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.
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—