The Project Gutenberg eBook of Eminent literary and scientific men of Italy, Spain and Portugal, Vol. 3 (of 3), by James Montgmery and Mary Shelley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[13]

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

GARCILASO DE LA VEGA

1503-1536.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"TO THE DANUBE.

With the mild sound of clear swift waves, the Danube's arms of foam
Circle a verdant isle which peace has made her chosen home;
Where the fond poet might repair from weariness and strife,
And in the sunshine of sweet song consume his happy life.
Here evermore the smiling spring goes scattering odorous flowers,
And nightingales and turtle doves, in depth of myrtle bowers,
Turn disappointment into hope, turn sadness to delight,
With magic of their fond laments, which cease not day nor night.
Here am I placed, or sooth to say, alone, 'neath foreign skies,
Forced in arrest, and easy 'tis in such a paradise
To force a meditative man, whose own desires would doom
Himself with pleasure to a world all redolence and bloom.
One thought alone distresses me, if I whilst banished sink
'Midst such misfortunes to the grave, lest haply they should think
It was my complicated ills that caused my death, while I
Know well that if I die 'twill be because I wish to die.
* * * *
River divine, rich Danube! thou the bountiful and strong,
That through fierce nations roll'st thy waves rejoicingly along,
Since only but by rushing through thy drowning billows deep,
These scrolls can hence escape to tell the noble words I weep.
If wrecked in undeciphered loss on some far foreign land,
They should by any chance be found upon the desert sand,
Since they upon thy willowed shore must drift, where'er they are,
Their relics let the kind blue waves with murmured hymns inter.
Ode of my melancholy hours! last infant of my lyre!
Although in booming waves it be thy fortune to expire,
Grieve not, since I, howe'er from holy rites debarred,
Have seen to all that touches thee with catholic regard.
Less, less had been thy life, if thou hadst been but ranked among
Those without record, that have risen and died upon my tongue;
Whose utter want of sympathy, and haughtiness austere.
Has been the cause of this—from me thou very soon shalt hear."

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

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

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

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