PART II.

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VII.
FRANCISCO MARTINEZ DE LA ROSA.

Throughout the civilized world, and even beyond it, this eminent statesman has long been heard of, as one who, while devoting his life faithfully to promote the welfare of his own country, had exerted himself no less assiduously for the general interests of mankind. As an orator, a statesman and a political writer, he has thus obtained a deservedly high European reputation, due to his services and merits. In Spain he is further known as one of the first literary characters of whom his country has to boast, and as a dramatist and lyric poet of a very superior order.

Martinez de la Rosa was born the 10th March, 1789, at Granada, where also he received his education, completing it at the University in that city. Before the age of twenty he had gone through the usual course of study in the ancient and some of the modern languages, in philosophy, mathematics, canon and civil law, with such success as to have been enabled to undertake a professorship of philosophy there, perfecting himself in the art of oratory, in which his natural talents already had become manifest, as they soon afterwards gave him the means of greater distinction. From those pursuits he was called away, in 1808, on the occurrence of the French invasion, to take an active part in the struggle for national independence, into which he entered with youthful ardour, by public declamations, and by writing in a periodical instituted to maintain it.

As the French arms advanced victoriously, Martinez de la Rosa, with others of the party who had been most conspicuous in their opposition to them, had to take refuge in Cadiz. He was first employed to proceed to Gibraltar, as his future colleague, the Conde de Toreno, had been sent to London, to obtain a cessation of hostilities, in the war then yet existing between England and Spain, and concert measures of alliance against the French. In this mission he had the desired success, having further obtained from the governor of Gibraltar arms and ammunition, which enabled the Spanish forces under Castanios to march and obtain, at Bailen, the memorable triumph of the 19th July, 1808. In consequence of this victory, the French had to evacuate Madrid, and the Central Junta was formed, superseding the first actors in the conflict. On this, Martinez de la Rosa took advantage of the circumstances to go to England, and observe there himself, says his biographer, the celebrated Pacheco, “in its birth-place, where it was natural, complete and necessary, that representative system, which the spirit of reform wished to bring over for the people of the Continent.” Wolf says he had there a diplomatic commission, adding, that he took advantage of it “to familiarize himself with the English constitution, for which he always had a great predilection.”

Whether he had public duties entrusted to him or not, Martinez de la Rosa seems then to have stayed some time in London, studying the workings of the parliamentary system, the good fruits of which he, as Mirabeau had before him, found in his legislative career. There he printed, in 1811, his poem, Zaragoza, written in competition for the prize offered by the Central Junta, in celebration of the defence of that city in 1809, and there also he wrote several other poems. The one of Zaragoza seems not to have been reprinted in Spain till the publication of his collected poems in Madrid in 1833, and no adjudication ever was made on the compositions prepared at the suggestion of the Junta, but it is stated that the judges had unanimously agreed to confer on him the premium offered in the name of the nation.

In 1811 the French armies had driven the assertors of national independence from all the other principal parts of Spain to Cadiz, and there the Cortes were convoked to meet. There then, Martinez de la Rosa returned, and though not yet of the age required by law to be chosen a Deputy, he took part in all the deliberations of the national councils, and was appointed Secretary to the commission on the freedom of the press. Meanwhile the siege of Cadiz was commenced by the French and pressed unremittingly; but the spirit of the defenders did not fail them. Martinez de la Rosa and Quintana continued their literary labours, and the former produced a comedy and a tragedy, both of which were received with much favour. The latter continues a favourite on the stage, on a subject well chosen from Spanish history, and entitled the ‘Widow of Padillia.’ To use his own words, “It was represented, for the first time, in July 1812, and in days so unfortunate, that it could not be produced even in the theatre at Cadiz, on account of the great danger from the bombs of the enemy, which had nearly caused, a little before, the destruction of the building, crowded at the time with a numerous audience. For this reason they had to erect a theatre of wood in another part of the city, at a distance from where the French artillery had directed their aim.”

Shortly after this the siege was raised, and the French having again evacuated Madrid, the Cortes were convoked to assemble there, when Martinez de la Rosa was elected Deputy for his native city. He had throughout the struggle joined the most active members of the liberal party, Arguelles, Quintana and others, who, all honourable and patriotic characters, had acted in perfect sincerity in forming the Constitution of 1812, as it was called, which they hoped would secure the future freedom of the country.

In this, however, they found themselves mistaken; the representative system had scarcely time to develope its advantages, when it was overthrown entirely on the return of Ferdinand to Spain, who, by his decree of the 4th of May, 1814, annulled the Constitution, and dissolved the Cortes. Had he been contented with this, as in re-assumption of the regal authority exercised by his predecessors, the liberal party might have had only to lament the abrupt termination of their hopes. But, unfortunately, proceedings still more arbitrary were commenced against their leaders individually, of a nature unknown, even in Spain, till then, and in comparison with which the rule of the Prince of the Peace was a pattern of toleration. As those leaders had not been guilty of any act which could make them amenable to any legal tribunal, Ferdinand VII. took on himself to pass the sentences he chose to inflict on them for the opinions they had held, and the conduct they had pursued, in the momentous struggle for national independence, resulting in his restoration. The partisans of the Absolute King wished to extort from Martinez de la Rosa a retractation of the opinions he had maintained; but they miscalculated his character. He refused to listen to their overtures, and he was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment in the penal settlement of Gomera in Africa.

In 1820 a reaction took place, and the constitutional party again obtained possession of the government. Martinez de la Rosa had then passed six years of unjust imprisonment, when he was recalled to Spain, and was received, in his native city, with triumphal arches erected to welcome him, and other tokens of public respect and rejoicing. At the first election of deputies afterwards for the Cortes, he was sent with that character from Granada, but his sentiments on public affairs had become considerably modified. Others of the liberal party had returned from exile or imprisonment with exasperated feelings; but Martinez de la Rosa had employed his time more philosophically, in considering the means that should be adopted, to use his own expression, “for resolving the problem, most important for the human race, how to unite order with liberty.” Avoiding all extreme opinions, he gave his support to the ministry he found existing and their successors, as the means of preserving order, until they fell under the combination of unworthy jealousies among their own party, and the constant attacks of those holding the extreme opinions of democracy and absolutism.

On the 1st March, 1821, Martinez de la Rosa was called on to form a ministry, which duty he finally undertook, though he had at first strenuously declined it. He had good reason to decline it, as the king himself was throughout that period plotting against his own ministers and government, to re-establish himself in absolute power. At the end of June, Martinez de la Rosa found himself under the necessity of tendering his resignation, and insisting upon its being accepted, though both the king and the council at first refused to do so. The moderate course which he wished to follow pleased neither party; and even he, who had suffered six years of unjust imprisonment in the popular cause, was now looked on as a traitor by the people, and ran great risk of being murdered in a public commotion raised in the city. Had he chosen to take a more decisive part, either on the one side or the other, the weight of his character would no doubt have given it the preponderance. As it was, the question was decided by the invasion of the French under the Duc d’AngoulÊme, who restored Ferdinand VII. to his former authority.

When the French entered Spain, the constitutionalist government had retired to Seville; but Martinez de la Rosa had been obliged, from illness, to remain at Madrid. There being called upon to give in his adhesion to the authority imposed by foreign arms on the nation, he declined to do so, and thought himself fortunate in having no severer penalty to suffer thereupon, than to have his passport given him to go from Spain, while others had to suffer so much more severely. He then retired to Paris, where he resided eight years, paying occasional visits to Italy, and though not proscribed directly as an exile, yet he was not allowed to return to his country.

During those eight years he devoted his leisure to literary pursuits, and composed most of those works on which his fame must permanently rest; such as his poem, ‘Arte Poetica;’ his very beautiful ‘Ode on the Death of the Duchess de Frias,’ and several plays; among them the ‘Tragedy of the Conspiracy of Venice,’ considered the best of all he had written. Thus occupied in endeavouring to make future generations wiser and better, Martinez de la Rosa gained increased respect at home with his increased reputation abroad; and on the moderating of the first angry party-feelings in Spain, was at the end of eight years allowed to return to Granada.

The events of 1830 had produced the effect in Spain of milder councils being adopted in the government, which prevailed still more on the Queen Christina assuming power, first on the illness of the king, and afterwards as Regent on his death in 1833. Martinez de la Rosa had then been permitted to return to Madrid, and in this latter year he published the first collection of his poems, dedicating himself to writing at the same time his ‘Life of Perez del Pulgar,’ one of the old warriors of Spain, and other works. From these labours he was then called to undertake again the duties of government. The existing ministry formed under a former line of policy, was not suitable to the exigences of the times, rendered still more pressing now by the pretensions of Don Carlos to the throne. It was necessary to oppose those pretensions, by obtaining the zealous aid of the constitutional party; and Martinez de la Rosa was chosen as the leader, embodying in himself the characteristics of moderation and just principles, to form a ministry.

It does not become a foreigner, least of all in a purely literary work, to enter in judgement on any questions of a political nature. The best-intentioned persons in the world may take different views of the same question, under the same emergences, and the wisdom of any particular measure is not always to be judged of by the result. In the conflicts of contending parties, the most unscrupulous and daring may often succeed, where wiser and better men may fail. Of Martinez de la Rosa, his biographer has observed, that “he was one of those men who would not conspire even for good ends unlawfully; and that if he could not obtain what he wished by just means, he would cross his arms, and leave the rest to Providence.” The events of those years present much ground for regret for all parties, and it is a truly honourable consideration for such a one as Martinez de la Rosa, that, acting according to the best of his judgement on many very difficult occasions, he might have been compelled to yield to force and violence, without any imputation on his probity or statesmanship.

But if it be beyond our consideration of duty to enter on questions of internal polity, there are two others, connected with his administration, to which we may venture to refer, as to be judged of by those great principles of right and justice, which are applicable to all times and all countries, and become thus fairly subject to commendation or censure, as affecting the general interests of mankind.

Though Martinez de la Rosa had been one of the principal actors among those who had established the Constitution of 1812, for which also he suffered as a prisoner and an exile, he learned soon to perceive that it required considerable modifications in a country like Spain, where the people were not fully prepared to receive it. One of his first measures then was to promulgate what might be termed a new Constitution, called the Estatuto Real, the general wisdom and propriety of which may be admitted, or at least not disputed, while one part of it may be pronounced indefensible. This was in the design to subvert the ancient rights of the Basque people, by amalgamating their provinces into the kingdom, without obtaining or asking their assent. This was a measure unjust in itself; and because unjust, also impolitic; leading to a long-protracted struggle, in which the whole force of Spain being employed, army after army was destroyed, and general after general disgraced, by a comparatively inconsiderable number of undisciplined peasantry. When England sought to incorporate the Parliaments of Scotland and Ireland into that of the United Kingdom, it was sought by what might be called legal, though not always honourable means. On the same principle, the consent of the Basques ought to have been obtained by the Spanish government, rather than the attempt made, furtively or forcibly, to deprive them of their ancient privileges.

On another great question affecting humanity, it is pleasing to consider Martinez de la Rosa among the foremost characters of the age, in attempting the suppression of the slave trade with Africa. In 1817 a treaty was made between England and Spain to suppress this traffic, which, after the experience of a few years, it was found necessary to make more stringent. Propositions to this effect were therefore made year after year to successive Spanish governments by the British, but in vain, until in 1835 Lord Palmerston was successful enough to find in him a minister of Spain, who had the courage to consent to those suggestions. The treaty of that year was then entered into, and signed on the part of the two countries, by Sir George Villiers, now Earl of Clarendon, and Martinez de la Rosa, which has had the desired effect of preventing the trade being protected by the Spanish flag. But this able statesman has done still more, to entitle him to the respect of all who look with interest on this important question. One of the stipulations of the treaty declared that a penal law should be passed in Spain, in accordance with it, to punish all Spanish subjects found infringing it. This stipulation no other Spanish minister could be found to fulfil; and after the lapse of ten years, having again come into power, it was left for him in good faith to accomplish the engagement he had previously undertaken. Accordingly in 1845, he passed a law, answering the purposes required, which received the approbation of the British government, and which seems to have been so far effective in its application.

Great, undoubtedly, is the praise due to those philanthropic statesmen, who, even at the Congress of Vienna, agreed to protect the liberty of Africa. But much greater must be acknowledged due to one who, unsupported almost in his own country, having to oppose himself to a strong colonial interest, and the cry they raised against him of acting in subservience to a foreign power, yet had the moral courage to follow the dictates of justice and humanity, on behalf of an injured race, notwithstanding all the enmity he had to encounter in so doing.

In 1836 Martinez de la Rosa had to yield his place in the government to other hands; and in 1840 he thought proper to retire again to Paris, engaging himself in those literary pursuits from which he had latterly been estranged. It is not our province to follow his political course, through the different public questions on which he had to act. During the four intermediate years various ministries were formed, to some of which he had to give an honourable support, to others as honourable an opposition; but the Regency of Espartero he avoided to acknowledge. When this fell under the attack of Narvaez, he came forward again into public life, and accepted office for a short time in the government; but seemed resolved to take the first opportunity of giving up the post of active exertion for one of more private character, though of no less public utility. Accordingly, on the accession of Pius IX. to the Papacy, he was appointed Ambassador to Rome, which important office he still continues to hold, for the advantage of the Roman Catholic church itself, as well as of his own country, in the several questions that have come since under discussion, subject to his intervention.

As a politician, Martinez de la Rosa has been conspicuous for constant rectitude and consistency of principles. “Not even in moments of the utmost defamation,” says his biographer, “has a word been ever raised against his purity of conduct, nor have his greatest enemies ever permitted themselves to impugn in the least his intentions.” As an orator, he has had few to equal him in his time, none to surpass him; but his eloquence has been modelled by his character to persuade and defend rather than attack; and thus, if not abounding in brilliant sallies, it has been found of more essential service to the cause of good government.

Beyond the ‘History of Perez del Pulgar,’ Martinez de la Rosa has written several other works in prose, one of which, the latest, entitled ‘Spirit of the Age,’ is in fact, so far as yet published, a History of the French Revolution, preceded by a few general observations on political questions. It has already advanced to six volumes, and becoming a political and philosophical history of contemporaneous events, may be extended to the utmost limits. A novel which he wrote earlier in life, ‘Donna de Solis,’ is acknowledged a failure, as showing “that no man, however eminent, can write successfully on all kinds of subjects.”

The principal literary success which Martinez de la Rosa has had, seems to have been as a dramatist; but into those works it would be impossible to enter, to treat them with justice, except by making them a prominent subject of consideration. His poems, published as before stated in 1833, contain compositions in various styles, from the light Anacreontic to the project of an Epic Poem on the Wars of Granada, of which, however, he has only published fragments. Besides a translation of Horace’s ‘Art of Poetry,’ he has also given the world an ‘Ars Poetica,’ for the benefit of his own countrymen, which he has enriched with many excellent notes and criticisms.

Some of the rules laid down in this ‘Ars Poetica’ are well worthy of study, as giving room for reflection, for carrying their suggestions even further than he has done. Thus, while insisting on the young poet depending on the excellency of his ear for the melody of verse, instead of having to count the syllables for the requisite purpose, he observes, that as the ancients regulated their metres by time, making so many long or short feet of equivalent measure, of which the judgement must depend on the cadence, so in the verses of the best Spanish poets, there are often some lines containing three or four more syllables than others, to which they form the counterpart, and which are read in the same measure, with increased pleasure for the variation.

The same observation may apply to English verse, though perhaps not so fully. Many of our syllables containing shortly sounded vowels, such as a Hebrew scholar might call Sheva and its compounds, pronounced distinctly, but two in the time of an ordinary syllable, may be found to give an elegance to the line, which would sound faulty with only one of them. But we may go further, and observe, that as in music the melody may be continued by the pause, instead of a note in the bar, so in a line, a pause with one or more long syllables may have the effect of a syllable, instead of the sound or foot to make up the measure. Readers of poetry will not require to be reminded of instances of this adaptation of sounds, and if they notice any such lines in these translations, they will perceive that they have been written in accordance with the precepts referred to.

It must be acknowledged, that in the generality of his poems, Martinez de la Rosa has not risen to any such height of sublimity or fancy as to give him a place in the superior class of poets. But one of the latest critical writers, Ferrer del Rio, who has given a more disparaging estimate of his poetical talents than justice might award, pronounces the ‘Epistle to the Duke de Frias’ as a composition for which “judges the most grave and least complaisant might place him on the top of Parnassus.” The ‘Remembrance of Spain,’ Del Rio declares to be poor in images, without feeling or depth, but with much of pastoral innocency. The ‘Return to Spain’ is, according to him, a mere itinerary of his travels, more than an expression of pleasure on escaping from past evil. But in the ‘Epistle to the Duke de Frias,’ he finds “true-felt inspiration, an appropriate expression, and a plan well traced out,”—“without vagueness or artificial labour, but with phrases that soften and ideas that satisfy the mind,” becoming the subject.

Another anonymous critic finds the writer dwelling too much on the remembrance of his own sorrows, instead of offering consolation to the mourner, and some incongruity in felicitating him on having witnessed the last pangs of mortality. But these topics, on such an occasion, are true to nature. Grief is apt to be egotistical, and the mind cannot but dwell on the subject in which it is absorbed. Nor is the other a less natural suggestion; and thus we may observe, that the great master of antiquity represents the sweetest of his characters lamenting that she had not been by the side of her lord at such a time, as the height of her misfortune, to receive his last embrace, and his last word to be remembered ever after:—

In this ‘Epistle to the Duke de Frias,’ Martinez de la Rosa has also introduced, as a fit consideration in his grief, the same topic of the instability of earthly things, which “the Roman friend of Rome’s least mortal mind” offered him on a similar occasion of sympathy. But it also seems a favourite subject of our poet’s thoughts at all times, as befitting the philosopher and the scholar, to dwell on the passing nature of worldly greatness, and so lead the mind to higher suggestions than those of the present moment. These ideas he has carried further in another work he has published, ‘Book for Children,’ in which, like many other eminent characters, who have given the aid of their talents to the development of juvenile minds, he has inculcated lessons of virtue, and the instinct of good taste, with the feelings of patriotism and religion, as the basis of moral well-being.

Martinez de la Rosa published his works in a collected form first, in five volumes, 1827-30, at Paris, where they have been again lately reprinted. Besides these, there have been two editions in Spain, one at Madrid and the other at Barcelona. From Her Catholic Majesty he has received the decoration of the Golden Fleece, the highest order of Spain, besides other similar honours. But the world at large will consider his greatest honour to consist in having raised himself from mediocrity of station, by his talents and exertions, to the high position he has attained “without stain or reproach,” while, by his literary works, he has enabled all mankind to become benefited by his genius, and interested in his fame.

FRANCISCO MARTINEZ DE LA ROSA.

REMEMBRANCE OF SPAIN, WRITTEN IN LONDON IN 1811.

Unnumber’d ships with riches fraught;
I saw the power the nation claims
Immense, the greatness it has wrought,
And arts that such renown have brought.
But the afflicted mind exhaled
A thousand sighs; again to view
The flowery banks the wish prevail’d,
Where glides the Douro calmly through,
Or Henil’s streams their course pursue.
I saw the proud Court’s ladies forth
Their wealth and grandeur gaily show;
I saw the beauties of the North,
Their bright complexions white as snow,
Commingling with the rose’s glow.
Their eyes appear’d of heavenly blue,
Their tresses of the purest gold;
Their stately forms arose to view,
Beneath the veil’s transparent fold,
As white and lovely to behold.
But what avail the gay brocade,
The city’s silks, and jewels’ pride;
Or charms in rosy smiles array’d,
With brilliant gaiety supplied,
That all to beauty are allied?
When but is seen my country girl,
Clad in her robe of simple white,
Shamed are the needless silk and pearl;
And by her pure and blooming light
Confused hides beauty at the sight.
Where shall I find in icy clime
Her black and beaming eyes of fire?
That whether scornfully the time,
To look, or kindly they desire,
To rob me of my peace conspire?
Where the black hair that may like hers
In hue with ebony compare?
When bounding o’er the meadows fair,
The lowly flowers that blossom there?
Maids of the Henil! dark ye be;
But ne’er would I exchanged resign
Your charms for all that here I see,
Proud Albion shows, of brows that fine
Ev’n as the polish’d ivory shine.
O, father Douro! gentle stream,
Whose sands a golden store supply,
Deign of my heart the wish supreme
To hear, thy sacred margins by,
That it may be my lot to die!

RETURN TO GRANADA, OCTOBER 27, 1831.

My loved country! thee again
I come at length returned to see;
Thy beauteous soil, thy fields where reign
Plenty and joy unceasingly!
Thy radiant sun, thy peaceful skies,
Yes! there extended o’er the plain,
From hill to hill, I see arise
The far-famed city! Noble towers,
Midst groves of ever-blooming flowers;
Kissing her walls are crystal streams,
Her valley lofty heights surround,
And the snow-topp’d Sierra gleams,
Crowning the far horizon’s bound.
Not vain thy memory me pursued
Where’er I stray’d; with that imbued,
Troubling my hopes, my joys, my rest,
The thoughts my heart and soul oppress’d.
On the cold margin of the Thames,
Or Seine, I thought of thee, and sigh’d
Again to view the bank that gems
Thy Henil’s or thy Douro’s tide.
And if perchance my voice essay’d
Some gayer song, for short relief,
Soon for lament the attempts I made
Were check’d, and doubled was my grief.
Vain the delicious Arno show’d,
Offering to me her fruitful shore,
Of peace and loves the soft abode,
With flowers enamell’d o’er.
“More blooming are the plains where flows
The gentle Henil through,
And lovelier still Granada shows
Her pleasant site to view!”
Murmuring such words in mournful thought,
I oft with tearful eyes repined,
Upraised to Heaven, as memory brought
My fathers’ homes and hearths to mind.
At times the solitary view
Of rural scenes more seem’d to soothe;
From cities terror-struck I flew,
And breathless, anxious, o’er the uncouth
Rough Alps I took my way.
But not so pure, so vivid show’d
Their snowy tops the sun’s bright ray,
As from our snow Sierra glow’d
The streams of light, the god of day
O’er earth and heaven bestow’d.
My griefs Pompeii flatter’d more:
Its fearful ruins, silent streets,
Deserted porticos, retreats
Of men with grass run o’er.
And in my troubled mind began
Grave thoughts to rise, how vain is all
The power of miserable man.
To abase his fame, his pride to gall,
How fate delights! and works that vast
He rears, and dares eternal call,
Throws over with a blast!
Today the traveller, as he roves
Along the Tiber, has to trace
Through ruins, where that was high Jove’s
Triumphant city had its place!
The plough breaks up the fruitful mould,
The sacred relics now we see
Of Herculaneum that enfold,
As in a darksome tomb! If be
Pompeii’s walls still standing, yet
Are their foundations undermined
By age, and as the rude winds threat,
They tremble to their fall inclined.
Thus in my youth I saw the tower
Of the superb Alhambra lower,
Broken, and imminent appal
The Douro threatening with its fall.
Each rapid moment of my life
Hasten’d the term with ruin rife;
And of the Alcazar’s sovereign pride,
Where once the Moorish power enchain’d
Their fame as left to ages wide,
Mine eyes may soon not find descried
Its ruins ev’n remain’d.
As that dark image o’er me glooms,
My heart sinks heavy in my breast;
I bow myself before the tombs,
In tears with grief oppress’d.
What is thy magic? what may be
The ineffable enchantment found,
O, country! O, sweet name, in thee?
Ever so dear to man the sound!
The sunburnt African will sigh
For his parch’d sands and burning sky,
Perchance afar, and round the plains
However blooming he disdains.
Ev’n the rude Laplander, if fate
In luckless hour him off has torn
From his own soil, disconsolate
Will to return there longing mourn;
Envying the eternal night’s repose,
His icebound shores and endless snows.
And I, to whom kind fate assign’d
My birth within thy happy fold,
Granada! and my growth as kind
Within thy blissful bounds to mould,
Far from my country, and beset
With griefs, how could I thee forget?
On Africa’s inhuman shore,
To the wreck’d seaman rough and drear,
Thy sacred name I o’er and o’er
Repeated, which the waves to hear
Back to the Spanish regions bore.
On the far Pole’s dark furious sea,
By the Batavian’s energy
Bridled, again thy name was heard:
Heard it the Rhone, the foamy Rhine,
The PyrenÆan heights the word
Repeated with the Apennine,
And in Vesuvius’ burning cave
Then first the sound the echos gave.

EPISTLE TO THE DUQUE DE FRIAS, ON THE DEATH OF THE DUQUESA.

From the dark gloomy borders of the Seine,
Where with black clouds around the heaven extends,
The earth o’erwhelm’d with snow, the heart with pain,
Thee thy unhappy friend his greeting sends;
To thee still more unhappy! nor deters
Him ev’n the fear to touch the wounds unheal’d,
Yet bleeding sore, or see thee how it stirs
Fresh tears to bathe thine eyes thy sorrows yield.
What would he be, if man were not to weep?
A thousand times I’ve thank’d our God, who gave
The heart to soothe its griefs in tears to steep;
As rain we see subdue the raging wave.
Weep then, ay, weep! others, and abler friends
As faithful, with success may in thine ears
Make heard the voice that stoic virtue lends;
But I, who in the world my cup of tears
Oft to the dregs have drain’d, no cure could find
For grief, but what from grief I might derive;
When with vain struggling tired, the powerless mind
Submissive ceased beneath the weight to strive.
Dear friend! wilt thou believe me? time will come,
When the sharp edge of sorrow worn away,
That grief and anguish now so burdensome,
At length a placid sadness will allay;
In which absorb’d, as yet o’erwhelm’d, the soul
Folds itself up all silently to bear;
Nor seeks nor envies, as around they roll,
The world’s delights or pleasures more to share.
Thou doubt’st perchance; and once there was a time
I also doubted it; and endless thought
My deep affliction, and insulting crime
To tell me to an end it could be brought.
And yet it was! for so from God to man
That is another mercy, which alone,
Amidst so many woes ’tis his to scan,
Aids him this weary life to suffer on.
Hope then, believe my words, and trust in me:
Who in this world the unhappy privilege
Has bought so dear to speak of misery?
These many years that saw it me assiege,
Saw me no day but as the plaything vile
Of a dire fate, that like a shrub amain
The hurricane tears up, and raised awhile
It fiercely dashes to the earth again.
I know it true, against the blows of fate,
When that against ourselves they only glance,
The firm heart shielded can withstand its hate;
But so it is not oft: and thou, perchance,
Mayst think I never one have lost I loved
More than my life. If sorrow will give truce
Thee for a moment, turn thine eyes disproved
To an unhappy orphan, weak, recluse,
And sorrowing solitary in the world,
Without scarce one to whom to weep his woe;
For to the grave relentless death had hurl’d,
One after one, all he was born to know.
In the same season, thou wilt see sufficed
Thy loss to open forth the wounds I bear,
I lost a mother kind, and idolized,
My joy, and comforter in every care;
On her steps my reaved father to the grave
Soon follow’d, and both sank o’erwhelm’d in tears,
Calling my name afar; the cries they gave
Fell on my heart, but not upon my ears.
I ran, I flew, I came, but all in vain:
Both now beneath the fatal stone reposed,
And I my height of anguish to attain,
But found the covering earth yet newly closed.
Thou in thy grave affliction more hast found
Thee to console, if possible; (how turn
Rebels against me thy own woes around!
From my rude voice perforce thou hast to learn
That he who fortune flatter’d not before,
Will neither flatter grief) thou in thy loss
Hast found a thousand comforts, which forbore
My cruel fate to grant my path across;
Thou soothing saw’st thy wife in her last pains;
Her last sigh couldst receive; couldst press her hands,
Her arms raised to thee, and her pledge remains
In thine, her daughter still thy love demands.
But I, not wishing it, am in thy breast
A dagger striking, thus again to view
That fatal night’s dark image to suggest,
When life with death its fearful struggles drew.
Now ended are her pains, for ever o’er!
Herself she pray’d for it, with pious eyes
To heaven, and hope, amidst the pangs she bore,
Shone on her brow serene in death to rise.
O! were it given us to penetrate
The secrets of the tomb, how oft our grief
Would it not soften down, however great!
In this same moment who of the belief
Could not assure thee, while thou dost lament,
Unhappy, thy lost wife’s untimely doom,
That she is there enjoying permanent
A lot more happy than this side the tomb?
Thou, silent, lowly bendest down thy head;
But thou mayst not be silent; answer me;
Sound, if thou darest it, the abyss to tread,
That separates thy lost loved wife from thee.
Take through eternity thy course, and then
Tell me of where she is, what is her state?
Happy or miserable? or again,
We should rejoice in, or lament her fate?
To thee I may repeat it, others gay
Will laugh at my dark fancy; not long past
The time I was by that enchanting bay
Of the Tyrrhenian sea; the city vast,
Mother of pleasures, I forsook, and bent,
Absorb’d, my feeble steps, where lowly lies
Pompeii; palaces with gardens blent
And fountains brilliant, shone before my eyes;
But deeper penetrates the mind, and sad,
Slowly along I went with heavy heart:
Flowers amid lava grew! and rich, and glad
Today the scenes on every side impart
The towns and villages, which others hide
That stood as happy there a former day;
Those now that flourish built up by the side
Of some forgotten that have pass’d away.
At length I came where we the walls descry
Of the deserted city, which the abode
Proclaim’d it was of men in times gone by;
Their sepulchres stood bordering the road!
There for a resting-place the traveller stays,
For shade and for repose: the gate now gain’d,
Awhile the vacillating foot delays
To enter, as if fearing it profaned
Too bold the mansions of the dead. No word,
No sound, no murmur. It would seem that there
Ev’n Echo’s self is mute, no answer heard!
Slowly I through the narrow streets repair
Without a human footstep! Porticos
And plazas by no living beings trod,
Walls with deserted hearths, and temples rose
And altars, without victims or a god.
How little, mean and miserable seem’d
The world before mine eyes, when there I stood!
A bitter smile upon my features gleam’d,
To think of man’s ambition, schemes of blood,
And projects without end, when by a blast,
Like smoke, their good and evil are represt;
Ashes a mighty city overcast,
As light dust covers o’er some poor ants’ nest!
Thus wrapp’d in mournful thoughts, I paced along
That vast and silent precinct, as behind
Roves some unbodied shade the tombs among;
The ties me yet to this low earth that bind
I felt to loosen, and the soul set free
Launch’d itself forth, ev’n into endless space,
Leaving behind it ages.—Couldst thou see
What is this wretched life, compared its trace
With that immensity, most surely, friend,
In thine eyes would remain congeal’d those tears,
Which now profuse thou shedd’st, and thou wouldst bend
Down on the earth thy gaze, where soon appears,
Thyself must see, the end of all our toil;
The rest that she enjoys beyond the sky,
For whom thou weep’st, whilst o’er this care-worn soil
Dragging life’s heavy burden, as do I.
Yet till ’tis granted thee to meet again
Thy lost adored, the moments consecrate
Of absence to her memory that remain:
Thy heart let her remembrance animate;
Let thy lips ever her dear name repeat:
Nor how forget that clear ingenuous mind,
That heavenly beauty, generous soul, to meet
So rare! the world admired such gifts combined.
But now I see thee to the dusky grove
Of cypress and rose-bay trees take thy way;
On thy right hand a crown is hanging, wove
Of mournful everlastings; nor astray
Thine eyes scarce raising, fearing to behold
The monument of thine eternal grief,
That guards her ashes! Different she consoled,
Hastening in charity, as for relief
The poor unhappy and the orphans knew!
For whom she ever show’d a parent’s care:
They who partook her gifts and kindness true,
Now in long files and slow, thy griefs to share
Silent and mournful on thy steps attend,
Around her tomb; dost thou not hear them? theirs,
Theirs are the tearful sobbings that ascend,
And cries that interrupt the funeral prayers.
Not ev’n a flower to deck her sepulchre,
Have I to send thee! flowers may not be grown
To bud in beds of ice; or if they were,
They soon would wither at my touch alone.

ANACREONTIC.

Let the thunder burst,
Pour out and drink the wine!
Thou never saw’st a thunderbolt
Strike the tender vine.
Vesuvius himself
To Bacchus tribute pays,
And spares the vineyard flourishing,
Where his lava sways.
In Italy in vain
I hero sought or sage;
Mine eyes but dusty ruins found,
Mouldering with age.
Of Rome the image scarce
Remains to be portray’d;
A tomb is Herculaneum,
Pompeii is a shade.
But I found Falernum,
His nectar rich remain’d,
And in memory of Horace,
A bottleful I drain’d.

BACCHANALIAN.

In chorus we sing, of wine, sweet wine,
Its power benign, and its flavour divine.
Against power so sweet
No guard is secure,
Nor gate, nor yet wall,
Nor will castle endure,
Nor doubtings, nor watchings,
How strict or demure.
Chorus.
With thee the fair maiden
Shows herself fairer,
With thee has the matron
New beauty to glare her;
Ev’n the sad widow
Finds love an ensnarer.
Chorus.
With thee the poor captive,
Though heavy his chains,
Ne’er feels in his feasting
Or torments or pains,
But a place with his lord
As an equal he gains.
Chorus.
With thee the worn seaman
The south wind defies,
While echoes the thunder
He singing replies,
And of winds and the waves
Will the fury despise.
Chorus.
Thou hast power o’er the lip
Of the fool and the sage,
From the breast to root out
Gall, venom and rage,
What rancour and envy
Would hide, to assuage.
Chorus.
With thee will the coward
Of courage make show,
The niggard so vile
Learn bounteous to grow,
And the feeble and old
Fresh vigour to know.
Chorus.
Thy colour so pure
Outrivals the flowers,
Thy odorous essence
The rich myrrh’s showers,
The rosemary honey
Thy taste overpowers.
Chorus.
Oblivion thou givest
To troubles and sorrow,
Joys fleeting a show
Of eternal to borrow,
And robb’st of its horrors
The fate of tomorrow.
In chorus we sing, of wine, sweet wine,
Its power benign, and its flavour divine.

VIII.
ANGEL DE SAAVEDRA, DUKE DE RIVAS.

There are few persons to whom Fortune can be said to have “come with both hands full,” more truly than to the illustrious subject of this notice; even the very reverses of life, which have fallen to his lot, have come like favours; as they have been incurred honourably, and have proved the harbingers of many advantages.

Angel de Saavedra was born at Cordova, the 1st March, 1791, the second son of Don Juan Martin de Saavedra, Duke de Rivas, and Donna Maria Ramirez, Marchioness of Andia, Grandees of Spain, both persons not less eminent for private virtues than for their exalted rank. He received his primary education under his father’s care; but he dying in 1802, Angel was then removed to the College of Nobles at Madrid. In accordance with the privileges then enjoyed by youths of noble birth, he was, while yet a child of ten months, nominated a cornet of cavalry, and held a commission as captain when but seven years old. At that age, pursuing his studies, it was observed that he did not show much application or inclination for abstruser subjects; but his quickness of apprehension, and felicity of memory gave him a superiority over his companions, many of whom were distinguished for much greater industry. History and poetry were, from his earliest years, his favourite subjects of study; and in original compositions and translations from the classics, he then already began to show the bent of his genius. At the same time he also began to show his great talent for drawing, in which art, no less than in poetry, he has so much excelled; and it is recorded that for the greatest punishment to be awarded him for juvenile delinquencies, it was found sufficient to take away his pencils, and forbid his taking his drawing lesson for the day.

In 1806 the regiment, to which he was attached, had orders to join Napoleon’s army in Germany, with the Spanish contingent; whereupon the Duchess de Rivas, as her son’s guardian, procured his exchange into the Royal Guard, by which he lost rank, having now only that of a sub-lieutenant, in the rank as a guardsman. Having joined this corps in the beginning of 1807, it was the lot of Don Angel to witness the scenes which then occurred in the palace, little creditable to any of the parties, including the arrest of the Prince of the Asturias, afterwards Ferdinand VII., and the proceedings against him. It was perhaps fortunate for the young guardsman that he was so soon called into active service. A privileged corps is always a dangerous trial for a young man entering into life; though, in addition to his own right-mindedness, he had the good fortune to be joined to the Flemish battalion of the guard, where he became intimate with a young Belgian officer of kindred tastes and character, who, by example and association, confirmed him in his inclinations. He also became acquainted with some other young men who had the conducting of a literary periodical, to which he contributed several articles, both in prose and verse. For a young man of sixteen, desirous of distinction, this was a privilege which could not fail of producing good results in subsequent improvement, if his early efforts were found to be approved, as an encouragement to continue them.

From such occupations was Saavedra called away soon, to engage in the important events, upon which the future fate of his country was to depend. Napoleon’s troops had crossed the Pyrenees, and under pretence of marching through the country to Portugal, had seized upon the principal fortresses of Spain. The Court of Madrid, aware too late of the treachery intended, was thrown into irremediable confusion, heightened by the internal dissensions of the royal family. The troops at Madrid were summoned in haste to the king at Aranjuez, when Saavedra among them witnessed the pitiable scenes, which ended in the abdication of Charles IV. and the declaration of Ferdinand VII., in whose escort he returned to Madrid. But the French armies were already in possession of the country, and had the royal family in their power. They soon had further possession of Madrid, and the guards, in which Saavedra’s elder brother, the Duke de Rivas, was also serving with him, were ordered away to the Escurial, as the French leaders were aware of the part they had taken at Aranjuez, and were fearful of their influence with the people, in the course of resistance then widely spreading against the invaders.

Murat, then chief of the French forces, and of the provisional government, had good reason to fear that so influential a body as the Royal Guards, all composed of individuals of rank, might be induced to take part with the insurrectionists in the rising struggle; and he therefore sent to them to the Escurial, one of the principal Spanish officers, also one of the Royal Guard, who had attached himself to the French interest, to persuade the others to join the same cause. This officer having accordingly come to the Escurial, called together the members of the guard, and stating to them that the students of the Military College at Segovia were in a state of rebellion against the authorities, expressed Murat’s wish that the guards should join the French troops to suppress the movement, to prevent further ill-consequences. The assembly received the proposal at first in silence and perplexity. But it was one of those occasions when a right mind and strong heart availed more than conventional dignity; and thus, though perhaps the youngest person present, Angel de Saavedra rose up, and with all the impetuosity of youth, declared in impassioned language, that “none of the guard would do treason to their country, or become an instrument of foreign tyranny, for the oppression and punishment of their companions in arms.” He therefore, in the name of his comrades, gave a positive refusal to the mandate.

In this, his first harangue, the spirit was as noble, as the sentiments were bold and patriotic. The manner in which it was received showed that it was also in unison with the feelings of the rest of the guard, and Murat’s messenger was obliged to content himself with attempting to reprove the young officer, who had ventured to speak before others, so much his superiors in rank and service. But his efforts were of no avail, and he had to return to Madrid, with the information that the guards were also apparently about to join the national party. These passed the night in watch, with their arms and horses prepared, for whatever might be the result. In the morning they received orders to return to Madrid, and obeying the order, at halting for the night, came to deliberate on the course they should adopt. Some thought it would be better to disperse, and go to their respective provinces, to join the several parties already armed in resistance against the invaders. Others, among whom were the two brothers, Saavedra and the Duke de Rivas, thought it would be better for them to keep united, and join as a body, with their standards, the first effective Spanish force they could meet. Unfortunately there was no one of sufficient authority present to command; and the first suggestion, where most of them naturally wished to share the fates of their families, prevailed. Accordingly they dispersed, and the two brothers entered Madrid secretly, finding that those who remained together were too few to remain as a body, against the numerous bands of the enemy spread over the country.

The first wish of the brothers was to join Palafox at Zaragoza, and they started for that purpose with false passports; but found the road too closely beset by the French. In one place, however, they met with a mischance on the other side; where the people, now risen against the invaders, fancied that the travellers who were going armed so mysteriously, were emissaries of the French, and would listen to no declaration to the contrary. Fortunately there happened to be in the town a comrade of the guard, well known there, who hearing the uproar, came and recognized the prisoners, and assuring the multitude of their true character, made them be received with as much enthusiastic welcome, as they had just before been with violence.

Turning from this course, the two brothers then hastened back to join the forces under Castanios, flushed with their triumph at Bailen; and at Sepulveda, Angel Saavedra had his first encounter in fight with the French. With the army he joined, he found about 200 of his comrades of the guards, and these, as a body, now effected much service in the various skirmishes and actions that took place. They had these with varied success at Ucles, Tudela, and other places, where the two brothers distinguished themselves by their activity and bravery. At Tudela the Duke had his horse killed, and received several contusions, which resulted in a fever, on account of which his brother had to take him to their mother’s care at Cordova.

Having recovered from this, they again joined the army, and were present at “the memorable battle of Talavera,” after which they had to share in the several encounters of Caminias, Madrilejos and Herencia. But now a severer trial awaited them. On the 18th of November, 1809, on the eve of the disastrous battle of Ocania, the French and Spanish forces had an encounter at Antigola, when the Royal Guards, under the Duke de Rivas, though pressed by superior numbers, charged three times on the enemy, before they retired, with the loss of one-third of their number, to Ocania.

In this skirmish, Angel Saavedra had his horse killed at the beginning of the affray, and then had to fight hand to hand at a disadvantage. Thus he soon received two wounds in the head, and another in the breast from a lance which prostrated him, and left him insensible, while the combatants were riding over him and others laid in the same state. About the middle of the night he recovered his sensibility, and found he had been robbed of his clothes. He attempted to rise, but fell down again, unable to move. Happily for him he had sufficient strength to call to a man he saw near, who proved to be a Spanish soldier seeking for spoils, and he, learning the name of the wounded officer, put him on his horse, and took him to his brother. The Duke, who had already been searching for him, and had sent others out for the same purpose unavailingly, now hastened to procure for him medical assistance. With much difficulty he found a surgeon, who, on seeing the patient, declared the case hopeless, and left him to attend to others. The cold air had arrested the bleeding, which now burst forth from the motion of the horse and the warmth of the room used for the hospital, so as to leave him apparently dying. The Duke was in despair, when the people about him brought the barber of the place to dress the wounds, which he did with great skill, giving him hopes of success in saving his brother’s life.

As the morning broke, the drums were heard beating for action, announcing the advance of the enemy. The Duke had barely time to procure a common cart of the country into which to place his brother, who was found to have no fewer than eleven wounds upon him, and send him away with seven other wounded companions, before he had to join his troop. Going slowly along, the seven died by his side one after another, and in a few hours they were overtaken by fugitives, whose flight showed the ill-fortune of the day. Saavedra might have shared this ill-fortune further; but one of the escort knew the country well and took him along by-paths to a retired place, where his wounds were again dressed, and afterwards to Baeza, in which city he found better attendance. There, after three weeks, all his wounds were healed, except the one in the breast, and one in the hip, from which he was lame for some years afterwards. He then was enabled to proceed to his mother at Cordova, and there was received, in his native place, with marks of public respect, which could not fail of being very gratifying to his feelings, though at the expense of so much suffering.

In the beginning of 1810 the French came marching towards Cordova, and Saavedra and his mother fled to Malaga. He had frequent bleeding, apparently from the lungs, and his medical advisers were fearful that any extraordinary exertion would have a fatal result. Before they could embark at Malaga for any other place, the French had got possession of the city, and Saavedra and the Duchess had to take refuge, disguised, in a fisherman’s hut. In this extremity they were found by a Spanish officer in the French interest, who had formerly shared their hospitality at Cordova, and he repaid it now by procuring for them passports and giving them the means to get to Gibraltar, whence they passed over to Cadiz, then the last hope of Spain.

Arrived at Cadiz, Saavedra was received with the consideration due to his merits. He was put into active service, as far as his strength would allow, and on the staff his talents for drawing as well as for ready composition were found of great value. Many of the military reports were written by him; and he also wrote a defence of the military establishments against a pamphlet which had been published, conducting at the same time a military periodical, published weekly, at Cadiz, throughout 1811. Thrown into association with such men as the Conde de Noronia, Arriaza, Quintana, and Martinez de la Rosa, his love for poetry was further excited, and he composed verses like them, some of which have been preserved among his later works, while he has allowed others to be forgotten. He continued also cultivating his taste for drawing, attending the schools at Cadiz to draw from life as well as from the models; while at leisure moments on duty he amused himself with sketching portraits of his comrades, or of the scenes presented to their view.

But his military duties did not cease at Cadiz. Having been sent out on important commissions with orders, he was led away by his ardour to join in the encounter which took place with the French at Chiclana, in forgetfulness of the commission with which he was charged. Afterwards a division of the army being found in a state of resistance to the orders of the Regency, on account of their general refusing to acknowledge the Duke of Wellington as commander-in-chief, Saavedra was sent with full powers to arrest the disorder. This he did effectually, drawing the division out of Cordova in good order, after deposing the general and other chiefs of the insurrection, who but for this might have brought further reverses on the Spanish arms, such as so many other incapable officers had done previously, influenced in like manner by their presumption and self-conceit.

Saavedra, so far from joining in the vanity and folly of those of his countrymen, who fancied themselves competent to act independently of the British commander, on the contrary, sought to be employed on the staff under the immediate orders of Lord Wellington, but he could not effect it. The wound in his breast again occasioned large effusions of blood from the mouth, and he was obliged to return to Seville, and ultimately was quartered at Cordova. When the war came to an end, he, under these circumstances, retired from military service with the rank of lieutenant-colonel.

While at Cadiz, Saavedra had joined, unreservedly, in the councils of those who framed and attempted to establish in Spain the constitution of 1812. When Ferdinand VII. returned and set it aside, he therefore fully expected that he would be included in the proscription directed against Martinez de la Rosa and others who had distinguished themselves in the assertion of liberal opinions. But instead of this, the king, who probably considered him more of a military than a political character, received him favourably, and gave him the rank of colonel, assigning him Seville for his residence. There accordingly he retired, and while Spain was subjected to the rule of absolutism, employed himself in literary pursuits and drawing, for which the magnificent paintings of Murillo and other Spanish masters in that city gave one of his inclinations so great an incentive. In 1813 he published a volume of poems, and in the following six years brought forward several plays, some of which were represented at Seville with considerable applause, and one had the “marked honour of being prohibited by the censorship.” These he republished in a second edition of his works at Madrid in 1821, but though favourably received at the time, they are all acknowledged now to be of little merit. In fact, at that time, having studied principally the later poets of the classical school as it was termed, his mind had not yet attained that expansiveness and vigour which subsequent years of study were destined to give it.

In 1820 Saavedra happened to be in Madrid, probably engaged in superintending this edition of his works, when the events of that year brought into power the party with whom he had been associated at Cadiz at the time of the siege. With characteristic ardour he entered again into close alliance with them, resuming the principles he had previously maintained with them. But though now those friends were in office, he sought nothing for himself further than leave to travel into neighbouring countries, which permission he had sought in vain from the previous government. This favour he now obtained, with full salary allowed, and a commission to examine the military establishments of other nations, and to report to the government on their advances and improvements. He went accordingly to Paris, and after a careful attention to the duties entrusted to him, was about proceeding to Italy, when he was called back to Spain to engage in a new career of public importance.

Before going to Paris, Saavedra had paid a short visit to his native city, and there formed a close intimacy with Alcala Galiano, one of the most learned and talented men of his age, who, with Don Javier Isturitz (the present respected Minister of her Catholic Majesty at London), was now at the head of the government. Galiano, by the fascination of his eloquence, had completely won the good feelings of the young poet, and inspired by the desire of having so able and popular a follower in the legislature, had procured his election as Deputy to the Cortes from Cordova. Flattered by the favour shown him by his fellow-townsmen, Saavedra entered with his accustomed ardour on his duties, and was appointed Secretary to the Cortes, where he came forward as one of the most vehement speakers in the maintenance of liberal opinions. But those opinions were not responded to by the great mass of the people, and were opposed by the foreign courts of Europe. Saavedra had voted for the removal of the court to Seville, and there further voted for the suspension of the king and his transference to Cadiz, when the entry of the French army re-established Ferdinand on his throne. On the 1st October, 1822, Saavedra and Galiano had to take flight from Cadiz to Gibraltar, where he remained till the following May, when he proceeded to London to join the other emigrants there, Isturitz, Galiano, the celebrated Arguelles, whom his countrymen, on account of his remarkable eloquence, have termed the divine, and others.

Even during his short political career, Saavedra had continued his literary pursuits, and now in London he renewed them, writing his poem ‘Florinda’ and minor pieces, as well as continuing his recreative art of drawing. For his participation in the proceedings against the king, he had been sentenced to death, and his property had been sequestrated. This same measure had been visited on his brother, the Duke de Rivas, who had taken part also in the proceedings, and thus Saavedra had become reduced to very straitened circumstances. Their mother, with natural feeling, forwarded him all the supplies in her power; but these were scanty, and it was necessary for him to seek means of subsistence for himself. He therefore determined on going to Italy to perfect himself in the art of painting, as the best means of employment left him, finding the climate of England also too rigorous for his constitution.

As the Spanish emigrants were forbidden to go to Italy, the Duchess de Rivas besought the Pope’s Nuncio at Madrid to grant her son a passport and obtain for him permission to go there for the purposes specified. The Nuncio having communicated with Rome, was enabled to reply, that “as Don Angel Saavedra engaged neither to speak nor to write on political subjects in Italy, nor to frequent English society, his passport would be granted him, assuring him he would there find hospitality and protection.” The required securities having been given, and the Nuncio’s authorization obtained, on which he had himself written, “Given by express order of His Holiness,” Saavedra left London in December, 1824, for Gibraltar, where he remained till the June following. In the meantime he there married, according to previous arrangement, Donna Maria de la Encarnacion Cueto, daughter of a distinguished colonel of artillery, and then, with his young wife, proceeded to Leghorn. Arrived at this city, and presenting his passport to the Roman consul, he was told that, notwithstanding the assurances given him, he was now forbidden to go to Rome; besides which he received an order from the Tuscan government to leave their territories within three days. Finding all remonstrances useless, Saavedra now, in right of a passport from Gibraltar, applied for aid to the British consul, who took him to his house, and as the only means of putting him in safety, embarked him on board a small Maltese vessel then about to sail for that island. After a protracted voyage, with wretched accommodations and subjected to great peril in a storm, when the men abandoned their tasks, and the captain and Saavedra had to compel them by blows even to resume their labours, they at length reached Malta. Here Saavedra intended to have remained only until he could obtain the means of returning to Gibraltar; but the advantages of climate, of cheapness of living, and the reception he met with from the English authorities, induced him to continue there, until his stay at length extended to five years’ residence.

Fortunately for him, there happened then to be residing at Malta Mr. J. H. Frere, formerly British Minister at Madrid, who, in addition to a highly cultivated taste and great general knowledge, was well conversant with the Spanish language and literature also in particular. With this gentleman Saavedra soon entered into terms of intimate friendship, and was taught by him to turn his thoughts from the tame class of poetry he had copied from the French school, and elevate his mind to the high tone of the older poets of Spain, as well as to the study of English literature. These lessons he followed, and thus proved another instance of the remark of Plutarch, that the Muses often suggest the best and most approved productions of genius, taking exile as their means to aid them: ?a? ??? t??? pa?a???? (?? ????e?) a? ???sa? t? ?????sta t?? s??ta??t?? ?a? d????tata, f???? ????sa? s??e????, ?pet??esa?.

At first Saavedra continued his former style of writing, but after a short time his mind seemed suddenly to expand, and to act under the influence of another genius. He finished, after his arrival at Malta, his poem of ‘Florinda,’ and wrote there several plays, of the same character as those he had formerly written, but at the same time showed that a change was coming over his mind, by an ‘Ode to the Lighthouse at Malta,’ known to the reader by Mr. Frere’s translation of it, which for spirit and range of thought proved itself the offspring of another and truer inspiration. The expectations thus raised were destined to be fully realized, and the poem he then began, and published subsequently, the ‘Moro Esposito,’ or ‘Foundling Moor,’ proved one of a class entirely unknown to Spanish literature, but quite in accordance with the national genius, so as to be at once accepted by the Spanish public, as entitled to their unqualified admiration. To use the words of his biographer, Pastor Diaz, himself a writer of considerable reputation, “This work, which had no model, nor has yet had a rival, is one of the most precious jewels of our literature, and in our judgement the most beautiful flower of his poetic crown.”

But it was not to poetry alone that Saavedra gave his attention at Malta. He continued also his application to painting, not having forgotten his original intention of adopting this art professionally. Notwithstanding the advantages he enjoyed there, however, he was anxious to be nearer his own country, and sought permission to go to France, for which purpose he had an English vessel of war assigned to take him to Marseilles. On arriving there, instead of being allowed to go to Paris as he desired, he was directed to fix his residence at Orleans, where, having exhausted the means afforded him for subsistence, he found it necessary to establish a school for drawing. In this he met with some success, having obtained various pupils and commissions for portraits, and a painting which he had finished with care and ability having been bought at a high price for the museum of the city. Four others of his paintings are in the choir of the cathedral at Seville.

After a few months’ residence at Orleans, the revolution of July, 1830, allowed him to go to Paris, where he found his valued friends Isturitz and Galiano, both, like himself, having moderated the warmth of early opinions by the effect of observation as well as of time. Instead of interfering in political questions therefore, he continued his artistic labours. Several portraits he had painted appeared in the Exhibition of 1831 at the Louvre, and his name is to be found in the list for that year of professional artists established in Paris. In consequence of the cholera having broken out there, Saavedra soon after retired to Tours, where he finished his poem, the ‘Moro Esposito,’ and the Tragedy, ‘Don Alvaro,’ publishing the former at Paris in two volumes, in 1833.

On the death of Ferdinand VII., under the milder sway of Queen Christina, the emigrants hitherto excluded from Spain were allowed to return to their country. Angel Saavedra hastened to take advantage of the amnesty, and arrived in Spain the 1st of January, 1834, to take the oaths required; after which he took up his residence at Madrid, and gave his adhesion to the government over which Martinez de la Rosa then presided. Now, however, an important change came over his fortunes, which brought him still more prominently before the world, and involved him again in the vicissitudes of public life.

On the 15th of May, 1834, his elder brother died without children; and Angel Saavedra thereupon succeeded to his honours as Duke de Rivas, and to the family estates entailed with the title. As a Grandee of Spain, the new Duke had to take his place in the Chamber of Peers, where he was chosen, on the 24th of July following, second Secretary, and shortly after, first Secretary of the Chamber and Vice-President. Here again, as formerly in the Cortes, he then took his part in the public debates, having on several occasions shown himself to possess great oratorical abilities. One speech he made on the exclusion of Don Carlos and his descendants from the Spanish throne, has been particularly mentioned as combining much eloquence with high political considerations.

But notwithstanding his elevation and parliamentary duties, he still continued his literary pursuits. Having finished the Tragedy of ‘Don Alvaro,’ he now brought it forward, and it is not too much to say that never had a drama been produced in Spain of so high a character, or that was attended with such success. At first it was received with wonder, then with long and loud applause; it was repeated at every theatre in Spain, and still continues to excite the admiration of audiences, casting into the shade all his former dramatic productions, and in fact causing a revolution in the dramatic art of the Spanish stage. The old worn-out characters and constantly recurring self-same incidents that had encumbered the scenes have since been swept away, and a higher tone has been in consequence adopted by later writers, though still this remarkable production remains without a rival on the Spanish stage. Yet it is not without faults, and it has been subjected to severe criticisms; but on the representation, so absorbing is the interest which it is said to excite, that all faults are lost sight of in admiration. The subject of the drama is that of the old Greek tragedy, Fatality. Don Alvaro is an Œdipus, destined for misfortune, and not even religion can save him from his mission of crime. “It is a character which belongs to no determinate epoch, perhaps more universal in this as it belongs to all, like the heroes of Shakespeare.” There can be no question but that it was the study of Shakespeare which elevated his genius to the production of this masterpiece of the modern Spanish theatre, as had the study of Walter Scott and Byron enabled him to give the world the great poem of the ‘Moro Esposito.’

On the 15th of May, 1836, the Duke de Rivas was called on to join the government formed by his friends Isturitz and Galiano, to which he consented with much reluctance. But this ministry was doomed to be of short duration, and was overthrown in the midst of popular commotions. The Duke had to take refuge in the house of the British Minister, the present Earl of Clarendon, where he remained twenty-four days, refusing to emigrate as others of his colleagues had done, though at last he felt himself compelled to do so. With much difficulty he then escaped, and after many perils, passing through Portugal, arrived at Gibraltar.

The moderate counsels of the Isturitz ministry were not agreeable to the temper of the public, and thus the Duke de Rivas was now driven into banishment by his former friends the liberals, as he had formerly been by their mutual enemies the Absolutists. At Gibraltar he thereupon remained a year, dedicating himself again to poetry and painting, having then composed much of his next, and perhaps most popular work, ‘Historical Romances.’ On the promulgation of the constitution of 1837, accepted by the Queen, the Duke gave in his adhesion to it, and was thus enabled to return to his family from his second exile, on the 1st of August of that year.

In the ensuing elections, the Duke was elected Senator for Cadiz, when, in consonance with his principles, he gave his general support to the ministry, and distinguished himself by several animated discourses he pronounced in the Chamber; particularly one in favour of returning to the nunneries their sequestrated properties, and another for maintaining to the Basque provinces their ancient privileges and rights. For this just and disinterested advocacy of their interests, the constituents inhabiting the two provinces of Biscay and Alava respectively elected him to the Senate in 1840, though the government which then existed did not think proper to sanction their choice.

Shortly after this, another change occurred in the government, and under the administration of Narvaez, the Duke de Rivas was appointed Minister from Her Catholic Majesty to the Court at Naples, in which city he continued upwards of five years in that mission; during also the residence of Pius IX. there, while a fugitive from Rome. On the marriage of the Conde de Montemolin, eldest son of Don Carlos, with a sister of the King of the two Sicilies, he demanded his passport, leaving his post, for which he received the approbation of his sovereign. Since his return to Spain, the Duke has been again appointed Vice-President of the Senate, but seems to have taken little part in public affairs.

Mr. Borrow, in his very amusing work, ‘The Bible in Spain,’ describes the Duke de Rivas, in 1836, as “a very handsome man;” and so his portraits represent him, agreeing with all the accounts of his personal appearance and courtly manners. Favoured by fortune with the possession of high rank and ample means, he has been still further favoured in his domestic relations, and with a large family, the solace of his age. We have thus traced him through life, distinguished, in every stage in which he has had to exert himself, for eminent ability as well as honourable conduct. As a soldier, engaged in the noblest of causes, the defence of his country, he showed himself conspicuous among the most active and bravest of her defenders. In public life, as an orator, a diplomatist and a statesman, he has proved equally eminent. In private life, he has been no less exemplary for the exercise of the domestic virtues, having in his needs exerted himself to discharge his duty to his family, by the practice of the talents with which he had been endowed, as an artist of superior proficiency. As a dramatist, his works have in that most difficult department gained the fullest success; and in poetry he is the only modern writer in Spain who has given the world a poem of the highest class, combining varied incidents with well-drawn characters and a sustained interest. Our greatest poet of modern days felt constrained to say,

and in such aspirations may the Duke de Rivas indulge in the retrospect of his past labours to ensure for him a like future remembrance.

Passing by the poems written under the influence of an adhesion to the rules of the classical school, we find the poem of the ‘Moro Esposito,’ or ‘Cordova and Burgos in the fifteenth century,’ well-deserving of being classed with the poetical romances of Sir Walter Scott, on the model of which it was written. The subject is the History of the Seven Infantes of Lara, made known to the English reader by Southey and Lockhart, and it contains many passages of extraordinary merit, though severe criticism would point out many faults. “To make felt,” says his biographer, “or to record all the beauties of this book, a book as large would be necessary, and they may well compensate for the defects, notwithstanding that at times those same beauties make us see at what small cost the author might have sent forth his work more finished.” As in every-day life, he has joined in his narration scenes of the most opposite character, the most magnificent descriptions with what is most ludicrous, and the tenderest with what is oppressing to sensibility. The passages referring to his native city of Cordova are peculiarly beautiful, and show the feelings of the exile, as they lean to his country, in all ages and under all circumstances,—to “sweet Argos” or sacred Athens—

?e???a?,
??’ ???e? ?pest? p??t??
p????’ ??????st??, ???a?
?p? p???a S??????,
t?? ?e??? ?p?? p??se?p??e? ????a?.

The dedication to Mr. Frere has the singularity of being written in the English language.

The ‘Ode to the Lighthouse at Malta’ is another exemplification of the Duke’s patriotic feeling, as well as the poem of ‘The Exile,’ which has been translated into English by Mr. Reade. One of his latest works is in the form of a drama, but, like those of Lord Byron, it is not intended for the stage. It is entitled, ‘Undeception in a Dream,’ and represents the life of man, contrasting its vicissitudes and events with his hopes and desires. Like the tragedy of ‘Alvaro,’ it is a highly poetical conception, and worthy of the reputation of the noble writer.

It has already been intimated that the most popular of the Duke’s works is one published at Madrid in 1841, ‘Historical Romances,’ from which has been taken, for translation, the ‘Alcazar of Seville.’ These romances are, in fact, ballads on various subjects in Spanish history, written in the ballad measure of octosyllabic lines, with asonante rhymes for the second and fourth of each quatrain, similar to our own ballads. In the prologue to this work the Duke has written a defence of this measure, which required no defence beyond his own adoption of it, with the example of such writers in it as Melendez and Arriaza in modern times, and almost all the best writers in the language previously. Ochoa has praised “above all” the romance of the Conde de Villa Mediana, and readers generally find most interesting the ‘Tale of a Veteran,’ so that it may require an explanation for the choice of the one taken, that the character of Pedro, surnamed the Cruel, was best known to the English public, as associated with English history. That of the Conde de Villa Mediana is a lively description of some scenes which led to his assassination by order of the king, who was influenced by jealousy; the ‘Tale of the Veteran’ gives an account of an adventure in a nunnery, where a nun invites an officer to her cell and poisons him in revenge for his slight to her sister. She then shows him the corpse of a brother officer, who had already fallen a victim to her arts for the like wrong to herself, and she tells him the whole history of her motives and conduct, while she induces him to dig a grave for the first victim, with whom, she tells her second, that he is also to be placed.

Few writers have given the world so many works of a superior order, distinguishable separately for varied excellence, as the Duke de Rivas. He has concentrated in his later productions all the chief merits of a poet, in the choice of his subjects, in the delineation of character and the power of maintaining throughout the interest of the narrative. If he has failed too often in the mechanical execution, in attending to the harmony of verse or poetic expression of the thoughts, these are faults which we may hope will be corrected in subsequent editions, so as to leave him still greater claims on the admiration of his readers.

THE DUKE DE RIVAS.

THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE.

I.

Magnificent is the Alcazar,
For which Seville is renown’d,
Delicious are its gardens,
With its lofty portals crown’d.
With woods all carved elaborate,
In a thousand forms about,
It raises high its noble front
With cornice jutting out;
And there in ancient characters
A tablet may be seen,
Don Pedro built these palaces,
The sculptures placed between.
But ill beseem in its saloons
The modern triflings rear’d,
And in its proud courts men without
The antique vest or beard.
How many a soft and balmy eve,
In pleasant converse there,
Have I with Seville’s mirthful sons,
And Seville’s daughters fair,
Traversed those blooming bowers along,
On entering which are rude
Gigantic shapes in myrtles cut,
Of various attitude;
And rose-bay trees, in long arcades,
With oranges unite,
And shady labyrinths form, the which
To thefts of love invite;
And hidden jets of water spring
All sudden from the floor,
When trod the painted pebbles laid
In rich mosaic o’er,
That sprinkle on the stranger there,
While shouts of laughter rise,
From those who warn’d by former fate
Now shun such pleasantries!
In summer time, at close of day,
When mid the light cloud’s fold,
The sun declines, encircling them
With scarlet and with gold,
That bright transparent heaven above,
With purple mists o’erspread,
Cut in a thousand varied hues,
By softest zephyrs led,
That glowing atmosphere, in which
One seems to breathe of fire,
How temper they the languid frame,
And soul divine inspire!
The view too of those baths, that gain
From all who know them praise,
And that proud edifice which Moors
And Goths combined to raise,
In some parts harsh, in some more light,
Here ruins, there repair’d,
The different dominations pass’d
Are thus by each declared;
With records, and remembrances
Of ages long pass’d by,
And of more modern years alike
To arrest the fantasy.
The lemon’s and the jasmine’s flowers,
While they the eyes enchant,
Embalm the circumambient air
With sweets they lavish grant.
The fountains’ murmurs, and afar
The city’s varied cries,
With those that from the river near,
Or Alameda rise,
From Triana, and from the bridge,
All lost, confused amain,
With sound of bells vibrating loud
In high Hiralda’s fane;—
A scene that never is forgot
Enchanted forms the whole,
The thoughts of which unceasing cause
To beat my heart and soul.
Many delicious nights, when yet
My now all-frozen breast
Beat warmly, have I seen those halls
By youthful footsteps press’d;
Fill’d with a chosen concourse gay
In country dance to meet,
Or light quadrille, while festive sounds
The orchestras repeat:
And from the gilded roofs rebound
The steps, the laugh perchance
And talk of happy pairs, by love
United in the dance;
With sound of music mix’d the while,
Confused and blended o’er,
As sent according echos forth
From the enamell’d floor.
I never once have stray’d,
But saw as in a mental dream
Padillia’s gentle shade,
Flitting before my view to pass,
Heaving a sigh profound,
Light as a vapour, or a cloud
That skims the trees around.
Nor ever enter’d I those halls,
But fancying arise
I saw the founder’s phantom, stain’d
With blood congeal’d the dyes.
Nor in that vestibule obscure,
Where with the cornice blend
The portraits of the kings, arranged
In columns to extend,
To that which is blue-tiled below,
And enamell’d is on high,
Which shows on every side around
A rich-set balcony,
And gilded lattice roof above
That crowns it with dark shade,
But thought I saw upon the ground
A lifeless body laid!
Yet on that pavement may be seen
A dark stain to this day!
Indelible, which ages pass
And never wash away:
’Tis blood that dark tenacious stain;
Blood of the murder’d dead:
Alas! how many throng it o’er,
Nor think on what they tread!

II.

Five hundred years shone younger
The Alcazar to the day,
Its lofty walls yet lustrous,
And faultless its array;
And brilliant were the enamels
Which its gilded roofs reveal,
It showed itself the mansion fit
Of the king of proud Castile;
When on one balmy morn it chanced
Of florid May betide,
In that saloon whose balcony
Is on the plaza’s side,
Two persons of illustrious mien
In silence deep were there;
One was a Cavalier, and one
A Lady passing fair.
A Barbary carpet richly wove
Upon the floor was laid,
The gift or tribute which the Moor
Granada’s king had paid;
A silken curtain, bright with flowers,
And ribbons curious wrought,
With various eastern colours deck’d,
Which to our Spain had brought
Venetian galleys, as perchance
Her Doge’s gift of state,
Was thrown across the balcony,
The light to moderate.
In the recess in front, with woods
Well carved, and richly graced
With mother-o’-pearl inlayings,
Was an Oratory placed;
Where of the sovereign Virgin
The image stood devout,
The sculpture somewhat rude, but yet
Attractions not without;
Which with a plate of silver,
For ornament was crown’d,
Its rim reflecting amethysts,
And emeralds around.
A manuscript of holy prayers,
Which miniatures adorn,
Precious with gold and ivory
Upon its coverings borne,
Was seen there placed upon a stand,
Form’d of an angel’s wings,
The figure badly sculptured,
But with neat finishings.
And on the floor of gold brocade
A cushion one might see,
Which by its sunken pressure show’d
The marks of bended knee.
And on the pure white walls were hung
Bright arms along the space,
And interspersed were banners,
And trophies of the chase.
An ornamental table stood
In the middle of the floor,
On which a well-tuned lute was placed,
Though partly covered o’er;
A rich-cut board for game of draughts,
And a coffer by its side
Of silver filigree, and jars
With chosen flowers supplied.
The Lady near the balcony
Sat very pensively,
In a great gilded chair of state,
Whose back was form’d to be
A canopy, or cover o’er,
And in gay curvings down
Were lions, castles, and the whole
Surmounted with a crown.
Her dress a silken robe of green,
Which show’d a various tinge,
In twisted threads, with pearls and gold
The embroidery and fringe.
Her head-dress than the snow appear’d
Ev’n whiter to behold,
And covering o’er the fine clear lawn
Her long dark tresses roll’d.
Her face was heavenly, and her neck
Divine, but in their hue
Like wax, the colour which fear paints,
And long-known sorrow too.
Her eyes were like two beaming suns
Beneath their lashes tall,
Where shone two precious pearly drops
As ready down to fall.
She was a lily fair, whom death
Was rudely threatening seen,
For a corroding worm the heart
Was tearing deep within.
Now in her thin pale hands, convulsed
It seems with fear or doubt,
Her kerchief white, of border’d lace
And points, she twists about;
Or with absorb’d distracted mien
She agitates the air,
With fan, whose feathers Araby
Had sent, the choicest there.
The Cavalier was slightly form’d,
And of the middle size,
With reddish beard, a restless mouth,
And most unquiet eyes.
His visage pale and dry appear’d,
Nose sharp and of a crook,
Noble his port, but sinister
And terrible his look.
In a red mantle he was wrapp’d,
With golden plates o’erspread,
And gracefully his cap was placed
On one side on his head.
With measured steps, from end to end,
He paced along the room,
And different passions o’er his face
Though silent seem’d to come.
At times he reddens, darting round
Fierce looks, that seem to tell,
As flames cast forth from eyes of fire,
The very deeds of hell.
And now a fierce and bitter smile
The extended lip displays,
Or on the gilded roof he fix’d
A darkly lowering gaze.
Now hastening on his course, from head
To foot he trembles o’er,
And now proceeds his noble mien
Of calmness to restore.
Thus have I seen a tiger fierce,
Now tranquil, now with rage
Revolve himself each side across,
And round his narrow cage.
Thus pacing o’er the carpet there
His footsteps are not heard,
But soundless they, yet were distinct
As ever that he stirr’d,
In distant lands, ’tis said,
That with like noise has Heaven supplied,
For man to shun in dread,
O, wonder rare! a serpent, named
Thence Rattlesnake, that springs
Quick at the moment it comes nigh,
And kills whome’er it stings.
The Lady was Padillia,
That sat in mournful strain;
And the stern silent Cavalier
Don Pedro, King of Spain.

III.

As round some solitary tower,
At setting of the sun,
Fierce birds of prey are whirling seen,
Revolving one by one,
Thus with Don Pedro in their turn
Have various thoughts a trace,
Whose shadows darken as they pass
The expression of his face.
Now occupies his angry mind
His brother’s power and state,
Of those whose mother he had slain,
And birth would criminate.
Now of unquietnesses borne,
Great scorn and insult shown,
Or of his failing treasury,
Nor means to fill it known.
Now of the fair Aldonza’s charms,
His fortune ’twas to gain,
Or of the blood-stain’d forms of those
He had unjustly slain.
Now some projected enterprise,
Some treaty to defeat,
Faith-breaking with Granada’s Moor,
Or treason or deceit.
But as the birds the lonely tower,
The broken heights between,
Are all at length, as one by one,
Retiring hiding seen;
And constant only one remains,
Revolving it infest,
The fiercest, strongest on the wing,
That will admit no rest;
Thus all that multitude confused
Of passions wild and strange,
Of which Don Pedro for a while
Was tangled in the range,
At length from breast and head alike
Fled finding a retreat,
And living left distinct alone,
With horror great replete,
The image of Fadrique,
His eldest brother famed,
The pride of knights and Master those
Of Santiago named.
Now from Humillia’s conquer’d walls,
With matchless courage won,
In triumph had Fadrique come
O’er vanquish’d Aragon.
Where erst the bars, the castles now
He floating left abroad,
And to present the keys he brings
His brother, king and lord.
Well knows the king no rebel he,
But friend and ally true,
And more than Henry too.
’Twas he Fadrique had the charge
From France to bring the queen,
The Lady Blanche, but he allow’d
A year to intervene.
With her in Narbonne he delay’d,
And rumours thus of those,
Which whether true or false alike
Are poisonous, arose.
And in Medina’s tower the price
The Lady Blanche now pays,
Of all the palace whisperings,
And journey’s long delays.
And on his shoulders yet untouch’d
His head Fadrique wears,
Because of his great wealth and power
And honour’d name he bears.
But, woe for him! the ladies all
Him as their idol own,
For his gay port and gallant mien,
And manly courage known.
And if he cause the throne no fear,
In his fidelity,
He gives what’s worse, though that were bad,
The heart strong jealousy.
Meanwhile the fair Padillia,
Whose judgement clear and great,
Her royal lover’s secret thoughts,
Though deepest penetrate,
In whom the goodness of her heart
The enchantment still excels,
That in her beauteous face and form
So marvellously dwells,
Unhappy victim lives of fears,
That ever her attend,
Because she loves the king, and sees
His course in evil end:
She knows that based in blood and grief,
And persecution’s train,
A palace never is secure,
No throne can fix’d remain.
And she has two young tender girls,
Who with another sire,
Whate’er their lot, might all have gain’d
Their hearts could best require;
And in Fadrique’s worth she sees
A stay and partisan.
She knows he comes to Seville now,
And as from words can scan
Her fierce lord’s brow dark lowering,
In evil hour he came,
And to allay suspicions,
Or give them higher aim,
At length, though with a trembling lip,
The silence breaking dared
To speak, and thus the words that pass’d
Between the two declared:
“Your brother then, Fadrique,
Triumphant comes today?”
“And certainly in coming,
The wretch makes long delay.”
“He serves you well, and hero-like,
As does Humillia show,
Of loyalty gives proofs, and brave
He is”—“Sufficient so.”
“You may be sure, Sire, that his heart
Will ever true remain.”
“Tomorrow still more sure of that.”
Both silent were again.

IV.

With joy the Master to receive,
Through Seville’s streets along,
Great rumour spreads, and arms resound,
And men and horses throng.
And shouts of welcoming, amidst
Repeated echoes rise,
Which from Hiralda’s lofty tower
Are scattered to the skies.
Now comes the crowd approaching near,
But less the shouts resound,
And now the palace gates they reach
Mid silence all around:
As if the Alcazar had enjoy’d
The privilege to appear,
In sight, and still the enthusiast flow,
And turn it into fear.
Thus mute and breathless, motionless,
The people stood in dread,
As if with magical respect
The plaza’s bounds to tread;
And enters there the Master now,
With but a scanty train,
And of his order some few knights,
The palace gates to gain.
And forward on his course directs,
As one without alarms,
Who goes to meet a brother kind,
With open heart and arms:
Or as some noble chieftain comes,
For glorious deeds the cause,
From grateful monarch to receive
Due honours and applause.
Upon a dark and mettled steed,
That breathes of foam and fire,
And while the bridle scarce restrains,
Seems proud of its attire,
With a white mantle o’er him cast,
Flung loosely to the air,
O’er which the collar and red cross
His dignity declare;
And cap of crimson velvet girt
His brows, whereon unfold
The winds the feathers’ snowy plumes,
And tassels bound with gold.
All pale as death, the furious King
His brother saw from far,
When on the plaza entering first,
And fix’d as statues are,
Awhile he stood upon the floor,
And from his angry eyes
Seem’d burning horrid lightning thence
In flashes to arise.
But starting soon, himself around
He turn’d the room to leave,
As if he would some welcome guest
Right affably receive.
When thus Padillia saw him turn,
Her heart beyond relief
Of anguish full, and countenance
So beauteous mark’d with grief,
She rose, and to the balcony
Went troubled, by the square,
And to the Master motions wild,
With gestures to declare,
In evil hour he comes, and waves
Her kerchief him away,
And by mute signs thus bids him seek
Safety without delay.
Nothing of this he comprehends,
But for saluting takes
The warning, and discreetly thus
A gallant answer makes.
And to the open’d portal comes,
With guards and bowmen lined,
Who give him passage free, but leave
His followers behind.
If he knew not Padillia’s signs,
Don Pedro knew them well,
As he before the chamber door
A moment seem’d to dwell,
In deep suspense o’er his resolve,
When turning back his eye,
He saw the Lady warn him thus
By motions thence to fly.
O, heaven! then was that noble act,
Of pure intent to be
What call’d the executioners forth,
And seal’d the stern decree.
Follow’d by two esquires alone,
The Master scarce in haste
Upon the royal vestibule
His foot confiding placed,
Where various men-at-arms were seen,
In double iron barr’d,
Pacing along as sentinels
The entrance stairs to guard,
When over from the balcony,
Like fiendish shape of ill,
The King looks out, and “Mace-bearers,”
He shouts, “the Master kill.”
Quick as the lightning in a storm
Comes ere the thunders call,
Six well-appointed maces down
On Don Fadrique fall.
He raised his hand to grasp his sword,
But in his tabard’s gird
The hilt was bound, impossible
To draw it at the word.
He fell, a sea of blood around
Ran from the shattered brain,
Raising a cry which reached to heaven,
And doubtless not in vain.
Of deed so horrible the news
At once around was spread,
And thence the brotherhood and knights
Together quickly fled.
To hide them in their houses fled
The people, trembling sore
With horror, and the Alcazar’s bounds
Were desert as before.

V.

’Tis said, the sight of blood so much
Is wont to infuriate
The tiger, that he still rends on
With stomach satiate;
Solely because ’tis his delight
With blood the earth to stain,
So doubtless with the King it was
Such feelings grew amain.
For when he saw Fadrique laid,
Thus prostrate on the ground,
After the squires in search he ran
The palace all around;
Who tremblingly and livid fled
The apartments various o’er,
Nor find they any hiding-place,
Or whence to fly a door.
One happily at length succeeds,
To hide or fly outright;
The other, Sancho Villiegas,
Less happy or adroit,
Seeing the King still follow him,
Enter’d half dead with fear
Where was Padillia on her couch,
With her attendants near;
They trembling, as she senseless laid,
And by her side reclined
Her two young tender girls, who were
Angels in form and mind.
The unhappy youth still seeing there
The spectre following nigh,
That even this asylum mocks,
In his arms quickly high
Snatches the Lady Beatrice,
Who scarce six years has known,
The child for whom the King has e’er
The most affection shown.
But, ah! naught serves him this resource,
As in the desert naught
The holy cross avails, that clasps
The pilgrim hapless caught;
When roars the south wind, burns the sky,
And seems as if up-driven
A frightful sea, of waves of sand,
Commingling earth and heaven;
Thus with the child between his arms,
And on his knees compress’d,
The furious dagger of the King
Was planted in his breast.
As if that day had witness’d naught
The palace new or rare,
The King sat at the table calm
To eat as usual there;
Play’d afterwards a game of draughts,
Then went out pacing slow
To see the galleys, arming soon
To Biscay’s shores to go.
And when the night the hemisphere
Had with its mantle veil’d,
He enters in the Golden Tower,
Where he shut up has held
The fair Aldonza, whom he took
From Santa Clara’s walls,
And as in blind idolatry
Who now his heart enthralls.
With Levi then his treasurer,
Who though a Hebrew vile
Has all his confidence, he goes
On state affairs awhile;
And very late retires to rest,
With no attendants nigh,
Only a Moor, a wretch perforce,
His favourite waiting by.
Enter’d the lofty vestibule,
The Alcazar’s tranquil bound,
One moment paused the King and pass’d
His gaze in turn around.
A large lamp from the vaulted roof
Was hanging loose, and cast
Now lights, now shadows, as it swung,
As by the breezes pass’d.
Between the polish’d columns placed
Two men in armour were,
But only two dark figures show’d,
Watching in silence there.
And still was Don Fadrique laid
Extended on the ground,
With his torn mantle o’er him spread,
In a lake of blood around.
The King approach’d him, and awhile
Attentively survey’d,
And seeing that his brother yet
Was not entirely dead,
Since he perchance as breathing seem’d,
His breast a heave to make,
He gave him with his foot a push,
Which made the body shake;
Whereon he, giving to the Moor
His sharpen’d dagger bare,
Said, “Finish him,” and quietly
To sleep went up the stair.

IX.
MANUEL BRETON DE LOS HERREROS.

In the country of Lope de Vega and Calderon de la Barca, it was not to be supposed, that on the general revival of the national literature, the drama could be left neglected, in a state unworthy of its ancient reputation. From the time of those great writers until the present, notwithstanding the predilection of the Spanish people for the stage, and the encouragement consequently given for genius to exert itself, no dramas had been produced to equal them in the public admiration. The younger Moratin, who may be justly termed the Spanish MoliÈre, had rather introduced into Spain a new style of drama, that which we call genteel comedy, than followed the track of the ancient masters. It was reserved for a later writer, the subject of this notice, to appear as a rival to them in the exuberance of composition, and possession of popular favour, though it may be a question for future ages to decide on his relative merit.

Breton de los Herreros was born at Quel, a small village in the province of Logronio, the 19th December, 1796. Of his early history, we are only informed that he was educated at the school of San Antonio Abad at Madrid, and that he entered a regiment of infantry as a volunteer, when yet a boy of fourteen. The world at large may be considered to be, with regard to contemporary characters of another nation, in the relation of posterity, making distance have, as Bishop Atterbury remarked to Lord Bolingbroke, the effect of time; and they will thus inquire eagerly into the particulars of the life of one distinguished for genius, however humble his birth, while they will pass heedlessly by the noblest born personage, who has given them no peculiar right of interest in his history. But, as on reading the life of the Duke de Rivas, we feel it a subject of congratulation, that the lance of a French marauder did not cut off one who was destined to be the ornament of his country’s literature, so we rejoice again equally that the chance passed away favourably, when a stray ball might have deprived the world of the works of Breton de los Herreros. Serving in his humble line, he was present at various skirmishes with the invaders on their final expulsion from Valencia and Catalonia, at the same time composing patriotic songs on the national triumphs. In 1812, when yet a boy of fifteen, he wrote an Ode to the Constitution, and distinguished himself as an orator among his comrades on the popular subjects of discussion. On the return of Ferdinand VII. to absolute power, he must have been compelled to restrain his tendencies for liberalism, and it may be supposed that his time was at least as well employed in noting the characters of those around him, and the scenes he had to witness, as a storehouse of useful observations for his future writings.

In 1822 he obtained his discharge from the army, and after various attempts made to obtain an eligible employment in the provinces, he went to Madrid, in the summer of 1824, for the same purpose. There again he was equally unsuccessful, and as a last resource, took to the director of the theatre, a comedy which he had written some years previously for pastime. Fortunately for him, the director happened to be in want of a new piece to bring out on the king’s birthday, and thinking the one presented would answer his purpose, he undertook its production with more than usual care, on account of the occasion. It was accordingly performed on the 24th October, 1824, and met with such decided success, that the literary fame of the author was at once secured.

The profits accruing from the representation of his comedies were exceedingly trifling; but his natural inclinations led him to writing for the stage, where he now found himself respected as a successful writer; and as he had no other resource for maintenance, he applied himself to this labour with better hopes. A succession of pieces he wrote were equally successful, produced with a rapidity that reminded the world of the fertility that had characterized the genius of Lope de Vega or Calderon. One of his pieces was so much relished, that at the close, the audience insisted on its being repeated all over a second time, with which extraordinary demand the actors had to comply. In 1831 he brought out his comedy of ‘Marcela, or Which of the Three?’—the most popular of all his productions, the subject being, which of three lovers, all unworthy of her, the heroine, who is amiability personified, should accept. It was repeated at all the theatres in the kingdom, and went through six editions on publication, besides several surreptitious ones, having some of the verses even passing into “household words,” as popular expressions.

In the same year, 1831, he published a small volume of poems, containing lyrical and miscellaneous pieces, and has since written many more of the same character in the different periodicals of Madrid. None of these are, however, deserving of note, except the satirical ones, many of which abound with the wit and humour for which his comedies are remarkable. He is now engaged in publishing at Madrid a collection of all his works, the last volume being intended to contain the miscellaneous poems, which, corrected and collected together from the different papers in which they at first appeared, will no doubt prove to be more worthy of his fame than those published in 1831. In the lyrical poems he is avowedly a follower of the so-called classical school, and rises no higher than those of the same class that had preceded him; their utmost praise being to be characterized as—

In the satirical pieces, however, he seems in his proper element, playing on words and treating his rhymes with a command of language truly surprising. For this reason, and on account of the numerous local and national allusions contained in them, it is very difficult for a foreigner fully to understand, and almost impossible to be able to translate them. Those pieces attempted in this work may perhaps give some faint image of his style; but they have been chosen as most easy for translation, rather than as the best. Of the Satires published separately after the volume above mentioned, the most applauded have been those entitled, ‘Against the Philharmonic Rage;’ ‘Against the Mania for Writing for the Public;’ ‘Against the Abuses introduced into Theatrical Declamation;’ ‘Moral Epistle on the Manners of the Age;’ and ‘The Rage for Travelling.’ With the Spaniards of the present day as with their Roman ancestors, satire is a favourite species of composition, and it has been observed, that a manual of the history of the national dissensions might be composed out of the works of this popular author alone.

Breton, independently of his original writings, has had the editorship of one of the periodicals of Madrid, and occasional engagements connected with others. He also had at one time an appointment in one of the offices of the government, which he seems to have lost in 1840, on his writing some satirical effusion on the change that had then taken place. Literature has been in every age a grievous exaction, for those who had to follow it as a profession, except under peculiar circumstances. He had only his genius to befriend him, and apparently had not even the virtue of prudence for a counsellor. Thus he has had often to submit to circumstances, which though harassing at the time, he had the wisdom to make subjects of merriment afterwards, to the gain of his literary reputation.

In Spain there can scarcely yet be said to be formed a “reading public,” notwithstanding the great number of good works that have been lately published, to supply the demand whenever it shall arise. The most evident and flattering of all the applauses that a literary man can there receive, are those awarded to dramatic successes, and of these, he has had the reward that was certainly due to him. In such a climate as that of Spain, and with such a people, theatrical amusements are more a matter of popular necessity than they are in a colder climate, with people of more domestic requirements; and yet even in England it may be a cause of surprise, considering the honour given to the author of a successful play, that more works of genius have not been produced for the stage. In both countries there is a complaint of the public requiring “novelties;” but the fact is, that in seeking novelties, they are only seeking excellence. When any really good work is presented them, they know how to appreciate it, and in seeking for others even of the same author, they are only expressing their sense of his merits.

In the prospectus of the proposed new edition of his works, he had the satisfaction of stating he had to republish more than sixty original dramas, that had met with a successful reception from the audiences of Madrid. He has besides these produced several that have not been successful, and has translated from the French a great number of others. These have been principally tragedies, and he has adapted them for the Spanish stage, rather than translated them, showing a talent, it has been observed by Del Rio, in so doing equivalent to making them to be counted in the number of his original works. Del Rio cites as a particular example, the translation from Delavigne’s Tragedy of ‘The Sons of Edward.’ Breton’s talent is evidently pre-eminent for comedy; but he has written several tragedies also, of which one, the ‘Merope,’ brought forward in 1835, was received with much favour.

This work, as it has been more than once already intimated, is intended mainly to give an account of the lyrical poetry of Spain as nourishing at present; and, therefore, it would be entering on subjects foreign to our purpose, to inquire at large into the merits of any specific dramatic performances. The Spanish drama may, no doubt, be worthy of especial study, but I confess that I have not felt it deserving of the extravagant praises which some writers have bestowed on it. It would surely be much happier for the people of every country to seek their greatest enjoyments in those of a domestic nature, rather than in those miscellaneous congregations where the quieter virtues can have little exercise. But as human nature is constituted, and public amusements cannot be avoided, it is the duty of every friend of the popular interests to support their being given on the foundation of good taste and moral principles. Though Breton’s works do not appear free from all blame in this respect, and though sometimes his witticisms may be observed scarcely fitting even for the stage, yet they show, on the whole, compared with the dramatic productions of other countries, at least equal refinement, as they certainly do more inventive talent than we can point out elsewhere in our age.

Larra, the most discriminating critic of Spain, has observed of Breton, “that in nothing does his peculiar poetical talent shine more than in the simplicity of his plans. In all his comedies it is known that he makes a study and show of forming a plot extremely simple,—little or no action, little or no artifice. This is conceded to talent only, and to superior talent. A comedy, full of incidents, which any one invents, is easy to be passed off on a public always captivated by what interests and excites curiosity. Breton despises these trivial resources, and sustains and carries to a happy conclusion, amid the continual laughter of the audience, and from applause to applause, a comedy based principally on the depicting of some comic characters, in the liveliness and quickness of repartee, in the pureness, flow and harmony of his easy versification. In these gifts he has no rival, though he may have them in regard to intention, profoundness or philosophy.”

Ferrer del Rio says of him, “that he has cultivated a style so much his own, that at the first few verses of one of his works, the spectators cry out his name from all parts. Originality is thus one of the qualities that recommend him. He tyrannizes over the public, obliging them to cast away ill-humour, and laugh against their will from the time the curtain rises till the representation ends, and this the same whether in the comedies they applaud, or those they disapprove. He is consequently mirthful and witty in the extreme, and no one can dispute the palm with him under this consideration. None of his scenes fatigue from weariness; none of his verses fail of fullness and harmony; they do not appear made one after another, but at one blow, and as by enchantment. Thus all hail him as a perfect versifier and easy colloquist. Infinite are the matters he has introduced in his comedies, multiplied the characters sketched by his pen, innumerable the situations imagined, and undoubtedly there is due to him the well-founded ascription of a fertile genius. Originality, wit, easy dialogue, sonorous versification, an inexhaustible vein, would not be sufficient to form a good comic writer of manners without the criterion of observation, fit for filling up his pictures with exactness. This criterion also he possesses in a high degree.”

High as is this encomium, the writer says of him further, that if it were decreed by Providence that a new race of barbarians should overrun Spain, destroying libraries and other depositaries of human knowledge, yet the name of Breton de los Herreros would survive the disaster, and some vestige of his comedies would remain. “Histories, books of learning, works of legislation, science, philosophy and politics are, no doubt, more profound than his comedies, though from their peculiar nature not so popular. Thus what we have said is to be understood as a means of distinguishing between writings which, that they may not perish in the course of ages, require studious men to adopt them for a test, and learned men to illustrate them by their commentaries, and those compositions that, to succeed in obtaining the honours of immortality, require only a people to recite and transmit them verbally from father to son. The name of Breton may become traditional in Spain, that of other celebrated writers will belong to history.”

Breton has been elected a member of the Royal Spanish Academy, and certainly one so highly gifted as he is in his department, is well deserving of every literary honour. The times are gone by when a writer of comedies could be all in all with the public as their favourite author; but probably there is no other existing in Spain who enjoys so much popular regard. As such, notwithstanding the inferior merit of his lyrical and miscellaneous poetry, excepting his satirical writings, it would have been a blameworthy omission to have left his name out of the list of the modern poets of Spain. It was, however, for this reason more advisable to make the selections from those satirical writings; though independently of this consideration, it would have been also desirable, in a work attempting to give a general view of modern Spanish poetry, that so essential and popular a branch of it should not be left unnoticed.

For the poems under this head, Breton has only given the general term “Satirical Letrillias,” so that with those translated his numbering only could be adopted for reference. The Letrillia, it may be proper to observe, is what our musical writers call Motetts or small pieces, having generally some well-known proverbial saying for the close of each verse.

MANUEL BRETON DE LOS HERREROS.

SATIRICAL LETRILLIAS.—III.

Such is, dear girl, my tenderness,
Naught can its equal be!
If thou a dowry didst possess
The charms to rival of thy face,
I would marry thee.
Thou wert my bliss, my star, my all!
So kind and fair to see;
And me thy consort to instal,
At once for witness Heaven I call,
I would marry thee.
Thou dost adore me? yes, and I,
Thy love so raptures me,
If thou wouldst not so anxious try
To know my pay, and what I buy,
I would marry thee.
If thou wert not so always coy,
Ne’er listening to my plea,
But when I, fool! my cash employ
To bring thee sweets, or some fine toy,
I would marry thee.
If thou must not instructions wait,
As may mamma agree,
To write or speak to me, or state
When thou wilt meet me at the gate,
I would marry thee.
If ’twere not when to dine, the most
Thou givest, as many airs thou show’st,
As Roderic at the hanging-post,
I would marry thee.
If for my punishment instead
Of ease and quiet, we
Might not three hungry brothers dread,
And mother too, to keep when wed,
I would marry thee.
If ’twere not when these plagues combine
With thy tears flowing free,
The virtues of a heavenly sign
I see must solace me, not thine,
I would marry thee.
Go, get another in thy chain,
And Heaven for you decree
A thousand joys, for me ’tis vain;
I know thee cheat, and tell thee plain,
I will not marry thee.

SATIRICAL LETRILLIAS.—IV.

I am forgotten as if at Rome;
But he will for funerals me invite,
To kill me with the annoyance quite:
Well, so be it!
Celeste, with thousand coy excuses,
Will sing the song that set she chooses,
And all about that her environ,
Though like an owl, call her a Siren:
Well, so be it!
A hundred bees, without reposing,
Work their sweet combs, with skill enclosing;
Alas! for an idle drone they strive,
Who soon will come to devour the hive:
Well, so be it!
Man to his like moves furious war,
As if were not too numerous far
Alone the medical squadrons straight
The world itself to depopulate!
Well, so be it!
There are of usurers heaps in Spain,
Of catchpoles, hucksterers, heaps again,
And of vintners too, yet people still
Are talking of robbers on the hill:
Well, so be it!
In vain may the poor, O Conde! try
Thy door, for the dog makes sole reply;
And yet to spend thou hast extollers,
Over a ball two thousand dollars:
Well, so be it!
Enough today, my pen, this preaching;
A better time we wait for teaching:
If vices in vain I try to brand,
And find I only write upon sand,
Well, so be it!

SATIRICAL LETRILLIAS.—VII.

O! what a blockhead is Don Andres,
So spending his gold without measure,
Who ruins, perhaps, to be a Marquess,
His house by the waste of his treasure!
A cross on his breast to wear so prim,
Much be the good it will do to him!
Louis is passing the whole long night,
In the dance, what a fancy to take!
So foolish too, when he easier might
On his warm soft bed his comfort make;
To stretch as he pleased each weary limb:
Much be the good it will do to him!
O, how short-sighted is Avarice!
Cenon exposes himself to shame,
For the few pounds more he gains amiss,
To lose his office and his good name;
For a paltry bribe his fame to dim,
Much be the good it will do to him.
And Clara! what of thee shall I say?
When slowly along I see thee go,
As if quite lame on the public way,
And on thy long broad foot bestow
A short narrow shoe for us to see?
Much be the good it will do to thee!
Can it be possibly true, Jerome,
Though yearly he sees his rents decrease,
When his fat steward shall bring him home
His bills, will sign them as he may please?
Without any search to scarcely skim?
Much be the good it will do to him!
Fabio wedded with Jane, when above
A sixpence they neither had, but then
“He loved her so!” Long life to that love,
Bravo! tomorrow if he seem fain
To hang himself with vexation grim,
Much be the good it will do to him.
Wouldst thou engage with the bulls in fight,
My friend! thy wish to be gratified,
When to the best champion known will light
Some luckless thrust give through the right side?
To try thy skill thou art surely free:
Much be the good it will do to thee!
Martin goes a poor rabbit to chase,
When he could buy for a trifle one
Fully as good in the market-place;
And he gets fever-struck by the sun!
Well, at the least he has had his whim:
Much be the good it will do to him!
If when such a thing he least expects,
His house should tumble upon his head,
Because a doubloon Anton neglects
To give for mending the roof instead,
The hole some rat had made in the rim,
Much be the good it will do to him!
If should some crusty reader exclaim
Over these lines,—What a wretched style!
What a bad taste to make it his aim!
My pen more gracefully could the while
Have made the verse go easy and trim,
Much be the good it will do to him!

X.
JOSÈ MARIA HEREDIA.

The people of Cuba have good cause to be proud of a poet born in their island, whose genius seems always to have found its highest inspiration in expatiating on the charms of the place of his birth.

Heredia was born the 31st December, 1803, at Santiago de Cuba, in which city his family had taken refuge when driven away by the revolution from the island of Santo Domingo, where they had been previously settled. His father, whose profession was that of the law, was shortly afterwards appointed a Judge in Mexico, where he accordingly went with his family, taking his son there for his education under his special superintendence. This duty he had the privilege allowed him to accomplish, when he died in 1820, leaving a reputation for ability and uprightness so eminent as to prove highly advantageous to his son in his subsequent necessities. On his father’s death, Heredia returned with his mother and three sisters to Cuba, where he had an uncle and other relations residing, and there he engaged in a course of study for the profession of the law, at the termination of which he was, in 1823, admitted an Advocate in the Supreme Court of the island. From his earliest years he had always shown himself possessed of a very studious disposition, and some of his poems seem to have been written when only eighteen years of age.

In the pursuit of the profession he had adopted, with his talent and energy, Heredia might have hoped soon to acquire a very honourable position; but unfortunately for his future comfort in life, he had imbibed too strongly the principles then prevailing to consider the domination of Spain as an evil which ought to be removed. It is stated, that there was a conspiracy even then formed to declare the independence of the island, in which he was implicated; and that on his being denounced to the government in consequence, he was obliged to fly from the island. Proceedings under this charge were notwithstanding instituted against him, under which he was formally declared banished. He thereupon went, in November 1823, to New York, where he passed the following three years, appearing, from the accounts that reached his friends, to have lived there during that time in great privations. These, and the variableness of the climate, operating severely on his constitution, as a native of the tropics, were no doubt the causes of his becoming a victim to that fatal disease which terminated his existence a few years afterwards.

In New York he acquired soon an accurate knowledge of the English language, which enabled him also to become familiarly acquainted with English literature. Of this he showed no inconsiderable tokens, in a volume of poems which he published there in 1825, having included among them several translations from the English, though he has not acknowledged them generally as such. He continued the same neglect in the edition of his works published subsequently in Mexico in 1832, which was a much superior edition to the former, being more than doubled in regard to its contents, and having the poems formerly published now much corrected and improved.

Not finding his residence in New York offering him any hopes of advancement in life, and despairing of being able to return to his family in Cuba, he determined to go thence to Mexico and seek the assistance of his father’s friends in that city. He accordingly went there in 1826, and had scarcely arrived when he was at once appointed to a situation in the office of the Secretary of State. From this minor post he was soon afterwards promoted to discharge various important offices in the provinces, and finally to be named one of the Judges of the Supreme Court of Mexico and a Senator of the Republic. It was while holding one of those appointments as a local judge at Toluca that he published there the second edition of his works just mentioned.

After the death of Ferdinand VII., in 1833, the Regent, Queen Christina, wisely accorded a general amnesty to all expatriated Spaniards, when Heredia, notwithstanding the favourable position he held in Mexico, where also he had married in 1827, wished to take advantage of it to return to his family. On making application, however, for permission to do so, he was refused it by the Captain-General of Cuba, and all he could obtain was permission to go there for two months to visit his aged mother and other relatives, subject to the observation of the police. He went there accordingly in 1836, when, by a singular coincidence, he joined his family again on the same day of the month that thirteen years before he had parted from them.

On his arrival in Cuba, he was subjected to some of those petty annoyances which military governments too often impose on people under their sway. A friend of his who had gone to meet him, found him, notwithstanding his rank in the Mexican republic, or his reputation as a literary character, or his evident state of ill-health, seated on a bench in the court of the government office, to wait his turn at the pleasure of the official, who thought he was showing his dignity by exposing to unnecessary delay those whom he had to note under his inspection. Heredia was so altered that his friend could scarcely recognize him, and his relatives soon had to become apprehensive that his health was seriously endangered. He had given the most solemn assurance to the authorities that he would not in any way during his visit interfere in the public questions of the day, and he fulfilled his promise. If he really had entered in his youth into any plot against the government, the most dangerous conspirator in it could scarcely have been a young man of nineteen, who seems to have been the principal sufferer. But in any case, he had by time and reflection become very altered in sentiment, and his failing strength would not admit of any extraordinary exertion, even if he had remained the same enthusiast for political liberty as he was in his youth. He would have wished to stay the remainder of his life with his family, but it was his duty to return to Mexico after the expiration of the period allowed him, and there he died of consumption on his return, the 6th May, 1839. After his death, his widow and her children came to Cuba, where she died the 16th June, 1844, leaving a son and two daughters in the kindly charge of his relatives.

The Toluca edition of Heredia’s poems in two volumes, 1832, does great credit to the Mexican press, being one of the best printed Spanish works to be found. But it is extremely scarce, and therefore deserves a more detailed account of it than might be requisite with works better known. In addition to those contained in the first edition, which is yet comparatively frequently to be met with, it contains his philosophic and patriotic poems, some of which are very spirited, and one, the ‘Hymn of the Banished,’ an extremely fine one. The copies of the work sent to Havana had these patriotic poems taken out, as otherwise they would have been seized by the authorities; so that most of the copies of the work existing are deficient with regard to them. In the place of the odes thus taken out, another poem, ‘On Immortality,’ was inserted, which, however, is principally taken from the Seventh Book of Young’s Night Thoughts, though not so stated. The other principal poems, in respect of length, are, ‘On the Worth of Women,’ and ‘the Pleasures of Melancholy.’ Of another very fine ode, ‘To Niagara,’ a very excellent translation into English blank verse has appeared in the United States Review.

In the preface to the second edition, he states that he had been induced to undertake it, upon finding that several of the poems in the first had been reprinted in Paris, London, Hamburg and Philadelphia, and had been received with much favour in his own country, where the celebrated Lista had pronounced him “a great poet.” There can be no doubt that other editions would have met with very favourable reception, had it not been for the circumstance of his being considered an author obnoxious to the Spanish government. As it is, the Creoles of Cuba have manuscript copies of his poems circulating amongst themselves, generally faulty as dependent on the taste of the individuals who had copied them. The effect of this is apparent in the only edition I am aware of, that has been published in Spain, that of Barcelona, in 1840, acknowledged to be taken from a manuscript copy, in which not only are some of his best compositions omitted, such as the ‘Lines to his Horse,’ and the poem entitled, ‘The Season of the Northers,’ but some others, for instance, the ‘Ode to the Sun,’ are given imperfectly. In return, it gives a poem on receiving the portrait of his mother, which had not appeared in the former editions, and which is not unworthy of being compared with Cowper’s on the same subject, though treated differently.

In the prologue to this edition the editor observes, that “in all his productions is seen an excellency of heart and an imagination truly poetical, enabling us to assert with Lista that he is a great poet, and one of the best of our day.” He adds, “the poems of Heredia have, in our judgement, the merit of a purity of language, which unfortunately begins to be unknown in Spain. They are of a kind equally apart from the monotony and servileness, ascribed perhaps with reason to the classicists, and from the extravagant aberration of those who affect to be called Romanticists, and believe they are so, because they despise all rules in their compositions, substituting words and phrases unknown to our better writers and poets.”

The language of Heredia in his poems is by the concurrent opinion of all Spanish critics very pure, and even strangers can feel its simplicity and nature in connexion with the truly poetical thoughts they contain, free from all conceits or affectations. In his best original compositions, the sentiments expressed are generally of a tender and melancholy character, as might be expected from his history, of one banished from his country and family, while suffering from privations and ill-health, and at length sinking under a fatal disease. Like many other poets, he thus also writes most affectingly when dwelling on his own personal feelings, as if to verify the declaration of Shelley, that

… most men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong;
They learn in suffering what they teach in song.

The ‘Lines to his Horse’ and ‘The Season of the Northers’ bear intrinsic evidence of their origin, and also the Ode entitled ‘Poesy.’ This one bears a strong resemblance in its general tone to the ‘Epistle to His Brother’ and the poem of ‘Sleep and Poetry’ by Keats, whose character and fate also were in some degree the same as his. They have the same sentiment, as conscious of fame awaiting them, common to all poets, but peculiarly to those of more sensitive temperament, the ‘non omnis moriar,’ the hope of immortality,—

??p?d’ ??? ????? e???s?a?
?e? ?????? p??s?.

If the extravagant eulogiums bestowed on the merit of the Sonnet, as a form of verse, by some Italian writers, and echoed by Boileau and others, be at all deserved, Heredia’s claims to superiority may be put forward very confidently, in respect of that to ‘His Wife’ in dedication of the second edition of his works. It contains all the conditions required for a perfect composition of this kind, in the poetical statement of the subject, the application of it, the beautiful simile given as a counterpart, and the strikingly appropriate idea with which it closes. Of this idea, the classical reader will at once perceive the elegance and force; but he cannot do so fully, unless he have also seen in the churches of seaport towns on the continent, as for instance, that of Santa Maria del Socorro, at Cadiz, the votive offerings of gratitude for deliverances from danger.

The ‘Ode to Night’ might have been considered worthy of equally unqualified commendation, were it not for the circumstance that twelve out of the nineteen stanzas it contains are almost a paraphrase from the Italian of Ippolito Pindemonte. At the time of making the translation hereafter given, I had not read that very pleasing writer, but have since found the source of the poem in his ‘Poesie Campestri, Le quattro parti del giorno,’ to which, therefore, justice requires the acknowledgement to be given. It is much to be regretted that Heredia did not distinguish his original compositions in all cases from imitations, as there is no statement with regard to this one, of its having been taken from another author. There are other instances of the same neglect, as in a close translation from Campbell of ‘The Ode to the Rainbow,’ equally unacknowledged. The interests of literature require that such acknowledgements should be uniformly made, that we should know gold from imitations, and give every one his right and place. As the same Italian poet remarked in his ‘Opinioni Politiche,’

Conosco anch’io negli ordini civili
L’oro dal fango, ed anch’io veggio che altra
Cosa È il nascere Inglese, ed altra Turco.

Heredia’s original poems, many of them written to, or respecting his near relatives or other friends, betoken so much true poetic feeling, as well as flow of poetical ideas, that we cannot suppose the neglect of which we have complained to have been more than an oversight. He might even in some cases have lost remembrance of his obligations, and repeated from memory when he thought he was writing from inspiration. The latter part of his first volume is entirely taken up with “Imitations;” but those we have noticed above are in the second volume, without any distinction from the original poems.

He had, however, in early life so many privations to endure, and so many daily necessities for which to make a daily provision, that we may not be surprised at his inexactness in minor matters. In the preface to the second edition, he says, that “the revolutionary whirlwind had made him traverse over a vast course in a short time, and that with better or worse fortune he had been an advocate, a soldier, a traveller, a teacher of languages, a diplomatist, a journalist, a judge, a writer of history, and a poet at twenty-five years of age. All my writings,” he observes, “must partake of the variableness of my lot. The new generation will enjoy serener days, and those who then dedicate themselves to the Muses will be much more happy.” On his first going to Mexico, it is to be supposed that he had to enter on military duties in the unsettled state of the country, and that he had some diplomatic commissions entrusted to him by the government, of which, however, we have no other account. This, in fact, may be said to be the first biographical notice of him published, obtained from information given by his relatives, who, having been long separated from him, could not explain the particular references more fully.

As a writer of history, he had published, also in Mexico, a work in four volumes, 8vo. which was chiefly a compilation from Tytler, but with additions in Spanish and Mexican history, suited to the community, for whose benefit it was intended. In this respect, as in so many other parts of his career, the knowledge he had acquired of the English language was of essential assistance to him, while it was no less evident that his knowledge of English literature had improved his taste and strengthened his powers of mind also in his own compositions.

In private life Heredia appears to have been a most amiable character: courteous, generous, and possessed of the most lively sensibility, he made himself beloved by all who had to enter into communication with him. He was also remarkable for the exceeding great ingenuousness of his disposition, which, while it rendered him incapable of vanity in himself, made him at the same time as incapable of dwelling on the faults of others. Several of his poems show further a religious feeling, which no doubt enabled him to bear with becoming equanimity the various trials to which he had been subjected.

Those trials it seemed were appointed to attend him further, even if it had pleased the Almighty to prolong his existence. Shortly before his death, the Mexican legislature passed a law declaring that no one should hold any office under the republic who was not a natural born citizen; and thus he was, among others, deprived of the offices he had held with credit to himself and advantage to the state. If the measure were directed against him personally, it was of short operation, and political intrigues could not avail to deprive him of the consciousness of having fulfilled his duties honourably, or of the claim he had to leave on the remembrance of future ages.

JOSÈ MARIA HEREDIA.

SONNET. DEDICATION OF THE SECOND EDITION OF HIS POEMS, TO HIS WIFE.

When yet was burning in my fervid veins
The fieriness of youth, with many a tear
Of grief, ’twas mine of all my feelings drear,
To pour in song the passion and the pains;
And now to Thee I dedicate the strains,
My Wife! when Love, from youth’s illusions freer,
In our pure hearts is glowing deep and clear,
And calm serene for me the daylight gains.
Thus lost on raging seas, for aid implores
Of Heaven the unhappy mariner, the mark
Of tempests bearing on him wild and dark;
And on the altars, when are gain’d the shores,
Faithful to the Deity he adores,
He consecrates the relics of his bark.

TO HIS HORSE.

Friend of my hours of melancholy gloom,
To soothe me now, come, scouring o’er the plain;
Bear me that I forgetfulness may gain,
Lost in thy speed from my unhappy doom.
The fond illusions of my love are gone,
Fled never to return! and with them borne
Peace, happiness and hope: the veil is drawn,
And the bared cheat shows frenzy’s end alone.
O! how the memory of pleasures past
Now wearies me! horrible that soul’s state,
Of flowers of hope, or freshness desolate!
What then remains it? Bitterness o’ercast.
This south wind kills me: O! that I could rest
In sweet oblivion, temporary death!
Kind sleep might moderate my feverish breath,
And my worn soul again with strength be blest.
My Horse, my friend, I do implore thee, fly!
Though with the effort break my frame so weak:
Grant for thy master’s brows he thus may seek
Sleep’s balmy wings spread forth benignantly.
Let him from thee gain such refreshment kind;
Though much another day it caused me shame,
In my mad cruelty and frenzy’s blame,
My crimson’d heels, and thy torn flanks to find.
Pardon my fury! beats upon my eye
The sorrowing tear. Friend, when my shouts declare
Impatience, then the biting spur to spare
Wait not, but toss thy mane, thy head, and fly.

THE SEASON OF THE NORTHERS.

The wearying summer’s burning heat
Is now assuaged; for from the North
The winds from frost come shaken forth,
’Midst clouds o’er Cuba rushing fleet,
And free us from the fever’s wrath.
Deep roars the sea, with breast swell’d high,
And beats the beach with lashing waves;
Zephyr his wings in freshness laves,
And o’er the sun and shining sky,
Veil-like, transparent vapours fly.
Hail, happy days! by you o’erthrown
We see the altar, which ’mong flowers
May rear’d to Death: attendant lowers,
With pallid face, vile Fever lone,
And with sad brilliancy it shone.
Both saw the sons, with anxious brow,
Of milder realms approaching nigh,
Beneath this all-consuming sky:
With their pale sceptres touched, they bow,
And in the fatal grave are now.
But their reign o’er, on outspread wing,
To purify the poison’d air,
The north winds cold and moisture bear;
Across our fields they sounding spring,
And rest from August’s rigours bring.
O’er Europe’s gloomy climates wide,
Now from the North fierce sweeps the blast;
Verdure and life from earth are past:
With snow man sees it whelm’d betide,
And in closed dwellings must abide.
There all is death and grief! but here,
All life and joy! see, Phoebus smile
More sooth through lucid clouds, the while
Our woods and plains new lustres cheer,
And double spring inspires the year.
O, happy land! his tenderest care
Thee, favour’d! the Creator yields,
And kindest smile: ne’er from thy fields
Again may fate me fiercely tear!
O, let my last sun light me there!
How sweet it is to hear the rain,
My love! so softly falling thus
On the low roof that shelters us!
And the winds whistling o’er the plain
And bellowings of the distant main.
Fill high my cup with golden wine;
Let cares and griefs be driven away;
That proved by thee, my thirst to stay,
Will, my adored! more precious shine,
So touch’d by those sweet lips of thine.
By thee on easy seat reclined,
My lyre how happy will I string;
My love and country’s praise to sing;
My blissful lot, thy face and mind,
And love ineffable and kind!

POESY, AN ODE.

Soul of the universe, bright Poesy!
Thy spirit vivifies, and, like the blast
That’s burning in the desert swiftly free,
In its course all inflames where it has past.
Happy the man who feels within his breast
The fire celestial purely is possess’d!
For that to worth, to virtue elevates,
And to his view makes smile the shadowy forms
Confused of joys to come, and future fates:
Of cruel fortune ’gainst the gathering storms
It shields him, causing him to dwell among
The beings of his own creation bright:
It arms him daringly with wings of light,
And to the world invisible along
Bears him, to wondering mortals to unseal
The mysteries which the horrid depths reveal.
High inspiration! O, what hours of joy,
Deep and ineffable, without alloy,
Hast thou benign conceded to my breast!
On summer nights, with brilliant hues impress’d,
’Tis sweet to break with sounding prow the wave
Of the dark surging sea, which shows behind
A lengthen’d streak of light the current gave.
’Tis sweet to bound where lofty mountains wind,
Or on thy steed to scour along the plain;
But sweeter to my fiery soul ’tis far
To feel myself whirl’d forward in the train
Of thy wild torrent, and as with a star
The brow deck’d proudly, hear thy oracles
Divine; and to repeat them, as of old
Greece listen’d mute to those from Delphic cells
The favour’d priestess of Apollo told;
While she with sacred horror would unfold
The words prophetic, trembling to refer
To the consuming god that frenzied her.
There is of life a spirit that pervades
The universe divine: ’tis he who shades
All Nature’s loveliest scenes with majesty,
And glory greater: beauty’s self ’tis he,
Who robes with radiant mantle, and endows
Her eye with language eloquent, while flows
Soft music from her voice; ’tis he who lends
To her the magic irresistible,
And fatal, which her smile and look attends,
Making men mad and drunk beneath her spell.
If on the marble’s sleeping forms he breathe,
To life they start the chisel’s touch beneath:
In PhÆdra, Tancred, Zorayde he wrings
The heart within us deep; or softly brings
Love-fraught delight, as do their strains inspire
Anacreon, or Tibullus, or the lyre
Of our Melendez, sweetest languishings.
Or wrapt in thunder snatches us away
With Pindar, or Herrera, or thy lay,
Illustrious Quintana! to the heights,
Where virtue, and where glory too invites.
By him compels us Tasso to admire
Clorinda; Homer fierce Achilles’ ire;
And Milton, elevated all beyond,
His direful angel, arm’d of diamond.
O’er all, though invisible, this spirit dwells;
But from ethereal mansions he descends
To show himself to men, and thus portends
His steps the night rain, and the thunder tells.
There have I seen him: or perhaps serene
In the sun’s beam, he wanders to o’erflow
Heaven, earth and sea, in waves of golden glow.
On music’s accent trembles he unseen;
And solitude he loves, he lists attent
The waters’ rush in headlong fury sent:
The wandering Arabs o’er their sands he leads,
And through their agitated breasts inspires
A feeling undefined, but great to deeds
Of desperate and wild liberty that fires.
With joy he sits upon the mountain heights,
Or thence descends, to mirror in the deep,
In crystal fixedness, or animates
The tempest with his cries along to sweep:
Or if its clear and sparkling veil extend
The night, upon the lofty poop reclined,
With ecstasy delights to inspire his mind,
Who raptured views the skies with ocean blend.
Noble and lovely is the ardour felt
For glory! for its laurel pants my heart;
And I would fain, this world when I depart,
Of my steps leave deep traces where I dwelt.
This of thy favour, spirit most divine!
I well may hope, for that eternal lives
Thy glowing flame, and life eternal gives.
Mortals, whom fate gave genius forth to shine,
Haste anxious to the sacred fount, where flows
Thy fiery inspiration; but bestows
The world unworthy guerdon on their pains:
While them a mortal covering enshrouds,
Obscure they wander through the listless crowds;
Contempt and indigence their lot remains,
Perchance ev’n impious mockery all their gains:
At length they die, and their souls take the road
Of the great fount of light whence first they flow’d;
And then, in spite of envy, o’er their tomb
A sterile laurel buds, ay, buds and grows,
And thus protects the ashes in the gloom,
’Neath its immortal shade; but vainly shows
To teach men justice. Ages onward fleet
The lamentable drama to repeat,
Without regret or shame. Homer! thou divine,
Milton sublime, unhappy Tasso thine,
The fate to tell it. Genius yet the while
Faces misfortune undismayed; his ears
Dwell only on the applauses to beguile,
His songs will happy gain in future years;
His glory, his misfortunes will excite
Sweet sympathy; posterity will requite
Justice against their sires, who thus condemn
Him now to grief and misery, shame on them!
From his tomb he will reign; his cherish’d name
Will beauty with respect and sighs proclaim.
On her eye gleams the bright and precious tear
His burning pages then will draw from her,
Kind-hearted loveliness! he sees it near;
His heart beats, he is moved; and strong to incur
The cruelty and injustice, is consoled;
And waiting thus his triumph to obtain,
Enjoying it, though but in death to hold,
Flies his Creator’s bosom to regain.
O, sweet illusion! who has had the power
To save himself from thee, who was not born
Than the cold marble, or the rough trunk lower?
With ardour I embrace, and wait thee lorn.
Yet of my Muse perchance some happier strains
Will me survive, and my sepulchral stone
Will not be left to tell of me alone!
Perhaps my name, which rancour now detains
Proscribed, will yet resound o’er Cuba’s plains,
On the swift trumpet of enduring fame!
Correggio, when he saw his canvas flame
With life, “a painter,” it was his to cry,
“I also am!”—A poet too am I.

ODE TO NIGHT.

XI.
JOSÈ DE ESPRONCEDA.

In the introductory part of this work, while acknowledging the merits of the earlier poets of Spain, it may be remembered that a claim was made in favour of the still superior excellences of their successors in the present day. If the reader, who has followed us so far through these notices, has not already come to the same conclusion, his assent may be confidently expected to the assertion, in consideration of the surpassingly poetical genius of the two writers who have now to come under his review.

In considering the merits of their earlier poets, the best critics of Spain have not been so blinded by national partiality as to be led into awarding them unqualified commendations. In the very able prologue to the ‘Moro Esposito’ of the Duke de Rivas, said to have been written by the celebrated AlcalÀ Galiano, we find an estimation of them which we can adopt, as correct in judgement as it is unexceptionable for an authority. He says, “Though the tenderness of Garcilasso, the warmth of Herrera, the fancy, at once lively and thoughtful, of Rioja, and, above all, those strong feelings of devotion which give to Fray Luis de Leon a character so original, even when he is most an imitator, are sources of great perfections, and most glorious crowns of the Spanish Parnassus, yet we are obliged to confess, that in the Spanish poets, lyric and pastoral, we see too great a sameness, that their stock of ideas and images is limited and common to them all, and that if varied and choice in expression, they are uniform in their arguments and plans, founding their merit more in the gala and pomp of language, in the floridness and sonorousness of verse, and in the ingenious dexterity of making variations on one theme, than in the vigour and originality of their thoughts, or in the strength and profoundness of the emotions which they felt, or which their works excite in the minds of their readers.”

Entirely coinciding in the opinions thus expressed, we feel, on the other hand, with regard to the modern Spanish poets, that while they have fully maintained the grace and beauty that distinguished their predecessors in former ages, their genius has expanded over far wider fields, and embraced subjects of as varied and powerful interest as the contemporary poetry of any other country can present to delight or captivate. As instances in support of this opinion, we have, in particular, to refer to the comparatively few but exceedingly brilliant compositions of Espronceda, whose early loss, at only thirty-two years of age, the whole literary world has to deplore.

We have great cause to be thankful to Ferrer del Rio that we have any account at all of this very eminent lyric poet, though the one he has given is far from being so full as the admirers of his genius might have desired. From that account, we learn that it was in the spring of 1810, during the most momentous period of the war of independence, a colonel of cavalry, after some long and harassing marches, was obliged to halt at the small town of Almendralejo, in the province of Estremadura, in the face of the enemy, on account of his wife, who had followed him through the campaigns, having there had a son born, the subject of this narrative. We have no other particulars of his earlier years, than that on the conclusion of the war his parents settled at Madrid, where he was placed at an early age under the tuition of Lista, a writer who enjoyed considerable reputation at the time as a poet, but whose chief merit consisted in his critical and elementary works. Under such a preceptor, his natural genius found a congenial course of tuition, and verse-making seems to have been a part of his usual studies. It was remarked, that though he was by no means inclined to steady application, yet, that by the force of his quick comprehension, he shone as prominently as others of greater industry, and when a mere boy produced verses which gave tokens of future eminence.

When only fourteen years of age he joined a society of youths who called themselves Numantines, and was elected one of their tribunes. In their meetings, no doubt, there was much intended treason debated, for which, whether deservedly or not, the government of the day thought proper to proceed against them at law, and Espronceda, with others, was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment in the convent of Guadalajera, in which town his father then resided. There, in the solitude of his imprisonment, his active mind found employment in poetry, and he was bold enough to begin an epic poem on the subject of the national hero, Pelayo. Of this poem there are fragments given among his works, from which we may judge favourably of what it might have proved when completed, containing as it does many striking passages. The representation of Hunger, and the Dream of the King, Don Roderic, are bold conceptions, and if they were not the additions of after-years, were truly remarkable as the productions of any one at so early an age.

On his release from the convent he returned to Madrid, but feeling himself under restraint as subject to the observation of the police, and desirous also of visiting other countries, he shortly afterwards went to Gibraltar and thence to Lisbon. There he seems to have been subjected to great privations, which, however, did not prevent his being involved in romantic adventures, characteristic of one of his temperament, such as he subsequently described with all the warmth of poetic feeling. But the ministers of the king, now restored to absolute power by French intervention, could not allow Spanish emigrants to be congregated so near to Spain, and at their instance Espronceda and others were obliged to go from Lisbon to London. How he maintained himself, during these wanderings, we are not informed, but his relatives probably had the means to afford him sufficient for his pressing necessities, and the love of adventure would lead him, oftentimes willingly, into situations from which most others would have recoiled.

In London, we are informed, that he enjoyed the happiest period of his life, though not abounding in resources; passing his time between his studies and gaieties, which resulted in confirmed dissipation. He learned to read Shakespeare and Milton, as well as Byron, and considering his inclinations, his habits and his writings, we need not be surprised to find him supposed to have taken the last for his model. There he began the series of compositions which place him in the first rank of lyric poets, though we have to lament that they are tinctured with a spirit of such evil character. His ‘Elegy to Spain,’ dated London, 1829, is in the original written with peculiar sweetness of expression, which Del Rio finds in the style of the Prophet of the Lamentations, and which, though not so well suited for translation as most of his other poems, has been chosen as the effusion of the patriotic muse of Spain, no less worthy of note than others of more general application.

From London he passed over to Paris, and happening to be there during the three memorable days of July 1830, he took part in the fearful scenes which then took place with all the ardour of his character as well as of youth. He joined afterwards the small band of emigrants who crossed the Pyrenees in the hopeless attempt of subverting the despotic sway that then prevailed, resulting in the death of Don Joaquin de Pablo, whom his friends regarded as falling heroically, and to whose memory Espronceda has left a poem of great beauty. Returning to Paris, he entered himself in the rank of the bold spirits who volunteered to lend their aid in the regeneration of Poland, from which, and other similar schemes, he was rescued by the promulgation of the first amnesty, of which he took advantage immediately to return to Spain.

On his arrival in Madrid, he entered himself in the Royal Guard, where he soon won the goodwill and affections of his officers and comrades, and might have risen to distinction, but for an unfortunate though characteristic occurrence. He had written some verses on passing events connected with the service, which were recited at a banquet, and having been much applauded and passed from hand to hand, came to the knowledge of the ministry, who thereupon, notwithstanding the efforts of his colonel to the contrary, dismissed Espronceda from the corps, and banished him to the town of Cuellar. There he composed a work, which he called a novel, under the title of the ‘Sancho of Saldania,’ but which, though containing some good sketches and descriptions, is only worthy of notice as having been one of his compositions.

“On the dawning of liberty in Spain with the promulgation of the Estatuto,” by Martinez de la Rosa, he came forward as a journalist, connected with the paper published as ‘The Age.’ His proud spirit could not submit to the censorship previously existing, but even now he had to feel its influence. The fourteenth number of his paper, the most violent of the time, was found to contain some articles which were forbidden by the censor, and as the time pressed, the editors did not know how to supply the deficiency. The ready genius of Espronceda suggested a scheme, which, after a little hesitation, was adopted: this was to publish the sheet in blank, with merely the headings, which had not been struck out of the manuscript by the censor. Accordingly, the usual sheet appeared with the titles only of the subjects it had originally to bear, namely—“The Amnesty;” “Domestic Policy;” “Letter from Don Miguel and Don Manuel Bravedeed in defence of their honour and patriotism;” “On the Cortes;” “Song on the Death of Don Joaquin de Pablo.” The effect was startling, and perhaps more powerful than the forbidden articles would have proved. The people supplied the deficiencies according to their individual feelings, and the ingenuity of the device had its fullest success. As the result, the publication of the paper was forbidden, and the managers had to hide themselves for a time to escape further prosecution.

In the years 1835 and 1836, there were several serious commotions in Madrid in which he joined, erecting barricades in the principal square, and making violent harangues to the people. On both occasions the disturbances were soon put down by the military, and he had to hide himself in the provinces, until, in the year 1840, Espartero having put himself at the head of the liberal party, the public principles prevailed for which Espronceda had so exerted himself. He then came forth again from his retirement, and made himself conspicuous by appearing as an advocate in a case in which a paper named the ‘Hurricane’ had been denounced at law for a seditious article it contained. Espronceda’s speech in defence, from some passages of it given by Del Rio, appears to have been very energetic, and as inflammatory as the article accused, but he was successful, and the proprietor of the paper was acquitted.

In the same year, 1840, he published the volume of poems on which his fame rests, as perhaps the first lyric poet that Spain has produced. Most of the contents had been previously given in the periodical publications of Madrid, but it was a great service to literature to have them collected. They contained the fragment of the epic poem, ‘Pelayo,’ and a short dramatic piece, entitled, ‘The Student of Salamanca,’ in which his own character is supposed to have been depicted; as well as the lyric odes and other poems. They are comparatively few in number, not exceeding fifteen altogether, but of such rare excellence as to make us regret that so gifted a writer was to be so soon cut off, depriving the literary world of the hopes of still further excellence they gave reason to expect. In the following year, 1841, he published his poem, ‘The Devil World, El Diablo Mundo,’ in four cantos, to which three others were afterwards added, found among his papers after his death. His friends had long feared that he was not destined to attain a prolonged period of life, but their fears were unhappily realized much sooner than they had imagined.

In December 1841, Espronceda was sent to the Hague as Secretary of Legation, but the coldness of the climate affecting too severely his enfeebled constitution, he was obliged, almost immediately, to return to Spain. He had meanwhile been elected Deputy to the Cortes for Almeria, and he attempted to take accordingly his share of public duties. But his health and strength had been undermined by the life of hazard, of privations and excesses he had undergone, and the journey to the Hague in the depth of winter seemed to give the final shock to his frame, from which it could not recover. On the 23rd of May, 1842, his friends and admirers were thrown into unexpected grief by hearing that he had died that morning, after what was termed a four days’ illness. The immediate cause was said to have been some disorder affecting the throat, and his sufferings have been described by an intimate friend and schoolfellow, who was with him at the time, as very painful. The loss to Spain and the whole literary world was as great as it was irreparable; and so the people seemed to feel it, by the general expression of regret over his fate, such as it seldom falls to the lot of any one to excite.

The moralist might dilate on the evil courses which probably hastened his death, and all must lament that a man of such extraordinary genius should have sunk under them; but before we judge any one severely, we should be certain of being able to form a right judgement. The utmost remark, therefore, we permit ourselves to make, may be to consider his history as a lesson to all under similar circumstances of life, that if they will not take heed to a moral in others, they may become a warning themselves. Every man’s character may be taken as a whole, in which his good and evil qualities are often so blended together as to make them inseparable. The excesses of youth are often “the flash and outbreak of a fiery mind,” which shows itself in its true characters in other respects, though often with the alloy of lower passions to lead them to a fatal end. Thus Byron and Espronceda, two kindred geniuses in our days, have sunk prematurely into the grave, most unhappily, when new fields of glory seemed to be opened before them to retrieve the past errors of life, and make it in future as honourable as they had already rendered it renowned.

The genius of Espronceda was kindred to Byron’s, of whom he has been accused of having been an imitator. But this seems to me unquestionably a mistake. During his residence in England he had certainly acquired a good knowledge of the English language and literature, much to his advantage; but he could scarcely have acquired such a knowledge of either as to put him in the position of an imitator. The utmost that can be alleged of him in this respect is, that the style of Byron’s writing was so congenial to his own taste and talent, as to make him imbibe it intuitively, and so obtain a more decided character for his own than perhaps it would have otherwise attained.

It is certain that Spanish poetry never before presented such depth of thought and feeling, and such fulness and vigour of expression, as he gave to it; and it is apparent, in every page of his works, that he had studied in a higher school and become imbued with a brighter inspiration than he could have done on the Continent. But what ordinary imitators would have considered the characteristics of Byron as models to follow, he had the good sense entirely to discard. He has none of the egotism and affectation which distinguish that school; and if he indulged in some of its propensities, it is clear that they were the natural results of the circumstances in which he was placed, and not the wilful perversions of misdirected abilities. His poem to Harifa is written with an earnestness of feeling that must be felt, even through the haze of translation, giving tokens of its origin too distinct to admit any supposition of its being a suggestion from any other source than his own experience of life. Neither in this poem nor in any other of his works is there any of those mysterious suggestions of dark histories, or of those morbid denunciations of imaginary wrongs which abound in the productions of the Byronian school. His complaints are the evident effusions of a mind maddened at finding itself in a state unworthy of its powers, and thus, instead of venting his rage on others, he turned it against his own misdeeds, in giving way to excesses that he scorned, and which he felt degraded him. But even in his aspirations for higher thoughts, he had the same leaven of earth to keep him from attaining them. He had not learned the lessons which Jovellanos inculcated in the Epistle to Bermudez, to seek wisdom where only it ought to be sought; as he might have done even from the heathen poet, that the hidden things of God could not be found out, though he were to traverse over all space in search of them.

???’ ?? ??? ?? t? ?e?a, ???pt??t?? Te??,
???e?? ??, ??d’ e? p??t’ ?pe?e????? s??t??.

In somewhat of the same strain with these lines is the second canto of his poem, the ‘Diablo Mundo,’ addressed to Theresa, which, however, has no connexion with the rest of the poem to which it is attached. The verses ‘To a Star,’ contain also poetical thoughts no less exquisite, though perhaps not of so decided a character; and they are all valuable at least in this, that instead of gilding over vices and follies, they show the confession of one so highly gifted by nature, that the indulgences of sensual gratifications are in reality only sources of unhappiness.

Two other of his poems, ‘The Mendicant’ and ‘The Executioner,’ are no less distinguishable for the power of thought and expression they display; but they also unfortunately indicate such objectionable tendencies, as to make us regret that his extraordinary talents had not been directed to nobler subjects. Not so the two poems selected for translation, ‘The Song of the Pirate,’ and that of the ‘Criminal Condemned to Die,’ in addition to those previously mentioned. Of these, the latter is one of such peculiarly energetic character, as to need no comment. The other is one of the most favourite poems known in Spain, and having been set to music, is therefore heard repeated more frequently. It has been said to have been taken from the French, but I believe erroneously. It bears strongly the impress of Espronceda’s genius; and if the poem intended be either of those by Floran or Victor Hugo, any one who will take the trouble of comparing them will observe that they are essentially different, as each also is from the song of Lord Byron’s ‘Corsair.’

At the first view of it, the ‘Diablo Mundo’ appears to be an imitation of ‘Don Juan;’ but it would be as unjust to declare it so, as to say the latter had been copied from the various Italian poems written in the same style. Espronceda might have had the idea suggested by reading Lord Byron’s poem, or GoËthe’s ‘Faust,’ or both, but he has carried it much higher, and given the outlines of a nobler conception than either. He begins by supposing that, absorbed in meditation, during the silence of the night, he hears an extraordinary noise, which calls back his feelings and arouses them. That confused noise, with sublime music and solemn sound, are all the passions of the world, all the interests found in life,—the affections and hatreds, love, glory, wealth, the vices and the virtues; they are, in fine, the complaint of the whole universe that comes like a revolving whirlwind, and displays before the fancy a thousand allegorical monsters, traced with inimitable facility and astonishing vigour.

The visions pass away, the noise goes gradually off, losing itself in the distance, until it ceases, where begins the introduction of the poem. The first canto is the exposition of the great drama proposed to be developed.

A man bowed down with age and embittered by sorrowful and useless experience, shuts in despair a book he was reading, and mournfully convinced of the barrenness of learning, falls asleep. Death then presents itself, and intones a hymn inviting him to the peace of the grave. With pleasure he feels his benumbed limbs growing stiff with cold, and is enjoying himself in the enervation of his spirit, when Immortality suddenly rises up before him and sings another hymn in opposition to that of Death, and like that also offering herself to the man about to die.

The election is immediate; he chooses Immortality, and is re-endowed with youth. The song of this deity, however, does not lead to the immortality of the spirit, but of the material part of man, and it is that he receives. The image of death is invested with melancholy beauty; it is soft and gentle; that which is desired when, free from prejudices, we feel the heart worn and the soul discontented. The immortality that rises over the pale front of death, effaces it with a magnificent lustre. “It is impossible,” says Ros de Olano, who has written the prologue to this beautiful poem, “to approach, by any words of ours whatever, to the luxuriousness of thought, of expression, and of knowledge displayed in this sublime description, the most happy perhaps yet presented in the Spanish language.” Grand, extended and immense is the field which the poet has displayed to trace out a course for his hero, and the variety of tones he employs are like the face of the world, over which he has to range. As the character is developed, the hero, with the body of a man and the soul of a child, is placed in situations equally original and interesting, and the whole scheme is one which gave full scope to the writer for an unlimited work, even if he had been permitted to live to the utmost period of human existence.

Del Rio states, that Espronceda was in his public discourses an ineffective speaker, and ascribes it to the physical weakness of his frame; he describes him as having been distinguished for sarcasms, and only at intervals powerful in declamation. “In conversation he made an affectation of laughing at the restraints and virtues which are necessary for the order of society, and yet in private life no one was more remarkable for kindness and generosity. When the cholera was raging in Madrid, he was one of the most active in disregarding its attacks, and in attending to the wants of those near him who were suffering from it.” “All who knew him loved him, and even to his faults he knew how to give a certain impression of greatness.” Del Rio proceeds to describe him as having been graceful in his bearing, endowed with manly beauty, and his countenance marked with a melancholy cast that rendered it more interesting. He concludes by observing, that notwithstanding the years that have passed since his friends had to lament his loss, a garland of everlastings never fails to be found renewed over his grave.

In 1848 Baudry published another edition of Espronceda’s works, at Paris, but, with the exception of the fifth and sixth cantos of the ‘Diablo Mundo,’ there is no additional poem given, though Del Rio points out six other pieces published in different periodicals. This omission is much to be regretted, as undoubtedly every line that proceeded from his pen was worthy of being gathered together as a rare treasure. It is to be hoped that some admirer of his genius may soon collect those scattered relics, and give them in an edition worthy of their character in Spanish literature. Another Life of him also would be most desirable, as in the Paris edition there is only repeated the account given by Ferrer del Rio, which, though ably written as a sketch, is still on the same scale with a number of other writers in the same work of far inferior merits, and utterly unworthy of so great a genius as Espronceda. Spanish versification under his influence has become “revolutionized.” He has extended the powers apparently even of the language itself, and by the force of his style as well as by the varied character of his poems, has certainly shown its capabilities more decidedly than any poet who preceded him.

JOSÈ DE ESPRONCEDA.

TO SPAIN, AN ELEGY. LONDON, 1829.

How solitary is the nation now
That peopled countries vast a former day!
That all beneath her sovereignty to bow,
From East to West extended once her sway!
Tears now profuse to shed, unhappy one,
Queen of the world! ’tis thine; and from thy face,
Enchanting yet in sorrow, there is none
Its overwhelming traces to erase.
How fatally o’er thee has death pour’d forth
Darkness and mourning, horrible and great!
And the stern despot in his madden’d wrath
Exulted wildly o’er thy low estate.
Nothing or great or beautiful he spared,
My country! the young warrior by him fell,
The veteran fell, and vile his war-axe glared,
Pleased all its fury o’er thee to impel.
Ev’n the pure maiden fell beneath the rage
Of the unpitying despot, as the rose
Condemn’d the summer’s burning sun to engage
Her bloom and beauty withering soon must close.
Come, O! ye inhabiters of the earth,
And contemplate my misery! can there,
Tell me, be any found of mortal birth
Bearing the sorrows I am doom’d to bear?
I wretched, banish’d from my native land,
Behold, far from the country I adore,
Her former glories lost and high command,
And only left her sufferings to deplore.
Her children have been fatally betray’d
By treacherous brethren, and a tyrant’s power;
And these her lovely fertile plains have made
Fields o’er which lamentations only lower.
Her arms extended wide unhappy Spain,
Her sons imploring in her deep distress:
Her sons they were, but her command was vain,
Unheard the traitor madness to repress.
Whate’er could then avail thee, tower or wall,
My country! still amid thy woes adored?
Where were the heroes that could once appal
The fiercest foe? where thy unconquer’d sword?
Alas! now on thy children’s humbled brow
Deeply is shame engraved, and on their eyes,
Cast down and sorrowfully beating now,
The tears alone of grief and mourning rise.
Once was a time for Spain, when she possess’d
A hundred heroes in her hour of pride;
And trembling nations saw her manifest
Her power and beauty, dazzling by their side.
As lofty shows itself in Lebanon
The cedar, so her brow she raised on high;
And fell her voice the nations round upon,
As terrifies a girl the thunders nigh.
But as a stone now in the desert’s wild
Thou liest abandon’d, and an unknown way
Through strangers’ lands, uncertain where, exiled
The patriot’s doom’d unfortunate to stray.
Her ancient pomp and power are cover’d o’er
With sand and weeds contemptuous; and the foe,
That trembled at her puissance before,
Now mocks exulting and enjoys her woe.
Maidens! your flowing locks dishevell’d tear,
To give them to the wandering winds; and bring
Your harps in mournful company to share
With me the sorrowful laments I sing.
Thus banish’d from our homes afar away
Still let us weep our miseries. O! Spain,
Who shall have power thy torments to allay?
Who shall have power to dry thy tears again!

THE CONDEMNED TO DIE.

I.

His form upon the ground reclined,
With bitter anguish inward drawn,
Full of the coming day his mind,
That soon will sadly dawn,
The culprit waits, in silence laid,
The fatal moments hastening now,
In which his last sun’s light display’d
Will shine upon his brow.
O’er crucifix and altar there,
The chapel cell in mourning hung,
From the dim candle’s yellow glare
A funeral light is flung;
And by the wretched culprit’s side,
His face with hood half cover’d o’er,
The friar, with trembling voice to guide,
Is heard his prayers implore.
His brow then raises he again,
And slowly lifts to heaven his eyes;
Perhaps a prayer for mercy fain
May in his grief arise.
A tear flows: whence had that release?
Was it from bitterness or fear?
Perhaps his sorrows to increase
Some thought to memory dear?
So young! and life, that he had dream’d
Was full of golden days to glide,
Is pass’d, when childhood’s tears it seem’d
As scarcely yet were dried.
Then on him of his childhood burst
The thought, and of his mother’s woe,
That he whom she so fondly nursed
Was doom’d that death to know.
And while that hopelessly he sees
His course already death arrest,
He feels his life’s best energies
Beat strongly in his breast;
And sees that friar, who calmly now
Is laid, with sleep no more to strive,
With age so feebly doom’d to bow,
Tomorrow will survive.
But hark! what noise the silence breaks
This hour unseasonably by?
Some one a gay guitar awakes
And mirthful songs reply;
And shouts are raised, and sounds are heard
Of bottles rattling, and perchance
Others, remember’d well, concurr’d
Of lovers in the dance.
And then he hears funereal roll,
Between each pause in accents high,
“Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul
Of him condemn’d to die.”
And so combined the drunkard’s shout,
The toast, the strifes, and fancies wild
Of all that Bacchanalian rout,
With wanton’s songs defiled,
And bursts of idle laughter, reach
Distinct into the gloomy cell,
And seem far off ejected each
The very sounds of hell.
And then he hears, funereal roll
Between each pause, those accents high,
“Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul
Of him condemn’d to die.”
He cursed them all, as one by one
The impious echos each express’d;
He cursed the mother as a son
Who nursed him at her breast:
The whole world round alike he cursed,
His evil destiny forlorn,
And the dark day and hour when first
That wretched he was born.

II.

The moon serene illumes the skies,
And earth in deepest stillness lies;
No sound is heard, the watchdog’s mute,
And ev’n the lover’s plaintive lute.
Madrid enveloped lies in sleep;
Repose o’er all its shade has cast,
And men of him no memory keep
Who soon will breathe his last.
Or if perchance one thinks to wake
At early dawn, no thoughts whate’er
Rise for the wretched being’s sake,
Who death is waiting there.
Unmoved by pity’s kind control,
Men hear around the funeral cry,
“Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul
Of him condemn’d to die.”
Sleeps in his bed the judge in peace;
And sleeps and dreams of how his store,
The executioner, to increase;
And pleased he counts it o’er.
Only the city’s silence breaks,
And destined place of death portrays,
The harden’d workman who awakes
The scaffolding to raise.

III.

Confused and mad his heated mind,
With raving feverish dreams combined,
The culprit’s soul exhaustion press’d,
His head sunk heavy on his breast.
And in his dreams he life and death
Confounds, remembers, and forgets;
And fearful struggling every breath,
And sigh he gives besets.
And in a world of darkness seems
As now to stray; feels fear and cold,
And in his horrid madness deems
The cord his neck infold:
And so much more, in desperate fight,
In anguish to escape his lot,
He strives, with so much more the might
He binds the fatal knot:
And voices hears, confused the whole,
Of people round, and then that cry,
“Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul
Of him condemn’d to die!”
Or fancies now that he is free;
And breathes the fresh pure air, and hears
Her sigh of love, the maid whom he
Had loved in happier years:
Beauteous and kind as e’er of old,
Sweet flower of spring-time’s gay resort,
As could for love the meads behold,
Or gallant April court.
And joyful he to see her flies,
And seeks to reach her, but in vain;
For as with anxious hands he tries
His hoped-for bliss to gain,
The illusion suddenly to break,
He finds the dream deceitful fled!
A cold stiff corpse the shape to take,
And scaffold in its stead.
And hears the mournful funeral knoll,
And hollow voice resounding nigh,
“Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul
Of him condemn’d to die!”

THE SONG OF THE PIRATE.

TO HARIFA, IN AN ORGY.

Thy hand, Harifa! bring it me;
Come near, and place it on my brow;
As on some lava’s boiling sea
I feel my head is burning now.
Come, bring with mine thy lips to meet,
Though they but madden me astray,
Where yet I find the kisses beat,
There left thy loves of yesterday.
What is virtue, what is joy,
Or love, or purity, or truth?
The false illusions of a boy,
The cherish’d flatteries of my youth.
Then bring me wine; there let me try
Remembrance drown’d to hold repress’d,
Without a pang from life to fly;
In frenzy death may give me rest.
O’erspreads my face a burning flood,
And red and glaring wildly start
My eyes forth out in heated blood,
And forth leaps restlessly my heart.
Woman! I hate thee; fly thee—go:
I feel thy hands my hands infold,
And feel them freezing, cold as snow,
As snow thy kisses are as cold.
Ever the same, try, tempters weak!
Other endearments to enthral;
Another world, new pleasures seek,
For such your joys I curse them all.
Your kisses are a lie; a cheat
Is all the tenderness you feign;
Your beauty ugly in deceit,
The enjoyment suffering and pain.
I wish for love, ethereal, high,
For some diviner joy my lot;
For such my heart will imaged sigh,
For such as in the world is not.
And ’tis that meteor light afar,
The phantom that deceived my mind,
The treacherous guide, the vapour star,
That leads me wandering and blind.
Why is my soul for pleasure dead,
And yet alive to grief and care?
Why doom’d in listless stupor laid
This arid loathing still to bear?
Why this consuming wild desire,
This restless passion vague and strange?
That well I know I rave, ’tis fire,
Yet plunge in its deceitful range.
Why do I dream of love and joy,
That I am sure a lie will prove?
Why where fantastic charms decoy,
Will thus my heart delirious move,
If soon it finds for meads and flowers,
But arid wastes and tangled thorns,
And soon a loathing rage o’erpowers
The mad or mournful love it scorns?
Flung as a rapid comet wide,
On ardent fancy’s wings I flew,
Where’er my wayward mind espied
Or joys or triumphs to pursue.
I launch’d myself, in daring flight,
Beyond the world through heavenward space,
And found but doubt, and all so bright
That seem’d, illusive proved the chase.
Then on the earth I anxious sought
For virtue, glory, love sublime;
And my worn spirit found there nought
But fetid dust and loathsome slime.
Mid clouds with heavenly hues o’ercast
Women of virgin lustre shone;
I saw, I touched them, and they pass’d,
And smoke and ashes left alone.
I found the illusion fled; but rife,
Unquench’d desires their longings crave;
I felt the real, I hated life,
And peace believed but in the grave.
And yet I seek, and anxious seek,
For pleasures still I ask and sigh,
And hear dread accents answering speak,
“Unhappy one! despair, and die.
“Die: Life is torment, joy a cheat,
Hope not for good on earth for thee,
But fruitless struggles look to meet
In thy vain longings endlessly!
For so God punishes the soul
That in its madness dares espy
The unfathom’d secrets of the scroll
Of truth, denied to mortal eye!”
O! cease: no more I ask to know,
No more to see: my soul oppress’d
Is humbly bow’d, and prostrate low,
Now only asks, and longs for rest.
In me let feeling then lie dead,
Since died my hopes of happiness,
Nor joys nor griefs be o’er me spread
My soul returning to depress.
Pass, as in magic optic glass,
And other youthful hearts deceive,
Bright images of glory! pass,
That crowns of gold and laurel weave.
Pass, ye voluptuous fair ones, on!
With dance and mirthful songs attuned,
Like vaporous visions, pass, begone!
No more my heart to move or wound.
And let the dance, and festal din,
O’er my revolted fancy reign,
And fled the night, see morn begin,
Surprised in senseless stupor’s chain.
Harifa, come! Like me this woe
Thou too hast borne! Thou ne’er dost weep!
But, ah! how wretched ’tis to know
Feelings so bitter and so deep!
The same our sufferings and care;
In vain thou hold’st thy tears apart;
Like me thou also hast to bear
A wounded and an aching heart!

XII.
JOSÈ ZORRILLA.

It has been said that “the life of a poet is ever a romance.” Perhaps this observation may apply equally well to the history of every man of ardent genius who enters with characteristic enthusiasm into the affairs of life, so as to invest even ordinary circumstances with the glow and hue of his own excited imagination. But this is more especially the case with poets who make us participate in their feelings, their joys or their sorrows, so as to give a character of romance to incidents that with other persons would have passed away as unnoticed. In the course of the preceding narratives, no doubt, many instances may be remembered to verify this remark, and the life of the eminent and deservedly popular poet with which we have to close the series, even in his yet youthful career, may be found to afford a further exemplification of it.

On the 14th February, 1837, a funeral car, over which was placed a crown of laurel, had to traverse the streets of Madrid, bearing to their resting-place in the cemetery, the remains of the talented but wrong-minded Larra. The car was followed by an immense concourse of mourners, principally young men of the first classes of Madrid, who were so testifying their regret for the loss they had sustained. The whole scene presented a spectacle of homage paid to genius, such as had seldom been witnessed. It was such as power might have envied, and as worth scarcely ever attained. Melancholy as had been the end of the unhappy being they mourned, envy and hatred had become silenced, morality and charity joined in regret, and no one disputed the propriety of the funeral honours paid to the dead.

It was already late when the ceremonies were concluded, and the darkening shadows of the night, in such a place and on such an occasion, gave the countenances of all assembled an extraordinary character. The shock they had felt, to lose so suddenly from among them one so well-known to them all, in the fulness of youth and intellect, in the height of fame and popularity, without any apparent motive and enveloped in mystery, was of itself sufficient to penetrate their minds with sorrow. They felt that a bright light had been extinguished, and they feared there was no hope of another arising to shine in its place. A strange spell seemed to have come over the bystanders, and they lingered round the vault with an unaccountable disinclination to separate.

The eloquent SeÑor Roca de Togares, distinguished both as an orator and a poet, pronounced a discourse he had hastily prepared, in which he portrayed the general sensation of sorrow, as he eulogized the talents and the principal literary successes of the deceased. But his eloquence had only the effect of exciting still further the prevalent feeling, which was that of something still more appropriate being required to give expression to their grief, and they instinctively looked round for some one to give utterance to it in the language of mournful inspiration with which to take their final farewell.

At that moment, in the midst of, it may be supposed, almost painful silence, a young man, unknown to them, of a slight figure and boyish appearance, stood forward, and with a tremulous voice began reading some verses in unison with their feelings, which at the first accents seemed to seize irresistibly on the minds of the listeners. He was himself so much affected by the scene, and perhaps under the sense of his own temerity, that he could not finish his task, and Roca de Togares took the paper out of his hands and read the verses again audibly. Had they been possessed of only ordinary merit, they would no doubt, on such an occasion, have been favourably received; but expressed as they were in highly poetical language, with appropriate sentiments, the effect was to excite the utmost astonishment and admiration. The author’s name, JosÈ Zorrilla, was eagerly called for and repeated on all sides with loud applauses, and they who had followed sorrowfully shortly before the remains of the man of genius they had lost, now returned to the city attending in triumph another poet they had found, with all the tokens of enthusiastic rejoicing. The young poet, on his part, had found an audience ready to welcome him, and he was at once launched forth into that “tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.”

The history of the new aspirant for fame was now an object of interest, and the public learned that he was the son of Don JosÈ Zorrilla, a person well known as an eminent lawyer who had held several judicial offices with credit in Spain. It was while holding one of those offices, in Valladolid, that his son, the subject of this narrative, was born there, the 21st of February, 1817. From Valladolid, the father having been promoted to other duties in Burgos, Seville, and finally at Madrid, the son followed him, and received his primary education in the various cities they inhabited, under circumstances which must have operated powerfully on his mind. On arriving at Madrid he was placed at the Seminary of Nobles, where he remained six years, thus giving that celebrated institution the just merit of claiming him, as well as so many others of the ablest writers and public men of Spain, among those they had educated. There he seems to have gone through his course of studies without apparently other distinction than an early inclination to write verses and attend the theatres, which predilection his tutors disapproved, but in consideration of his father’s position passed over more leniently than they otherwise would have done. This indulgence, however, there is no doubt gave that decided turn to his mind which led to his subsequent career.

On leaving the Seminary, Zorrilla had to go to his father at his estate in the province of Castille, where he now lived in retirement, having lost the favour of the government. There soon a discordance rose between them as to his future course in life. The father wished him to graduate in the profession of the law, in which he had acquired wealth and fame, and sent him, notwithstanding his repugnance, to Toledo, to study in the university of that city. He passed accordingly a year there, but with only sufficient application to go through the ordinary routine respectably. Other studies, more congenial to his taste, engaged all his thoughts. Toledo is a city rich in historical and poetical remembrances and legends. Its monuments and ruins are among the most interesting that exist in Spain, and in the contemplation of these Zorrilla was constantly absorbed. To Toledo he owed his poetical education, as to it he has dedicated some of his sweetest poetry. He shunned the society of his fellow-students, and seemed to pass an eccentric and even mysterious life. Out no one knew where, at strange hours, disregarding the university rules and dress and etiquette, allowing his hair to grow long over his shoulders, and composing songs, not to the taste of his tutors, he was considered half-mad, and his father was informed of his strange conduct as not amenable to study and discipline. On going home for the vacation, his father therefore received him with coldness and displeasure, and made him read law with him, notwithstanding his continued disinclination to it, though in secret he made amends for the restraint by indulging in reading more agreeable to himself. It is recorded more especially that he then studied the Sacred Scriptures, in whose pages he found the truest inspiration of poetry, as he certainly seems in his writings generally to have imbibed the purest principles of morality and religion.

In the hope of his entering on a more diligent course of study at another place than Toledo, Zorrilla was then sent to Valladolid, as if by changing universities he could be expected to change the tendency of mind which urged him to his destiny. There he was watched on all sides by his father’s directions, and it was reported to him that his son still continued his former course of conduct; that instead of passing his hours in study, he was ever out on lonely walks, lying under the shade of trees by the side of the river or the broken rock, absorbed in his own meditations. There is a hint also given, of even the discovery that he had found some dream of youthful love to indulge in, as if it were something extraordinary for one of his age and enthusiastic character. The father must have been one of the class that Chateaubriand suffered under, or Mirabeau; and happy it was for Zorrilla that he did not sink into the recklessness of the one or the inanities of the other, while he had also to submit to similar discouragements. As it was, the father came to the conclusion that no hope was to be entertained of his son’s application to study, to take that position in the world which he had planned out for him, and in which were centred all his own ideas of honourable activity. He therefore resolved to take him from Valladolid, and sent a trusty messenger to bring him home.

On the way the messenger gave Zorrilla to understand that his father had resolved to employ him on his estate, to dress the vines and perform other labours of country occupation. It seems the father had even talked about fitting him out in a labourer’s working garb, as not being calculated for nobler employment, while he himself was unconscious or careless of the wonderful power of mind which lay hid from his observation in the son’s apparent inability to fulfil his expectations. On this intimation, however, Zorrilla at once formed his determination. Shortly before reaching home, he stayed at the house of a relative, where he collected together the few valuable things he could carry away, and appropriating to his necessity a horse belonging to his cousin, he hastened back to Valladolid. There he was fortunate enough to arrive and sell the horse before the messenger sent after him again could arrest him on his flight. He then transferred himself without loss of time to Madrid, where for a length of time he succeeded in escaping the vigilant search made for him by his friends, who not having seen him since he was a boy, were not able now to penetrate his disguise.

At Madrid under these circumstances, a fugitive from his father’s house, he had now passed almost a year, when he came forth before the public, as we have narrated, on the occasion of Larra’s funeral. How he had passed those months we are not informed further, than that he had to submit to every kind of annoyances and privations, which he surmounted by the firmness of his determination and the elevated character of his hopes. He had in the interval sent several pieces of poetry to the different periodicals, by which his name had already become sufficiently known to a number of those who hailed him on the 14th February as supplying the place of the popular writer they had lost.

On the following day, Zorrilla could say, like Lord Byron, that he awoke and found himself famous. The verses on Larra were in every one’s mouth, and all others that could be obtained of his writing were eagerly collected. Editors and proprietors of periodicals were anxious to obtain his cooperation for their works, and his period of difficulties had passed away. Before the year closed, the first volume of his poems appeared with an introduction by Pastor Diaz, and that was so eagerly bought that he was induced to bring out others in succession, with a prolificness unknown almost even in Spain. Seven other closely printed volumes of his poems were published, including several plays, within about three years afterwards, and eight or nine other volumes have appeared since. His works have been reprinted in Paris and in various parts of Spanish America, and received everywhere with unbounded admiration, so as at once to prove him one of the most favourite poets that Spain has produced.

While he was thus rising to fame and competence, his father, on the other hand, had fallen into misfortune. A high prerogative lawyer, he had maintained the doctrines of absolutism, and at length openly espoused the cause of Don Carlos. On the failure of this prince’s attempts to gain the throne, the elder Zorrilla, with other adherents, was proscribed and had his property confiscated. His son had not heard from him after this event for some years, when he received a letter from his father from Bayonne, stating that he was in difficulties, and requesting him to apply to a former friend, whom he named, for a loan for his assistance. Zorrilla wrote back to say that there was no occasion to incur an obligation from one not related to him, and that he himself was happy to have it in his power to send him the sum required, which he would repeat at stated intervals. This he accordingly did, until he received his father’s directions to discontinue it, as not requiring it any more.

Another instance of Zorrilla’s high-mindedness and true Castilian pride has been recorded. On his father’s property having been sequestrated by the government, it was intimated to him that if he applied he might have the administration of it, which was tantamount to giving him possession of it. But he replied that he would neither apply for it nor accept it, for while his father lived, he could acknowledge no one else as entitled to it. His father having since died, Zorrilla has come by law into possession of his estates, and has thus had the rare fortune, for a poet, to be possessed of considerable wealth. He has had several offers of appointments from the government, but he has declined them, contented to live according to his own fancies and occupied with his own peculiar pursuits. His extraordinary facility for composing verses is such as scarcely to allow his compositions to be termed studies; but with them and his attendances at the theatre, and other recreations, or at literary reunions, he is said to pass away his hours in ease and contentment. The first volume of his poems, it has been already intimated, was published before he was twenty-one years of age. Within three years afterwards seven others were published; and in the eighth, to the poem of ‘The Duke and the Sculptor,’ was appended the following note to his wife:—“Dedicated to the SeÑora Matilda O’Reilly de Zorrilla. I began the publication of my poems with our acquaintance, and I conclude them with thy name. Madrid, 10 October, 1840.”

What were the circumstances attending this acquaintance or union, we are not informed; but it is fortunate for the world that the intimation it might convey of its being the conclusion of his literary works has not been fulfilled. Since then he has published ‘Songs of the Troubadour,’ in three volumes, and other minor poems and plays separately. A larger work he meditated on the conquest of Granada, to be entitled ‘The Cross and the Crescent,’ has not been completed; and another he projected with the title ‘Maria,’ intending to celebrate the different characters under which the Holy Virgin is venerated in Roman Catholic countries, he has published, with the greater part supplied by a friend, all very inferior to what might have been expected from him.

It is much to be regretted that Zorrilla has in all his works allowed carelessnesses to prevail, which too often mar the effect of his verses, and still more that he has often inserted some that were of very inferior merit compared with the rest. It is not to be supposed that an author can be equally sustained in all his productions, but it is somewhat extraordinary in his volumes to find some poems of such transcendent merit, and others so inferior. These, however, are very few, and probably were hastily composed and hastily published, to supply the demand arising for the day. He is probably the only author in Spain who has profited by the sale of his writings to any extent, and to do this he must have been often under the necessity of tasking his mind severely, without regard to its spontaneous suggestions. Thus then, when he found his inspiration failing, he has often had recourse to memory, and repeated from himself, and even from others, verses previously published. It is to be hoped that he may be induced soon to give the world a revised edition of his works, in which the oversights may be corrected, and the poems unworthy of his fame may be omitted.

On reading over dispassionately the ‘Lines to Larra,’ by which he was first brought so prominently into notice, it may occasion some surprise to learn they had produced so remarkable an effect. If they had previously been read over alone to any one of the auditors, he probably might not have considered them so ideal, so beautiful, or so original as they seemed at the public recital. Some phrase might have appeared incomprehensible, some sentiment exaggerated or not true; some expression or line, hard or weak or forced. He might have observed a want of order or connection in the ideas, or the whole to be vague and leaving no fixed thought in the mind; or he might have pronounced them, as they have been since pronounced, an imitation of Victor Hugo or Lamartine. But to the auditors assembled, in the excited state of their feelings, there was no time for reflection or criticism. It was a composition of the hour for that particular scene,—for themselves, in language and feelings with which they could sympathize. Thus the verses seized on their minds and electrified them, so that they had no time to dwell on any discussion or dispute of their merits, but yielded at once to the fascination of the melodious verse they heard, and the appropriate application of the homage they testified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

JOSÈ ZORRILLA.

THE CHRISTIAN LADY AND THE MOOR.

Hastening to Granada’s gates,
Came o’er the Vega’s land,
Some forty Gomel horsemen,
And the Captain of the band.
He, entering in the city,
Check’d his white steed’s career;
And to a lady on his arm,
Borne weeping many a tear,
Said, “Cease your tears, fair Christian,
That grief afflicting me,
I have a second Eden,
Sultana, here for thee.
“A palace in Granada,
With gardens and with flowers,
And a gilded fountain playing
More than a hundred showers.
“And in the Henil’s valley
I have a fortress gray,
To be among a thousand queen
Beneath thy beauty’s sway.
“For over all yon winding shore
Extends my wide domain,
Nor Cordova’s, nor Seville’s lands,
A park like mine contain.
“There towers the lofty palm-tree,
The pomegranate’s glowing there,
And the leafy fig-tree, spreading
O’er hill and valley fair.
“There grows the hardy walnut,
The yellow nopal tall,
And mulberry darkly shading
Beneath the castle wall;
“And elms I have in my arcades
That to the skies aspire,
And singing birds in cages
Of silk, and silver wire.
“And thou shalt my Sultana be,
My halls alone to cheer;
My harem without other fair,
Without sweet songs my ear.
“And velvets I will give thee,
And eastern rich perfumes,
From Greece I’ll bring thee choicest veils,
And shawls from Cashmere’s looms:
“And I will give thee feathers white,
To deck thy beauteous brow,
Whiter than ev’n the ocean foam
Our eastern waters know.
“And pearls to twine amid thy hair,
Cool baths when heat’s above,
And gold and jewels for thy neck,
And for thy lips be—love!”
“O! what avail those riches all,”
Replied the Christian fair,
“If from my father and my friends,
My ladies, me you tear?
“Restore me, O! restore me, Moor,
To my father’s land, my own;
To me more dear are Leon’s towers
Than thy Granada’s throne.”
Smoothing his beard, awhile the Moor
In silence heard her speak;
Then said as one who deeply thinks,
With a tear upon his cheek,
“If better seem thy castles there
Than here our gardens shine,
And thy flowers are more beautiful,
Because in Leon thine;
“And thou hast given thy youthful love
One of thy warriors there,
Houri of Eden! weep no more,
But to thy knights repair!”
Then giving her his chosen steed,
And half his lordly train,
The Moorish chieftain turn’d him back
In silence home again.

ROMANCE. THE WAKING.

No sound is in the midnight air,
No colour in its shade,
The old are resting free from care,
Duenna’s voice is stay’d;
But when all else in slumber meet,
We two are waking nigh,
She on the grated window’s seat,
And at its foot am I.
I cannot see her beaming eyes,
Nor her clear brow above,
Nor her face with its rosy dyes,
Nor yet her smile of love:
I cannot see the virgin flush
That heightens her cheek’s glow,
The enchantments of that maiden blush,
She is but fifteen now.
Nor can my searching eyes behold
Her form scarce wrapp’d about;
Nor from the flowing garment’s fold
Her white foot peeping out;
As on some gentle river’s spring,
To glide the foam between,
Spread forth her snowy floatsome wing,
The stately swan is seen.
Nor can I see her white neck shine,
Or shoulders as they part;
Nor from her face can I divine
Her restlessness of heart;
While like a guard, too watchful o’er,
The grated bars I find;
Audacious love is there before,
Poor virtue is behind.
But in despite of that thick grate,
And shades that round us twine,
I have, my dove, to compensate,
My soul embathed in thine:
My lips of fire I hold impress’d
On thine of roses free;
And well I feel there’s in that breast
A heart that beats for me.
But see along the East arise
The unwelcome god of day,
Enveloped in the humid skies,
The darkness drive away.
And when a maid has watch’d the night,
With gallant by her side,
The bright red dawn has too much light
Its coming to abide!
The smiling morn is shedding round
Its harmony and hues,
And fragrant odours o’er the ground
The breezes soft diffuse:
Robbing the rose, the lily fair,
And cherish’d pinks they fly,
And leave upon the laurels there
A murmur moaning by.
Murmurs the fountain’s freshening spring,
Beneath its crystal veil,
And the angelic turtles sing
Their tender mournful tale;
The love-sick dove the morning light
Drinks with enraptured throat,
Mixing the balmy air so bright
With her unequal note.
Paces the while the noble youth
The garden’s paths along,
And lowly sings, his soul to soothe,
His love-inspiring song;
“O! soundless midnight hour, again
Come with thy kindly shade,
When rest thy old from cares, and when
Duenna’s voice is stay’d;
For then, while they in slumber meet,
We two are waking nigh,
She on the grated window’s seat,
And at its foot am I.”

ORIENTAL ROMANCE,—BOABDIL.

Lady of the dark head-dress,
And monkish vest of purple hue,
Gladly would Boabdil give
Granada for a kiss of you.
He would give the best adventure
Of the bravest horseman tried,
And with all its verdant freshness
A whole bank of Darro’s tide.
He would give rich carpets, perfumes,
Armours of rare price and force,
And so much he values you,
A troop, ay, of his favourite horse.
“Because thine eyes are beautiful,
Because the morning’s blushing light
From them arises to the East,
And gilds the whole world bright.
“From thy lips smiles are flowing,
From thy tongue gentle peace,
Light and aËrial as the course
Of the purple morning’s breeze.
“O! lovely Nazarene, how choice!
For an Eastern harem’s pride,
Those dark locks waving freely
Thy crystal neck beside.
“Upon a couch of velvet,
I n a cloud of perfumed air,
Wrapp’d in the white and flowing veil
Of Mahomet’s daughters fair.
“O, Lady! come to Cordova,
There Sultana thou shalt be,
And the Sultan there, Sultana,
Shall be but a slave for thee.
“Such riches he will give thee,
And such robes of Tunisine,
That thou wilt judge thy beauty,
To repay him for them, mean.”
O! Lady of the dark head-dress!
That him a kiss of thee might bless,
Resign a realm Boabdil would!
But I for that, fair Christian, fain
Would give of heavens, and think it gain,
A thousand if I only could.

THE CAPTIVE.

THE TOWER OF MUNION.

Dark-shadow’d giant! shame of proud Castille,
Castle without bridge, battlements or towers,
In whose wide halls now loathsome reptiles steal,
Where nobles once and warriors held their bowers!
Tell me, where are they? where thy tapestries gay,
Thy hundred troubadours of lofty song?
Thy mouldering ruins in the vale decay,
Thou humbled warrior! time has quell’d the strong:
Thy name and history to oblivion thrown,
The world forgets that there thou standst, Munion.
To me thou art a spectre, shade of grief!
With black remembrances my soul’s o’ercast;
To me thou art a palm with wither’d leaf,
Burnt by the lightning, bow’d beneath the blast.
I, wandering bard, proscribed perchance my doom
In the bier’s dust nor name, nor glory know;
With useless toil my brow’s consumed in gloom;
Of her I loved, dark dwelling-place below,
Whom I was robb’d of, angel from above,
Cursed be thy name, thy soil, as was my love.
There rest, aye, in thy loftiness,
To shame the plain around,
Warderless castle, matron lone,
In whom no beauty’s found.
At thee time laughs, thy towers o’erthrown,
Scorn’d by thy vassals, by thy Lord
Deserted, rest, black skeleton!
Stain of the vale’s green sward.
Priestless hermitage of Castille,
On thee no banners wave;
Unblazon’d gate, thy pointed vaults
No more their weight can save:
Thou hast no soldier on thy heights,
No echo in thy halls,
And rank weeds festering grow uncheck’d
Beneath thy mouldering walls.
Chieftain dead in a foreign land,
Forgotten of thy race,
While storm-torn fragments from thy brow
Are scatter’d o’er thy place;
And men pass careless at thy feet,
Nor seek thy tale to find;
Because thy history is not read,
Thy name’s not in their mind.
But thou hast one, who in a luckless hour
Inscribed another’s name on thy worn stone:
’Twas I, and that my deep relentless shame
Remains with thee alone.
When my lips named that name, they play’d me false;
When my hands graved it, ’twas a like deceit;
Now it exists not; in time’s impious course
’Twas swept beneath his feet.
And that celestial name,
To time at length a prey,
A woman for my sin,
For a seraph snatch’d away;
The hurricane of life
Has left me, loved one, worse
For my eternal grief,
In pledge as of a curse,
Thy name ne’er from my thoughts to part,
Nor thy love ever from my heart.

THE WARNING.

Yesterday the morning’s light
Shone on thy window crystal bright,
And lightsome breezes floating there
Gave richest perfumes to the air,
Which the gay flowers had lent to them,
All scatter’d from the unequal stem.
The nightingale had bathed his wing
Beneath the neighbouring murmuring spring;
And birds, and flowers, and streamlets gay,
Seem’d to salute the new-born day;
And in requital of the light,
Their grateful harmony unite.
The sun was bright, the sky serene,
The garden fresh and pleasant seen;
Life was delight, and thou, sweet maid,
No blush of shame thy charms betray’d;
For innocence ruled o’er thy breast,
Alike thy waking and thy rest.
Maiden, or angel upon earth,
Thy laugh, and song of gentle mirth,
In heaven were surely heard; thine eyes
Were stars, and like sweet melodies
Thy wandering tones; thy breath perfume,
And dawn-like thy complexion’s bloom.
As phantoms then thou didst not find
The hours pass heavy on thy mind,
A poet, under Love’s decree,
Sang melancholy songs to thee;
And of his griefs the voice they lend
Thou didst not, maiden, comprehend.
Poor maiden, now what change has come
O’er that glad brow and youthful bloom?
Forgotten flower, thy leaves are sere,
Thy fruitless blossoms dried appear;
Thy powerless stem all broken, low,
May to the sun no colours show.
O! dark-eyed maid of ill-starr’d birth,
Why camest thou on this evil earth?
Rose amid tangled briars born,
What waits thee from the world but scorn?
A blasting breath around thee, see,
Thy bloom is gone, who’ll ask for thee?
Return, my angel, to thy sphere,
Before the world shall see thee here:
The joys of earth are cursed and brief,
Buy them not with eternal grief!
Heaven is alone, my soul, secure
The mansion for an angel pure.

MEDITATION.

Upon the obscure and lonely tomb,
Beneath the yellow evening’s gloom,
To offer up to Heaven I come,
For her I loved, my prayer!
Upon the marble bow’d my head,
Around my knees the moist herbs spread,
The wild flowers bend beneath my tread,
That deck the thicket there.
Far from the world, and pleasures vain,
From earth my frenzied thoughts to gain,
And read in characters yet plain
Names of the long since past;
There by the gilded lamp alone,
That waves above the altar stone,
As by the wandering breezes moan,
A light’s upon me cast.
Perchance some bird will pause its flight
Upon the funeral cypress height,
Warbling the absence of the light,
As sorrowing for its loss;
Or takes leave of the day’s bright power,
From the high window of the tower,
Or skims, where dark the cupolas lower,
On the gigantic cross.
With eyes immersed in tears, around
I watch it silent from the ground,
Until it startled flies the sound
The harsh bolts creaking gave;
A funeral smile salutes me dread,
The only dweller with the dead,
Lends me a hard and rough hand, led
To ope another grave.
Pardon, O God! the worldly thought,
Nor mark it midst my prayer;
Grant it to pass, with evil fraught,
As die the river’s murmurings brought
Upon the breezy air.
Why does a worldly image rise
As if my prayer to stain?
Perchance in evil shadow’s guise,
Which may when by the morrow flies
Sign of a curse remain.
Why has my mind been doom’d to dream
A phantom loveliness?
To see those charms transparent gleam,
That brow in tranquil light supreme,
And neck’s peculiar grace?
Not heighten’d its enchantments shine
By pomp or worldly glow;
I only see that form recline
In tears, before some sacred shrine,
Or castle walls below.
Like a forgotten offering lone,
In ruin’d temple laid;
Upon the carved and time-worn stone,
Where fell it by the rough wind thrown,
So bent beneath the shade.
With such a picture in my mind,
Such name upon my ear,
Before my God the place to find,
Where the forgotten are consign’d,
I come, and bow down here.
With eyes all vaguely motionless,
Perhaps my wanderings view
The dead, with horror and distress,
As, roused up in their resting-place,
They look their dark walls through.
’Twas not to muse I hither came
Of nothingness my part;
Nor of my God, but of a name,
That deep in characters of flame
Is written on my heart.
Pardon, O God! the worldly thought,
Nor mark it midst my prayer;
Grant it to pass, with evil fraught,
As die the river’s murmurings brought
Upon the breezy air.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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