gloria y poderio
Alli estan, exclamò.

26. Page 161. “Conquerors of winds and waves.”

… sus nadantes proras
Del viento y de las ondas vencedoras.

27. Page 163. “And Alcalà, Churruca, also ye!”

Of those who fell at Trafalgar, the names of Alcalà and Churruca seem to be remembered with peculiar affection. The latter is referred to by Arriaza also, and seems to have been an officer of great skill and bravery in his profession, as well as of most amiable qualities in private life. Alcalà was an officer of very superior attainments. He was author of a learned Treatise on taking Observations of Longitude and Latitude at Sea, published at Madrid, 1796. With the copy of this work in my possession, there is bound up an unedited treatise of his original manuscript, ‘On the Trigonometrical Calculation of the Height of Mountains.’ He has already been referred to in Note 2.

The Spanish navy is at the present day much distinguished for the superior attainments and character of the officers, as well as in former years. In addition to the poet Arriaza, they have to boast of the late learned Navarrete, one of the most eminent and industrious writers of our times, principally on scientific subjects connected with his profession, geography, hydrography, and voyages, though in various biographical works he has extended his labours to the memory of poets and others, as well as the naval heroes of his country: see his memoir in Ochoa, vol. ii. p. 586, copied from one by the Bishop of Astorga.

28. Page 164. “Yet fell ye not, ye generous squadrons.”

No empero sin venganza y sin estrago,
Generoso escuadron alli caiste:
Tambien brotando à rios
La sangre Inglesa inunda sus navios.
Tambien Albion pasmada
Los montes de cadàveres contempla
Horrendo peso à su soberbia armada.
Tambien Nelson alli, Terrible sombra,
No esperes, no, cuando mi voz te nombra
Que vil insulte à tu postrer suspiro;
Inglès te aborrecì, y hèroe te admiro.
Oh, golpe! oh, suerte! El Tàmesis aguarda
De las naves cautivas
El confuso tropel, y ya en idea
Goza el aplauso y los sonoros vivas
Que al vencedor se dan. Oh suerte! El puerto
Solo le verà entrar pàlido y yerto:
Ejemplo grande à la arrogancia humana,
Digno holocausto à la afliccion Hispana.

The two poems from Quintana are at pages 16 and 93 respectively of the fourth edition of his works, published in 1825.

29. Page 170. “The Conde de Toreno.”

This able and enlightened statesman was born at Oviedo in 1786, and died at Paris in 1845. His work, on the ‘Rising, War, and Revolution of Spain,’ is one well deserving of the fame it has attained, having been translated into all the principal languages of Europe.

30. Page 170. “The celebrated Pacheco.”

Born at Ecija, near Seville, in 1808, he came to Madrid in 1833, and was admitted an Advocate in the courts of law, but has been since engaged actively in conducting various publications, principally of a political character. He has been several times chosen member of the legislature, and had to undertake his share of public duties, but he has declined office, and in his whole public life shown a freedom from ambition, remarkable, as Del Rio intimates, from the contrast it presents with the conduct of other men of far inferior abilities. He has announced ‘A History of the Regency of Queen Christina,’ of which he has published a preliminary volume, comprising a detail of antecedent events. He has also written various plays and poems, but not of such a character as to be worthy of his fame as a public speaker and journalist. His life of Martinez de la Rosa, given in a publication entitled ‘Galeria de Españoles celebres contemporaneos, 1842,’ (which work has now extended to many volumes, including persons of distinction in all ranks of life,) is very pleasingly written, and has been taken as the principal authority in this compilation.

31. Page 176. “Rights of the Basque people.”

For a just statement of these rights, see the late Earl of Carnarvon’s ‘Portugal and Galicia,’ vol. ii.

32. Page 180. “Observation may apply to English verse.”

Our best poets, and Milton especially, afford many exemplifications of this practice.

O’er many a frozen, many a fiery alp,
Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens and shades of death
…
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things
Abominable, inutterable and worse.

Many of our syllables also are in effect double syllables, as in the words _brave_, _grave_, _clave_, &c., as singers often have to regret, causing them, on that account, to slur over them. But these rules are only a continuation of Quinctilian’s maxim, “Optime de illa judicant aures. Quædam arte tradi non possunt.”

33. Page 181. “The Roman friend,” &c.

See note 23 to the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold.

34. Page 183. “I saw upon the shady Thames.”

Vi en el Tàmesis umbrio
Cien y cien naves cargadas
De riqueza;
Vi su inmenso poderio
Sus artes tan celebradas
Su grandeza.

Mas el ànima afligida
Mil suspiros exhalaba
Y ayes mil;
Y ver la orilla florida
Del manso Dauro anhelaba
Y del Genil.

Vi de la soberbia corte
Las damas engalanadas
Muy vistosas;
Vi las bellezas del norte
De blanca nieve formadas
Y de rosas.

Sus ojos de azul del cielo,
De oro puro parecia
Su cabello;
Bajo transparente velo
Turgente el seno se via
Blanco y bello.

Mas que valen los brocados
Las sedas y pedreria
De la ciudad?
Que los rostros sonrosados
La blancura y gallardia
Ni la beldad?

Con mostrarse mi zagala,
De blanco lino vestida,
Fresca y pura,
Condena la inutil gala
Y se esconde confundida
La hermosura.

Dò hallar en climas helados
Sus negros ojos graciosos,
Que son fuego?
Ora me miren airados
Ora roben cariñosos
Mi sosiego.

Dò la negra caballera
Que al èbano se aventaja?
Y el pie leve
Que al triscar por la pradera
Ni las tiernas flores aja,
Ni aun las mueve?

Doncellas las del Genil
Vuestra tez escurecida
No trocara
Por los rostros de marfil
Que Albion envanecida
Me mostrara.

Padre Dauro! manso rio,
De las arenas doradas,
Dìgnate oir
Los votos del pecho mio,
Y en tus màrgenes sagradas
Logre morir!

Works of Martinez de la Rosa, edition of Barcelona, 1838, vol. iv. p. 1. The other translations are taken from the same, pages 113, 104, 48 and 34 respectively.

In the prologue, he enters on the discussion, so common a few years since, as to the relative merits of what were called the Classical and Romantic schools of poetry, which discussion, it is to be hoped, may now be considered at an end. The pretensions of different writers, who affected to range themselves under one or other of these denominations, were in fact generally only the devices of mediocrity to shelter their deficiencies. Those who write spontaneously from the true inspiration of genius, will never submit to the shackles of any system, and for all writers the wisest aim is to seek the clearest style of expressing those thoughts which they have to convey. As Martinez de la Rosa has well observed in this prologue, “I do not remember any one sublime passage, in whatever language it may be, that is not expressed with the utmost simplicity; and without this most essential quality, they cannot excite in the mind that lively and instantaneous impression which distinguishes them.”

35. Page 184. “The light foot that never stirs,” &c.

An Andalusian poet may be excused entering into hyperbolical praise of his countrywomen, but we find an English traveller almost as hyperbolical in praise of them also. “It is beyond the power of language to describe those slow and surpassingly graceful movements which accompany every step of the Andalusa; her every attitude is so flowing, at the same time so unforced, that she seems upborne by some invisible power that renders her independent of the classically moulded foot she presses so lightly on the ground.”--_Murray’s Cities and Wilds of Andalusia._

36. Page 216. “His biographer, Pastor Diaz,” &c.

In the work already mentioned, ‘Galeria de Españoles contemporaneos,’ under his own superintendence, and from which the notices in this compilation are principally taken. Pastor Diaz was born at Vivero in Galicia, in the year 1811, and was educated at Alcalà de Henares. Having been admitted an Advocate in the courts of law, he engaged, in 1833, in the public service, and has held various offices under the government in the provinces. In 1847 he published a volume of poems, of which two,--one, ‘The Black Butterfly,’ and the other, an ‘Ode to the Moon,’--Ochoa declares, in his opinion, “two of the most beautiful pieces that have been written for many years in Spain.” Disagreeing very much with this opinion, it is only quoted in token of the estimation in which Pastor Diaz is held among his countrymen. (Ochoa, vol. ii. p. 628.)

37. Page 216. “The advantages he enjoyed there.”

In his poem of the ‘Moro Esposito,’ the Duke has inserted an interesting episode referring to his residence in Malta, “whose good and honest inhabitants he found under the dominion of the most wealthy, free, enlightened, noble and powerful nation that the sun admires from the zodiac.” (Book VI.) In the notes he details the particulars under which he arrived there, acknowledging gratefully the hospitality he had received.

38. Page 222. “Pedro, surnamed the Cruel.”