An able and distinguished writer in the Madrid Review has observed, that if the question were asked as to which is the first great name in modern Spanish literature, the answer must unquestionably be—Jovellanos. It seems, therefore, only a just deference to his merits, though it is but a fortuitous coincidence in the order of dates, that we have to place his name first in the series of modern Spanish poets. It is, however, to his State Papers and his writings on Political Economy that he principally owes his reputation; though it is a proud consideration for Spanish literature, that, as regards him, as well as Martinez de la Rosa and the Duke de Rivas, she has to place the names of eminent statesmen among her principal poets. Jovellanos was born the 5th of January, 1744, at Gijon, a town in the Asturias, of which his father was Regidor or one of the chief Magistrates. His family connections were of the class called Nobles, answering to the Noblesse of France, and were moreover very influential and sufficiently wealthy. To take advantage of the preferments these offered him, he was destined in early youth, being a younger son, for the church, in which he entered into the first orders for the purpose of holding several benefices that were given him. He studied consecutively at Oviedo, Avila and Osma, where he distinguished himself so much to the satisfaction of those interested in his fortunes, that he was removed, in 1764, to the University of AlcalÀ de Henares, and shortly afterwards to Madrid to study law. His friends and relatives, having become aware of his great talents, had now induced him to abandon the clerical profession and engage in secular pursuits. A person of his rank in those days was not at liberty to practise as an advocate, though the young Noble, under court favour, might administer the law; and thus he was, in 1767, when only in his twenty-fourth year, appointed judge of criminal cases at Seville. In this office he conducted himself with great ability and humanity, appearing to have been the first to abandon the employment of torture for obtaining confessions, which system has scarcely yet been discarded on the Continent. As characteristic of him, it may here be added, that he is reported to have been the first of the higher magistrates in Spain who gave up the use of the official wig; so that his unusual dress, combined with his youth, made him on the bench more observed than perhaps even his talents would at first have rendered him. Whatever objections might have been made, if cause could be found, he seems, after having served nearly ten years as judge in the criminal courts, to have been advanced, with the approbation of all parties, to the office of judge in civil cases, also at Seville. This was an office much more agreeable to his inclinations, though the salary was no higher than what he had previously enjoyed. He had, however, other duties also entrusted to him of minor character, though of proportionate emolument, and thereupon he resigned his benefices in the church, which he had held till then, and to the duties of which he had strictly attended. Beyond this act of disinterestedness, he seems to have given his brother magistrates no inconsiderable inquietude at the same time by refusing some emoluments of office to which they considered themselves entitled. But their minds were soon relieved from the apprehensions his conduct might occasion them, as at the end of four years he was, in 1778, appointed judge of criminal cases at Madrid; an office generally considered of eminent promotion, but which he accepted with regret. In after times, every letter and every notice of Jovellanos that could be found was eagerly sought and treasured up; and from these and his own memorandums, it appears he had good reason to consider the years he passed at Seville as the happiest of his life. Honoured in his public capacity and beloved in his social circle, he passed whatever time he could spare from his official or private duties in literary pursuits. It was then he wrote or prepared most of the lighter works which entitle him to be ranked among the poets of the age; the tragedy of “Pelayo,” and comedy of “The Honourable Delinquent,” both which were highly esteemed by his countrymen, as well as most of his minor poems. He did not however confine himself to such recreations, but at the same time entered on graver studies for the public service, on which his fame was eventually established. Shortly after Jovellanos joined the courts at Seville, he had for one of his colleagues Don Luis Ignacio Aguirre, a person of high literary attainments, who had travelled much, and brought with him, as stated by Bermudez, many works in English on Political Economy. To understand these, Jovellanos immediately, under Aguirre’s guidance, proceeded to learn the English language, of which he soon obtained a competent knowledge. He then studied the science, then newly dawning, from the works his friend afforded him, and made himself a master of it, so as to give him a name among the most eminent of its professors. Not contented with these pursuits, his active mind was still further engaged in whatever could tend to the benefit of society in the place of his labours. He seems indeed to have always had before him the consideration of what might be the fullest duties his station imposed on him, beyond the mere routine of official services. Not confining himself to these, much less giving himself up to passive enjoyments, however harmless or honourable in themselves, he seemed then and through life as ever acting under the sense of a great responsibility, as of the requirements of Him “who gave his servants authority, and to every man his work.” Thus he instituted a school at Seville for children, reformed the course of practice at the hospitals, attended to the keeping of the public walks and grounds in good order, and was foremost in every case where charity called or good services were required. Artists and men of genius found in him a friend, who, by advice and other aid, was always ready to their call; and it was observed that his only passion was for the purchase of books and pictures, of which respectively he formed good collections. On giving up his duties at Seville, Jovellanos travelled through Andalusia, and, as was his custom in all the places he visited, made notes of whatever useful information he could obtain respecting them, many of which were afterwards published in a topographical work he assisted in bringing forward. On arriving at Madrid, where his fame had preceded him, he was at once chosen member of the different learned societies, to several of which he rendered valuable services. At Seville he had already prepared a sketch of his great work, entitled “Agrarian Law,” in which he treated of the law and tenure of land, its cultivation, and other topics connected with it. This work he then published in an extended form, in which it has been reprinted several times, separately as well as in his collected works. In the several societies he also read many papers, one of which, “On Public Diversions,” deserves to be named particularly, as containing much curious information, as well as many excellent suggestions for public advantage, on points which statesmen would do well to remember more frequently than they are in the habit of doing. On leaving Seville, Jovellanos regretted that he had to engage again in criminal cases, for which he had a natural aversion. After fulfilling these duties at Madrid a year and a half, he therefore sought another appointment, and obtained one in the Council of Military Orders, more agreeable to his inclinations. In this office it was his duty to attend to the affairs of the four military orders of Spain, and in his visits to their properties and other places on their behalf, he was entrusted with various commissions, which he fulfilled with his accustomed zeal. In those visits he had to go much to his native province, and he took advantage of his influence to make roads, which were much needed there, and the benefits of which he lived to see appreciated. He incited the members of the Patriotic Society of Oviedo, and others connected with the Asturias, to explore the mineral wealth of the country, rich in mines of coal and iron, then scarcely known. For the study of such pursuits he founded the Asturian Institute, and raised subscriptions to have two young men educated abroad in mathematics and mining, who were afterwards to teach those sciences at the Institute. Every day of his life indeed seems to have been employed on some object of public utility, or in studies connected with such objects; following the ancient maxim to do nothing trifling or imperfectly:—??d?? ??????a e???, ?d?? ????? ? ?at? ?e???a s?p????t???? t?? t????? ??e??e???. Though exact in the fulfilment of his official duties, and other various commissions entrusted to him by the government to report on the state of the provinces, it is wonderful to consider the industry with which he followed other pursuits. He studied botany and architecture, on which he wrote several treatises; and though each of those subjects would have been a sufficient task for ordinary men, to him they were only relaxations from his favourite science of political economy. Bent on the promotion of law and other reforms in the state, he became connected with the Conde de Cabarrus, who, though a Frenchman by birth, had obtained high employments in Spain, and who, as a person of superior talent and discernment, was also convinced of the necessity of such measures. As too often is the case with able and honest statesmen, the Conde de Cabarrus fell, while attempting to effect these reforms, under the intrigues of his enemies, and Jovellanos became involved in his disgrace. He had been sent, in 1790, into the provinces in fulfilment of the duties of his office; when, having heard on the road of his friend’s ill fortune, he returned at once to offer him whatever assistance he might have in his power. He had, however, no sooner arrived in Madrid, where the Conde was under arrest, than, without being allowed to communicate with him, Jovellanos received a royal order to return immediately to his province. The terms in which this order was conveyed convinced Jovellanos that he was to share in the disgrace of his friend, and to consider himself banished from court. He therefore proceeded philosophically to settle himself in his paternal abode with his brother, their father being now deceased, with his books and effects, and engaged in the improvement of their family estates. His expectations proved correct, as in this honourable exile he had to pass seven years, though not altogether unemployed, as he had several commissions entrusted to him similar to those he had previously discharged. But still Jovellanos, unbowed by political reverses, continued the same ardent promoter of public improvement. For the Asturian Institute, which he had founded for the purpose of teaching principally mineralogy and metallurgy, and which he personally superintended, he wrote his very able work on Public Instruction, and compiled elementary grammars of the French and English languages, in which he showed himself proficient to a degree truly astonishing. In his official duties, having to go carefully in inspection over the Asturias and other neighbouring provinces, he noted his observations in diaries, which have been fortunately preserved, and which contain much valuable information. In these he has gathered all he could learn relative to the productions of the provinces, and the state in which he found them and the people, as embodied in his reports thereon to the government, with an account of the ancient remains and public buildings, making copies of whatever he found most interesting in the archives of the several convents, cathedrals and corporations. Some of these copies now possess a peculiar value, from the damages that have since accrued to many of the originals from time and the events of the subsequent wars. If it were not for the disparagement of being considered in banishment, Jovellanos could have felt himself contented. He had not only honourable employment, as before stated, but he also received several notices of approbation from the government, especially as regarded the Institute, to which notices he perhaps paid a higher regard than they deserved. He seems himself to have felt this; for in one of his letters he writes—“I will not deny that I desire some public mark of appreciation by the government, to gain by it that kind of sanction which merit needs in the opinion of some weak minds. But I see that this is a vain suggestion, and that posterity will not judge me by my titles, but by my works.” This was written on a rumour having reached Gijon of the probability of his being soon restored to favour at court. Those under whose intrigues he had fallen had now passed away in their turn: a favourite of a more powerful grade was in the ascendant, Godoy, the Prince of the Peace, to whose mind had been suggested the advisability of gathering round him persons of acknowledged probity and knowledge, for the support of his government. Jovellanos had returned home, in October 1797, from one of his journeys of inspection, when he found the whole town in a state of rejoicing. On inquiring the cause, he was told it was because news had been received of his nomination as ambassador to Russia. A few days afterwards the rejoicings were renewed, on the further intelligence of his being nominated a member of the government itself, as Minister of Grace and Justice. In this office it might have been hoped that a happier career was before him; but evil fortune on the contrary now followed him, and more fatally than ever. His former banishment from court was owing to the endeavours he had made to remove those abuses into which all human institutions have a tendency to fall, rendering frequently necessary a correction of those abuses, to preserve what was most valuable in the institutions themselves. His next misfortune arose from personal differences with the reigning favourite, whose greater influence it was his error not to have perceived. Jovellanos had been restored to favour at the instance of Godoy; but as this was without his seeking, he felt himself under no obligation to maintain him as the head of the government, for which he was totally unfit. Jovellanos joined in an opposition to him, which for a short time succeeded in depriving Godoy of office. But his influence at court continued, and thus Jovellanos was in his turn dismissed, after holding the office of minister only about eight months, and ordered to return to Gijon. Unhappily the favourite carried his resentment further; and Jovellanos was, on the 13th of March, 1801, arrested in his bed at an early hour of the morning, and sent as a prisoner through the country to Barcelona, thence to Mallorca, where first in the Carthusian convent, and afterwards in the castle of Bellver more strictly, he was closely confined, without any regard paid to his demands to know the accusation against him. Here his health was severely affected, as well as his feelings outraged, by the unjust treatment to which he was subjected. Still he was not one to sink under such evils. He was rather one of those “who, going through the valley of misery, make it a well.” He turned accordingly to the resources of literature, and employed himself in writing and translating from Latin and French several valuable treatises on architecture, and other works, on the history of the island, and of the convent, besides several poems, among which the Epistle to Bermudez, his biographer, deserves particular notice. Another work he then wrote is no less deserving of mention, showing the attention he had paid to English affairs, entitled “A Letter on English Architecture, and that called Gothic,” in which he treated of English architecture from the time of the Druids, dividing it into the Saxon, Gothic and modern periods. He describes the buildings according to the epochs, especially St. Paul’s and others of the seventeenth century, coming down to the picturesque style of gardening then adopted in England, with notices of the different sculptors, painters and engravers, as well as architects, and also of the authors who had written on the Fine Arts in England. This work has not been published, but Bermudez states he had the manuscript. After being seven years a prisoner, Jovellanos was in 1808 released on the abdication of Charles IV. and the consequent fall of Godoy. This release was announced to him in terms of official brevity, and he replied by an earnest demand to be subjected to a trial, for the purpose of having the cause of his imprisonment made manifest. Before, however, an answer could be returned, Ferdinand had, under Napoleon’s dictation, also ceased to reign, and Jovellanos was called upon to take a prominent place in the intrusive government of king Joseph. This he could not be supposed from his antecedent character to be willing to accept. On the contrary, being chosen by the National party a member of the Central Junta, he engaged with his accustomed energy on the other side until the Regency was formed, principally under his influence, to carry on the struggles for independence. On this being effected, Jovellanos wished to retire to his native city apart from public affairs. At his advanced age, with cataracts formed in his eyes, and after his laborious life and painful imprisonment, rest was necessary for him; but he could not attain it. One of his first efforts in the Central Junta was to draw up a paper on the form of government to be adopted, and this he strongly recommended to be founded as nearly as possible on the model of the English constitution. But he was far too enlightened for the race of men with whom he had to act, and his prepossessions for English institutions were made a reproach against him, observes the editor of the last edition of his works, even by those who were striving to introduce the principles of the Constituent Assembly into Spain. The miserable intrigues and jealousies of the leading members of the National party caused Jovellanos much anxiety. But he had fulfilled his duties as a Deputy, and those having ceased, he left Cadiz in February, 1810, to return to the Asturias, in a small sailing vessel. After a long and dangerous passage, during which they were in great danger of shipwreck, they arrived at Muros in Galicia, in which province he had to remain more than a year, in consequence of the Asturias being in the possession of the French, to whom he had now become doubly obnoxious. In July, 1811, however, the French having left that part of Spain, Jovellanos was enabled to return to his native city, where he was again received as he always had been with every token of popular respect. He seems to have been always looked upon there with undeviating favour and gratitude, as their most honourable citizen and public benefactor. No one knew of his coming, says his biographer, but he was observed to enter the church, and kneel before the altar near his family burying-place, when the whole town was roused simultaneously, and a spontaneous illumination of the houses took place, with other tokens of public congratulations and rejoicing. Here he now hoped to have a peaceful asylum for his latter years, engaged in the objects of public utility for which he had formerly laboured. But those labours were to be begun again. His favourite “Asturian Institute,” which he truly said, in one of his discourses, was identified with his existence, had been totally dismantled and used for barracks by the French. Having obtained authority from the Regency to do so, he began to put the building again into repair, and collect together the teachers and scholars. Having done this, he announced by circulars that it would be reopened the 20th of November following, when the news of the French returning compelled him again to fly on the 6th of that month. He set sail in a miserable coasting vessel for Ribadeo, where a ship was ready to take him to Cadiz or England as he might desire, in virtue of instructions given by the Regency, and in accordance with the English government. But further misfortunes only awaited him. The vessel in which he had to take refuge was cast on shore in a storm near the small port of Vega, on the confines of Asturias; and there, worn out with fatigue, and under a pulmonary affection, brought on by exposure to the weather, he died the 27th of November, 1811, a few days after his landing. The news of his death was spread rapidly through Spain, notwithstanding the interrupted state of communications, and was everywhere received with regret as a national calamity. Those who had opposed his views did justice to the uprightness of his motives and character; and the Cortes, now assembled, passed a decree, by which in favour of his patriotism and public services, he was declared Benemerito de la Patria. This beautiful and classical acknowledgement of his worth was then also remarkable as a novelty, though it has been since rendered less honourable, by being awarded to others little deserving of peculiar distinction. The life of Jovellanos, as intimately connected with the history of his country, is well deserving of extended study. But our province is rather to consider him as a poet. Eminent as a statesman for unimpeachable integrity and for wise administration of justice, he carried prudent reforms into every department under his control, in which, though subjected to many attacks, he proved himself, by a memoir published shortly before his death, in justification of his public conduct, to have been fully warranted. This memoir, for heartfelt eloquence, deserves to be ranked with Burke’s Letter to the Duke of Bedford. Jovellanos has been compared by his countrymen to Cicero. A writer in the Foreign Quarterly Review has instituted an ingenious parallel between him and Montesquieu. With either, or with Burke, he may be observed to have possessed the philosophy and feeling, which give eloquence its chief value and effect. As a prose writer, Jovellanos, for elegance of style and depth of thought, may be pronounced without a rival in Spanish literature. As a dramatist, he only gave the public a tragedy and comedy, both of which continue in much favour with the public. The latter, “The Honourable Delinquent” is particularly esteemed; but it is a melodrame rather than a comedy, according to our conceptions. It turns on the principal character having been forced into fighting a duel, and who, having killed his opponent, is sentenced to die; but after the usual suspenses receives a pardon from the king. There are several interesting scenes and much good writing in the piece; but no particular delineation of character, to bring it any more than the other into the higher class of dramatic art. It has, however, been observed, that it only needs to have been written in verse to make it a perfect performance, and this alone shows the hold it must have on the Spanish reader. As a poet, Jovellanos is chiefly to be commemorated for his Satires. Two of these, in which he lashes the vices and follies of society at Madrid,—“girt with the silent crimes of capitals,”—are pronounced by the critic in the Madrid Review to be “highly finished” compositions. They were, in fact, the only poems he himself published, and those anonymously. With the strength of Juvenal, they have also his faults, and abound too much in local allusions to be suited for translation. In somewhat the same style were several epistles he addressed to different friends, of which the one written to his friend and biographer Bermudez has been chosen for this work, as most characteristic of the author. Like his other Satires, it is written in blank verse; which style, though not entirely unknown in Spain, he had the merit of first bringing into favour. He probably gained his predilection for it from his study of Milton, for whose works he had great admiration, and of whose Paradise Lost he translated the first book into Spanish verse. The Epistle to Bermudez is remarkable as written with much earnestness, in censure not only of the common vices and follies of mankind, but in also going beyond ordinary satirists into the sphere of the moralist, to censure the faults of the learned. What our great modern preacher Dr. Chalmers has termed the “practical atheism” of the learned, was indeed the subject of rebuke from many English writers, as Young and Cowper, but may be looked for in vain in the works of others. Jovellanos had no doubt read the former, at least in the translation of his friend Escoiquiz, and meditated on the sentiment,—“An undevout astronomer is mad,” even if not in the original. It can scarcely be supposed that he was so well acquainted with English literature as to have read Cowper; but there are several passages in his Epistles of similar sentiments. The praise of wisdom especially, in the one to Bermudez,—by which we may understand, was meant the wisdom urged by the kingly preacher of Jerusalem, or the rule of conduct founded on right principles, in opposition to mere learning,—is also that of our Christian poet:— Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. In his hours of leisure, Jovellanos employed himself in composing occasional verses at times, for the amusement of the society in which he lived, without thinking of their being ever sought for publication. These, however, have been lately gathered together with much industry and exactness in the last edition of his collected works, published by Mellado at Madrid in five volumes, 1845. As the last and fullest, it is also the best collection of them, four other editions of them previously published having been comparatively very deficient with regard to them. Besides those, there were various reprints of several others of his works, which were all received with much favour, both in Spain and abroad. Jovellanos was never married, and in private life seems to have considered himself under the obligations of the profession for which he was originally intended. His character altogether is one to which it would be difficult to find a parallel, and is an honour to Spain as well as to Spanish literature. His virtues are now unreservedly admitted by all parties of his countrymen, who scarcely ever name him except with the epithet of the illustrious Jovellanos, to which designation he is indeed justly entitled, no less for his writings, than for his many public and private virtues and services to his country. These may be forgotten in the claims of other generations and succeeding statesmen; but his writings must ever remain to carry his memory wherever genius and worth can be duly appreciated. The charge of writing a memoir of Jovellanos was entrusted by the Historical Society of Madrid to Cean Bermudez, who fulfilled it with affectionate zeal, Madrid, 1814; several other notices of his life have appeared in Spain, including that by Quintana, which has been copied by Wolf. The English reader will find an excellent one in the Foreign Quarterly Review, No. 10, February, 1830; and the Spanish scholar a further very eloquent encomium on his talents and merits in Quintana’s second Introduction to his collection of Spanish Poetry. JOVELLANOS. Arise, Bermudo, bid thy soul beware: Thee raging Fortune watches to ensnare; And, lulling others’ hopes in dreams supine, A fell assault she meditates on thine. The cruel blow which suffer’d from her rage Thy poor estate will not her wrath assuage, Till from thy breast her fury may depose The blissful calm to innocence it owes. Such is her nature, that she loathes the sight Of happiness for man in her despite. Thus to thine eyes insidious she presents The phantasies of good, with which she paints The road to favour, and would fain employ Her arts thy holds of virtue to destroy. Ah! heed her not. See her to rob thee stand Ev’n of the happiness now in thy hand. ’Tis not of her; she cannot it bestow: She makes men fortunate;—but happy? No. Thou think’st it strange! Dost thou the names confound Of Fortune with felicity as bound? Like the poor idiots, who so foolish gaze On the vain gifts and joys which she displays, So cunning to exchange for real good. O cheat of human wisdom! say withstood, What does she promise, but what beings born To our high destiny should hold in scorn? In reason’s balance her best offers weigh, And see what worthless lightness they betray. There are who, burning in the track of fame, Wear themselves ruthless for a sounding name. Buy it with blood, and fire, and ruin wide; And if with horrid arm is death descried, Waving his pennon as from some high tower, Their hearts swell proud, and trampling fierce they scour The field o’er brothers’ bodies as of foes! Then sing a triumph, while in secret flows The tear they shed as from an anguish’d heart. Less lofty, but more cunning on his part, Another sighs for ill-secure command: With flatteries solicitously plann’d, Follows the air of favour, and his pride In adulation vile he serves to hide, To exalt himself; and if he gain his end His brow on all beneath will haughty bend; And sleep, and joy, and inward peace, the price To splendour of command, will sacrifice: Yet fears the while, uncertain in his joy, Lest should some turn of Fortune’s wheel destroy His power in deep oblivion overthrown. Another seeks, with equal ardour shown, For lands, and gold in store. Ah! lands and gold, With tears how water’d, gain’d with toils untold! His thirst unquench’d, he hoards, invests, acquires; But with his wealth increased are his desires; And so much more he gains, for more will long: Thus, key in hand, his coffers full among; Yet poor he thinks himself, and learns to know His state is poor, because he thinks it so. Another like illusion his to roam From wife and friends, who flying light and home, To dedicate his vigils the long night In secret haunts of play makes his delight, With vile companions. Betwixt hope and fear His anxious breast is fluctuating drear. See, with a throbbing heart and trembling hand, There he has placed his fortune, all to stand Upon the turning of a die! ’Tis done: The lot is cast; what is it? has he won? Increased is his anxiety and care! But if reverse, O Heaven! in deep despair, O’erwhelm’d in ruin, he is doom’d to know A life of infamy, or death of woe. And is he happier, who distracted lies A slave beneath the light of beauty’s eyes? Who fascinated watches, haunts, and prays, And at the cost of troubles vast essays, ’Mid doubts and fears, a fleeting joy to gain? Love leads him not: his breast could ne’er profane Admit Love’s purer flame; ’tis passion’s fire Alone that draws him, and in wild desire He blindly headlong follows in pursuit: And what for all his toils can he compute? If gain’d at length, he only finds the prize Bring death and misery ev’n in pleasure’s guise. Then look on him, abandon’d all to sloth, Who vacant sees the hours pass long and loth O’er his so useless life. He thinks them slow, Alas! and wishes they would faster go. He knows not how to employ them; in and out He comes, and goes, and smokes, and strolls about, To gossip; turns, returns, with constant stress Wearying himself to fly from weariness. But now retired, sleep half his life employs, And fain would all the day, whose light annoys. Fool! wouldst thou know the sweetness of repose? Seek it in work. The soul fastidious grows Ever in sloth, self-gnawing and oppress’d, And finds its torment even in its rest. But if to Bacchus and to Ceres given, Before his table laid, from morn to even, At ease he fills himself, as held in stall: See him his stomach make his god, his all! Nor earth nor sea suffice his appetite; Ill-tongued and gluttonous the like unite: With such he passes his vain days along, In drunken routs obscene, with toast and song, And jests and dissolute delights; his aim To gorge unmeasured, riot without shame. But soon with these begins to blunt and lose Stomach and appetite: he finds refuse Offended Nature, as insipid food, The savours others delicacies view’d. Vainly from either India he seeks For stimulants; in vain from art bespeaks Fresh sauces, which his palate will reject; His longings heighten’d, but life’s vigour wreck’d; And thus worn out in mid career the cost, Before life ends he finds his senses lost. O bitter pleasures! O, what madness sore Is theirs who covet them, and such implore Humbly before a lying deity! How the perfidious goddess to agree But mocks them! Though perhaps at first she smile, Exempt from pain and misery the long while She never leaves them, and in place of joy Gives what they ask, with weariness to cloy. If trusted, soon is found experience taught What ill-foreseen condition they have sought. Niggard their wishes ever to fulfil, Fickle in favour, vacillating still, Inconstant, cruel, she afflicts today, And casts down headlong to distress a prey, Whom yesterday she flatter’d to upraise: And now another from the mire she sways Exalted to the clouds; but raised in vain, With louder noise to cast him down again. Seest thou not there a countless multitude, Thronging her temple round, and oft renew’d, Seeking admittance, and to offer fraught With horrid incense, for their idol brought? Fly from her; let not the contagion find The base example enter in thy mind. Fly, and in virtue thy asylum seek To make thee happy: trust the words I speak. There is no purer happiness to gain Than the sweet calm the just from her attain. If in prosperity their fortunes glide, She makes them free from arrogance and pride; In mid estate be tranquil and content; In adverse be resign’d whate’er the event: Implacable, if Envy’s hurricane O’erwhelm them in misfortunes, even then She hastes to save them, and its rage control; With lofty fortitude the nobler soul Enduing faithful; and if raised to sight, At length they find the just reward requite, Say is there aught to hope for prize so great As the immortal crown for which they wait? But is this feeling then, I hear thee cry, That elevates my soul to virtue high, This anxious wish to investigate and know, Is it blameworthy as those passions low? Why not to that for happiness repair? Wilt thou condemn it? No, who would so dare, That right would learn his origin and end? Knowledge and Virtue, sisters like, descend From heaven to perfect man in nobleness; And far removing him, Bermudo, yes! From vice and error, they will make him free, Approaching even to the Deity. But seek them not, in that false path to go Which cunning Fortune will to others show. Where then? to Wisdom’s temple only haste; There thou wilt find them. Her invoke; and traced, See how she smiles! press forward; learn to use The intercession of the kindly Muse To make her be propitious. But beware, That in her favour thou escape the snare, The worship, which the vain adorer pays. She never him propitiously surveys, Who insolently seeking wealth or fame, Burns impure incense on her altar’s flame. Dost thou not see how many turn aside From her of learning void, but full of pride? Alas for him, who seeking truth, for aid Embraces only a delusive shade! In self conceit who venturing to confide, Nor virtue gain’d, nor reason for his guide, Leaves the right path, precipitate to stray Where error’s glittering phantoms lead the way! Can then the wise hope happiness to feel In the chimÆras sought with so much zeal? Ah, no! they all are vanities and cheats! See him, whom anxious still the morning greets, Measuring the heavens, and of the stars that fly The shining orbits! With a sleepless eye, Hasty the night he reckons, and complains Of the day’s light his labour that detains; Again admires night’s wonders, but reflects Ne’er on the hand that fashion’d and directs. Beyond the moons of Uranus he bends His gaze; beyond the Ship, the Bear, ascends: But after all this, nothing more feels he: He measures, calculates, but does not see The heavens obeying their great Author’s will, Whirling around all silent; robbing still The hours from life, ungratefully so gone, Till one to undeceive him soon draws on. Another, careless of the stars, descries The humble dust, to scan and analyse. His microscope he grasps, and sets, and falls On some poor atom; and a triumph calls, If should the fool the magic instrument Of life or motion slightest sign present, Its form to notice, in the glass to pore, What his deluded fancy saw before; Yields to the cheat, and gives to matter base The power, forgot the Lord of all to trace. Thus raves the ingrate. Another the meanwhile To scrutinize pretends, in learning’s style, The innate essence of the soul sublime. How he dissects it, regulates in time! As if it were a subtile fluid, known To him its action, functions, strength and tone; But his own weakness shows in this alone. ’Twas given to man to view the heavens on high, But not in them the mysteries of the sky; Yet boldly dares his reason penetrate The darksome chaos, o’er it to dilate. With staggering step, thus scorning heavenly light, In error’s paths he wanders, lost in night. Confused, but not made wise, he pores about, Betwixt opinion wavering and doubt. Seeking for light, and shadows doom’d to feel, He ponders, studies, labours to unseal The secret, and at length finds his advance; The more he learns, how great his ignorance. Of matter, form, or motion, or the soul, Or moments that away incessant roll, Or the unfathomable sea of space, Without a sky, without a shore to trace, Nothing he reaches, nothing comprehends, Nor finds its origin, nor where it tends; But only sinking, all absorb’d may see In the abysses of eternity. Perhaps, thence stepping more disorder’d yet, He rushes his presumptuous flight to set Ev’n to the throne of God! with his dim eyes The Great Inscrutable to scrutinize; Sounding the gulf immense, that circles round The Deity, he ventures o’er its bound. What can he gain in such a pathless course But endless doubts, his ignorance the source? He seeks, proposes, argues, thinking vain. The ignorance that knew to raise, must fain Be able to resolve them. Hast thou seen Attempts that e’er have more audacious been? What! shall an atom such as he excel To comprehend the Incomprehensible? Without more light than reason him assign’d, The limits of immensity to find? Infinity’s beginning, middle, end? Dost Thou, Eternal Lord, then condescend To admit man to Thy councils, or to be With his poor reason in Thy sanctuary? A task so great as this dost Thou confide To his weak soul? ’Tis not so, be relied, My friend. To know God in His works above, To adore Him, melt in gratitude and love; The blessings o’er thee lavish’d to confess, To sing His glory, and His name to bless;— Such be thy study, duty and employ; And of thy life and reason such the joy. Such is the course that should the wise essay, While only fools will from it turn away. Wouldst thou attain it? easy the emprise; Perfect thy being, and thou wilt be wise: Inform thy reason, that its aid impart Thee truth eternal: purify thy heart, To love and follow it: thy study make Thyself, but seek thy Maker’s light to take: There is high Wisdom’s fountain found alone: There thou thy origin wilt find thee shown; There in His glorious work to find the place ’Tis thine to occupy: there thou mayst trace Thy lofty destiny, the crown declared Of endless life, for virtue that’s prepared. Bermudo, there ascend: there seek to find That truth and virtue in the heavenly mind, Which from His love and wisdom ever flow. If elsewhere thou dost seek to find them, know, That darkness only thou wilt have succeed, In ignorance and error to mislead. Thou of this love and wisdom mayst the rays Discern in all His works, His power and praise That tell around us, in the wondrous scale Of high perfection which they all detail; The order which they follow in the laws, That bind and keep them, and that show their cause, The ends of love and pity in their frame: These their Creator’s goodness all proclaim. Be this thy learning, this thy glory’s view; If virtuous, thou art wise and happy too. Virtue and truth are one, and in them bound Alone may ever happiness be found. And they can only, with a conscience pure, Give to thy soul to enjoy it, peace secure; True liberty in moderate desires, And joy in all to do thy work requires; To do well in content, and calmly free: All else is wind and misery, vanity.
II. TOMAS DE IRIARTE. Of all the modern Spanish poets, Iriarte seems to have obtained for his writings the widest European reputation. He was born the 18th September 1750, at Teneriffe in the Canary Islands, where his family had been some time settled, though the name shows it to have been of Basque origin. His uncle, Juan de Iriarte, also a native of the same place, was one of the most learned men of his age, and to him the subject of this memoir was indebted for much of the knowledge he acquired, and means of attaining the eminence in literature he succeeded him in possessing. Juan de Iriarte had been partly educated in France, and had afterwards resided some time in England, so as to acquire a full knowledge of the language and literature of those countries. He was also a proficient in classical learning, and wrote Latin with great precision, as his writings, published by his nephew after his death, evince; Madrid, two volumes, 4to. 1774. Having been appointed keeper of the Royal Library at Madrid, he enriched it with many valuable works, in upwards of 2000 MSS. and 10,000 volumes. He was an active member of the Royal Spanish Academy, and one of the principal assistants in compiling the valuable dictionary and grammar published by that learned Society, as well as other works. At the instance of this uncle, Tomas Iriarte went to Madrid in the beginning of 1764, when not yet fourteen years of age, and under that relative’s able guidance completed his studies, learning at the same time the English and other modern languages. He was already far advanced in a knowledge of classical literature, and it is stated that some Latin verses he wrote, on leaving his native place, showed such proficiency as to surprise his friends, and make them entertain great expectations of his future success. Some of his Latin compositions, published afterwards among his works, prove him to have been a scholar of very considerable acquirements. Classical literature does not seem in modern times to be much studied in Spain, and Iriarte is the only distinguished writer among the modern Spanish poets who can be pointed out as conspicuous for such attainments. Thus they have failed in apprehending one of the chief beauties of modern poetry, so remarkable in Milton and Byron, and our other great poets, who enrich their works with references that remind us of what had most delighted us in those of antiquity. In 1771 his uncle died, and Tomas Iriarte, who had already been acting for him in one of his offices as Interpreter to the Government, was appointed to succeed him in it. He was afterwards, in 1776, appointed Keeper of the Archives of the Council of War; and these offices, with the charge of a paper under the influence of the government, seem to have been the only public employments he held. From one of his epistles, however, he appears to have succeeded to his uncle’s property, and thus to have had the means as also the leisure to give much of his time to the indulgence of literary tastes. He was very fond of paintings and of music, to which he showed his predilection, not only by his ability to play on several instruments, but also by writing a long didactic poem on the art, entitled ‘Musica.’ This he seems to have considered as giving him his principal claim to be ranked as a poet, though the world preferred his other writings. When yet under twenty years of age, Iriarte had already appeared as a writer of plays, some of which met with considerable approbation. Of these it will be sufficient for us here to observe, that Moratin, the first great dramatic poet of Spain in modern times, pronounced one of them, ‘The Young Gentleman Pacified,’ to have been “the first original comedy the Spanish theatre had seen written according to the most essential rules dictated by philosophy and good criticism.” Besides several original plays, Iriarte translated others from the French, from which language he also translated the ‘New Robinson’ of Campe, which passed through several editions. From Virgil he translated into Spanish verse the first four books of the Æneid, and from Horace the Epistle to the Pisos. These, though censured by some of his contemporaries so as to excite his anger, were altogether too superior to those attacks to have required the vindication of them he thought proper to publish. Horace seems to have been his favourite author; but he had not learned from him his philosophical equanimity, wherewith to pass over in silent endurance the minor miseries of life. Thus he allowed himself, throughout his short career, to be too much affected by those ungenerous attacks, which mediocrity is so apt to make on superior merit. The names of those censurers are now principally remembered by his notices of their writings; an honour, which men of genius, in their hours of irritation, too often confer on unworthy opponents. Thus a large portion of his collected works consists of these controversial notices, which, as usual in such cases, only impair the favourable effect produced by the remainder on the mind of the reader. Those works were first published in a collected form in six volumes, in 1786; afterwards in eight volumes, in 1805. From Iriarte’s poetical epistles, which are eleven in number, he appears to have been a person of a very kindly disposition, as Quintana describes him, living in friendly intercourse with the principal literary characters of Spain, especially with the amiable and ill-fated Cadahalso, to whom, in one of those epistles, he dedicated his translations from Horace. The others also are mainly on personal topics, and display his character advantageously, though, as poetical compositions, they have not been received so favourably as some of his other works. The fame of Iriarte may be said to rest on his literary fables, which have attained a popularity, both at home and abroad, equalled by few other works. They are eighty-two in number, and all original, having, as their title indicates, a special reference to literary questions, though they are also all sufficiently pointed to bear on those of ordinary life. Like Sir Joshua Reynolds’s Discourses on Painting, they convey general instructions to all, while professing an application to one particular pursuit. They are written with much vivacity and ease, yet with an appropriate terseness that adds to their effect. Martinez de la Rosa, equally eminent as a statesman, a poet and a critic, observes of them, that if he had not left compositions of any other class, they would have extended his reputation as a poet; and adds, “that they abound in beauties, though frequently wanting in poetical warmth, so as to recommend this valuable collection, unique in its class, as one of which Spanish literature has to be proud.” Of these fables, first published in 1782, so many editions have appeared, that it would be a very difficult task to enumerate them. There is scarcely a provincial town in Spain, of any consequence, in which they have not been reprinted. Several editions have appeared in France, two in New York, and three in Boston, where they have been used in teaching Spanish. Several of the fables have been imitated by Florian, and translations have been made into other languages. Of these translations, one in French verse was published by M. Lanos, Paris, 1801, and another, in prose, by M. L’Homandie, ibid. 1804: into German they were translated by Bertuch, Leipzic, so early as 1788, and into Portuguese, by Velladoli, in 1801. I am not aware of more than one edition of them in England, that published by Dulau, 1809; but there have been no fewer than three translations of them into English verse; first by Mr. Belfour, London, 1804, another by Mr. Andrews, ibid. 1835, and a third by Mr. Rockliff, ibid. 1851. The same popularity attended another work which Iriarte prepared for the instruction of youth, named ‘Historical Lessons,’ published posthumously, about twenty editions of which have since appeared, principally from its having been adopted as a text-book for schools. Of this also an edition has been published in London by Boosey, and a translation into English. Iriarte’s industry appears to have been of the most practical character, and his endeavours were as wisely as they were unremittingly directed to make his countrymen wiser and better in their future generations. If a man’s worth may be estimated by such labours, few persons have ever lived who were so entitled to the gratitude of posterity, as few have ever effected so much as he did in the short career that was afforded him. In private life, in the leisure allowed from his studies and duties, he indulged much, as has been already stated, in the recreation of music; and in praise and explanation of that favourite art he wrote his largest work, ‘Music,’ a didactic poem, in five cantos. Of this work, which was first published in 1780, the fifth separate edition appeared in 1805, since which I have not heard of any other. It has, however, had the good fortune to be translated into several foreign languages; into German by Bertuch, in 1789; into Italian by the AbbÉ Garzia, Venice, 1789; into French by Grainville, Paris, 1800; and into English by Mr. Belfour, London, 1807. The last-mentioned translation is made with much exactness and elegance into heroic verse; though, as the original had the fault usual to all didactic poems of not rising to any high poetical power, the translation must share the fault to at least an equal extent. In the Italian version, a letter is quoted from the celebrated Metastasio, in which he speaks of the style of Iriarte’s poem as “so harmonious, perspicuous and easy, as to unite the precision of a treatise with the beauties common to poetry.” It is said also that Metastasio further pronounced the poem to be “not only excellent, but to be considered uncommon, in having successfully treated a subject so difficult, and apparently so little adapted to poetry.” It is to be observed that Iriarte had warmly eulogized Metastasio in the book, so as to merit the commendation. The first canto is confined to treating the subject artistically, and will therefore prove less to the taste of the general reader than the other cantos, which are of a more interesting character, and may be read with pleasure by persons who do not understand music as a science. The third canto especially is written with much spirit in its praise, as connected with devotion. The second canto treats of the passions as they may be expressed by music, including martial music. The fourth minutely discusses theatrical music, with its excellences and defects. The fifth explains it, as calculated for the amusement of societies, or individuals in solitude. The poem concludes with pointing out what ought to be the study of a good composer, and by a proposal for the establishment of an academy of music, or scientific body of musicians, anticipating the benefit to science that would result from such an institution. This poem, the ‘Musica,’ and the Epistles, are written in a very favourite style of versification in Spain, denominated the Silva, which consists of lines of eleven syllables, varied occasionally with others of seven, rhyming at the pleasure of the writer. The ‘Literary Fables’ are written in various metres; Martinez de la Rosa observes in upwards of forty different kinds, appropriate to the characteristics of the subjects, which may be more perceptible to a native ear than to a foreigner’s. It is certainly true that this gives a variety to the work which is well suited to the purposes the author had in view. He was wise enough to know that truths hidden in the garb of fiction will often be felt effectually, where grave precepts would not avail, ?a? t?? t? ?a? ???t?? f?e??? ?p?? t?? ????? ?????, ?eda?da????? ?e?des? p???????? ??ap?t??t? ????, and thus conveyed his lessons in examples, with a moral, which could be quickly understood and easily remembered. With regard to the objection made to these fables, that they are often deficient in poetical warmth or colouring, it may be observed that the subjects would scarcely admit of any. Iriarte was certainly a writer of more poetic taste than talent, and it must be acknowledged that his genius, judging by the works he left, was not one to soar to the higher flights of poetry. He felt this himself, as he intimates in his Epistle to his brother; and, choosing a subject like Music for a didactic poem, or writing familiar epistles on occasional subjects, did not give himself much scope for fancy, much less for passion. But as applied to the fables, the objection was unnecessary. If they deserved praise for their vivacity of style, that very circumstance, independent of the subjects, rendered them passionless, ?pa??stata, as Longinus remarks, where stronger feelings could scarcely be brought into connexion with such discussions. The great difficulty in such cases is, when metres are chosen to suit the subject, abounding in pyrrhics, trochees, and such measures, as the same great critic adds, to guard, lest the sense be lost in too much regard to the sound, raising only attention to the rhythm, instead of exciting any feeling in the minds of the hearers. Of the five fables chosen for translation, the two first were taken from Bouterwek, and the third on account of its having been particularly noticed by Martinez de la Rosa. The Epistle to his Brother was selected partly on account of its notices of other countries, as a foreigner’s judgement of them; and partly as being most characteristic of the writer, showing his tastes and dispositions more perhaps than the rest. The reader generally feels most interested in such parts of the works of favourite writers, especially when their private history gives the imagination a right to ask sympathy for their sufferings. Nothing is to be found in Iriarte’s works to show any peculiar opinions on religion, though the tendency of his mind is everywhere clearly seen, as leading to freedom of thought, instead of subjection to dogmas. In his poem on Music, as already intimated, some devotional rather than free-thinking principles are developed; yet it is said that it was from a suspicion of his being affected by the French philosophy of the day he fell under the censure of the Inquisition, and was seized in 1786, and imprisoned three years in the dungeons of that institution. What was the particular offence imputed to him has not been stated. It could be no question of a political character, for he was in the employment of the government, and was amenable to it for any misdeeds. It probably was from some private cause, under the cloak of a question of faith, that he had to undergo this imprisonment, during which it is said he had to submit to severe penances before he could obtain his liberty. After he had obtained it, he returned to his studies and wrote further, a monologue, entitled ‘Guzman,’ and some Latin maccaronic verses on the bad taste of some writers then in vogue. But his spirits were no doubt broken down, as his health and strength were undermined; and thus it was that he died two years after, though his death was imputed to his sedentary habits and gout, the 17th of September, 1791, when he had just completed his forty-first year. This untimely death was a serious loss to Spanish literature. With his great and varied acquirements and unremitting industry, the world might have expected still more valuable works from him, when, at the age of thirty-six, in the best period of a man’s existence for useful labours, he was cast into that dungeon, from which he seems to have been permitted to come out only to die. The last Auto da fe in Spain was celebrated in 1781; but the Inquisition had other victims whose sufferings were no less to be deplored, though not made known. If Iriarte was one, he had unquestionably the consciousness of being enabled to feel, though not dying “an aged man,” yet that in his comparatively short life, he had not lived in vain for his own good name, and the benefit of posterity. TOMAS DE IRIARTE. He who begins an instrument to play, With some preludings, will examine well How run the fingers, how the notes will swell, And bow prepares, or breath for his essay; Or if to write the careful penman’s aim, He cuts and proves his pen, if broad or fine; And the bold youths, to combat who incline, Strike at the air, as trial of the game: The dancer points his steps with practised pace; The orator harangues with studied grace; The gamester packs his cards the livelong day; I thus a Sonnet, though worth nothing, trace, Solely to exercise myself this way, If prove the Muse propitious to my lay. It seems to me, dear brother, that Apollo A course divine now does not always follow, Nor please to dictate verses of a tone, Worthy a sponsor such as he to own; But rather would be human, and prefer To prose in rhymes of warmthless character; Without the enthusiasm sublime of old, And down the wings of Pegasus would fold, Not to be borne in flight, but gently stroll’d. You who forgetful of this court now seek Those of the east and north to contemplate, Forgive me, if in envy I may speak, That to indulge it has allow’d you fate The tasteful curiosity! to view With joy the land, so famed and fortunate, Which erst a Tully and a Maro knew, To which Æmilius, Marius service paid, Which Regulus and the Scipios obey’d. Long would it be and idle to recall The triumphs, with their blazonries unfurl’d, Matchless of her, that once of Europe all Was greater part, metropolis of the world. I only ask of you, as you may read, How in Avernus, destined to succeed, Anchises show’d Æneas, in long line, The illustrious shades of those, who were to shine One day the glory of the Italian shore, Now you, more favour’d than the Trojan chief, Not in vain prophecy, but tried belief, From what you see, by aid of history’s lore, To admire the lofty state which Rome possess’d, The which her ruins and remains attest. From our Hispanian clime I cannot scan With you the column of the Antonine, The fane or obelisk of the Vatican, Or the Capitol, and Mount Palatine; I cannot see the churches, or the walls, The bridges, arches, mausoleums, gates, The aqueducts, palaces, and waterfalls, The baths, the plazas, porticos, and halls, The Coliseum’s, or the Circus’ fates; But still the immortal writings ’tis for me, Of Livy, Tacitus, Cicero, to see; I see Lucretius, Pliny, Juvenal, Augustus, Maro and MÆcenas all; With their names is the soul exalted high, Heroic worth and honour to descry; And so much more that model imitates A nation now, so much more to be gain’d, Is seen it but to approach the lofty heights Of splendour, wealth, fame, power, that Rome attain’d. From the benignant lands that richly gleam Beneath the Tiber’s fertilizing stream, You next will pass, where borne as he arose, Through colder realms the mighty Danube flows. Girded in pleasant borders ’tis for you The Austrian Vienna there to view; To admire the monarch, warlike, good and wise, With the magnanimous Prussian king who vies An army brave and numerous to sway; Chosen and hardy, forward to obey, Whom as companions honour’d he rewards, And not as slaves abased a lord regards. There agriculture flourish you will see; Public instruction is promoted free; The arts extended rapidly and wide; And these among, in culture and esteem, That with which Orpheus tamed the furious pride Of forest beasts, and cross’d the Lethe’s stream: There all the tales of wonderful effect, Of music’s art divine, with which are deck’d The ancient Greek and Latin histories, No longer will seem fables in your eyes, When near you may applaud the loftiness, The harmony, and the consonance sublime, All that in varied symphonies to express Has power the greatest master of our time; Haydn the great, and merited his fame, Whom to embrace I beg you in my name. I see you leaving, for the distant strand Of Britain’s isle your rapid course to take, And tour political around to make. There in the populous court, whose walls’ long side Bathes the deep Thames in current vast and wide, A nation’s image will before your eyes In all things most extraordinary rise. Not rich of old, but happy now we see By totally unshackled industry. A nation liberal, but ambitious too; Phlegmatic, and yet active in its course; Ingenuous, but its interests to pursue Intent; humane, but haughty; and perforce Whate’er it be, the cause it undertakes, Just or unjust, defends without remorse, And of all fear and danger scorn it makes. There with inevitably great surprise, What in no other country we may see, You will behold to exert their energies Men act and speak with perfect liberty. The rapid fortune too you will admire Which eloquence and valour there acquire; Nor power to rob has wealth or noble birth The premiums due to learning and to worth. You will observe the hive-like multitude Of diligent and able islanders, Masters of commerce they have well pursued, Which ne’er to want or slothfulness defers; All in inventions useful occupied, In manufactures, roads, schools, arsenals, Experiments in books and hospitals, And studies of the liberal arts to guide. There you will know in fine what may attain An education wise; the skilful mode Of patriotic teaching, so to train Private ambition, that it seek the road Of public benefit alone to gain: The recompense and acceptation just, On which founds learning all its hope and trust; And a wise government, whose constant aim Is general good, and an eternal fame. Midst others my reflections I would fain, In some description worthy of the theme, (If it were not beyond my powers) explain, The varied scenes, enchantment all that seem, Which the Parisian court on your return Prepares, and offers you surprised to learn. Polish’d emporium of Europe’s courts, The which with noble spectacles invites, With public recreations and resorts, That give to life its solace and delights; Brilliant assemblages! and these among, The chief and most acceptable to gain, Of all to this new Athens that belong, To enjoy the fellowship of learned men; With useful science, or with taste alone, Who enlighten foreign nations, and their own. But I, who from this narrow corner write, In solitude, while shaking off the dust From military archives, ill recite What I, O travelling Secretary! trust Yourself will better practically see, Whilst I can only know in theory. Continue then your journey on in health; From tongue to tongue, from land to land proceed: To be a statesman eminent your meed. Acquire each day with joy your stores of wealth, Of merit and instruction; I the while, As fits my mediocrity obscure, Will sing the praise of quiet from turmoil; “Let him, who power or honours would attain, On the high court’s steep precipice remain. I wish for peace, that solitude bestows, Secluse to enjoy the blessings of repose. To pass my life in silence be my fate, Unnoticed by the noble, or the great: That when my age, without vain noise or show, Has reach’d the bounds allotted us below, Though a plebeian only to pass by, Perhaps I yet an aged man may die. And this I do believe, no death of all Than his more cruel can a man befall, Who dying, by the world too truly known, Is of himself most ignorant alone.” THE BEAR, THE MONKEY AND THE HOG. A Bear, with whom a Piedmontese A wandering living made, A dance he had not learn’d with ease, On his two feet essay’d: And, as he highly of it thought, He to the Monkey cried, “How’s that?” who, being better taught, “’Tis very bad,” replied. “I do believe,” rejoin’d the Bear, “You little favour show: For have I not a graceful air, And step with ease to go?” A Hog, that was beside them set, Cried, “Bravo! good!” said he; “A better dancer never yet I saw, and ne’er shall see.” On this the Bear, as if he turn’d His thoughts within his mind, With modest gesture seeming learn’d A lesson thence to find. “When blamed the Monkey, it was cause Enough for doubting sad; But when I have the hog’s applause, It must be very bad!” As treasured gift, let authors raise This moral from my verse: ’Tis bad, when wise ones do not praise; But when fools do, ’tis worse.
THE ASS AND THE FLUTE. This little fable heard, It good or ill may be; But it has just occurr’d, Thus accidentally. Passing my abode, Some fields adjoining me, A big Ass on his road Came accidentally; And laid upon the spot, A Flute he chanced to see, Some shepherd had forgot, There accidentally. The animal in front, To scan it nigh came he, And snuffing loud as wont, Blew accidentally. The air it chanced around The pipe went passing free, And thus the Flute a sound Gave accidentally. “O! then,” exclaim’d the Ass, “I know to play it fine; And who for bad shall class The music asinine?” Without the rules of art, Ev’n asses, we agree, May once succeed in part, Thus accidentally. THE TWO RABBITS. Some shrubs amidst to shun The dogs he saw pursue, I will not call it run, But say a rabbit flew. From out his hiding-place A neighbour came to see, And said, “Friend, wait a space: What may the matter be?” “What should it be?” he cried; “I breathless came in fear, Because that I espied Two scoundrel greyhounds near.” “Yes,” said the other, “far I see them also there; But those no greyhounds are!” “What?”—“Setters, I’ll declare.” “How, setters do you say? My grandad just as much! They are greyhounds, greyhounds, they; I saw them plainly such.” “They are setters; get along: What know you of these matters?”— “They are greyhounds; you are wrong:”— “I tell you they are setters.” The dogs while they engage In these contentious habits, Come up, and vent their rage On my two thoughtless rabbits. Who minor points affect, So much about to quarrel, And weightier things neglect, Let them take the moral.
THE LAMB AND HIS TWO ADVISERS. A farm there was, with a poultry-yard, Where roved an old bantam about; And laid at his ease, a pig was barr’d In a sty close by without. A lamb moreover was raised up there; We know it does so befall: Together in farms these animals fare, And in good company all. “Well, with your leave,” said the pig one day To the lamb, “what a happy life! And healthful too, to be sleeping away, One’s time without cares or strife! “I say there is nothing, as I am a pig, Like sleeping, stretch’d out at ease; Let the world go round with its whirligig, And cares just as it may please.” The other the contrary chanced to tell The same little lamb, to take heed; “Look, innocent! here, to live right well, Sleep very little indeed. “Summer or winter, early to rise With the stars the practice seek; For sleeping the senses stupefies, And leaves you languid and weak.” Confused, the poor lamb the counsels compares, And cannot perceive in his mind, That contrary each advising declares, But how he himself is inclined. And thus we find authors the practice make, To hold, as infallibly true, The rules they fancy themselves to take, And in their own writings pursue. THE FLINT AND THE STEEL. Cruelly bent, it chanced the Flint Ill-treated the Steel one day; And wounding, gave it many a dint, To draw its sparks away. When laid aside, this angry cried To that, “What would your value be Without my help?” the Flint replied, “As much as yours, sir, but for me.” This lesson I write, my friends to incite; Their talents, however great, That they must study with them unite, To duly cultivate. The Flint gives light with the help of the Steel, And study alone will talent reveal; For neither suffice if found apart, Whatever the talent or the art.
III. JUAN MELENDEZ VALDES. For a hundred years after the time of Calderon de la Barca, who died in 1687, there appeared in Spain no writer of sufficient merit to be classed among those eminent characters, who had done so much honour to Spanish literature in the seventeenth century. Verses were published in sufficient abundance, which found readers and even admirers, merely from the necessity the public felt of having something to read and to admire, as of the fashion of the day. But they were written with a perversion of taste and a deficiency of talent, which was truly astonishing, in the successors of such authors, as had immediately preceded them. This depression of literature, however, could not be expected to continue long, among a people of such imaginative and deep passioned character as the Spanish, whose native genius was by far too buoyant, to be affected for any length of time by inferior models, even under dynastic influences. Accordingly, towards the end of the eighteenth century, it might have become apparent to an attentive observer, that another order of writers was about to be called forth, and that the nation was prepared to welcome the advent of true genius whenever it was to be recognized. Learned societies had been established throughout Spain; education on a sound basis had been sedulously promoted; and the country was wealthy, and sufficiently flourishing to give incitement to the arts, which are the attendants of public prosperity. At this epoch appeared Melendez Valdes, the restorer of Spanish poetry, as his admirers with much justice termed him; who then showed by his writings, that the old inspiration of the national genius was yet capable of being revived in all its former grace and strength; and who by the influence of his example further roused the energies of other men of genius to follow in his steps. This highly gifted poet was born the 11th of March, 1754, at Ribera del Fresno in the province of Estremadura, where his parents were of what was called noble families, and, what was more important, in respectable circumstances. The good disposition noticed in the son determined them to destine him for study, and to award him a becoming education. Thus, having learned the rudiments of Latin at home, he was sent to study philosophy, or what was called philosophy, at Madrid, under the charge of the Dominican Fathers of St. Thomas, where his application and advancement gained him the esteem of his tutors and fellow-pupils. Thence he was sent by his parents in 1770 to Segovia, to study with his only brother, who was private secretary to the bishop of that city, and with whom he was confirmed in that fondness for reading, and taste for acquiring books, which might be called the passion of his whole life. The bishop, who was a distant relation, pleased with his talents and inclination for study, sent him in 1772 to Salamanca, the alma mater of Spain, and assisted him to proceed in the study of law, in which he distinguished himself wherever he had an opportunity; so that, says his biographer, “appearing absorbed in the pursuit of that career, no one would have judged him the same young man, whose inclination for poetry and learning was soon after to place him at the head of the elegant literature of his country.” Fortunately for Melendez, continues his biographer, there happened then to be at Salamanca Don JosÈ de Cadalso, “a man celebrated for extensive erudition, combined with more than ordinary talent for poetry and letters, and a zeal for the glory and advancement of his country, learned in the school, and under the inspiration of virtue. Generous and affable, always lively, and at times satirical without branching off into maliciousness, his conversation was kind and instructive, and his principles indulgent and steadfast.” This eminent individual, already well known in the literary world by several works published in 1772 and 1773, immediately recognized the value of Melendez: he took him to his house to live with him, showed him the beauties and defects of the older writers, taught him how to imitate them, and opened to him the road to become acquainted with the literature of the learned nations of Europe. “He afforded him an instruction yet more precious, in the beautiful example he gave him to love all writers of merit, to rise superior to envy, and to cultivate letters without degrading them by unworthy disputations. The eulogies Cadalso bestowed on his contemporaries are a public testimony of this noble character; and the works of Melendez, where there is not a single line detracting from the merit of any one, and his whole literary career, exempt from all attack, show how he profited by the lessons of his master.” The Anacreontic style, in which Cadalso excelled, was also that first cultivated by Melendez; and the former, seeing the progress of his pupil, and the first efforts of his Muse, unreservedly acknowledged him his superior, and in prose and verse announced him as the restorer of good taste and the better studies of the University. This kindly union was maintained until the death of Cadalso, at the siege of Gibraltar; and the “Elegiac song of Melendez on this misfortune, will be, as long as the Spanish language endures, a monument of affection and gratitude, as well as an example of high and beautiful poetry.” Beyond the instructions which he received from Cadalso, Melendez was aided by the example and counsels of other distinguished persons then residing at Salamanca, among whom were two, favourably known as writers of verse, Iglesias and Gonzalez. These, though they were soon eclipsed by the young poet, admitted him to their friendship. By the latter he was brought into communication with the illustrious Jovellanos, then Judge of the High Court at Seville; and between them soon was instituted a correspondence, which has been in great part preserved, though as yet unpublished; a valuable monument, says Quintana, in which are seen, “livingly portrayed, the candour, the modesty and virtuous feelings of the poet, the alternate progress of his studies, the different attempts in which he essayed his talents, and above all, the profound respect and almost idolatry with which he revered his MÆcenas. There may be seen how he employed his time and varied his tasks. At first he applied himself to Greek, and began to translate Homer and Theocritus into verse; but learning the immense difficulty of the undertaking, and not stimulated to it by the bent of his genius, he shortly abandoned it.” He then dedicated himself to the English language and literature, for which he was said to have ever had an exceeding great predilection, observing, “that to the Essay on the Human Understanding, he should owe all his life the little he might know how to acquire.” As books came to his hands, he went on reading and forming his judgements upon them, the which he transmitted to his friend. Thus “by all the means in his power he endeavoured to acquire and increase that treasury of ideas, which so much contributes to perfection in the art of writing, and without which verses are nothing more than frivolous sounds.” His application to study, however, soon proved more than his health and strength would permit. He was obliged to leave Salamanca, and repair to the banks of the Tormes, which he has made famous in song, and there, by long attention to the regimen imposed on him, he fortunately recovered. About this time his brother died in 1777, their parents having died previously; and Melendez suffered much grief, as might naturally be expected, on being thus left alone of his family, the more painful in his state of health. Jovellanos urged him to join him at Seville, but he declined the invitation, observing, that “the law of friendship itself, which commands us to avail ourselves of a friend in necessity, also commands that without it, we should not take advantage of his confidence.” Study, to which he now returned to engage himself with more intensity than ever, was the best alleviant of his sorrow, and time as usual at length allayed it. “He then gave himself up to the reading and study of the English poets: Pope and Young enchanted him. Of the former, he said that four lines of his ‘Essay on Man’ were worth more, taught more, and deserved more praise than all his own compositions.” The latter he attempted to imitate, and in effect did so, in the poem on ‘Night and Solitude,’ but in remitting it to his friend, expressed with much feeling his sense of its deficiencies compared with the original. Thomson also he studied, and Gesner, in his lonely exercises by the Tormes, and acknowledged how much he was indebted to the former for many thoughts with which he subsequently enriched his pastoral poems. Thus having prepared himself to appear before the literary world as a candidate for fame, an opportunity soon occurred for him to obtain distinction. The Spanish Academy had been proposing subjects for prizes, and then having given one for an Eclogue, ‘On the happiness of a country life,’ Melendez felt himself in his element, and sent in his Essay for the prize. This succeeded in receiving the first. The second was awarded to Iriarte, who showed his mortification on account of the preference, more sensibly than was becoming, under the circumstances. In the following year, 1781, Melendez went to Madrid, where his friend Jovellanos had already been appointed Councillor of the Military Orders, when for the first time they met. Melendez was already in the road to fame, which his friend had foretold for him; and Jovellanos, delighted with the realization of his hopes and endeavours, received him into his house, introduced him to his society, and took every opportunity of advancing his interests. It was the custom of the Academy of San Fernando to give triennial celebrations, with much solemnity, for the distribution of prizes, when eloquence, poetry and music were tasked to do honour to the fine arts. One of these celebrations was about to take place; Jovellanos was engaged to pronounce a discourse, and Melendez was invited to exercise his genius on the same subject, as the first literary characters of preceding times had already given the example. Melendez acceded, and delivered accordingly his Ode on the Glory of the Arts, which was received with rapturous admiration, and ever since seems to have been considered his masterpiece. In the midst of these successes, Melendez received the Professorship of Humanities in his University, and in the following year, 1782, proceeded to the degree of Licentiate, and in 1783 to that of Doctor of Law, having shortly before the last married a lady of one of the principal families of Salamanca. But as his professorship gave him little occupation, and his marriage no family, he remained free to continue his favourite studies. In 1784, on the occasion of peace being made with England, and the birth of twin Infantes, to give hopes of secure succession to the throne, the city of Madrid prepared magnificent celebrations of rejoicings, and among the rest, a prize was proposed for the two best dramatic pieces that might be offered within sixty days, under the condition that they should be original, appropriate, and capable of theatrical pomp and ornament. Out of fifty-seven dramas that were offered, the prize was awarded to the one sent in by Melendez, ‘The Bridals of Comacho the Rich,’ a pastoral comedy, which, however, though abounding in poetical passages, was found on representation wanting in effect, so as to be coldly received on the stage, where it has not since been attempted. This ill-success gave occasion to several detractors of Melendez to pour forth the effusions of envy or disappointment against him, to which he gave no other answer than by the publication of his poems in a collected form. This was in 1785; and the manner in which they were received, it could be said, had had no parallel in Spain. Four editions, of which three were furtive, were at once taken up, and all classes of persons seemed to have the book in hand, commenting on its excellences. The lovers of ancient poetry, who saw so happily renewed the graces of Garcilasso, of Leon and Herrera, and “even improved in taste and perfection,” saluted Melendez as the restorer of the Castillian Muses, and hailed the banishment of the prosaic style which had previously prevailed. The applauses extended beyond the kingdom, and found especially in Italy the admiration repeated, as well as in France and England, where several of the poems are said to have been imitated. Great as was his success in literature, it was not enough provision for his daily needs, notwithstanding the help of his professorship; and Melendez accordingly applied for and obtained an office as a local judge at Zaragoza, of which he took possession in September 1789. The duties of this office were too onerous to admit of much study; but he was soon removed, in 1791, to the chancery of Valladolid, where he had more leisure, and where he remained till 1797, when he was appointed Fiscal of the Supreme Court at Madrid. During this time he wrote apparently little; but he prepared, and in 1797 published, another edition of his works with two additional volumes, enriched with many new poems, in which he “had elevated his genius to the height of his age;”—“descriptive passages of a superior order, elegies powerful and pathetic, odes grand and elevated, philosophic and moral discourses and epistles, in which he took alternately the tone of Pindar, of Homer, of Thomson, and of Pope, and drew from the Spanish lyre accents she had not previously learned.” But notwithstanding the great merit of many of these poems, the biographer of Melendez had it to confess that this publication was not so favourably received as the first had been; and attempts to account for it partly by the circumstances of the times, and partly by what was new not being on the whole so finished and well-sustained in interest as his former poems. Some of them also met with decided disfavour; especially one, ‘The Fall of Lucifer,’ which showed that his genius was not of the severer cast calculated for graver and higher subjects allied to the epic, any more than to the dramatic. But the merits of Melendez in his own sphere are too great, and his fame is too well-founded to lose by acknowledgements which must be made in truth and justice. It is not improbable that he had been urged by his admirers to these attempts, to which his own inclinations would not have led him, and it might thus have been the easiness of his disposition that made him yield to suggestions which ended in failure. In the prologue which he affixed to this edition, Melendez attempted to prove that poetic studies derogated nothing from the judicial dignity, and that they had no incompatibility with the duties and talents of a public man or man of business. But without following him or his biographer into such a discussion, we may concede the point so far, that any one undertaking responsible duties from the State, is bound to give them his best and undivided energies. If, however, he has any hours of leisure free from those responsibilities, it is surely only an extension of his duty for him to employ them in attempting to make his fellow-men wiser and better, or happier, in the manner most congenial to his disposition or talents. Melendez certainly had no need to exculpate himself in this respect, having been “long remembered at Zaragoza and Valladolid as a model of integrity and application, for his zeal in arranging amicably all disputations in his power, for his affability and frankness in listening to complaints, and for the humane and compassionate interest with which he visited the prisoners, accelerating their causes, and affording them assistance, with an inseparable adhesion to justice.” It was for his detractors,—and Melendez had them, notwithstanding the amiability of his character and the superiority of his talents,—to make these objections, if they could have done so. His resorting to such apologies only gave the appearance of a consciousness of weakness, which was not becoming either in the one character or the other. Shortly after the publication of this edition, Melendez went to Madrid to take possession of his new office. The advanced age of his predecessor in it had for some time prevented his due attention to its duties, so that Melendez had many arrears to dispose of in addition to the ordinary services, through all which he laboured with much assiduity and credit. But they were the last satisfactory events of his life, which was henceforth to be passed in reverses and misery. Yet at that time he seemed to be in the height of prosperity. Holding an elevated post under the government, of which his friend Jovellanos was a member, and respected both at home and abroad as one of the first literary characters of the age, he might have justly hoped to be free from any of the darker misfortunes of life. This exemption, however, was not to be his lot, serving under a despotic government, of which the head, Charles IV., was one of the weakest-minded of mortals, guided by a favourite such as Godoy. When Jovellanos fell under this favourite’s resentment, to make the blow inflicted on that illustrious individual more poignant, it was extended to others, whose only fault was that they shared his esteem. Melendez was ordered away from Madrid within twenty-four hours, though his friends procured for him soon after a commission from the government as inspector of barracks at Medina del Campo, where he gave himself up again to study and such duties as were assigned him. Beyond these, however, he particularly exerted himself, it is recorded, in attending to the sick at the hospitals, providing that they should not be sent out into the world, as had often been previously the case, imperfectly cured or clothed, and unable to effect their livelihood. In this humble occupation he might have been supposed exempt at least from further malignity, but unfortunately some sycophant of power thought it would be pleasing to the favourite to have a frivolous accusation forwarded against him, which had the effect of his being sent on half salary to Zamora. There he was fortunate enough to have the intrigues against him made known, and in June 1802, he received a royal order to have his full salary allowed, with liberty to reside where he pleased. He would have preferred Madrid, but he found it most prudent to return to Salamanca, and there, arranging his house and library, began to enjoy a more peaceful life than what he had passed since he left the University. The literary world might now have hoped for further efforts of genius in this asylum, and perhaps some superior work worthy of his talents and fame; but his spirits had been broken down by adversity and injustice, and his attention was distracted by hopes and fears, from which he could never free himself. A poem on Creation, and a translation of the Æneid, were the fruits of six years’ retirement from the world; and he proposed another edition of his works, which however he did not accomplish, on the rapid succession of events which again called him forth to a short period of active life, and subsequent years of suffering. The revolution of Aranjuez brought Melendez to Madrid, in the hopes of recovering his former employments; but in the troubled state of the country, he soon wished to return to his house, without being able to effect it. The French had now made themselves masters of the capital, and Melendez was unfortunately induced to take office under them. This conduct was contrary, not only to the course taken by Jovellanos and his other friends, but also to the whole tenor of his former life and opinions. His easy temper, which had at all times led him submissive to the wishes of those who had his confidence, no doubt on this occasion had been influenced by persons near him, and he might have thought it a hopeless struggle to contend with Napoleon. Having however engaged in this unpatriotic service, he was sent as a commissioner, on the part of the intrusive government, to the Asturias, where the people had already risen in vindication of the national independence. Melendez and his colleague were seized by the populace, notwithstanding the efforts of the local authorities, who had placed them for security in the prison, the doors of which were forced, and they were led out to be put to death. All entreaties were in vain. Melendez protested his attachment to the national cause, and even began reciting some patriotic verses he had been writing, but the excited multitude would not hear him. They added insults to menaces, and as a great favour only permitted them to confess before they should be executed. Thus a little time was gained; but this was at length concluded and they were tied to a tree, and the party prepared to shoot them, when a dispute arose whether they should be shot from in front or behind as traitors, a piece of etiquette in such cases considered of importance. The latter counsel prevailed, and the prisoners had to be loosened and tied again accordingly, when the authorities and religious orders of the place, with a particular Cross famous among them, appeared approaching for their rescue. The people hereon became calmed, and Melendez and his colleague were taken back to the prison, whence they were soon permitted to return to Madrid. On the success of the Spanish army at Bailen, the French retired from the capital, and Melendez remained at Madrid, hoping, through the influence of Jovellanos, to be taken into favour with the constitutional party. But fortune again seemed to side with the French, and they returned to Madrid, when Melendez was again induced to join them, and accepted office as Councillor of State and President of a Board of Public Instruction. Thus he inevitably compromised himself in a cause which was not that of his heart or principles, and whose apparently irresistible strength could only have excused his adhesion to it. This supposition, however, also proved erroneous; and when the French armies had to abandon Spain, Melendez, with their other principal adherents, had to fly with them also, having had the further misfortune to have his house plundered, and his valuable library destroyed, by the very marauders for whose sake he had lost all his hopes of the future at home. Before entering France, Melendez, kneeling down, kissed the Spanish soil, saying, “I shall not return to tread thee again.” His apprehensions, notwithstanding his anxiety to do so, proved correct. He passed four years in France, residing at Toulouse, Montpelier, Nismes and Alaix, as circumstances compelled him, in great privation and with bodily sufferings, the more aggravating, in his advanced age, the bitter remembrances of the past. A paralytic affection first incapacitated him from all exertion, and finally, an apoplectic attack terminated his existence, at Montpelier, on the 24th May, 1817, in the arms of his wife, who had followed him through all the vicissitudes of life, and surrounded by the companions of his exile. A monument was afterwards placed to his memory in the cemetery by the Duke de Frias. Notwithstanding the indecision of his character in public life, Melendez was in private remarkable for laborious application to his studies and duties. His reading was immense, and his desire unceasing to be useful, and to contribute, by all the means in his power, to the well-being of his fellows. His kindness of heart is conspicuous in all his writings, which also portray the diffidence of his own powers, ascribed to him by his biographer. His principal objects of veneration seem to have been the writings of Newton and Locke. The former, as the “Great Newton,” is often named by him. Pope he took for his model avowedly in poetry, and he strove to imitate the moral and philosophic tone of that great poet’s writings, whose elegance of style he certainly rivalled. Nothing in Spanish verse had been ever produced to equal the sweetness of his verses, their easy tone, and sparkling thoughts and expression. He was much attached to drawing, but had no inclination for music, not even to the charms of song, the more singular in one whose ear for the melody of verse appears to have been so sensitive. To the very last he seems to have been endeavouring to improve his poems, which have been thus observed to have often lost in strength and expression what they gained in cadence. “The principles of his philosophy were benevolence and toleration; and he belonged to that race of philanthropists who hope for the progressive amelioration of the human race, and the advent of a period, when civilization, or the empire of the understanding, extended over the earth, will give men that grade of perfection and felicity compatible with the faculties and the existence of each individual. Such are the manifestations of his philosophic poems, and such a state he endeavoured to aid in producing by his talents and labours.” His influence as a poet has certainly been very great. All the writers in Spain, who immediately succeeded him, especially Quintana, showed evident proofs of having profited by the lessons his example gave them, and those lessons seem to have sunk deeply into the minds of successive generations, so as to leave no doubt of their continuing in the same course. After his arrival in France, Melendez wrote a few short poems, which, notwithstanding his age and failing health, showed his spirit was still the same, and his imagination as lively as ever. At Nismes he prepared an edition of his works, which the Spanish government published at their cost after his death, when they also gave his widow the pension allotted for her, as according to her husband’s former rank. This edition has been the one subsequently several times reprinted, with a biography by the eminent Quintana, worthy of himself and of his master. The prologue to it, by Melendez, is very interesting, and from it we learn, with regret, that upon the destruction of his library, “the most choice and varied he had ever seen belonging to a private individual, in the formation of which he had expended a great part of his patrimony and all his literary life,” he had lost what he considered some of his best poems, and some tracts, in prose, which he had prepared for the press, on Legislation, on Civil Economy, the Criminal Laws, on Prisons, Mendicancy and other subjects. The misfortunes of Melendez were certainly much to be lamented, but throughout them he could unquestionably console himself with the conviction of having been actuated ever by upright motives, and of leaving to his country an imperishable name. His literary career had been an eminently successful one, and he had felt the full enjoyment of fame. In the prologue, above mentioned, he refers very feelingly to the reverses to which he had been subjected, but also with apparent satisfaction to the various editions and notices of his works, published both in Spain and abroad. In leaving revised his works, published afterwards by the government, Madrid 1820, Melendez left also this positive direction: “Although I have composed many other poems, these appear to me the least imperfect, and I therefore forbid the others to be reprinted under any pretext. I earnestly request this of the editor, and expect it of his probity and good feeling, that he will fulfil this, my will, in every respect.” In accordance with this request, many of his earlier works have been, with much propriety, omitted, and the remainder have been considerably corrected; at the same time that a great number of poems are added, that had not been previously published. The best edition of his works is that by Salva, Paris 1832. Melendez enjoyed in his day a higher reputation than readers at present are willing to concede him, comparing him with the other poets that have since appeared in Spain. But the merits of writers should be considered, in justice, relatively only to those who have preceded them, and by this standard he is certainly fully entitled to the eulogiums which his contemporaries awarded him. MELENDEZ VALDES. When I was yet a child, A child Dorila too, To gather there the flowerets wild, We roved the forest through. And gaily garlands then, With passing skill display’d, To crown us both, in childish vein, Her little fingers made. And thus our joys to share, In such our thoughts and play, We pass’d along, a happy pair, The hours and days away. But ev’n in sports like these, Soon age came hurrying by! And of our innocence the ease Malicious seem’d to fly. I knew not how it was, To see me she would smile; And but to speak to her would cause Me pleasure strange the while. Then beat my heart the more, When flowers to her I brought; And she, to wreathe them as before, Seem’d silent, lost in thought. One evening after this We saw two turtle-doves, With trembling throat, who, wrapt in bliss, Were wooing in their loves. In manifest delight, With wings and feathers bow’d, Their eyes fix’d on each other bright, They languish’d, moaning loud. The example made us bold, And with a pure caress, The troubles we had felt we told, Our pains and happiness. And at once from our view Then, like a shadow, fled Our childhood and its joys, but new, Love gave us his instead. In the sharp pains the tyrant Love Since first I saw thee made me feel, To thee a thousand times above, I come those pains to heal, My village girl! but soon as nigh To thee I find my way, If e’er so bold to be I try, I know not what to say. My voices fail, and mournful sighs, Malicious phrenzy watching o’er, The place of them alone supplies; While mocks my efforts more The traitor god, when anxious by My thoughts to speak I pray; If e’er so bold to be I try, I know not what to say. Then feels his fire so strong my soul, Meseems to die my only fate, My tears in torrents freely roll, And with deep groanings wait, To move thy feeling heart’s reply; But vainly, all astray, If e’er so bold to be I try, I know not what to say. I know not what, in trembling fear, That seals my lips, as yet to learn A foolish hope, thou mayst ev’n here My hapless love discern. I feel I must for ever fly From thy side far away; If e’er so bold to be I try, I know not what to say. Alas! if thou couldst, my adored! But hear those sighs, and thoughts express’d, What happiness ’twould me afford! I should be, Phyllis, blest. But woe is me! beneath thine eye, To sink in mock’d dismay, If e’er so bold to be I try, I know not what to say. When able happily am I To my poor village to escape, From all the city’s noise to fly, And cares of every shape; Like a new man my spirits give Me then to feel, in joyous link; For only then I seem to live, And only then to think. The insufferable hours that there In weariness to me return’d, Now on a course so gently bear, Their flight is scarce discern’d. The nights that there in sloth and play Alone their occupations keep, Here with choice books I pass away, And in untroubled sleep. With the first dawn I wake, to change Rejoiced the soft bed’s balmy rest, Through the life-giving air to range, That free dilates the breast. It pleases me the heavens to view, O’erspread with red and golden glows, When first his lustres to renew, His splendours Phoebus shows. It pleases me, when bright his rays, Above the zenith fiery shine, To lose me in the thick wood’s maze, And in their shade recline. When languidly he hides his head, In last reflection, even then The mountain heights I eager tread, To follow him again. And when the night its mantle wide Extends around of beaming lights, Their motions, measuring as they glide, My watchful eye recites. Then to my books return’d, with awe, My wondering thoughts, to trace, rehearse The course of that portentous law, That rules the universe. From them, and from the lofty height Of such my thoughts, I then descend To where my rustic friends await, My leisure to attend. And with them taking up the part, They give me in their toils and cares To share, with jokes that merry start, Away the evening wears. About his crops one tells me all, Another all about his vines, And what their neighbours may befall Each many a tale combines. I ponder o’er each sage advice; Their proverbs carefully I store; Their doubts and quarrels judge concise, As arbitrator o’er. My judgements all extol they free, And all together talking loud; For innocent equality Reigns in their breasts avow’d. Then soon the servant comes to bring The brimming jugs, and next with these The mirthful girl supplies the ring With chestnuts, and the cheese. And all, in brotherly content, Draw nearer round, to pass untold The sparkling cups, that wine present Of more than three years old. And thus my pleasant days to pass, In peace and happiness supreme, (For so our tastes our pleasures class,) But like a moment seem. REMEMBRANCES OF YOUTH. Like a clear little stream, That with scarcely a sound, Through the plain among flowers, Glides whirling around, So the fugitive years Of my easy life sped, Amidst laughter and play, Like a dream have fled. On that dream to look back, Oft in wonder I dwell; Nor to tear me have power From its pleasing spell. On each side in soft ease, With friends cherish’d and gay, In diversions and dance, In banquets and play, With roses Cytheran Sweet martyrdoms twine, Of the blinded ring join’d To deliriums of wine. And hopes so fallacious, Bright castles that shone In the air as upraised, By the winds overthrown. With the Muses to crown The grave tasks, that are born Of wisdom, with laurel Their sons to adorn: Here a thousand retreats Of charm’d leafy arcade, That to slumber beguile, In freshness and shade: There beyond in the bowers Of sweet Cnidus arise, As of fear and desire, Half mingled, the sighs: There the broad river spreads, Showing soft its delights, To oblivion of all Whose crystal invites; With a gaze of desire The fair banks I descend, And to the false waters My thirsty lips bend; For a full draught I seek, But feel suddenly by, Disenchant me the call Of a friendly cry:— “Where impell’d dost thou go, In such blind madness, where? O, fool! round thy footsteps Hid dangers are there! “The wild fancy restrain, Light ill-omen’d is this, Where but lures thee to whelm A fatal abyss. “Of thy happier years Is the verdure dispell’d, And what were then graces Now vices are held. “Thou art man! it befits Thee repenting in truth, To gild virtuous with toils The errors of youth!” I yield, from the current I tremblingly fly: But with eyes looking back, Repeat with a sigh,— “If to fall be a sin, What hast thou, Nature, meant? The path made so easy, So sweet the descent? “How blest are the creatures, With instincts secure, Whom to swerve from the right No perils allure!” OF THE SCIENCES. I applied myself to science, In its great truths believing, That from my troubles I hence Some ease might be receiving. O! what a sad delusion! What lessons dear I learn’d me! To verses in conclusion, And mirth and dance I turn’d me. As if it were that life could Produce so little trouble, That we with toils and strife would Make each one of them double. I stand by smiling Bacchus, In joys us wont to wrap he; The wise, Dorila, lack us The knowledge to be happy. What matters it, if even In fair as diamond splendour, The sun is fix’d in heaven? Me light he’s born to render. The moon is, so me tell they, With living beings swarmy; “There may be thousands,” well they Can never come to harm me! From Danube to the Ganges, History tells how did he The Macedonian launch his Proud banner fierce and giddy! What’s that to us, to entice us, If only half this valley, To feed our lambs suffice us, With all our wants to tally? If not, leave all to justice: Give me some drink, o’erpower’d With but to name this goddess, I feel myself a coward. They much who study ever Have thousand plagues annoy them; Which in their best endeavour Their peace and joy destroy them: And then what do they gather? A thousand doubts upspringing, Which other puzzlings farther Them other doubts are bringing. And so through life they haste on, One enviable truly! Disputes and hates to waste on, And ne’er agreeing throughly. My shepherd girl! but bring me Then wine abundant very, And fear not songs I’ll sing thee, As endlessly and merry.
THE DISDAINFUL SHEPHERDESS. If, as thou sayst, thou lovest me well, Dear girl, those scornfulnesses cease; For love can ne’er in union dwell With such asperities. Show sharp disdain, to plight if e’er Another proffers thee his troth; To two at once to listen fair Is an offence to both. Let one be chosen, so to prove How great your happiness may be; Thou calmly to enjoy his love, And he to love thee free; Above all maids to extol thee most; And thou to tenderness incline, To yield repaying him the boast His love gives forth for thine. Reserve and rigour to preside In love, is like the ice in spring, That robs fair May of all its pride, The flocks of pasturing: But kindness, like the gentle rain, Which April gives to glad the field, Which makes all flourishing the plain, And seeds their stores to yield. Be not disdainful then, but kind: Know not to certain beauteous eyes Alone all beauty is confined, Or locks of golden dyes. Vain puff’d-up beauty will appear, But like some showy ivy stem; They may surprise, but fruitless, ne’er Have any valuing them. If join’d with kindness, like the vine It seems, with fruitful stores array’d; Where all contentedly recline, Beneath its peaceful shade: And whose green stems, the elm around, When twining with adorning grace Its leaves, will hold it also bound, Firm in its fond embrace. Flower of a day is beauty’s bloom; Time leaves it soon behind: if e’er Thou doubt’st my word, let Celia’s doom The lesson true declare. Celia, for witching beauty famed Once far and wide, so foolish proud, A thousand captives who contemn’d That all before her bow’d, Now worn by years would blindly try Who to her service may be won; But finds all from her turn to fly, To look at her finds none. For with her snow and rose the beams And lustre of her eyes are flown, And like a wither’d rose-tree seems, Sad, wrinkled and alone. ’Tis but ingenuous kindness true, The maid that loves in honour’s bonds, Who listens to her lover sue, And tenderly responds; Who at his pleasantries will smile, Who dances with him at the feast, Receives the flowers his gift, the while His love with like increased; Who him her future husband sees, Is neither coy nor feels ashamed, For he as hers, and she as his, The village through are named, That always like the dawn will seem, When calm its light shines o’er the plain, And keeping all beneath her beam Bound captive in her chain: Years without clouding pass away; Care to oppress her ne’er affects; Ev’n rivalry forgives her sway, And envy’s self respects. Her cheerfulness and happy vein, Being to latest age to share, Delight of all the shepherd train, Enchantment of the fair. Be then, my Amaryllis! kind; Cease those disdainfulnesses, cease; For with thy pleasing grace combined Such harshness ill agrees. The heavens ne’er form’d thee perfect thus, Surpassingly of matchless cost, That such high gifts should ruinous Be miserably lost. Be kind, receive thy lover’s vow, And all the village thou wilt find, Who murmur at thy coldness now, To praise thee then as kind. Thus sang Belardo, at her door, His shepherd girl to wait upon, Who scornful, from her casement o’er, Bids him be silent and begone.
IV. LEANDRO FERNANDEZ MORATIN. Spanish writers have in general too much overrated the merits of their national dramas, and foreigners have too often repeated the eulogies, as if they were deserved. Like those of antiquity, the Spanish, though they abound in passages of much poetry and feeling, are almost entirely deficient in that delineation of individual character, which constitutes the highest class of the art. Thus all the representations may be observed of the same description of personages and incidents, given often with much ingenuity, but also often in the worst taste, and always betokening a limited power of invention. Of this school Calderon de la Barca was the great type, both as regards his merits and defects. Lopez de Vega too, though his comedies are more representations of manners and every-day life than Calderon’s, only showed his capability of something better, if he had allowed his genius to seek a reputation for perfectness, rather than for fecundity. The inferior order of writers mistook the errors of these for excellences, and thus exaggerated them. There were not, however, wanting in Spain persons of better judgement, who observed those errors with a view to correct them, and among whom the prominent place is due to the two Moratins, father and son. Of these the former seems to have been the first of his countrymen who openly denounced the wrong tendencies of the national dramatists; and the latter, following in the same track, may be pronounced the great reformer of the Spanish stage, to whom it owes some of its best productions. The elder Moratin was one of the ablest writers of verses in Spain during the last century, before the new Æra of poetry arose, and his merits, if not of themselves superior to those of his contemporaries, have had an advantage over them, in connexion with the reputation of the son, who has rendered them more celebrated by a pleasing memoir of his father, prefixed to his works. From this we learn, that if the father did not attain a high rank himself as a poet or dramatist, yet he well deserves to be remembered as a bold and judicious critic, who, both by precept and example, effected much good in his own day, and still more by instilling good lessons into the mind of the son, so as to enable him to attain his merited success. In the words of this memoir, “Calderon at that time enjoyed so high a reputation, that it appeared a sacrilegious hardihood to notice defects in his comedies or sacramental pieces, which, repeated annually on the stage with every possible pomp and appliance, delighted the vulgar of all classes, and perpetuated the applauses of their famous author. Moratin published three Discourses, which he entitled, ‘Exposition of the Misconceptions of the Spanish Theatre,’ written with the good judgement of a man of taste, and with the zeal of a citizen interested in the progression and literary glory of his country. In the first he showed the defects in which the old plays abounded; as also the modern, with which poets, without rule or plan, supplied the players, sanctioning every time more irregularity and ignorance. In the two following, he proved that the Autos of Calderon, so admired by the multitude, ought not to be suffered in a country that prided itself as civilized. It is unnecessary to say what opposition these discourses encountered; it is enough to add, that the third was scarcely published when the government prohibited the repetition of what he had condemned:—a memorable epoch in the annals of the Spanish stage, which can never remember, without praise, that judicious and intrepid writer to whom it owed so useful a reform.” Of this able critic, Leandro Moratin was the only son that survived childhood. He was born at Madrid, the 10th of March, 1760, and in his earliest years is described as having been remarkable for infantile grace and vivacity. At four years of age, however, he unfortunately had a severe attack of the smallpox, which not only left its disfiguring marks on his countenance, but also seemed to have changed his character, making him the rest of his life shy and reserved. As he grew up he shunned all playfellows; like Demophilus, he was a man among boys,—?e???? ??? ?? pa?s?? ????—and devoting himself to drawing and making juvenile verses, pursued his favourite studies in secret, so that even the father seemed not to have been ever fully aware of the bent of his son’s genius. The elder Moratin, whose father had been jewel-keeper to Isabel Farnesi, widow of Philip V., had been brought up to the profession of the law, in which he had not acquired any eminence, though he had some as an author. Seeing his son’s talent for drawing, he had first intended him to take advantage of it as an artist, but finally placed him with a brother, Miguel de Moratin, who was a jeweller, to learn his occupation. In his earlier years the younger Moratin had been only at an obscure private school in Madrid, but he had good examples and lessons at home, and recourse to his father’s library, where he found all the best works in Spanish literature, for secret study, beyond the tasks set in routine for his education. In 1779 the Spanish Academy, in the course of its objects for the promotion of literary pursuits, had offered, as a subject for a prize poem, The Taking of Granada; when the Accessit was awarded to a competitor who had signed himself Efren de Lardnoz y Morante. On this person being called for, Leandro Moratin, to the surprise of his father, presented himself as the author, producing the rough copy of the verses he had sent. This was naturally a source of great delight to the father, who might thus foresee, in hope at least, his son’s future success. But he did not live to witness it, having died the following year, at only forty-two years of age, leaving a widow dependent on his son’s labours as a working jeweller. At this business he continued, therefore, combining however with it his former studies, as far as his leisure permitted him. In 1782 he obtained the honour of another Accessit from the Academy for a Satire on the vicious practices introduced into the Spanish language, and a greater feeling thereupon arose in his favour from literary persons who remembered his father, with the respect due to his merits. Hence, also, Leandro Moratin, notwithstanding his natural reserve, was drawn from his retirement into the company of several young men of kindred tastes and pursuits, whose conversation and society had great and good effect on his mind and future efforts. In 1785 he published an edition of his father’s poems, with reflections, which may be considered his first essay on criticism and declaration of opinion on matters of taste, according to the precepts of the purest classicism, then so much in fashion. From his earliest years he had been much attached to the theatre, then sunk to the low state which he so feelingly describes in the preliminary discourse to his Comedies, subsequently published; and having witnessed his father’s anxiety to reform its abuses, he felt it a sort of inheritance left him to attempt the task. He had already begun one of his plays, which however he had not sufficient leisure to complete, on account of the demands for his daily labour; but about this time his mother died, and Leandro had then only his own wants to consider. At the same time the good and great Jovellanos, whose notice he had attracted, proposed him as secretary to the Conde de Cabarrus, then going to Paris on a special mission, where accordingly Leandro went with that able and enlightened statesman, in January 1787, returning to Madrid in the January following. Shortly after the Conde and Jovellanos fell into ill-favour at court, and all their friends were involved in their fall. Moratin took shelter in the obscurity of his original occupation, and so escaped notice. He completed his play, but could not get it represented, and in the course of delays had the license for it withdrawn. He wished to be exempt from labour for maintenance, to give himself up to his favourite studies, but sought in vain for other means of attaining this end than from the favour of the government. A change in the ministry having now occurred, he wrote a petition, in verse, to the Conde de Florida Blanca, in which, humorously depicting his wants, he asked a small benefice in the church. This, though a very small one, was granted him, and thereupon he had to take the first orders of the tonsure. Shortly afterwards, Godoy, Prince of the Peace, came into power, and became a still more effectual patron for Moratin, on whom he conferred other benefices and favours, to the amount of about £600 a year sterling, so that he became at once, for his position in life, wealthy, and enabled to devote himself entirely to literature. It has been the fashion lately for all parties to decry Godoy, and there can be no doubt that he was guilty of much misconduct in the exercise of power. But he was in this only acting according to the circumstances in which he was placed, and the favourite and minister of a weak-minded and despotic monarch could not be expected to have acted much otherwise than he did. In the memoirs he published in his later years in his justification, Godoy has, in a tone of apparent sincerity and earnestness, sometimes amounting even to eloquence, shown that often he could not have acted otherwise, and that his faults were the faults of his position, while his merits were his own. He declares that he was the first minister in Spain who curbed the power of the Inquisition, and that he had never instituted any prosecution for private opinions. His treatment of Jovellanos he might well excuse to himself, as a return for hostility manifested to him under circumstances that he might consider to warrant it. But of other eminent men of learning and of the arts he was the munificent patron, of Melendez among others, and of Moratin more especially. The former dedicated to him the second edition of his works, and Moratin now one of his plays, which had been received with much favour. From this dedication, a judgement may be formed by the translation, of the spirit of Moratin, that, while under the sense of great obligations, he did not condescend, like other poets, to flatter his MÆcenas’s vanity by ascriptions of descent from ancient kings or other fictions; but dwelt only on his personal qualities, and the great power which he undoubtedly possessed, as exercised in his favour. The same spirit Moratin showed in his letter to Jovellanos, in which adulation could less be imputed to him, as that illustrious individual was in disgrace at court, and no longer the dispenser of the favours of the government. But Moratin showed the independence of his character still more decidedly, in refusing the request made by Godoy that he should write eulogistic verses on a lady of the court; and it is to the honour of Godoy, we are informed, that though he was at first angry at the refusal, he passed it over without subsequent notice. To another request made by Godoy, for an ode on the Battle of Trafalgar, Moratin acceded, though it is stated with considerable disinclination to the task. He could not, he replied at first, celebrate a lost battle, and as Hermosillia tells us, could not hide from himself the ridiculousness of having to represent a complete defeat as a glorious triumph, though the “dreaded Nelson” had fallen in it. He felt bound, however, to obey the favourite and to reconcile his task to justice, wrote his ‘Shade of Nelson,’ in imitation of the Prophecy of Nereus, and of the Tagus by Fray Luis de Leon. In this poem, he represents Nelson appearing the same night on the heights of Trafalgar, and foretelling England’s approaching ruin, notwithstanding the victory which had been gained “so dearly, as to be in reality a discomfiture.” He observes, that “Napoleon, having overcome the Austrians, would now turn all his energies to the conquest of England, while Spain would raise a mightier fleet to join him. He therefore counselled his countrymen to abandon their ambitious projects and make peace, and to create disunion in foreign countries by corrupting their cabinets, for the purpose of maintaining their preponderance.” The thoughts are expressed in elegant poetical language, but the whole argument shows how little feeling he had in favour of the subject. In the last edition of his works prepared for publication before his death, he took care to have it omitted, but it has been again inserted in subsequent editions. Prior to this, however, he had had a full opportunity of judging the character of the English nation. He had obtained permission to go abroad from Godoy, who also munificently gave him the means for that purpose. He first went to Paris, where he had scarcely arrived, in September 1792, when hearing a great tumult in the streets, and looking out for the occasion of it, he saw the head of the Princess de Lamballe borne along by the infuriated multitude on a pike. Horror-struck at the sight, he immediately left Paris for London, as, says his biographer, “anxious to contemplate for the first time true liberty arrayed in popular forms, without the mortal convulsions of licentiousness, or the withering foot-marks of oppression.” Here he stayed about a year, taking notes of the lively impressions made on him of the “character, ideas, traditions, legislation, and political and commercial tendency of that singular nation, so worthy of being studied.” It may be allowed us to regret that those notes were never published, and perhaps the censor’s license for them could not have been obtained. The only fruit of his visit was a translation of Hamlet, which he published in 1798, on his return. On leaving England, Moratin passed through Flanders and some parts of Germany and Switzerland to Italy, whence, after visiting all the principal cities there, he returned to Spain in December 1796. Previous to his arrival in Madrid, he had been appointed Secretary Interpreter of languages, a valuable appointment in itself, but still more so to him, as it left him sufficient leisure for study. He took advantage of this to proceed with several dramas with which he enriched the Spanish stage, and had projected others which he felt under the necessity of abandoning. In several of his pieces, and especially in the Mogigata, which Maury translates La Femelle Tartuffe, he had offended the clerical party, so that he was denounced to the Inquisition, and though preserved from their power under the protection of Godoy, he was subjected to many and great annoyances. In consequence of these, he determined to give up further writing for the stage, contenting himself with producing afterwards only some translations from the French, and with preparing his most valuable work, ‘On the Spanish Theatre.’ This work treats the subject historically, and abounds with much interesting information as well as sound criticisms. On it he passed the latter years of his life, so that it was not published until after his death. Shortly after his return from Italy he was named one of a commission to reform the stage, and on this proving insufficient for the purposes intended, he was appointed Director of Theatres by royal order. No one, it might be thought, could be better adapted for this office, and it would have seemed one agreeable to his inclinations; but he declined it, preferring to effect the reforms he recommended by example rather than by exercise of authority. The events of the 19th March, 1808, deprived Godoy of his power, and the French armies soon after entered Madrid. Moratin had remained at his post in the execution of the duties of his office, and became involved in the course of proceedings, the final character of which he could not foresee. He was set down as one of the French party, and so exposed to public obloquy, that when the French had to evacuate Madrid, he felt himself under the necessity of going with them. When they returned he returned with them, and was appointed, by Joseph Buonaparte, Chief of the Royal Library, an appointment which was most congenial to his taste, and which would have been exceedingly appropriate for him to accept, had it been only from the national government. As it was, he had to fly from Madrid a second time with the intruders, and henceforth there was nothing for him in life but privations to endure. Some houses which he had bought had been seized, and one of them sold. Another, which was restored to him, had been much injured, and his books and property destroyed. His benefices were denied him; a merchant, with whom he had entrusted his money, became bankrupt; and a dependent, in whom he had confided, by his defalcation brought a further heavy loss on his means. He had at first retired to France, but having been excepted from the list of the proscribed by Ferdinand VII., he returned to Spain, and for a length of time resided at Barcelona. But the Inquisition was attempting to rise again into power, and Moratin, naturally of a timid disposition, felt himself marked out for a victim. He could not submit to live subject to be watched and kept in constant alarm; and even when this office was finally put down, he felt the frequent recurrence of public commotions more agitating than he could endure. He therefore determined again to retire to France, first to Bayonne, in 1823, and afterwards to Bordeaux, to live with a friend, named Silvela, who had a seminary at that place, and in whose society he felt sure of enjoying domestic happiness. Through his whole life, Moratin seems to have required the aid of friends on whom to rely for daily needs and attentions; and it was fortunate for him, in his advanced age and under the pressure of infirmities, to possess such a resting-place as in Silvela’s establishment. Shortly after this friend removed to Paris, where also Moratin followed him, and there he died, the 21st June, 1828. He was buried in the cemetery of PÈre la Chaise, in one of the lines to the right of the chapel, between the remains of MoliÈre and Lafontaine, where a simple monument, with a cinerary urn, marks his grave. “There,” says his biographer, “in a foreign land, lies a celebrated Spaniard, to whom his country did not offer sufficient security to allow him to die tranquilly in her bosom. A man averse to all party feeling, obedient to existing authority, whether of fact or of right, absorbed in his studies, teacher from his retirement of the purest morality, incapable of injuring any one, or of exciting disorder even indirectly, he had to wander forth many years, not proscribed, but driven away by apprehensions too justly entertained.” After his death there were several editions of his works published, both in France and Spain: the last one in the collection of Spanish authors by Rivadeneyra, Madrid 1848, as the last seems most correct and complete. This republication is more interesting, as also containing, in the same volume, the works of his father, Nicolas Moratin. It is to be regretted that other works of his, yet existing in manuscript, have not been added, especially the account of his travels. Moratin was an exceedingly careful writer, and very fastidious in the correction of his verses. His admirers, especially those of the classic school, have praised him as a great lyric poet, even superior to Melendez. This, however, he felt was not just; and without derogating from his merits, we must pronounce him far inferior to that eminent poet, whose works surpassed all that had preceded him in Spanish poetry. The fame of Moratin must rest on his plays, into which, however, it is not the object of this work to enter, confined as it is to lyric poetry. They are only five in number, and, like Sheridan’s, are remarkable for neatness and elegance of dialogue, as much as for incident and character. The Spanish theatre owes all its subsequent merit to Moratin; he reformed the taste of the times by giving the stage better works than it had previously possessed, and assuredly was thus one of the greatest public benefactors of his age. LEANDRO FERNANDEZ MORATIN. DEDICATION OF THE COMEDY OF THE MOGIGATA TO THE PRINCE OF THE PEACE. In the history of the literature of every country, it is interesting to observe with what noiseless steps true genius generally proceeds to win popular favour, compared with the means to which mediocrity resorts for whatever share of notice it can attain. There are some writers who, with great talent, have some counterbalancing deficiency, respecting whose merits more discussion will be consequently excited, than respecting the superior qualities of others, not liable to the same observations. To obtain that kind of notoriety, it is often requisite to belong to some school or party, whose praise will give a temporary importance to works written, according to their taste or system, while those out of their pale will be passed over with at best only cold commendations. In Spain, as elsewhere, poetry has had its classical and romantic schools, and the merits of all writers, belonging to one or the other of them, were fully set forth by their respective partisans; while, if there happened to be one who could not be claimed by either, like Arriaza, he was allowed to pass comparatively unnoticed by the critics of the day. Of this very pleasing author no detailed biography has been published; and his claims to be considered one of the first modern poets of Spain seem to be scarcely recognized by his countrymen, who read with surprise the commendations passed on him abroad. Thus they have allowed seven editions of his works to be circulated and exhausted, without satisfying our curiosity by any of those particulars of private life, with which we love to consider the characters of worth and genius. All we are informed of him, in the short notices given of Arriaza by Wolf, Maury and Ochoa, is, that he was born at Madrid, in the year 1770, where the last-mentioned writer also says he died, in 1837. From his name, it would seem that he was of Basque descent, and his family connections must have been “noble” and influential, from his career through life, though we have no account given of them. We learn, however, that he was educated at the Seminary of Nobles at Madrid, whence he was afterwards sent a cadet to the Military College at Segovia, and that he finally entered the navy. In one of his Epistles, in verse, he informs us that he was engaged in the expedition to Oran, and thence sailed to Constantinople, of which he gives a poetical description. In 1798 he had to quit this service, on account of a disease of the eyes; and he then published the first edition of his poems. In 1802 he was appointed Secretary of Legation at London, and there wrote his principal poem, ‘Emilia,’ which was published at Madrid in the year following. The subject was the wish of a lady of fortune to bring up orphan children and others to the study of the fine arts; and it contains many fine passages, but was left unfinished. In 1805 he went to Paris, where also he resided some time. On his return to Spain, he took part in the struggles against the French, having entered the ranks as a soldier, and having by his verses also vehemently instigated his countrymen to rise against the invaders. Of all the poets of the day, he seems to have been the most prolific in those patriotic effusions, which, no doubt, agreeing so well with the national temperament, had no small effect in keeping up the spirit of the Spanish people throughout the war. When the French entered Madrid, Arriaza, while engaged in resisting them, had a brother killed by his side, fighting in the same cause, to whose memory he has given a tribute of affection accordingly among his verses. In the subsequent discussions in Spain respecting the government, Arriaza took part with those who advocated the rights of the absolute king. For this advocacy, on the return of Ferdinand VII. to full power, he received his reward, having been appointed Knight of the Order of Charles III., and Secretary of Decrees, besides receiving several other minor favours and offices. Henceforth Arriaza seems to have passed his life at court, in the quiet enjoyment of literary pursuits. He might be considered the Poet Laureate of Spain, as he seems to have allowed scarcely any opportunity to pass by unhonoured, of paying homage to the court in celebration of birthdays and other such occasions. His works abound with these loyal effusions, though they might generally have been better omitted. It must, however, be said, in justice, that he was evidently sincere in those principles, to which he adhered under all circumstances, even when the Constitutionalists were in the ascendent. Once only he was betrayed into an eulogium of the other line of opinions, which had an effect rather ludicrous, so far as he was concerned in it. In 1820, when the constitution of 1812 had been anew promulgated, a friend of his, Don Luis de Onis, was appointed minister from Spain to Naples, and a banquet having been given him on his departure, Arriaza was induced to write verses on the occasion, which, full of apparent enthusiasm, abounded in spirit and beautiful images, beyond his usual facility and fulness of expression. Carried away, no doubt, by the contagion of the company, he gave way to what, in soberer mood, he would have thought most dangerous doctrines. He painted the envoy as going “to Parthenope to announce our revolution;” adding, “To Parthenope that is now groaning beneath flowery chains, and to whom, though her syrens celebrate her in songs of slavery, thou wilt be the Spanish TyrtÆus, and raise them to the high employ to sing of country and virtue;” praising the heroism of Riego as to be offered as an example, “to throw down the holds of oppression.” The Neapolitan government obtained notice of this composition, and actually used it as sufficient cause for objecting to receive Don Luis as Spanish minister, “because he was coming to inculcate revolutionary principles.” Arriaza heard with horror that he was stigmatized as a liberal, and was urgent to disclaim such opinions, notwithstanding what he had written. Don Luis meanwhile was detained at Rome, until, by a strange coincidence, the revolution broke out at Naples also, and he entered the city almost as in fulfilment of the prophecy, that he was to be the harbinger of it. The best edition of Arriaza’s works is that of 1829, printed at the Royal Press of Madrid, of which the one of Paris, 1834, is a reprint. They consist of almost all varieties of song, and are almost all equally charming. His satirical pieces even are light and pleasing, as well as his anacreontic and erotic effusions, while his patriotic songs and odes breathe a spirit well suited to the subjects. Maury, who has made him better known abroad by his praises than others, his contemporaries, seems to have regarded him with especial favour. He says of him:—“Depuis Lope de Vega, M. d’Arriaza est le seul de nos poËtes qui nous semble penser en vers. La nature le fit poËte, les ÉvÈnements l’ont fait auteur. Il Était arrivÉ À sa rÉputation littÉraire sans y prÉtendre, il l’accrue pour ainsi dire À son corps dÉfendant.” In truth he seems to have poured forth his verses without effort, as a bird does its song, with a simplicity and truthfulness which went to the heart of the hearer, and left in it a sensation of their being only the echoes of its own. As Maury has well observed, “parlent À la raison et À l’esprit, comme au coeur et À l’imagination, elles offrent en mÊme temps aux amateurs de la langue Castillane les sons harmonieux et les tournures piquantes qui la distinguent avec une grande ÉlÉgance de diction et une clartÉ rare chez la plupart de nos Écrivains.” It is true that his style is exceedingly easy, and the expression generally very clear, but it must also be acknowledged, on the part of the translator, that obscurities are frequently to be found in his lines, when he must discover a meaning for himself. It was Arriaza’s own doctrine in the prologue to his works, “that there can be no true expression of ideas where there does not reign the utmost clearness of diction; that what the reader does not conceive at the first simple reading, cannot make in his imagination the prompt effect required, and much less move his heart in any way. This clearness,” he observes, “should also be associated with a constant elegance of expression; though he does not consider this elegance to consist in a succession of grammatical inversions, or revolving adjectives, or metaphor on metaphor, but the mode most select and noble of saying things becomingly to the style in which they are written.” Arriaza was eminently what the French call a poËte de sociÉtÉ; and thus his verses were favourites with the higher classes particularly. He abjured the practices of the Romanticists who affected to despise the shackles of metre, as if the melody of verse, being merely mechanism, were of inferior consideration. On the contrary, he intimates that he considers it of primary importance, as if “whether a statue should be made of wax or marble.” Thus he made cadence a principal study, and his verses becoming thereby better adapted for music, obtained greater vogue in the higher circles by means of accompaniments. Some even seem to have been expressly written for that purpose; for instance, among other pieces of a domestic character, one, a very pleasing Recitative, in which his wife and daughter join him in thanksgiving for his recovery from a dangerous illness. Though generally far from being impassioned, some of his verses are full of tender feeling, as the ‘Young Sailor’s Farewell.’ This may be pronounced the most popular piece of modern poetry in Spain, being most in the memories of those whom he himself calls “the natural judges in these matters, the youth of both sexes, in whose lively imagination and sensible hearts may find better acceptation, the only two gifts with which I may rejoice to have endowed my verses, naturalness and harmony.” Arriaza must have acquired in his youth the rudiments of a sound education, and he was distinguished in later life for a knowledge of the French, Italian and English languages. Still he was not considered by his contemporaries as a person of extensive reading; and thus we do not find in his works any allusions or illustrations of a classical character, though it is almost ludicrous to observe with what pertinacity he introduces the personages of the heathen mythology, on all occasions where he can do so. Some of his ideas also run into the ridiculous, as in one of his best pieces, ‘La Profecia del Pirineo,’ he says, that on the heroic defenders of Zaragoza “there were at once on their faithful brows raining bombs and laurels.” The Ode to Trafalgar, notwithstanding its being liable to the observation above made, of too frequent invocations of the Muses, is an admirable exemplification of an appropriate poem on such a subject. This battle, no doubt on account of its decisive effect, has been more celebrated than others. But it must be acknowledged to have been an unequal fight between the British and the Spanish portion of the allied fleet, as the former were in a high state of discipline, and the latter were newly levied and hurried out of port, before the officers and men had become sufficiently acquainted with one another to take their respective parts, with the precision necessary for such an occasion. Yet it is well known that the Spaniards fought with desperate and unswerving courage throughout, and their poets were therefore well warranted in taking the subject, as one doing honour to the national bravery. The circumstances of the battle have lately again come into discussion in Spain, with naturally considerable warmth, on M. Thiers, in his History of the Consulate and the Empire, having been guilty of the extraordinary error to allege that the Spanish fleet fled, the greater part of them, from the battle, when, in fact, it was only the division of the French Admiral Dumanoir that had done so. This he did “for the purpose of preserving a naval division for France,” as Dumanoir himself afterwards stated, in his justification, though he was disappointed in that patriotic wish, having been met a few days after by Sir Robert Calder’s squadron, when all his four ships were taken in a less renowned combat. The translation of the Ode has been made as nearly into the same metre with the original, as the forms of verse used in the two languages would admit. That of the ‘Farewell’ may be considered in the same light also, though the original has the first and fourth lines rhyming together, and the second with the third. This is an old and common form in Spanish poetry, and agrees well with our alternate lines of eight and six syllables, which Johnson considered “the most soft and pleasing of our lyric measures.” In the Ode, it is interesting to observe not only the manly style of sentiment throughout, but also the absence of any ungenerous feeling against the English. Arriaza had, however, both as a seaman and a diplomatist, while resident in England, had sufficient opportunities of learning to think more justly of the English character than some other writers of the Continent. Beyond his poems, Arriaza wrote several political pamphlets. The first was published at Seville in 1809, after the battle of Talavera, when the English, notwithstanding the victory, had to retreat into Portugal, giving occasion to the French party in Spain to allege that they were about to abandon the country to the French, and keep possession of the principal ports. In this pamphlet, which he entitled the ‘Pharos of Public Opinion,’ Arriaza combated these suspicions, and by a strenuous assertion of the good faith of the English, succeeded in disabusing the minds of his countrymen of what he termed “such malignant insinuations.” The second pamphlet he termed ‘Virtue of Necessity,’ shortly after the disastrous battle of Ocania; and its object was to stimulate the English government and nation to give more assistance than they had yet done, by money and otherwise. He proposed in return to give the English free right of commerce with the Spanish colonies in America, at least for a stated period, observing that they already had extensive dealings with them by contraband, and that the free commerce would make the English neutral, at least, in the question of the colonies wishing to declare themselves independent, while otherwise it would be their interest to have them independent. This pamphlet especially is full of sound statesmanlike ideas, and proves how well he was acquainted with the state of public feeling in England, on the several particulars respecting which he was writing. A third pamphlet he wrote in English, and published it in London in 1810, where he was then sent on the part of the Spanish government. This he entitled ‘Observations on the system of war of the Allies in the Peninsula;’ and he endeavoured in it to urge the English to send more troops to the Peninsula, at certain points, where he considered they would be of most avail in disconcerting the plans of the French, and assisting the Guerrilla warfare the Spaniards were carrying on. He explained the determined fidelity of the Spaniards to the cause of their independence, but showed they would be insufficient to effect it, without the assistance he came to seek. This pamphlet was favourably received in England, and was noticed in Parliament; and the author had the good fortune to hope that his efforts had been successful, as he says, “The English government then sent greater reinforcements to their army, which emerging from its inaction, acquired the superiority preserved until the happy conclusion of the war.” For these and other writings, Arriaza received the thanks of the Regency in the name of the king, and had just cause to consider that a sufficient counterbalance to the misrepresentations made of his conduct in France, and elsewhere, by the opposite party. In a note affixed to the last edition of his poems, he complains that in a work published in France, ‘Biography of Contemporary Characters,’ there was an article respecting him “full of errors, even regarding the most public circumstances of his life,” which he seems to have considered written from party feeling. If his surmises were correct, it is the more to be regretted that he did not take the best means of correcting those misrepresentations, by giving an authentic biographical account of his career in reply. He might thus not only have done justice to himself, but also have satisfied the desires of his admirers, who would naturally have felt sufficient interest in his fame to have rejoiced in those details. Whatever may be the course which a man of genius takes in public life from honest principles, he may always rely on finding in literature a neutral harbour where he may retire in confidence from all turmoils, and expect full justice awarded to his motives and memory. In the midst of political contentions, where so much always depends on circumstances with which we are little acquainted, it is often difficult at the time to know what is the proper course to follow. It is enough for us that those we admire have ever been distinguished for their sincerity and uprightness in the conduct they pursued. With regard to Arriaza, our greatest regret must be that, with his apparently extreme facility of versification, and capability of elevating his mind to the conception of nobler subjects, he confined his genius so much to trivial events of the day, and thus wrote for his contemporaries instead of for posterity. JUAN BAUTISTA DE ARRIAZA. TEMPEST AND WAR, OR THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR. ODE. I fain would sing of victory; But know, the God of harmony, Dispenser of renown, For fortune’s turn has little care, And bids superior valour bear, Alone, the immortal crown. See in his temple, shining yet, Those at ThermopylÆ who set Of manly fortitude Examples rare, or ’neath thy wall Who, sad Numantia, shared thy fall, But falling unsubdued. There are to whom has fate bestow’d The lot, that always on the road Of docile laurels borne, Success should fly their steps before, And in their hands events in store Should lose each cruel thorn. As heroes these the vulgar choose, If not as gods, but I refuse Such homage for the mind; And in Bellona’s doubtful strife, Where fortune’s angry frowns are rife, There heroes seek to find. O! true of heart, and brave as true! Illustrious Clio, turn thy view Afar the vast seas o’er; For deeds, in spite of fate abhorr’d, Than these more worthy to record Ne’er pass’d thy view before. To abase the wealthy Gades, see, From haunts of deep obscurity, The fellest Fury rise! And from her direful hand launch’d forth, Transform’d the forests of the North, She floating walls supplies. Her envy is the city fair Of Hercules, so proudly there, Couch’d on the Atlantic gates; Girt by the sea, that from the west Comes fraught with gold, and her behest Before her bending waits. With venal aid of hate assists Unfruitful England, throne of mists, Whose fields no sun behold; Which Flora with false smile has clad In sterile green, where flowers look sad, And love itself is cold. Greedy the poison gold to seize, They with the monster Avarice, The peace of Spain abhor; And by their horrid arts increased, Turn ev’n the treasures of the East To instruments of war. Their proud Armada, which the main Tosses to heaven, or threats in vain To engulf, they mustering show: Ye suffer it not, ye pupils brave Of the Basans, and to the wave Launch yours to meet the foe. As by conflicting winds close driven, The dark clouds o’er the vault of heaven Across each other fly; And troubling mortals with the roar, The electric fluids flashing o’er Dispute the sway on high, So from both sides the battle roll’d, The sails their wings of flame unfold, And ship to ship they close; Combined, O! day of hapless fame, Four elements with man proclaim The unequal war that rose. Who in the whirlwind of dense smoke, To Mars that in fit incense woke, From hollow ordnance sent, With iron flames, a countless host, Sounds that unhinging shaking cross’d The eternal firmament,— Who in that lake of fire and blood, Midst crashing masts and raging flood Of havoc and its train,— Who by the light the picture shows, May not your blood-stain’d brows disclose, O! noble chiefs of Spain? With crimson dyed, or with the brand Of sulphurous powder, firm ye stand, As in the conflict dire, The sacrilegious giants rear’d, Serene the shining gods appear’d, Midst rolling clouds of fire. Shouts forth your courage hoarsely high Bellona’s metal roar, the cry The combat to inflame; Nor fear ye mortals, when ye view The streams of blood the waves imbue, Your prowess that proclaim. With iron clogg’d the air, the breath Is drawn each with a dart of Death, Whose skeleton immense Rises exulting o’er the scene, To see such fury rage, and glean His devastation thence. O! how he crops youth’s fairest flowers, Or grief o’er life for ever lowers! See there for vengeance strains One arm for one that off is torn, Or when away the head is borne, Erect the trunk remains. But, ah! what fiery column broke There to the wind, and mid dense smoke Then to the abyss down threw Heads, bodies, arms and woods confused, And hands yet with the swords unloosed They for their country drew! Struck by the sound groans Trafalgar; Olympus shakes as in the war The savage Titans waged, When through the waves their forges roll’d Ætna, Vesuvius, and untold Volcanoes burning raged. Trembling the monsters of the deep Against each other beating, sweep Off to the Herculean Strait; In horror heaven is clouded o’er, Lashing the seas the north winds roar, In shame infuriate. Of its own rage, the foaming brine, Is born the tempest, fearful sign Of more disastrous night; Mars at the view restrains his cry; Bark Scylla and Charybdis high, The fiends whom wrecks delight. Swift as a thunderbolt ye come, The unhappy relics to consume Of fire, ye winds and waves! O, Night! who may thy fearfulness, Thy vast amount of woes express, Without the tear it craves! Yield to the cruel element At length the ships, that long unbent Its haughtiest rage defied; Men sink yet living, and for e’er Closes o’er them their sepulchre, The insatiable tide. Save him, Minerva! who around From East to West, the earth’s wide bound, Was happier once thy care! Urania, this thy votary save! O, Love! how many fond hearts crave That one’s last sigh to share! Some to their much-loved country swim, That horror-struck retires, and dim In quicksands seems to fly; Hid by the waves them death unveils, And to the wreck’d-worn seamen’s wails They only fierce reply. Never may Time, in his long flight, Join day more terrible and night: But who in such a strife, Who constant overcame such fate, Where may we danger find so great For dauntless heart in life? O, Clio! where? yet midst that rage, With golden pen and deathless page, Thou lovest the brave to greet; Gravina, Alava, each name Write, and Escanio’s, echoes fame Olympic will repeat. And others, but my voice repels The love that in my memory dwells; O, Cosmo! hard thy lot! O, Muses! him the laurels give, Whose friend is only left to live, And weep him unforgot. Tried adverse fortune to endure, Your valour proved sublime and pure, O, Mariners of Spain! Your life your country’s shield and strength, Defended and avenged at length, She will be yet again. The Lion and the Eagle yet May have them Neptune’s arm abet, Now England’s slave and boast; Who from her lofty poops shall view Your troops resistless pouring through In torrents on her coast. Suffice it now, as tribute paid, Her great Chief’s death; the Thames to shade, Doubling with grief her gloom: That cover’d thus with honour’d scars, She sees you wait, in happier wars, The combat to resume. Ye go, as on the Libyan shore The lion walks, that fiercely tore The hunter’s cunning snare; That not ingloriously o’erborne, Calmly and fear’d, though bleeding, worn— Regains his sandy lair.
THE PARTING. Sylvia! the cruel moment’s near, When I must say farewell! For hark! the cannon’s sounds we hear Of my departure tell. Thy lover comes to give thee now The last adieu, and part! With sorrow overcast his brow, And sorrowful his heart. Come, object of my love divine! Reach me those beauteous arms: Would fate my happy lot assign My home and rest thy charms, The blow that threatens its decree To give, I should not meet; For sooner then than part, ’twould see Me dying at thy feet. O! had our passion equal force, Or been of equal growth, The grief of absence might its course Divide between us both! But thou a face indifferent, Or pleased, dost give to view, Whilst I have not ev’n breath content To say to thee, Adieu. A gentle river murmuring by, In calmness bathes the plain, And of its waters the supply Sees beauteous flowers attain; In silence thou, my lonely grief, Dost bathe my wretched breast, And Sylvia’s pity in relief For me canst not arrest. But what, my Sylvia, dost thou say? What means that tender sigh? Why do I see, mid tears that stray, Shine forth thy beaming eye? As opens to the sun opposed On some clear day the cloud, And his rays make the drops disclosed To sparkle as they flow’d. On me dost thou those languid eyes Turn with that tender gaze? Loses thy cheek its rosy dyes, Nor beauty less displays? Thy ruby lips a moment brief Thou opest, and sorrow seals! How fair the very show of grief Itself in thee reveals! Insensate! how I wildly thought My bitter griefs would gain Some ease, if thou wert also taught A portion of my pain! Pardon the error that deceived, O, Sylvia! I implore; Me more thy sorrow now has grieved, Than thy disdain before. My bliss! I pray no more to swerve! Calm those heart-breaking pains: Thy grief to have, does not deserve All that the world contains. May all life’s hours, in calm serene, Be ever pass’d by thee; And all that darker intervene Reserved alone for me! For me, whose lonely wretched doom By heaven has been decreed To bear fate’s cruelty and gloom, Wherever it may lead. But not on thee, so lovely born, Form’d of a power divine, To hold ev’n fate a subject sworn To every will of thine. Whilst thou my absence mayst lament, Thy comfort mayst descry, By fate a thousand lovers sent More to thy choice than I. Some one she pleases me above To favour chance may show; But one to love thee as I love, That none can ever know. ’Twas not thy graces won my heart, Nor yet thy faultless face; But ’twas some sympathy apart I might from birth retrace. I long a picture loved to draw Of charms I fancied true, And thy perfections when I saw, The original I knew. No traveller upon the ground By sudden lightning thrown, The blow could more at once confound, Left helpless and alone, Than I to see that beauteous brow, In hapless love was lost; At thy feet forced at once to bow, To adore whate’er the cost. But I depart, alas! the pain No words can e’er express; Heaven only knows it that can scan The inmost heart’s recess; And saw the hours of deep delight, So full now long pass’d by, That all my wishes’ utmost height Heap’d up could satisfy. Now while the breezes fair avail, The waves are gently stirr’d, And of the mariners the hail Confused afar is heard: Now from the deep’s tenacious hold The anchor’s fangs they heave, And all conspiring are enroll’d Me swifter death to give. Now with a vacillating foot The slender boat I tread, Soon destined from the bank to shoot, As to the great bark sped. Sylvia, in this sad moment’s pause, O! what a mournful crowd Of thoughts around thy lover close, To assault him and o’ercloud! The sweet requital in return Thou givest my love I know; And kind remembrances discern All thy affections show; Whilst here each proof assures me well That naught thy heart can move; But in my absence, who can tell If thou wilt faithful prove? For those divine attractions whence Now all my joys arise, Perhaps may fate the cause dispense Of all my miseries; And whilst I absent and forlorn My pledges lost deplore, Some rival gains of me in scorn The enchantments I adore! But no, my bliss, my glory! ne’er Were given the winds in vain Those vows, which envied me to share The universe my gain. Let us time’s tyranny defy, And distance, constant thus Remaining in that changeless tie, That then united us. When rises first the beamy sun, When sets his beauteous ray, When moon and stars their courses run, On thee my thoughts will stay. From that enchanting form my heart No moment will be free; And traitress thou, when I depart Wilt ne’er ev’n think of me! At lonely hours across my thought Gulf’d in the ocean vast, The scenes to memory will be brought With thee I saw and pass’d. Then will my sorrows make me feel My lot more dark to be, And thou more cruel than the steel Wilt ne’er ev’n think of me! “There first her matchless form I saw; There first my faith I swore; And from her flattering lips could draw The happy ‘Yes’ they wore!” As these reflections by me file, Rise griefs in like degree; And thou, who knows, if thou the while Wilt e’er ev’n think of me? Then as I hours of glory call Those when I thee beheld; And of my griefs the sources all When from thy sight repell’d; A thousand times the thoughts enhance The doom ’tis mine to see, Meanwhile who knows, if thou perchance Wilt e’er ev’n think of me? When in the heavens I view unfurl’d The awful signs arise, With which the Ruler of the world Poor mortals terrifies; When sounds are in the deepest caves Of horrid thunderings nigh, And of the seas the troubled waves Rage furiously on high; When by the south wind is impell’d The proud Tyrrhenian main, As if from its deep bosom swell’d To assault the starry train; When the despairing steersman turns To prayer, instead of skill, Seeing his bark the ocean spurns The plaything of its will; Amid the hoarse and troubled cries The people raise around, While shines the sword before their eyes Of death, to strike them bound; Ev’n then will I my love’s farewell In that dark hour renew, And to the winds my sighs shall tell— Sylvia! my life, Adieu!
VI. MANUEL JOSÈ QUINTANA. Connecting the present age of modern Spanish poetry with that of the past generation, by a happily protracted existence, as well as by the style and tone of his writings, the venerable subject of this memoir still survives, to close a life of active usefulness in a healthy and honoured old age. Quintana was born at Madrid, the 11th April, 1772, of a respectable family of Estremadura. He received his primary education in classical learning at Cordova, whence he proceeded to Salamanca, and graduated there in canon and civil law. In this university he had the advantage of studying under Melendez Valdes, by whom he was soon favourably noticed, and was made known to the illustrious Jovellanos, by whose counsels also he had the good fortune to be assisted. Thus his natural disposition for the study of elegant literature was encouraged, both by precept and example, under two such able directors, to take a higher course than the mere study of law, for which profession he was destined. Having been admitted an Advocate of the Supreme Court, he has held various appointments, as fiscal of the tribunal of commerce, and censor of theatres; afterwards chief clerk of the Secretary-General to the Central Junta of Government, secretary of decrees and interpretation of languages, member of the censorship to the Cortes, and of the commission for the formation of a new plan of education. In the last, he was charged with the duty of drawing up a report of all the works on the subject presented to the government, which was, in 1835, approved of by the Cortes. In the two former of these employments he was interrupted by the French invasion, when he took an active part against the invaders. Receiving afterwards the other offices mentioned, he wrote many of the proclamations and other addresses which were put forth on the part of the national government, during the struggle for independence. Throughout those eventful times, he was in the most advanced rank of the party that advocated constitutional rights, so that when Ferdinand VII. returned to the possession of absolute power, in 1814, he was, amongst the proscribed, made a prisoner, and confined in the castle of Pamplona. There he was kept six years, without being allowed to communicate with his friends, or make use of his pen. On the constitutional government becoming re-established, he was released, and restored to his offices as secretary for the interpretation of languages, and member of the board of censors. In 1821, the directorship-general of public education having been formed, he was made president, until 1823, when the constitution was again set aside, and he was again deprived of his employments. Hereupon Quintana retired to Estremadura to his family, and lived there till the end of 1828, when he was permitted to return to Madrid, to continue his labours and literary studies. The following year he was named member of the board for the museum of natural sciences, and in 1833 was re-established in his former employment, as secretary for interpretations for which his knowledge of the French, English and other languages rendered him qualified, and also reappointed president of the council of public instruction. He was shortly after appointed preceptor to her present Majesty, Queen Isabel II., and although ever maintaining strong liberal principles, has been since, under the administration of Narvaez, named a senator of the kingdom. Quintana first appeared as an author in 1795, when he published a small volume of poems, among which was an Ode to the Sea, considered one of his best compositions. The greater part, however, of them were of unequal merit, and those have been omitted in subsequent editions: the next one was published in 1802, and it has been reprinted with additions several times. The best and most complete edition of his poetical works was published at Madrid, in 1820, in two volumes, entitled, ‘Poems, including the patriotic odes and tragedies, the Duke of Viseo, and Pelayo.’ Of this edition five or six surreptitious reprints have been made at Bordeaux and elsewhere, the laws regarding copyright having only lately been made accordant with justice in Spain as regards authors, though they do not yet extend them protection against piratical republications from abroad. The tragedy of the ‘Duke of Viseo,’ imitated from the English, the ‘Castle Spectre’ of Lewis, was brought forward in 1801, and that of ‘Pelayo’ in 1805. The latter, on a favourite subject of their ancient history, was received with much favour by his countrymen, as were also many of his patriotic odes and poems, written in a spirit accordant with the national feeling. Most of these were at the time inserted in two periodical works he had under his direction; the first, ‘Variedades de Ciencias, Literatura y Artes,’ and the second, the ‘Seminario Patriotico,’ which was of a political character, and established to promote, and sustain the spirit of independence, against the French invasion. Beyond his original poems, Quintana has done an important service to Spanish literature by publishing ‘A Collection of select Spanish Poetry,’ altogether in six volumes, Madrid, 1830-33, with critical and biographical notices, reprinted in Paris by Baudry, 1838. These notices are written in a tone of great impartiality and fairness, and are preceded by a Dissertation, as an Introduction, on the History of Spanish Poetry, which, written as it is with eminent ability, Mr. Wiffen has shown great judgement in translating, prefixed to his very correct and elegant version of the works of Garcilasso de la Vega, London, 1823. Besides this valuable collection of Spanish poetry, Quintana has favoured the public with a work in three volumes,—‘Lives of celebrated Spaniards,’ of which the first volume was published in 1807, the other two in 1830 and 1833 respectively. The first volume, which has been translated into English by Mr. Preston, London, 1823, contains the lives of the earlier heroes of Spanish history,—the Cid Campeador, Guzman the Good, Roger de Lauria, the Prince of Viana, and Gonzalo de Cordova; all bearing impressions of the enthusiastic and poetic feelings, characteristic of the comparatively youthful period of life at which they were written. It was Quintana’s intention to have proceeded with a series of like biographies; but the subsequent public events, in which he had to take so active a part, interrupted the task, and when he resumed it, after the lapse of twenty years, it was under the influence of other feelings. He then proceeded principally with the lives of persons distinguished in American history; the second volume containing those of Vasco Nunez de Balboa and Francisco Pizarro; and the third volume those of Alvaro de Luna, and Bartolome de las Casas. Of these two volumes, the former has been translated into English by Mrs. Hobson, Edinburgh, 1832; and of the third a translation has been announced, London, 1851; both, and the latter especially, well deserving of study. In the first volume, treating of heroes, whose history, almost lost in the obscurity of remote times, might be considered among the fabulous legends prevailing everywhere in the first formations of society, it seemed only appropriate to give a colouring of poetry, to characters of whose actions nothing could be judged, except by their outward bearing. But in the others he could write as a philosophic historian, inquiring into the motives of actions, and teaching lessons of public morality by individual examples. The life of Alvaro is thus particularly interesting, depicting the caprices of fortune, as they affect In the other lives he maintains the high tone of feeling shown in his beautiful Ode to Balmis, the philanthropic introducer of vaccination into America, where the ravages of the disease, so graphically described by Humboldt, had made this benefit more peculiarly desirable. The generous sentiments expressed in this ode are such as to do honour not only to Quintana, but also to the nation, where they are in the present generation adopted, as we find them repeated emphatically by so popular a writer as Larra. More than thirty years had elapsed after writing that ode, when Quintana, in the Life of the enthusiastic Las Casas, proved his consistency of character and principles, by maintaining them in a work of historical character, as he had done in poetry in his youth. In the prologue to the third volume he says, “The author will be accused of little regard for the honour of his country, when he so frankly adopts the sentiments and principles of the Protector of the Indians, whose imprudent writings have been the occasion of so much opprobrium, and of subministering such arms to the detractors of Spanish glories. But neither the extravagance or fanatical exaggerations of Las Casas, nor the abuse which the malignity of strangers have made of them, can erase from deeds their nature and character. The author has not gone to imbibe them from suspicious fountains; nor to judge them as he has done, has he regarded other principles than those of natural equity, or other feelings than those of his own heart. Documents carefully appended for this purpose, and the attentive perusal of Herrera, Oviedo, and others our own writers as impartial and judicious as those, give the same result in events and opinions. What then was to be done? To deny the impressions received, and repel the decision which humanity and justice dictate, on account of not compromising what is called the honour of the country? But the honour of a country consists in actions truly great, noble and virtuous of its inhabitants; not in gilding with justifications, or insufficient exculpations, those that unfortunately bear on themselves the seal of being iniquitous and cruel. To strangers who to depress us, accuse us of cruelty and barbarity in our discoveries and conquests of the New World, we might reply with other examples on their own part, as or more atrocious than ours, and in times and under circumstances sufficiently less excusable.… “The great glories and usefulnesses, which result from extended conquests and dominations, are always bought at a great price, whether of blood, or violence, or reputation and fame: unhappy tribute to be paid even by nations the most civilized, when the impulse of destiny bears them to the same situation. Glorious, without doubt, was for us the discovery of the New World! But at what cost was it bought! For myself what affects me, leaving apart as not required here the question of the advantages which Europe has derived from that singular event, I will say, that wherever I find, whether in the past or the present, aggressors and aggrieved, oppressors and oppressed, on no account of ulterior utility, nor even of national consideration, am I able to incline myself to the former, or to fail in sympathizing with the latter. I may have put therefore into this historical question more entireness and candour than is commonly expected, when referring to our own conduct, but no odious prejudices, nor an inclination to injure or detract. Let us everywhere give some place in books to justice, now that unfortunately it is wont to have so little left it in the affairs of the world.” Holding such high opinions in all his writings, it may be seen that the youth of Spain cannot have a better guide to take for private study than those writings, the best preparatives for honourable exertion in life; and Quintana’s own history shows, that whatever misfortunes may befall any one individually, he does not labour or suffer in vain, who labours or suffers honestly in a just cause. In another part of the same prologue, Quintana says of his own lot, “Of this variety of circumstances and continued alternations, from good to ill, and from ill to good, not small has been the part fallen to the author of this work. Drawn by the force of events from his study and domestic lares, flattered and excessively exalted now, afterwards borne down and contemned, falling into imprisonment and proceeded against capitally, destined to a long and perhaps indefinite detention, deprived during it of communications and even of his pen, released from it, when he least hoped, to rise and prosper, and descending again soon to be endangered, he has experienced all, and nothing now can be to him new. Let it not be supposed from this that he puts it forth here as a merit, and less, that he presents it in complaint. For of whom should I complain? Of men? These in the midst of my greatest calamities, with very few exceptions, have shown themselves constantly regardful, benevolent, and even respectful towards me. Of fortune? And what pledges had she given me to moderate for me the rigour with which she treated the rest? Were they not of as much or more value than I? Political and moral turbulences are the same as the great physical disorders, in which the elements becoming excited, no one is sheltered from their fury.” Resigning himself thus to his fate, Quintana seems to have learned the philosophical secret of preserving his equanimity in all the vicissitudes of life, to the enjoyment of a tranquil old age. The privilege of attaining this is a favour to every one, to whom it is granted; but its highest enjoyments must be consequent only on a life of active usefulness, with a conscience void of offence. The man of cultivated mind, who has been called upon to do or to suffer more than others his fellows in the turmoils of the world, may then be supposed to receive his greater reward in the remembrances of scenes, happier perhaps in the retrospect than in the reality, which may have given them even the semblance of a longer existence. As perspectives appear lengthened, according to the number and variety of objects that intervene to the view, so life itself may appear to have been longer or shorter, according to the memory and character of events witnessed in its course. Described as a person of athletic form, yet unbowed by the burden of fourscore years, Quintana, as before observed, still survives, to receive the honour justly due to him for his honourable exertions through life, the remembrances of which may thus give him more pleasurable enjoyments, than can be supposed to fall to the lot of ordinary mortals. As a poet, if a foreigner may be allowed to express an opinion, for which he has no native authority to adduce, Quintana may be said to be more eloquent than poetical. As Quintilian said of Lucan, both also natives of Spain, “ut dicam quod sentio, magis oratoribus quam poetis annumerandus.” Quintana’s eloquence consists in earnestness more than in flights of fancy. His favourite subjects were the glories of his country; and his patriotic odes, in which he endeavoured to incite his countrymen to imitate the examples of their forefathers, have been pronounced his best compositions. He has as a poet paid his tribute of admiration to beauty and the arts; but his whole soul seems to be poured forth when pathetically mourning over the dimmed glories of his country, as when at the thought “of our miserable squadrons flying before the British,” he turns to the Padillias and Guzmans of former days, “when the Spaniard was master of half of Europe, and threw himself upon unknown and immense seas to give a new world to men.” As a patriotic poet Quintana has been compared to Beranger, and is said to have had the same power over the minds of his countrymen. If the parallel be correct, it may be curious to consider how characteristically these two poets appeal to the feelings of their admirers; one by songs and incidents, which though often trivial, yet speak to the heart in its most sensitive points, while the other proceeds to the same object by martial odes of commanding austerity. Besides the Ode to Balmis, the other one in this work, on the Battle of Trafalgar, has been chosen for translation, as most likely to interest the English reader, though it may not be in itself so much to be admired as some others of his poems. The reader will perhaps observe a constrained style in it, even beyond that of translation,—sentiments forced, as if the subject had not been taken voluntarily. It must not therefore be looked upon as a favourable specimen of Quintana’s genius, like the Ode to Balmis, which more fully shows the character of his mind. Quintana, more than other poets of his time, has written in one style of verse, as in imitation of the Pindaric ode, or of our Gray and Dryden. Thus with free metres and often unfettered by rhyme, he has a staid measured tone, well suited to the subjects he has generally adopted. They are considered in Spain as of an elegiac character; and as accordant with them, they have fallen in the translation into the form of our elegies, or the heroic lines with alternate rhymes, the style of verse which Dryden, a high authority on such a question, pronounced “the most magnificent of all the measures which our language affords.” Much as Quintana has published, both of his own works and of the works of others, for the advancement of sound learning and moral instruction, we have still great cause to regret that the circumstances of the times in which he has lived have prevented him from publishing more. Not only has he been interrupted in the course of those instructive biographies, of which we have such valuable beginnings, but we might have hoped, if he had lived in more peaceful times, that he would have given the world some work, of a character more distinctively his own, to place his name still higher in the history of elegant literature. It was one of the maxims of the wise Jovellanos, “that it was not sufficient for the purposes of good government to keep the people quiet, but that they ought to be kept contented.” Without this condition the other cannot be expected; and for all public commotions, therefore, the rulers are always most responsible, as unmindful of this truth. The greatest evil is, when the whole literary world has thus also further cause to complain of their misdeeds, as affecting those who were endowed with talents of a higher order, such as to make all men interested in their well-being. It is to be hoped that we are now, under the benignant reign of Isabel the Second, entitled to expect a more liberal government, and the advent of a still brighter Æra for the literature of Spain. Taking the space of eighty years, as comprehending the period during which modern Spanish poetry has been peculiarly distinguished for superior excellence, we may now make a further division of this period, into the former and latter parts of it. All the poets, whose lives we have hitherto traced, wrote their principal works previously to the year 1810; after which time we have a succession of writers, whose genius may perhaps be found to take a yet wider range of thought and feeling, consequent on the extended field of knowledge, which later events presented to their observation. MANUEL JOSÈ QUINTANA. TO THE SPANISH EXPEDITION FOR THE PROMOTION OF VACCINATION IN AMERICA, UNDER DON FRANCISCO BALMIS. Fair Virgin of the world, America! Thou who so innocent to heaven display’st Thy bosom stored with plenty’s rich array, And brow of gentle youth! Thou, who so graced The tenderest and most lovely of the zones Of mother Earth to shine, shouldst be of fate The sweet delight and favour’d love it owns, That but pursues thee with relentless hate, Hear me! If ever was a time mine eyes, When scanning thy eventful history, Did not burst forth in tears; if could thy cries My heart e’er hear unmoved, from pity free And indignation; then let me disclaim’d Of virtue be eternally as held, And barbarous and wicked be one named As those who with such ruin thee assail’d. In the eternal book of life are borne, Written in blood, those cries, which then sent forth Thy lips to Heaven, such fury doom’d to mourn, And yet against my country call in wrath. Forbidding glory and success attend The fatal field of crimes. Will they ne’er cease? Will not the bitter expiation end Sufficed of three eventful centuries? We are not now those who on daring’s wing, Before the world, the Atlantic’s depths disdain’d, And from the silence found thee covering, That fiercely tore thee, bleeding and enchain’d! “No, ye are not the same. But my lament Is not for this to cease: I could forget The rigours which my conquerors relent, Their avarice with cruelties beset: The crime was of the age, and not of Spain. But when can I forget the evils sore Which I must miserably yet sustain? Among them one, come, see what I deplore, If horror will not you deter. From you, Your fatal ships first launch’d, the mortal pest, The poison that now desolates me flew. As in doom’d plains by ruthless foes oppress’d, As serpent that incessantly devours, So ever from your coming, to consume Has it raged o’er me. See here, how it lowers! And in the hidden place of death and gloom, Buries my children and my loves. Affords Your skill no remedy? O! ye, who call Yourselves as of America the lords, Have pity on my agony. See, fall Beneath your insane fury, not sufficed One generation, but a hundred slain! And I expiring, desolate, unprized, Beseech assistance, and beseech in vain.” Such were the cries that to Olympus rose, When in the fields of Albion found remote, Variola’s fell havocs to oppose, Kind Nature show’d the happy antidote. The docile mother of the herd was found Enrich’d with this great gift; there stored attent Where from her copious milky founts around She gives so many life and aliment. Jenner to mortals first the gift reveal’d: Thenceforward mothers to their hearts could press Their children without fear to lose them heal’d; Nor fear’d thenceforward in her loveliness The maiden, lest the fatal venom spoil Her cheek of roses, or her brow of snow. All Europe then is join’d in grateful toil, For gift so precious and immense to know, In praises loud to echo Jenner’s name; And altars to his skill to raise decrees, There to long ages hallowing his fame, Beside their tutelar divinities. Of such a glory at the radiant light, With noble emulation fill’d his breast, A Spaniard rose,—“Let not my country slight,” He cried, “on such a great occasion’s test, Her ancient magnanimity to employ. ’Tis fortune’s gift discovering it alone; That let an Englishman his right enjoy. Let Spain’s sublime and generous heart be shown, Giving her majesty more honour true, By carrying this treasure to the lands Which most the evil’s dire oppressions knew. There, for I feel a deity commands, There will I fly, and of the raging wave Will brave in bearing it the furious strife; America’s infested plains to save From death, as planting there the tree of life.” He spoke, and scarcely from his burning lip These echoes had beneficently flowed, When floating in the port, prepared the ship, To give commencement to so blest a road, Moved spreading her white canvas to the air. On his fate launch’d himself the aËronaut. Waves of the sea, in favouring calmness bear, As sacred, this deposit to be brought Through your serene and liquid fields. There goes Of thousand generations long the hope; Nor whelm it, nor let thunder it oppose; Arrest the lightning, with no storms to cope, Stay them until that from those fertile shores Come forth the prows, triumphant in their pride, That fraught remote with all their golden stores, With vice and curses also come allied. Honour to Balmis! O, heroic soul! That in such noble toil devotest thy breath, Go fearless to thy end. The dreadful roll Of ocean always hoarse, and threatening death; The fearful whirlpool’s all-devouring throat, The cavern’d rock’s black face, where dash’d by fate, Break the wreck’d barks, the dangers they denote Greatest are not most cruel thee that wait. From man expect them! Impious, envious man, In error wrapped and blind, will prove him bent, When hush’d against thee is the hurricane, To combat rough the generous intent. But firmly and secure press forward on; And hold in mind, when comes for strife the day, That without constant, anxious toil, can none Hope glory’s palms to seize, and bear away. At length thou comest; America salutes Her benefactor, and at once her veins The destined balm to purify deputes. A further generous ardour then regains Thy breast; and thou, obedient to the hand Divine that leads thee, turn’st the sounding prow Where Ganges rolls, and every Eastern land The gift may take. The Southern Ocean now Astonished sees thee, o’er her mighty breast Untiring passing. Luzon thee admires, Good always sowing on thy road impress’d: And as it China’s toilsome shore acquires, Confucius from his tomb of honour’d fame, If could his venerable form arise, To see it in glad wonder might exclaim, “’Twas worthy of my virtue, this emprise!” Right worthy was it of thee, mighty sage! Worthy of that divine and highest light, Which reason and which virtue erst array’d To shine in happier days, now quench’d in night. Thou, Balmis! never mayst return; nor grows In Europe now the sacred laurel meet With which to crown thee. There in calm repose, Where peace and independence a retreat May find, there rest thee! where thou mayst receive At length the august reward of deeds so blest. Nations immense shall come for thee to grieve, Raising in grateful hymns to Heaven address’d Thy name with fervorous zeal. And though now laid In the cold tomb’s dark precincts thou refuse To hear them, listen to them thus convey’d At least, as in the accents of my Muse. ON THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR. Not with an easy hand wills Fate to give Nations, or heroes, power and renown: Triumphant Rome, whose empire to receive A hemisphere submissively bow’d down, Yielding itself in silent servitude, How often did she vanquish’d groan? repell’d As she her course of loftiness pursued! Her ground to Hannibal she scarcely held; Italian blood of Trevia the sands, And wavy Thrasymenus deeply dyed, And Roman matrons the victorious bands Of CannÆ nigh approaching them descried, As some portentous comet fearful lower. Who drove them thence? Who from the Capitol Turn’d on the throne, that founded Dido’s power, The clouds that threaten’d then o’er them to roll? Who in the fields of Zama, from the yoke They fear’d, with direful slaughter to set free, At length the sceptre of great Carthage broke, With which she held her sovereignty, the sea? Unswerving courage! that alone the shield That turns adversity’s sharp knife aside: To joy turns sorrow; bids despair to yield To glory, and of fortune learns to guide The dubious whirlwind, victory in its train; For a high-minded race commands its fate. O, Spain! my country! covering thy domain, The mourning shows how great thy suffering state; But still hope on, and with undaunted brow, From base dejection free, behold the walls Of thy own lofty Gades, which avow Thy strength, though fate them now awhile appals; Which though affrighted, blushing in their shame, As bathing them around the waves extend, Yet loud thy sons’ heroic deeds proclaim, Far on the sounding billows they defend. Indomitable ship, the Briton round Look’d, on his power and glory to rely, And boastful cried, “Companions renown’d! See, there they come: new trophies to attain Wait your unconquer’d arms; the feeble pines That Spain prepares for her defence in vain: Fate from our yoke exemption none assigns. We are the sons of Neptune. Do they dare To plough the waves before us? Call to mind Aboukir’s memorable day! to share Another such a triumph: let us find One moment as sufficing us to come, To conquer, and destroy them. Grant it me, Kind fate! and let us crown’d with laurels home Our wealthy Thames again returning see.” He spoke, and spread his sails. With swimming prows Opening the waves, they follow him elate, The Spaniards view them, and in calmness wait, Contemning their fierce arrogance, and high Their bosoms beating with indignant rage. Just anger! sacred ardour! “There come nigh Those cruel foes, who hasten war to wage, And spill our blood, when we reposed secure Beneath the wings of peace. They who are led By avarice vile; who friendship’s laws abjure; Who in their endless tyranny o’erspread Would hold condemn’d the seas; who to unite, As brothers, pride and insolence of power With treachery and rapacity delight; Who”—but with mantle dark night brings the hour To enwrap the world. Wandering round the shrouds Are frightful shades, dire slaughter that portend And fearful expectations raise. Through opening clouds The day displays the field, where wildly blend Fury and death; and horrid Mars the scene Swells loud with shouts of war, upraised in air His standard high. To answer intervene From hollow brass the mortal roarings glare. The echo thunders, and the waves resound, Dashing themselves in rage to Afric’s shore: In conflict fly the ships to ships around, By rancour moved. Less violent its store Of heap’d-up ice in mountains, the South Pole Emits immense, loud thundering through the waves To glide, and on the adventurous seaman roll. Nor with less clamour loosen’d from their caves Rush the black tempests, when the East and North, Troubling the heavens enraged in furious war, And dire encounter, all their strength put forth, And shake the centre of the globe afar. Thrice the fierce islander advanced to break Our squadron’s wall, confiding in his might: Thrice by the Spanish force repulsed, to shake His hopes of victory he sees the fight. Who shall depict his fury and his rage, When with that flag before so proud he saw The flag of Spain invincible engage? ’Tis not to skill or valour to o’erawe, Solely he trusts to fortune for success. Doubling his ships, redoubling them again, From poop to prow, from side to side to press, In an unequal fight is made sustain Each Spanish ship a thousand, thousand fires; And they with equal breath that death receive So send it back. No, not to my desires, If heaven would grant it me, could I achieve The task that day’s heroic deeds to tell, Not with a hundred tongues; hid from the sun By smoke, Fame’s trumpet shall their praises swell, And bronze and marble for their names be won. At length the moment comes, when Death extends His pale and horrid hand, to signalize Great victims. Brave Alcedo to him bends, And nobly Moyua, with Castanios, dies. Of Betis and Guipuzcoa the pride. O! if Fate knew to spare, would it not be Enough to soothe, upon your brows allied Minerva’s olive with Mars’ laurels seen? From your illustrious and inquiring mind What could the world, or stars, their mysteries screen? Of your great course the traces left behind The Cyclades are full, nor less the seas Of far America. How seeks to mourn, New tears from her sad heart her grief to appease, The widow’d land such heroes from her torn; And still she sheds them o’er your cruel fate. O! that ye two could live, and I in place Of grief, of sorrowing song, to consecrate To you the funeral accents that I raise, Might have opposed my bosom to the stroke, And thus my useless life my country give! That I might thus your cruel lot revoke, To bear the wounds, so that ye two might live! And she might proudly raise her front anew, Victorious crown’d with rays of glory bright, Her course ’gainst arduous fortune to pursue, Triumphant in your wisdom and your might. Without revenge and slaughter. Spreading wide, Rivers of English blood your powers declare. And Albion also horror-struck descried Mountains of bodies weigh, a heavy pile, On her so proud Armada. Nelson, too! Terrible shade! O, think not, no, that vile My voice to name thee, e’er an insult threw On thy last sigh. As English I abhor, But hero I admire thee. O, thy fate! Of captive ships a crowd, the spoils of war, The Thames awaits, and now exults elate To hail with shouts the conqueror’s return! But only pale and cold beholds her Chief! Great lesson left for human pride to learn, And worthy holocaust for Spanish grief. Yet still the rage of Mars impels the arm Of destiny; mow’d down unnumber’d lives. By fury launch’d, voracious flames alarm; On every side planks burning. Loosely drives Each ship a fierce volcano; blazing high Through the wide air ’tis raised, and thrown again With horrid bursting in the seas to lie, Engulf’d. Do other havocs yet remain? Yes, for that Heaven, displeased to see such foes, Bids the inclement north winds rise to part The furious combatants, and day to close In stormy night. ’Tis order’d, and athwart They throw themselves the miserable barks, Lashing the waves on high with cruel wings. As each this new unequal combat marks For ruin, falls the mast, and over swings Trembling beneath the assault. The hulls divide, And where the gaping seams the waves invite, They enter, while the dying Spaniards cried, “O! that we were to perish, but in fight!” In that remorseless conflict, high in air, Then shining forth their glorious forms display’d The mighty champions, who of old to bear The trident and the spear, supreme had made Before the Iberian flag the nations bow. There Lauria, Trovar, and Bazan were seen, And Aviles, their brother heroes now Of Spain to welcome, and in death convene. “Come among us,” they cried, “among the brave You emulate. Already you have gain’d Your fair reward. The example that you gave Of valour, Spain in constancy sustain’d Her warriors shows, inciting to prepare For other conflicts they undaunted greet. Look to the city of Alcides! there Gravina, AlavÀ, and Escanio meet! Cisneros and a hundred more combine There in firm column, with proud hopes to bless Our native land. Come, fly ye here, and shine In heaven their stars of glory, and success.”
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