Chapter 11

"Boscan! here where the Mantuan has inurnedAnchises' ashes to eternal fame,We, Cæsar's hosts, from conquests are returned;Some of their toils the promised fruit to claim—Some to make virtue both the end and aimOf action,—or would have the world supposeAnd say so, loud in public to declaimAgainst such selfishness; whilst yet heaven knowsThey act in secret all the meanness they oppose.For me, a happy medium I observe,For never has it entered in my scheme,To strive for much more silver than may serveTo lift me gracefully from each extremeOf thrifty meanness, thriftless pride; I deemThe men contemptible that stoop to useThe one or other, that delight to seemToo close, or inconsiderate in their views:In error's moonlight maze their way both worthies find.* * * *Yet leave I not the Muses, but the moreFor this perplexity with them commune,And with the charm of their delicious loveVary my life, and waste the summer noon;Thus pass my hours beguiled; but out of tuneThe lyre will sometimes be, when trials proveThe anxious lyrist: to the country soonOf the sweet Siren shall I hence remove,Yet, as of yore, the land of idlesse, ease, and love.* * * *But how, O how shall I be sure, that hereMy evil genius, in the change I seek,Is not still sworn against me? this strong fearIt is that chills my heart, and renders weakThe wish I feel to visit that antiqueItalian city, whence my eyes deriveSuch exquisite delight, with tears they speakOf the contrasting griefs my heart that rive;And with them up in arms against me here I strive.O fierce—O rigorous—O remorseless Mars!In diamond tunic garmented, and soSteeled always in the harshness that debarsThe soul from feeling! wherefore as a foeForce the fond lover evermore to goOnward from strife to strife, o'er land and sea?Exerting all thy power to work me woe,I am so far reduced, that death would beAt length a blessed boon, my refuge, fiend, from thee!But my hard fate this blessing does deny;I meet it not in battle; the strong spear,Sharp sword, and piercing arrow pass me by,Yet strike down others in their young career,That I might pine away to see my dearSweet fruit engrossed by aliens, who derideMy vain distress; but whither does my fearAnd grief transport me, without shame or pride?Whither I dread to think, and grieve to have descried.* * * *But thou who in thy villa, blest with allThat heart can wish, look'st on the sweet sea-shore;And, undistracted, listening to the fallAnd swell of the loud waves that round thee roar,Gatherest to thy already rich scrutoireFresh living verses for perpetual fame,Rejoice! for fires more beauteous than of yoreWere kindled by the Dardan prince, inflameThy philosophic heart, and light thy laurelled name."

For me, a happy medium I observe,For never has it entered in my scheme,To strive for much more silver than may serveTo lift me gracefully from each extremeOf thrifty meanness, thriftless pride; I deemThe men contemptible that stoop to useThe one or other, that delight to seemToo close, or inconsiderate in their views:In error's moonlight maze their way both worthies find.* * * *Yet leave I not the Muses, but the moreFor this perplexity with them commune,And with the charm of their delicious loveVary my life, and waste the summer noon;Thus pass my hours beguiled; but out of tuneThe lyre will sometimes be, when trials proveThe anxious lyrist: to the country soonOf the sweet Siren shall I hence remove,Yet, as of yore, the land of idlesse, ease, and love.* * * *But how, O how shall I be sure, that hereMy evil genius, in the change I seek,Is not still sworn against me? this strong fearIt is that chills my heart, and renders weakThe wish I feel to visit that antiqueItalian city, whence my eyes deriveSuch exquisite delight, with tears they speakOf the contrasting griefs my heart that rive;And with them up in arms against me here I strive.

O fierce—O rigorous—O remorseless Mars!In diamond tunic garmented, and soSteeled always in the harshness that debarsThe soul from feeling! wherefore as a foeForce the fond lover evermore to goOnward from strife to strife, o'er land and sea?Exerting all thy power to work me woe,I am so far reduced, that death would beAt length a blessed boon, my refuge, fiend, from thee!

But my hard fate this blessing does deny;I meet it not in battle; the strong spear,Sharp sword, and piercing arrow pass me by,Yet strike down others in their young career,That I might pine away to see my dearSweet fruit engrossed by aliens, who derideMy vain distress; but whither does my fearAnd grief transport me, without shame or pride?Whither I dread to think, and grieve to have descried.* * * *But thou who in thy villa, blest with allThat heart can wish, look'st on the sweet sea-shore;And, undistracted, listening to the fallAnd swell of the loud waves that round thee roar,Gatherest to thy already rich scrutoireFresh living verses for perpetual fame,Rejoice! for fires more beauteous than of yoreWere kindled by the Dardan prince, inflameThy philosophic heart, and light thy laurelled name."

It may be supposed, that the learned Italians of those days welcomed a spirit congenial to their own, and were proud of a poet who transferred to another language that elegance of style and elevated purity of thought, the original growth of their native land. Cardinal Bembo thus writes of him to a friend, in a letter dated 15th of August, 1535:—"Signor Garcilaso is indeed a graceful poet, and his odes are all in the highest degree pleasing to me, and merit peculiar admiration and praise. In fine spirit he has far excelled all the writers of his nation; and if he be not wanting to himself in diligent study, he will no less excel other nations who are considered masters of poetry. I am not surprised that the marquis del Vasto has wished to have him with him, and that he holds him in great affection."

Among cardinal Bembo's Latin letters, there is one to Garcilaso, full of compliments, which show the high esteem in which he was held. "From theverses which you have sent me, I am happy to perceive, first, how much you love me, since you are not one who would else flatter with encomiums, nor call one dear to you whom you have never seen; and, secondly, how much you excel in lyric compositions, in splendour of genius, and sweetness of expression.—You have not only surpassed all your fellow Spaniards, who have devoted themselves to Parnassus and the Muses, but you supply incentives even to the Italians, and again and again invite them to endeavour to be overcome in this contest and in these studies by no one but yourself; which judgment of mine some other of your writings sent to me from Naples have confirmed. For it is impossible to meet in this age with compositions more classically pure, more dignified in sentiment, or more elegant in style. In that you love me, therefore, I most justly and sincerely rejoice; and that you are a great and good man, I congratulate in the first place yourself, but most of all, your country, in that she is thus about to receive so great an increase of honour and glory.

"There is, however, another circumstance which greatly increases the honour I have received; for lately, when the monk Onorato, whom I perceive you know by reputation, entered into conversation with me, and, amongst other topics, asked me what I thought of your poems, the opinion I gave happened to coincide exactly with his own; and he is a man of very acute perception, and extremely well versed in poetical pursuits. He told me that his friends had written to him of your very many and great virtues, of the urbanity of your manners, the integrity of your life, and accomplishments of your mind; adding that it was a fact confirmed by all Neapolitans that knew you, that no one had come from Spain to their city in these times, wherein the greatest resort has been made by your nation to Italy, whom they loved more affectionately than yourself, or one on whom they would confer superior benefits."

Garcilaso did not, however, long enjoy the leisure that he so well employed. Charles V., whose great ambition was to crush the power of France, and to possess himself of a portion of that kingdom, was resolved to take advantage of the disastrous issue of Francis I.'s attempt upon the duchy of Milan, and rashly determined to invade a country whose armies, however he might meet victoriously in other fields, he could not hope to vanquish in their own. He entered France from the south; and recalling Garcilaso, conferred on him an honourable command over eleven companies of infantry. Leaving Naples to join this expedition, he traversed Italy, and from Vaucluse wrote an epistle to Boscan in a fighter and gayer style than is usual with him; while he dwells with affectionate pleasure on the the of friendship that united them, saying, among other things,—

"Whilst much reflecting on the sacred tieOf our affection, which I hold so high,The exchange of talent, taste, intelligence,Shared gifts and multiplied delights which thenceRefresh our souls in their perpetual flow—There nothing is that makes me value soThe sweetness of this compact of the heart,Than the affection on my own warm part.* * * *Such were my thoughts. But oh! how shall I setFully to view my shame and my regret,For having praised so at a single glance,The roads, the dealings, and hotels of France.Shame, that with reason thou may'st now pronounceMyself a fabler, and my praise a bounce;Regret, my time so much to have misused,In rashly lauding what were best abused;For here, all fibs apart, you find but jadesOf hacks, sour wines, and pilfering chambermaids,Long ways, long bills, no silver, fleecing hosts.And all the luxury of lumbering posts.Arriving too from Naples by the way—Naples—the choice, the brilliant, and the gay!Embrace Dural for me—nor rate my muse;October twelfth, given forth from sweet Vaucluse,Where the fine flame of Petrarch had its birth,And where its ashes yet irradiate earth."

To the period of this campaign Wiffen is inclined to attribute the composition of his third eclogue which, in point of merit, is the second, and which was avowedly written during a war—for, as he says,—

"'Midst arms—with scarce one pause from bloody toil,When war's hoarse trumpet breaks the poet's dream,Have I there moments stolen, oft claimed."

This expedition was disastrous in itself and fatal to the poet. An invading army is necessarily abhorred by all; and while it inflicts, also suffers the utmost horrors of war. The French general wisely acted on the defensive, and, having laid the country waste, left famine and disease to win the game. The emperor, unsuccessful in his attempts upon Marseilles and Arles, was obliged to retreat through a country roused to exasperation by the ills it had endured. His army, in consequence, was exposed to a thousand disasters, while the very peasants, hanging on its rear, or lying in ambush, cut off the stragglers, and disputed the passage of every defile. On one occasion, at Muy near Frejus, the imperialists were held in check by a party of fifty rustics, who, armed with muskets, had thrown themselves into a tower, and harassed them on their passage. The emperor ordered Garcilaso to attack and carry it with his battalion. Eager in his obedience, Garcilaso led the way to scale the tower. The peasants observing that he wore a gaily embroidered dress over his armour, fancied that it was the emperor himself, and marked him out for destruction. He was the first to mount the ladder; a block of stone rolled from the battlements, struck him on the head and beat him to the ground. He was carried to Nice; but no care could avail to save him: he lingered for twenty days, and then died, November, 1536, at the age only of thirty-three. He showed, we are told, no less the spirit of a Christian in his death, than of a soldier in the hour of peril. His death was universally lamented; and the emperor displayed his sense of the loss he had sustained, by causing all the peasants who survived the taking of the tower, twenty-eight in number, to be hanged. Such a token of respect would scarcely soothe the ghost of the gentle poet; but it was in accordance with the spirit of the times. The body was interred at first in the church of Saint Dominique at Nice; but two years afterwards was removed to the tomb of his ancestors in a chapel of the church of San Pedro Martyr de Toledo.

Garcilaso is always represented as the model of a young and gallant soldier, adorning his knightly accomplishments with the softer graces of a poet; as an imaginative enthusiast, joining sentiment to passion, and softening both by the elegancies of refinement. His tall figure was symmetrical in its proportions, and his mien was dignified. There was a mingled seriousness and mildness in the expression of his face, enlivened by sparkling eyes, and dignified by an expansive forehead. He was a favourite with the ladies, while he enjoyed the friendship and esteem of many excellent men. Wiffen takes pleasure in adopting the idea of doctor Nott, and likening him to our noble poet, lord Surrey. He left, orphaned by his death, three sons and a daughter. His eldest son incurred a similar fate with himself. He enjoyed the favour of the emperor, but fell at the battle of Ulpiano, at the early age of twenty-four. His second son, Francisco de Guzman, became a monk, and enjoyed a reputation as a great theologian. The youngest Lorenzo de Guzman, inherited a portion of his father's genius, and was esteemed for his talent. He scarcely made a good use of it, since he was banished to Oran for a lampoon, and died on the passage. The only daughter of the poet, donna Sancha de Guzman, married D. Antonio Portocarrero de Vega.

We turn, however, to Garcilaso's poetry as his best memorial and highest merit, at least that merit which gives him a place in these pages. When we remember that he died at thirty-three, we must regard his productions rather in the light of promise, than of performance. His muse might have soared higher, and taken some new path: as it is, he ranks high as an elegiac poet, and the first that Spain has produced. The most perfect of his poems is his second eclogue. Mr. Wiffen has succeeded admirably in transfusing, in some of the stanzas, a portion of the pathos and softness of the original. Emulating Virgil in his refinement and dignity, Garcilaso surpassed him in tenderness; and certainly the expression of regret and grief was never more affectingly and sweetlyexpressed than in the laments that compose this eclogue.

The poem commences with the poet speaking in his own person. He introduces the personages of the eclogue: Salicio, who laments the infidelity of his lady; and Nemeroso, who mourns the death of his. It is supposed that, under the name of Salicio, Garcilaso personifies himself, and commemorates the feelings which he experienced, when suffering from the inconstancy of a lady whom he loved in his youth.

Nothing can exceed the living tenderness of the deserted shepherd's complaints; and we feel as if the tone of fond grief could go no further, till the interest becomes heightened by the more touching nature of Nemoroso's laments: under this name it is said that Garcilaso introduced Boscan. Boscan was a happy husband and father. In his epistle to Mendoza, he mentions his former passions as a troubled dream, where all seemed love, but was really hate; and he does not allude to the death of any object of his affections. Mr. Wiffen, with the natural fondness of a translator and an antiquarian, delights in putting together the scattered and half lost fragments of his poet's life, and to eke out the history of his mind by probable conjecture, and is inclined to believe that Boscan was intended, and that being dear friends, Garcilaso pleased his imagination and heart, in making them brother shepherds in his verses. It is an agreeable idea, and not improbable: the reader may believe according as his inclinations leads him.

But not to linger longer on preliminary matter, we select the most beautiful stanzas of the eclogue, which will confirm to the Spanish reader the opinion that Garcilaso is the most harmonious, easy, elegant, and tender poet Spain ever produced: soft and melancholy, he never errs, except in sometimes following the fashion of his country in reasoning on his feelings, instead of simply declaring them. Such fault, however, is not to be found in the following verses, wherein Salicio complains ofhis Galatea's inconstancy, recalling the while the dear images of her former tenderness.

"Through thee the silence of the shaded glen,[18]Through thee the horror of the lonely mountain,Pleased me no less than the resort of men:The breeze, the summer wood, the lucid fountain,The purple rose, white lily of the lake,Were sweet for thy sweet sake;For thee, the fragrant primrose, dropt with dew,Was wished when first it blew.O how completely was I in all thisMyself deceiving! O the different partThat thou wert acting, covering with a kissOf seeming love, the traitor in thy heart!This my severe misfortune, long ago,Did the soothsaying raven, sailing byOn the black-storm, with hoarse sinister cry,Clearly presage: in gentleness of woeFlow forth, my tears! 't is meet that ye should flow.How oft when slumbering in the forest brown,(Deeming it fancy's mystical deceit)Have I beheld my fate in dreams foreshown!One day, methought that from the noontide heatI drove my flocks to drink of Tagus' flood,And, under the curtain of its bordering woodTake my cool siesta; but, arrived, the stream,I know not by what magic, changed its track,And in new channels, by an unused way,Rolled its warped waters back;Whilst I, scorched, melting with the heat extreme,Went ever following in their flight astray,The wizard waves: in gentleness of woe,Flow forth, my tears!'t is meet that ye should flow.In the charmed ear of what beloved youth,Sounds thy sweet voice? On whom revolvest thouThy beautiful blue eyes? On whose proved truthAnchors thy broken faith? Who presses nowThy laughing lip, and takes thy heaven of charmsLocked in the embraces of thy two white arms?Say thou, for whom hast thou so rudely leftMy love, or stolen, who triumphs in the theft?I have not got a bosom so untrueTo feeling, nor a heart of stone, to viewMy darling ivy, torn from me, take rootAgainst another wall, or prosperous pine,—To see my virgin vineAround another elm in marriage hangIts curling tendrils and empurpled fruit,Without the torture of a jealous pang,Ev'n to the loss of life: in gentle woe,Flow forth, my tears; 't is meet that ye should flow.* * * *Over my griefs the mossy stones relentTheir natural durity, and break; the treesBend down their weeping boughs without a breeze;And full of tenderness the listening birds,Warbling in different notes, with me lament.And warbling prophesy my death; the herdsThat in the green meads hang their heads at eve,Wearied, and worn, and faint,The necessary sweets of slumber leave,And low, and listen to my wild complaint.Thou only steel'st thy bosom to my cries,Not even once turning thy angelic eyesOn him thy harshness kills: in gentle woeFlow forth, my tears! 'tis meet that ye should flow.But though thou wilt not come for my sad sake,Leave not the landscape thou hast held so dear,Thou may'st come freely now, without the fearOf meeting me, for though my heart should break,Where late forsaken, I will now forsake.Come then, if this alone detain thee, hereAre meadows full of verdure, myrtles, bays,Woodlands and lawns, and running waters clear,Beloved in other days,To which, bedewed with many a bitter tear,I sing my last of lays.These scenes, perhaps, when I am far removed,At ease thou wilt frequentWith him who rifled me of all I loved:Enough, my strength is spent;And leaving thee in his desired embrace,It is not much to leave him this sweet place."

How oft when slumbering in the forest brown,(Deeming it fancy's mystical deceit)Have I beheld my fate in dreams foreshown!One day, methought that from the noontide heatI drove my flocks to drink of Tagus' flood,And, under the curtain of its bordering woodTake my cool siesta; but, arrived, the stream,I know not by what magic, changed its track,And in new channels, by an unused way,Rolled its warped waters back;Whilst I, scorched, melting with the heat extreme,Went ever following in their flight astray,The wizard waves: in gentleness of woe,Flow forth, my tears!'t is meet that ye should flow.In the charmed ear of what beloved youth,Sounds thy sweet voice? On whom revolvest thouThy beautiful blue eyes? On whose proved truthAnchors thy broken faith? Who presses nowThy laughing lip, and takes thy heaven of charmsLocked in the embraces of thy two white arms?Say thou, for whom hast thou so rudely leftMy love, or stolen, who triumphs in the theft?I have not got a bosom so untrueTo feeling, nor a heart of stone, to viewMy darling ivy, torn from me, take rootAgainst another wall, or prosperous pine,—To see my virgin vineAround another elm in marriage hangIts curling tendrils and empurpled fruit,Without the torture of a jealous pang,Ev'n to the loss of life: in gentle woe,Flow forth, my tears; 't is meet that ye should flow.* * * *Over my griefs the mossy stones relentTheir natural durity, and break; the treesBend down their weeping boughs without a breeze;And full of tenderness the listening birds,Warbling in different notes, with me lament.And warbling prophesy my death; the herdsThat in the green meads hang their heads at eve,Wearied, and worn, and faint,The necessary sweets of slumber leave,And low, and listen to my wild complaint.Thou only steel'st thy bosom to my cries,Not even once turning thy angelic eyesOn him thy harshness kills: in gentle woeFlow forth, my tears! 'tis meet that ye should flow.But though thou wilt not come for my sad sake,Leave not the landscape thou hast held so dear,Thou may'st come freely now, without the fearOf meeting me, for though my heart should break,Where late forsaken, I will now forsake.Come then, if this alone detain thee, hereAre meadows full of verdure, myrtles, bays,Woodlands and lawns, and running waters clear,Beloved in other days,To which, bedewed with many a bitter tear,I sing my last of lays.These scenes, perhaps, when I am far removed,At ease thou wilt frequentWith him who rifled me of all I loved:Enough, my strength is spent;And leaving thee in his desired embrace,It is not much to leave him this sweet place."

The impatience natural to the resentment of inconstancy ruffles though it does not distort these sweet stanzas. But there is more of soft melancholy in Nemoroso, more of the entire melting of the heart in sad unavailing regret.

"Smooth, sliding waters, pure and crystalline,[19]Trees that reflect your image in their breastGreen pastures, full of fountains and fresh shades,Birds, that here scatter your sweet serenades;Mosses and reverend ivies serpentine,That wreath your verdurous arms round beech and pine,And, climbing, crown their crest!Can I forget, ere grief my spirit changed,With what delicious ease and pure content,Your peace I wooed, your solitudes I ranged,Enchanted and refreshed where'er I went!How many blissful noons here I have spentIn luxury of slumber, couched on flowers,And with my own fond fancies, from a boy,Discoursed away the hours,Discovering nought in your delightful bowers,But golden dreams, and memories fraught with joy.* * * *Where are those eloquent mild eyes, which drewMy heart where'er it wandered? where the hand,White, delicate, and pure as melting dew,Filled with the spoils, that proud of thy command,My feelings paid in tribute? the bright hairThat paled the shining gold, that did contemnThe glorious opal as a meaner gem,The bosom's ivory apples, where, ah! where?Where now the neck to whiteness overwrought,That like a column with genteelest scornSustained the golden dome of virtuous thought?Gone! ah, for ever gone,To the chill desolate and dreary pall,And mine the grief—the wormwood and the gall!* * * *Poor, lost Eliza! of thy locks of gold,One treasured ringlet in white silk I keepFor ever at my heart, which, when unrolled,Fresh grief and pity o'er my spirit creep;And my insatiate eyes, for hours untold.O'er the dear pledge, will like an infant's, weep.With sighs more warm than fire anon I dryThe tears from off it, number one by oneThe radiant hairs, and with a love-knot tie;Mine eyes, this duty done,Give over weeping, and with slight reliefI taste a short forgetfulness of grief."

Although this quotation has run to a great lengthy I cannot refrain from adding the ode to the Flower of Gnido. It is more fanciful and airy, more original, yet more classic. Mr. Wiffen's translation also is very correct and beautiful, failing only in not preserving all the exquisite simplicity of the original; but that is a charm difficult indeed to transfer from one language to another. Of the subject of the ode we receive the following account from the commentators. "The title of this ode is derived from a quarter of a city of Naples called Il Seggio di Gnido, or the seat of Gnido, the favourite abode then of the people of fashion, in which also the lady lived, to whom the ode was addressed. This lady. Violante San Severino, a daughter of the duke of Soma, was courted by Fabio Galeota, a friend of Garcilaso in whose behalf the poem was written."

"TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO.[20]I.Had I the sweet resounding lyre,Whose voice could in a moment chainThe howling wind's ungoverned ire,And movement of the raging main,On savage hills the leopard rein,The lion's fiery soul entrance,And lead along with golden tonesThe fascinated trees and stonesIn voluntary dance;II.Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gnide,It e'er should celebrate the scars,Dust raised, blood shed, and laurels dyedBeneath the gonfalon of Mars;Or, borne sublime on festal cars,The chiefs who to submission sankThe rebel German's soul of soul,And forged the chains that now controlThe frenzy of the Frank.III.No, no! its harmonies should ring,In vaunt of glories all thine own,A discord sometimes from the stringStruck forth to make thy harshness known.The fingered chords should speak aloneOf Beauty's triumphs, Love's alarms,And one who, made by thy disdainBale as a lily dipt in twain.Bewails thy fatal charms.IV.Of that poor captive, too contemned,I speak,—his doom you might deplore—In Venus' galliot shell condemnedTo strain for life the heavy oar.Through thee, no longer as of yore,He tames the unmanageable steed,With curb of gold his pride restrains,Or with pressed spurs and shaken reinsTorments him into speed.V.Not now he wields, for thy sweet sake,The sword in his accomplished hand;Nor grapples like a poisonous snake,The wrestler on the yellow sand:The old heroic harp his handConsults not now; it can but kissThe amorous lute's dissolving strings.Which murmur forth a thousand thingsOf banishment from bliss.VI.Through thee, my dearest friend and bestGrows harsh, importunate, and grave;Myself have been his port of rest,From shipwreck on the yawning wave;Yet now so high his passions raveAbove lost reason's conquered laws,That not the traveller ere he slaysThe asp, its sting, as he my faceSo dreads, and so abhors.VII.In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide,Thou wert not cradled, wert not born;She who has not a fault beside,Should ne'er be signalised for scorn;Else tremble at the fate forlornOf Anaxarete, who spurnedThe weeping Iphis from her gate;Who, scoffing long, relenting late,Was to a statue turned.VIII.Whilst yet soft pity she repelled,Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride,From her friezed window she beheld,Aghast, the lifeless suicide.Around his lily neck was tied,What freed his spirit from her chains,And purchased with a few short sighs,For her immortal agonies,Imperishable pains.IX.Then first she felt her bosom bleedWith love and pity—vain distress!O, what deep rigours must succeedThis first sole touch of tenderness!Her eyes grow glazed and motionless,Nailed on his wavering corse; each boneHardening in growth, invades her flesh,Which late so rosy, warm, and fresh,Now stagnates into stone.X.From limb to limb the frosts aspire,Her vitals curdle with the cold;The blood forgets its crimson fire,The veins that e'er its motion rolled;Till now the virgin's glorious mouldWas wholly into marble changed;On which the Salaminians gazed,Less at the prodigy amazed,Than of the crime avenged.XI.Then tempt not thou Fate's angry arms,By cruel frown, or icy taunt;But let thy perfect deeds and charmsTo poets' harps, Divinest, grantThemes worthy their immortal vaunt;Else must our weeping strings presumeTo celebrate in strains of woe,The justice of some signal blow,That strikes thee to the tomb."

"TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO.[20]

Had I the sweet resounding lyre,Whose voice could in a moment chainThe howling wind's ungoverned ire,And movement of the raging main,On savage hills the leopard rein,The lion's fiery soul entrance,And lead along with golden tonesThe fascinated trees and stonesIn voluntary dance;

II.

Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gnide,It e'er should celebrate the scars,Dust raised, blood shed, and laurels dyedBeneath the gonfalon of Mars;Or, borne sublime on festal cars,The chiefs who to submission sankThe rebel German's soul of soul,And forged the chains that now controlThe frenzy of the Frank.

III.

No, no! its harmonies should ring,In vaunt of glories all thine own,A discord sometimes from the stringStruck forth to make thy harshness known.The fingered chords should speak aloneOf Beauty's triumphs, Love's alarms,And one who, made by thy disdainBale as a lily dipt in twain.Bewails thy fatal charms.

IV.

Of that poor captive, too contemned,I speak,—his doom you might deplore—In Venus' galliot shell condemnedTo strain for life the heavy oar.Through thee, no longer as of yore,He tames the unmanageable steed,With curb of gold his pride restrains,Or with pressed spurs and shaken reinsTorments him into speed.

Not now he wields, for thy sweet sake,The sword in his accomplished hand;Nor grapples like a poisonous snake,The wrestler on the yellow sand:The old heroic harp his handConsults not now; it can but kissThe amorous lute's dissolving strings.Which murmur forth a thousand thingsOf banishment from bliss.

VI.

Through thee, my dearest friend and bestGrows harsh, importunate, and grave;Myself have been his port of rest,From shipwreck on the yawning wave;Yet now so high his passions raveAbove lost reason's conquered laws,That not the traveller ere he slaysThe asp, its sting, as he my faceSo dreads, and so abhors.

VII.

In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide,Thou wert not cradled, wert not born;She who has not a fault beside,Should ne'er be signalised for scorn;Else tremble at the fate forlornOf Anaxarete, who spurnedThe weeping Iphis from her gate;Who, scoffing long, relenting late,Was to a statue turned.

VIII.

Whilst yet soft pity she repelled,Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride,From her friezed window she beheld,Aghast, the lifeless suicide.Around his lily neck was tied,What freed his spirit from her chains,And purchased with a few short sighs,For her immortal agonies,Imperishable pains.

IX.

Then first she felt her bosom bleedWith love and pity—vain distress!O, what deep rigours must succeedThis first sole touch of tenderness!Her eyes grow glazed and motionless,Nailed on his wavering corse; each boneHardening in growth, invades her flesh,Which late so rosy, warm, and fresh,Now stagnates into stone.

From limb to limb the frosts aspire,Her vitals curdle with the cold;The blood forgets its crimson fire,The veins that e'er its motion rolled;Till now the virgin's glorious mouldWas wholly into marble changed;On which the Salaminians gazed,Less at the prodigy amazed,Than of the crime avenged.

XI.

Then tempt not thou Fate's angry arms,By cruel frown, or icy taunt;But let thy perfect deeds and charmsTo poets' harps, Divinest, grantThemes worthy their immortal vaunt;Else must our weeping strings presumeTo celebrate in strains of woe,The justice of some signal blow,That strikes thee to the tomb."

We have no room to multiply passages, and with this ode must conclude our specimens. Garcilaso is a happy type of a Spanish poet; and when we think that such men were the children of the old liberty of Spain, how deeply we must regret the worse than iron rule that blasted the race; while we view in any attempt to regain her ancient freedom, a promise of a new people, to adorn the annals of mankind with all the virtues of heroism and all the elevation of genius.

[14]This anecdote is usually told as appertaining to the father of the poet; but the name was assumed by the family at an earlier date. There is aromanceintroduced in the Guerras Civiles de Granada, commemorating this action. Sedano and Wiffen are the authorities on which this biography is grounded. Bouterwek tells only what Sedano had done before him; in the earlier portion of his work, Sissingularymondi is scarcely more than a rifacciamento of Bouterwek.

[15]"Temperate, when winter waves its snowy wing,Is the sweet water of this sylvan spring;And when the heats of summer scorch the grass,More cold than snow: in your clear looking-glass,Fair waves! the memory of that day returns,With which my soul still shivers, melts, and burns;Gazing on your clear depth and lustre pure,My peace grows troubled and my joys obscure.* * * *This lucid fount, whose murmurs fill the mind,The verdant forests waving with the wind,The odours wafted from the mead, the flowersIn which the wild bee sits and sings for hours,These might the moodiest misanthrope employ,Make sound the sick, and turn distress to joy."

[15]

"Temperate, when winter waves its snowy wing,Is the sweet water of this sylvan spring;And when the heats of summer scorch the grass,More cold than snow: in your clear looking-glass,Fair waves! the memory of that day returns,With which my soul still shivers, melts, and burns;Gazing on your clear depth and lustre pure,My peace grows troubled and my joys obscure.* * * *This lucid fount, whose murmurs fill the mind,The verdant forests waving with the wind,The odours wafted from the mead, the flowersIn which the wild bee sits and sings for hours,These might the moodiest misanthrope employ,Make sound the sick, and turn distress to joy."

[16]Wiffen.

[17]Wiffen.

[18]"Por tí el silencio de la selva umbrosa,por tí la esquividad y apartamientodel solitario monte me agradava:por tí la verde hierba, el fresco viento,el blanco lirio y colorada rosay dulce primavera deseaba.¡ Ay quanto me engañaba!¡ Ay quan diferente era,y quan de otra maneralo que en tu falso pecho escondia!bien claro con su voz me lo deciala siniestra corneja, repitiendola desventura mia.Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo.¡ Quantas veces durmiendo en la floresta(reputandolo yo por desvarío)ví mi mal entre sueños desdichado!Soñaba, que en el tiempo del estiollevaba, por pasar alli la siesta,á bever en el Tajo mi ganado;y despues de llegado,sin saber de quál arte,por desusada partey por nuevo camino el agua se iba.Ardiendo yo con la calor estiva,el curso enagenado iba siguiendodel agua fugitiva.Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo.¿ Tu dulce habla en cuya oreja suena?¿ Tus claros ojos á quien los volviste?¿ Por quien tan sin respeto me trocaste?¿ Tu quebrantada fé dó la pusiste?¿ Quál es el cuello, que como en cadenade tus hermosos brazos añudaste?No hay corazón que baste,aunque fuese de piedra,viendo mí amada yedra,de mi arrancada, en otro muro asida,y mi parra en otro olmo entretegida,que no se esté con llanto deshaciendohasta acabar la vida.Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo.* * * *Con mi llorar las piedras enternecensu natural dureza, y la quebrantan:los arboles parece que se inclinan:las aves, que me escuchan, quando cantan,con diferente voz se condolecen,y mi morir cantando me adivinan:las fieras, que reclinanin cuerpo fatigado,dejan el sosegadosueño por escuchar mi llanto triste.Tu sola contra mí te endurciste,los ojos aun siquiera no volviendoá lo que tú hiciste.Salid sin duelos lágrimas corriendo."

[18]

"Por tí el silencio de la selva umbrosa,por tí la esquividad y apartamientodel solitario monte me agradava:por tí la verde hierba, el fresco viento,el blanco lirio y colorada rosay dulce primavera deseaba.¡ Ay quanto me engañaba!¡ Ay quan diferente era,y quan de otra maneralo que en tu falso pecho escondia!bien claro con su voz me lo deciala siniestra corneja, repitiendola desventura mia.Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo.¡ Quantas veces durmiendo en la floresta(reputandolo yo por desvarío)ví mi mal entre sueños desdichado!Soñaba, que en el tiempo del estiollevaba, por pasar alli la siesta,á bever en el Tajo mi ganado;y despues de llegado,sin saber de quál arte,por desusada partey por nuevo camino el agua se iba.Ardiendo yo con la calor estiva,el curso enagenado iba siguiendodel agua fugitiva.Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo.¿ Tu dulce habla en cuya oreja suena?¿ Tus claros ojos á quien los volviste?¿ Por quien tan sin respeto me trocaste?¿ Tu quebrantada fé dó la pusiste?¿ Quál es el cuello, que como en cadenade tus hermosos brazos añudaste?No hay corazón que baste,aunque fuese de piedra,viendo mí amada yedra,de mi arrancada, en otro muro asida,y mi parra en otro olmo entretegida,que no se esté con llanto deshaciendohasta acabar la vida.Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo.* * * *Con mi llorar las piedras enternecensu natural dureza, y la quebrantan:los arboles parece que se inclinan:las aves, que me escuchan, quando cantan,con diferente voz se condolecen,y mi morir cantando me adivinan:las fieras, que reclinanin cuerpo fatigado,dejan el sosegadosueño por escuchar mi llanto triste.Tu sola contra mí te endurciste,los ojos aun siquiera no volviendoá lo que tú hiciste.Salid sin duelos lágrimas corriendo."

¡ Quantas veces durmiendo en la floresta(reputandolo yo por desvarío)ví mi mal entre sueños desdichado!Soñaba, que en el tiempo del estiollevaba, por pasar alli la siesta,á bever en el Tajo mi ganado;y despues de llegado,sin saber de quál arte,por desusada partey por nuevo camino el agua se iba.Ardiendo yo con la calor estiva,el curso enagenado iba siguiendodel agua fugitiva.Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo.¿ Tu dulce habla en cuya oreja suena?¿ Tus claros ojos á quien los volviste?¿ Por quien tan sin respeto me trocaste?¿ Tu quebrantada fé dó la pusiste?¿ Quál es el cuello, que como en cadenade tus hermosos brazos añudaste?No hay corazón que baste,aunque fuese de piedra,viendo mí amada yedra,de mi arrancada, en otro muro asida,y mi parra en otro olmo entretegida,que no se esté con llanto deshaciendohasta acabar la vida.Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo.* * * *Con mi llorar las piedras enternecensu natural dureza, y la quebrantan:los arboles parece que se inclinan:las aves, que me escuchan, quando cantan,con diferente voz se condolecen,y mi morir cantando me adivinan:las fieras, que reclinanin cuerpo fatigado,dejan el sosegadosueño por escuchar mi llanto triste.Tu sola contra mí te endurciste,los ojos aun siquiera no volviendoá lo que tú hiciste.Salid sin duelos lágrimas corriendo."

[19]"Mas ya que á soccorrerme aqui no vienes,no dejes el lugar que tanto amaste;que bien podrás venir de mí segurayo dexaré el lugar dó me dejaste:ven, si por solo este le detienes.Ves aqui un prado lleno de verdura,ves aqui una espesura,ves aqui una agua clara,en otro tiempo cara,á quien de tí con lágrimas me quejo,quiza aqui hallarás, pues yo me al ejo,al que todo mi bien quitarme puede:que pues el bien le dejo,no es mucho que el lugar también le quede.Corrientes aguas, puras, cristalinas:árboles, que os estais mirando en ellas:verde prado, de fresca sombra lleno:aves, que aqui sembrais vuestras querellas:yedra, que por los árboles caminas,torciendo el paso por su verde seno;yo me ví tan agenodel grave mal que siento,que de puro contentocon vuestra soledad me recreaba,donde con dulce sueño reposaba:ó con el pensamiento discurria,por donde no hallabasino memorias llenas de alegria.* * * *¿ Dó están agora aquellos claros ojos,que lleveban tras sí como colgadami anima, dó quier que se volvian?¿ Dó está la blanca mano delicada,llena de vencimientos y despojosque de mí mis sentidos la ofrecian?Los cabellos, que viancon gran desprecio al oro,como á menor tesoro.¿ Adonde están? ¿ Adonde el blanco pecho?dó la coluna, que el dorado techocon presunción graciosa sostenia?aquesto todo agora ya se encierrapor desventura mia,en la fria desierta y dura tierra.* * * *Una parte guardé de tus cabellos,Elisa, envueltos en un blanco paño,que nunca de mi seno se me apartan:descojolos, y de un dolor tamañoenternecerme siento, que sobre ellosnunca mis ojos de llorar se hartan.Sin que alli se partancon suspiros calientes,mas que la llama ardentes,los enjugo del llanto, ye de consunocasi los paso, y cuento uno á uno:juntándolos con un cordon los ato:tras esto el importunodolor me deja descansar un rato."

[19]

"Mas ya que á soccorrerme aqui no vienes,no dejes el lugar que tanto amaste;que bien podrás venir de mí segurayo dexaré el lugar dó me dejaste:ven, si por solo este le detienes.Ves aqui un prado lleno de verdura,ves aqui una espesura,ves aqui una agua clara,en otro tiempo cara,á quien de tí con lágrimas me quejo,quiza aqui hallarás, pues yo me al ejo,al que todo mi bien quitarme puede:que pues el bien le dejo,no es mucho que el lugar también le quede.Corrientes aguas, puras, cristalinas:árboles, que os estais mirando en ellas:verde prado, de fresca sombra lleno:aves, que aqui sembrais vuestras querellas:yedra, que por los árboles caminas,torciendo el paso por su verde seno;yo me ví tan agenodel grave mal que siento,que de puro contentocon vuestra soledad me recreaba,donde con dulce sueño reposaba:ó con el pensamiento discurria,por donde no hallabasino memorias llenas de alegria.* * * *¿ Dó están agora aquellos claros ojos,que lleveban tras sí como colgadami anima, dó quier que se volvian?¿ Dó está la blanca mano delicada,llena de vencimientos y despojosque de mí mis sentidos la ofrecian?Los cabellos, que viancon gran desprecio al oro,como á menor tesoro.¿ Adonde están? ¿ Adonde el blanco pecho?dó la coluna, que el dorado techocon presunción graciosa sostenia?aquesto todo agora ya se encierrapor desventura mia,en la fria desierta y dura tierra.* * * *Una parte guardé de tus cabellos,Elisa, envueltos en un blanco paño,que nunca de mi seno se me apartan:descojolos, y de un dolor tamañoenternecerme siento, que sobre ellosnunca mis ojos de llorar se hartan.Sin que alli se partancon suspiros calientes,mas que la llama ardentes,los enjugo del llanto, ye de consunocasi los paso, y cuento uno á uno:juntándolos con un cordon los ato:tras esto el importunodolor me deja descansar un rato."

[20]"A LA FLOR DI GNIDO.Si de mi baja Liratanto pudiese el son, que en un momentoaplacase la iradel animoso viento,y el furia del mar, y el movimiento:y en ásperas montañas,con el suave canto enternecieselas fieras alimañas,los arboles moviese,y al son confusamente los truxese:No pienses que cantandoseria de mí, hermosa Flor de Gnido.el fiero Marte ayrado,á muerte convertido,de polvo, y sangre, y de sudor teñido:ni aquellos capitanes,en la sublime rueda colocados,por quen los Alamanesel fiero cuello atados,y los Franceses van domesticados.Mas solamente aquellafuerza de tu beldad seria cantada,y alguna vez con ellatambien seria notadael aspereza de que estas armada.Y como pro tí solay por tu gran valor, y hermosura,convertida in viola,llora su desventurael miserable amante en tu figura.Hablo de aquel cautivode quien tener se deve mas cuidado,que está muriendo vivoal remo condenado,en la concha de Venus amarrado.Por ti como, solia,del aspero caballo no corrigela furia y gallardiani con freno le rige,ni con vivas espuelas ya le aflige.Por tí, con diestra mano,no revuelve la espada presurosa,y en el dudoso llanohuye la polvorosapalestra, come sierpe ponzoñosa.Por tí su blanda Musa,en lugar de la cítara sonante,tristes querellas usa,que con llanto abundantehacen bañar el rostro del amante.Por tí el mayor amigoto es importuno, grave, y enojoso;y puedo ser testigoque ya del peligrosonaufragio fui su puerto, y su reposo.Y agora en tal maneravence el dolor á la razon perdídaque ponzoñosa fieranuca fue aborrecidatanto como yo dél, ni tan temida.No fuiste tu engendrada,ni producida de la dura tierra:no debe ser notada,que ingratamente yerraquien todo el otro error de sí destierra.Hagate temerosaEl caso de Anaxárete, y cobarde,que de ser desdeñosase arrepintió muy tarde,y asi su alma con su marmol arde.Estabase alegrandodel mal ageno el pecho empedernido,quando abajo mirando,el cuerpo muerto vidodel miserable amante alli tendido,y al cuello el lazo atado,con que desenlazó de la cadenael corazón cuitado,que con su breve penacompió la eterna punición agena.Sintió alli convertirseen piedad amorosa el aspereza.¡ O tarde arrepentirse!¡ O, ultima terneza!¿ como te sucedió mayor dureza?Los ojos se enclavaronen el tendido cuerpo, que alli vieron,los huesos se tornaronmas duros, y crecieron,y en sí toda la carne convirtieron.Las entrañas eladastornaron poco á poco en piedra dura:por las venas cuitadasla sangre, su figuraiba desconociendo, y su natura.Hasta que, finalmenteen duro marmol vuelta, y transformada,hizo de sí la genteno tan maravillada,quanto de aquella ingratitud vengada.No quieras tu, Señora,de Némesis ayrada las saetasprobar por Dios agora;baste que tus perfetasobras, y hermosura a los Poetasden inmortal materia,sin que también en verso lamentablecelebren la miseriade algun caso notable,que por tí pase triste y miserable."

[20]

"A LA FLOR DI GNIDO.Si de mi baja Liratanto pudiese el son, que en un momentoaplacase la iradel animoso viento,y el furia del mar, y el movimiento:y en ásperas montañas,con el suave canto enternecieselas fieras alimañas,los arboles moviese,y al son confusamente los truxese:No pienses que cantandoseria de mí, hermosa Flor de Gnido.el fiero Marte ayrado,á muerte convertido,de polvo, y sangre, y de sudor teñido:ni aquellos capitanes,en la sublime rueda colocados,por quen los Alamanesel fiero cuello atados,y los Franceses van domesticados.Mas solamente aquellafuerza de tu beldad seria cantada,y alguna vez con ellatambien seria notadael aspereza de que estas armada.Y como pro tí solay por tu gran valor, y hermosura,convertida in viola,llora su desventurael miserable amante en tu figura.Hablo de aquel cautivode quien tener se deve mas cuidado,que está muriendo vivoal remo condenado,en la concha de Venus amarrado.Por ti como, solia,del aspero caballo no corrigela furia y gallardiani con freno le rige,ni con vivas espuelas ya le aflige.Por tí, con diestra mano,no revuelve la espada presurosa,y en el dudoso llanohuye la polvorosapalestra, come sierpe ponzoñosa.Por tí su blanda Musa,en lugar de la cítara sonante,tristes querellas usa,que con llanto abundantehacen bañar el rostro del amante.Por tí el mayor amigoto es importuno, grave, y enojoso;y puedo ser testigoque ya del peligrosonaufragio fui su puerto, y su reposo.Y agora en tal maneravence el dolor á la razon perdídaque ponzoñosa fieranuca fue aborrecidatanto como yo dél, ni tan temida.No fuiste tu engendrada,ni producida de la dura tierra:no debe ser notada,que ingratamente yerraquien todo el otro error de sí destierra.Hagate temerosaEl caso de Anaxárete, y cobarde,que de ser desdeñosase arrepintió muy tarde,y asi su alma con su marmol arde.Estabase alegrandodel mal ageno el pecho empedernido,quando abajo mirando,el cuerpo muerto vidodel miserable amante alli tendido,y al cuello el lazo atado,con que desenlazó de la cadenael corazón cuitado,que con su breve penacompió la eterna punición agena.Sintió alli convertirseen piedad amorosa el aspereza.¡ O tarde arrepentirse!¡ O, ultima terneza!¿ como te sucedió mayor dureza?Los ojos se enclavaronen el tendido cuerpo, que alli vieron,los huesos se tornaronmas duros, y crecieron,y en sí toda la carne convirtieron.Las entrañas eladastornaron poco á poco en piedra dura:por las venas cuitadasla sangre, su figuraiba desconociendo, y su natura.Hasta que, finalmenteen duro marmol vuelta, y transformada,hizo de sí la genteno tan maravillada,quanto de aquella ingratitud vengada.No quieras tu, Señora,de Némesis ayrada las saetasprobar por Dios agora;baste que tus perfetasobras, y hermosura a los Poetasden inmortal materia,sin que también en verso lamentablecelebren la miseriade algun caso notable,que por tí pase triste y miserable."

"A LA FLOR DI GNIDO.

Si de mi baja Liratanto pudiese el son, que en un momentoaplacase la iradel animoso viento,y el furia del mar, y el movimiento:y en ásperas montañas,con el suave canto enternecieselas fieras alimañas,los arboles moviese,y al son confusamente los truxese:

No pienses que cantandoseria de mí, hermosa Flor de Gnido.el fiero Marte ayrado,á muerte convertido,de polvo, y sangre, y de sudor teñido:ni aquellos capitanes,en la sublime rueda colocados,por quen los Alamanesel fiero cuello atados,y los Franceses van domesticados.

Mas solamente aquellafuerza de tu beldad seria cantada,y alguna vez con ellatambien seria notadael aspereza de que estas armada.Y como pro tí solay por tu gran valor, y hermosura,convertida in viola,llora su desventurael miserable amante en tu figura.

Hablo de aquel cautivode quien tener se deve mas cuidado,que está muriendo vivoal remo condenado,en la concha de Venus amarrado.Por ti como, solia,del aspero caballo no corrigela furia y gallardiani con freno le rige,ni con vivas espuelas ya le aflige.

Por tí, con diestra mano,no revuelve la espada presurosa,y en el dudoso llanohuye la polvorosapalestra, come sierpe ponzoñosa.Por tí su blanda Musa,en lugar de la cítara sonante,tristes querellas usa,que con llanto abundantehacen bañar el rostro del amante.

Por tí el mayor amigoto es importuno, grave, y enojoso;y puedo ser testigoque ya del peligrosonaufragio fui su puerto, y su reposo.Y agora en tal maneravence el dolor á la razon perdídaque ponzoñosa fieranuca fue aborrecidatanto como yo dél, ni tan temida.

No fuiste tu engendrada,ni producida de la dura tierra:no debe ser notada,que ingratamente yerraquien todo el otro error de sí destierra.Hagate temerosaEl caso de Anaxárete, y cobarde,que de ser desdeñosase arrepintió muy tarde,y asi su alma con su marmol arde.

Estabase alegrandodel mal ageno el pecho empedernido,quando abajo mirando,el cuerpo muerto vidodel miserable amante alli tendido,y al cuello el lazo atado,con que desenlazó de la cadenael corazón cuitado,que con su breve penacompió la eterna punición agena.

Sintió alli convertirseen piedad amorosa el aspereza.¡ O tarde arrepentirse!¡ O, ultima terneza!¿ como te sucedió mayor dureza?Los ojos se enclavaronen el tendido cuerpo, que alli vieron,los huesos se tornaronmas duros, y crecieron,y en sí toda la carne convirtieron.

Las entrañas eladastornaron poco á poco en piedra dura:por las venas cuitadasla sangre, su figuraiba desconociendo, y su natura.Hasta que, finalmenteen duro marmol vuelta, y transformada,hizo de sí la genteno tan maravillada,quanto de aquella ingratitud vengada.

No quieras tu, Señora,de Némesis ayrada las saetasprobar por Dios agora;baste que tus perfetasobras, y hermosura a los Poetasden inmortal materia,sin que también en verso lamentablecelebren la miseriade algun caso notable,que por tí pase triste y miserable."

The third in this trio of friendly poets was of a very different character. Mendoza was gifted neither with Boscan's mild benevolence nor Garcilaso's tenderness. That he was the friend of these men, and addicted to literature, is his chief praise. Endowed with talents, of a high and haughty disposition, his firmness degenerated into severity, and his valour into vehemence of temper. He was shrewd, worldly and arrogant, but impassioned and resolute. He possessed many of those high qualities, redeeming, while they were stained by pride, which in that age distinguished the Spanish cavalier; for in those days, the freedom enjoyed by the Castilian nobility was but lately crushed, and its generous influence still survived in their manners and domestic habits. It was characteristic of that class of men, that, when Charles V. asked a distinguished one among them to receive the Constable Bourbon in his house, the noble acquiesced in the commands of his sovereign, but announced at the same time, his intention of razing his house to the ground, as soon as the traitor had quitted it.

Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza (and to give him all the titles enumerated by his Spanish biographer), Knight Commander of the Houses of Calatrava and Badajoz, in the order of Alcantara, of the council of Charles V., and his ambassador to Venice, Rome, England, and the council of Trent, captain-general of Siena, and gonfalonier of the holy Roman church, was born in the city of Granada, about the year 1500. He was of noble extraction on both sides,—his father being second count of Tendilla, and first marquis of Mondejar; his mother, donna Francisca Pacheco, daughter of don Juan Pacheco, marquis of Villena. Being the fifth son,Diego was destined for the church, and from his most tender years received a literary education. He was sent to the university of Salamanca, where he studied theology, and became a proficient in the Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic languages, to which he applied himself with diligence. Yet, though a laborious student, gayer literature engaged his attention; and while still at Salamanca, he wrote Lazarillo de Tormes, a tale at once declaratory of the originality of his genius. The graphic descriptions, the penetration into character, the worldly knowledge, the vivacity and humour, bespeak an author of more advanced years. Who that has read it, can forget the proud and poor hidalgo, who shared with Lazarillo his dry crusts; or the seven ladies who had one esquire between them; or the silent and sombre master whose actions were all mysteries, and whose locked-up wealth, used with so much secrecy and discretion, yet brings on him the notice of the inquisition? It is strange that, in after life, Mendoza did not, full of experience and observation, revert to this species of writing. As it is, it stands a curious specimen of the manners of his times, and as the origin of Gil Blas; almost we had said of Don Quixote, and is the more admirable, as being the production of a mere youth.

Mendoza probably found the clerical profession ill-suited to his tastes; he became a soldier and a statesman; and particularly in the latter capacity his talents were appreciated by the emperor Charles V. He was appointed ambassador[21]to Venice; and, in the year 1545, was deputedby his sovereign to attend the council of Trent, where he made a learned and elegant oration, which was universally admired, and confirmed the opinion already entertained of his talents, so that he was first promoted ambassador to Rome, and in 1547, he was named governor and captain-general of Siena. This was a difficult post; and Mendoza unfortunately acquitted himself neither with credit nor success.

Before the imperial and French arms had found in Italy a lists in which to contend, this country had been torn by the Ghibeline and Guelphic factions; and these names remained as watchwards after the spirit of them had passed away. When the French and Spaniards struggled for pre-eminence, the Spaniards, as imperialists, naturally espoused the interests of the Ghibeline cause, to which Siena was invariably a partisan. The Spaniards prevailed. At the treaty of Cambria, the emperor became possessed of acknowledged sway over a large portion of that fair land: over the remainder he exercised an influence scarcely less despotic. Florence, adhering with tenacious fondness to her ancient republican institutions, was besieged: it capitulated, and, after some faint show of temporising on the part of Charles, the chief of the Medici family was made sovereign with the title grand duke.

Siena, Ghibeline from ancient association, and always adhering to the imperial party, was not the less enslaved. Without openly interfering in its institutions, the emperor used his influence for the election of the duke of Amalfi as chief of the republic. The duke, a man of small capacity, was entirely led by Giulio Salvi and his six brothers. This family, thus exalted, displayed intolerable arrogance: it placed itself above the law; and the fortunes, the wives and children, of their fellow-citizens, became the victims.

The Sienese made their complaints to the emperor, on his return from his expedition against Algiers; while, at the same time, Cosmo I., whose favourite object was to possess himself of Siena, declared that theSalvi were conspiring to deliver that town into the hands of the French, and so once more to give that power a footing in Italy. The emperor, roused by an intimation of this design, deputed an officer to reform the government of Siena. A new oligarchy was erected, and the republic was brought into absolute dependence on the commands of the emperor.

Siena was quieted, but not satisfied, while a new treaty between Charles V. and France took from them their hope of recurring to the assistance of the latter. After the peace, don Juan de Luna commanded at Siena, with a small Spanish garrison. But still the seeds of discontent and of revolt, fostered by an ardent attachment to their ancient institutions, lay germinating in the hearts of the citizens. Charles never sent pay to his soldiers: during time of war they lived by booty, in time of peace, by extortion; love of liberty, and hatred of their oppressors, joined to cause them to endeavour to throw off the foreign yoke. On the 6th of February 1545, the people rose in tumult; about thirty nobles were killed, the rest took refuge in the palace with don Juan de Luna. The troops of Cosmo I. hovered on the frontier. He, perhaps, fostered the revolt for his own ends; at least, he was eager to take advantage of it, and wished the Spanish governor to call in his aid to quell it. But don Juan wanted either resolution or foresight; he allowed the Spanish garrison to be dismissed, and, finally, a month afterwards, was forced to quit the town, accompanied by the obnoxious members of the aristocracy.

For sometime Siena enjoyed the popular liberty which they had attained, till circumstances led the emperor to fear that the French would gain power there; and he resolved to reduce the city to unqualified submission. Mendoza was then ambassador at Rome. Charles named him captain-general of Siena, and gave him orders to introduce a Spanish garrison, and even to build a citadel for its protection. Mendoza obeyed: as the subject of a despotic sovereign, he felt no remorse in crushing the liberties of a republic. He did not endeavour toconciliate, nor to enforce respect by the justice of his measures. He held the discontented and outraged citizens in check by force of arms only; disarming them, and delivering them up to the insolence and extortion of the Spanish soldiery. They could obtain no protection against all the thousand injuries, thefts, and murders to which they were subjected. Mendoza, haughty and unfeeling, became the object of universal hatred. Complaints against him were carried to the emperor, and, when these remained without effect, his life was attempted by assassination: on one occasion his horse was killed under him by a musket shot, aimed at himself. But Mendoza was as personally fearless as he was proud; and the sternness that humanity could not mitigate, was not softened by the suggestions of caution.

Affairs of import called him away from his government. On the death of Paul III. his presence was required at Rome to influence the election of a new pope. He left Siena, together with the unfinished citadel and its garrison, under the command of don Juan Franzesi, and repaired to watch the progress of the conclave. Through his intrigues the cardinal del Monte was elected, who took the name of Julian III. The new pope, elected through Spanish influence, adhered to the emperor's interests. He instantly yielded the great point of contention between Paul III. and Charles V., and consented to the restitution of the general council to Trent. Mendoza twice attended this council for the purpose of bringing the cardinals and prelates to a better understanding. On his return the pope named him gonfaloniere of the church; and in this character he subdued Orazio Farnese, who had rebelled. Besides these necessary causes of absence from his government, he was accused of protracting his stay in Rome on account of an amorous intrigue in which he was engaged, and which occasioned a great deal of scandal.

The Sienese were on the alert to take advantage of his absence. Therapacity and ill faith displayed by Mendoza effectually weaned them from all attachment to the imperial cause; and when fresh war broke out between Charles and the French king, the Sienese solicited the aid of the latter to deliver them from a tyranny they were unable any longer to endure. The grand duke of Florence had reason to complain of the Spaniards, and especially of Mendoza, who treated him as the vassal of the emperor; yet he was unwilling that the French should gain footing in Tuscany, and besides hoped to advance his own interests, and to add Siena to his dukedom. He discovered a correspondence between that town and the French, and revealed it to Mendoza, offering the aid of an armed force in the emperor's favour. Mendoza, distrusting the motive of his offers, rejected them. He applied to the pope for assistance; but Julian, offended by his conduct on various occasions, evaded the request and remained neutral. Meanwhile, Mendoza, either ignorant of the imminence of the danger, or despising the power of the enemy, took no active measures to prevent the mischief which menaced his government.

The Sienese exiles assembled together, and put themselves under the command of a leader in the French pay. They marched towards Siena, and arriving before the gates on the evening of the 26th of July 1552, proclaimedLiberty!The people, though unarmed, rose at the cry. They admitted the exiles, and drove the garrison, which merely consisted of 400 soldiers, from the convent of San Domenico, in which they had fortified themselves, and pursued them to the citadel, which was badly fortified and badly victualled. After a few days Franzesi capitulated, and Siena was lost to the emperor. Mendoza was accused of various faults on this occasion; of weakening the garrison, and of not putting, through avarice, the citadel in a state of defence; and, above all, of delay, when he had been warned by Cosmo, and not being on the spot himself to secure the power of his master in the town. These faults, joined to thehatred in which he was held, caused the emperor not long after (1554) to recall him to Spain.

While thus employed in Italy as a statesman and a soldier, his active mind led him also to other pursuits. Many inedited philosophical works of his are to be found in Spanish libraries. He wrote a paraphrase of Aristotle, and a translation into Spanish of the Mechanics of that philosopher; he composed Political Commentaries, and a history of the taking of Tunis. In the library of manuscripts at Florence, Sedano tells us there exists a volume in quarto entitled, "Various Works of D. Diego de Mendoza, ambassador of his majesty to Venice, Turkey, and England." On all occasions he showed himself an enthusiastic lover of learning, and a liberal patron of learned men; as a proof of which the bookseller Paulus Manutius dedicated his edition of Cicero to him. Since the days of Petrarch, no man had been so eager to collect Greek manuscripts. He sent to Greece and Mount Athos to procure them, and even made their acquisition a clause in a political treaty with the Sultan. He thus collected a valuable library, which at his death he bequeathed to Philip II., and it forms a precious portion of the library of the Escurial.

It is, however, as a poet that his name is most distinguished in literature. He was a friend of Boscan, and entered into his views for enlarging the sphere of Spanish poetry by the introduction of the Italian style. Though a hitter enemy to the spirit of liberty in Italy, he could yet appreciate and profit by the highly advanced state of poetry and literature in that country, of which this very spirit was the parent.

It is mentioned in the record of his employments, that he went ambassador to England and Turkey; but it is uncertain at what time these journies were performed; probably before his return to Spain in 1554.

Considerable obscurity is thrown over the latter years of his life. That is, no sufficient pains has been taken to throw light upon them. His manuscript works would, doubtless, if consulted, tell us more about himthan is at present known. He devoted a portion of the decline of his life to study and literature; but it would seem that on his return from Italy, he did not immediately retire from active life, as it is mentioned by some of his biographers that he continued member of the council of state under Philip II. and was present at the battle of St. Quentin, fought in 1557. One of the last adventures recorded of him is characteristic of the vehemence of his temper. While at court, he had a quarrel with a noble who was his rival in the affections of a lady. His antagonist, in a fit of exasperation, unsheathed a dagger; but before he could use it, Mendoza seized him and threw him from the balcony where they were standing, into the street below. In all countries in those days, a personal assault within the precincts of a royal court was looked upon as a very serious offence, and Spanish etiquette caused it to be regarded in a still more heinous light. Still Mendoza was not the aggressor: and his punishment was limited to a short imprisonment, where he amused himself by addressing the lady of his love in various redondillas.

Much of the latter part of his life was spent in retirement in his native city of Granada, given up to study and literature. He here composed the most esteemed of his prose works—the "History of the War of the Moriscos in Granada." The style of this work is exceedingly pure. He took the Latin authors Sallust and Cæsar for his models; and being an eye-witness of the events he records, his narrative is highly interesting.

While in Italy, he had written a state paper, addressed to the emperor, dissuading him from selling the duchy of Milan to the pope, which was conceived in so free a style, that Sandoval, in quoting it in his history, believed it necessary to soften its expressions. In the same way this acute observer perceived the faults of the Spanish government against the Moriscos, and alluded to, although he did not dare blame them.

Philip II., a bigoted tyrant, drove this portion of his subjects to despair. Mendoza tells us that just before their revolt, "theinquisition began to persecute them more than ever. The king ordered them to quit the Morisco language, and all commerce and communication one with the other: he took from them their negro slaves, whom they had brought up with the same kindness as if they had been their children: he forced them to cast off their Arab dress, in which they held invested a large capital, and obliged them, at a great expense, to adopt the Castilian costume. He forced the women to appear with uncovered faces, opening all that portion of their houses which they were accustomed to keep closed; and both of these orders appeared intolerable to this jealous people. It was spread abroad also that he intended to possess himself of their children, and to educate them in Castile: he forbade the use of baths, which contributed at once to their cleanliness and pleasure. Their music, songs, feasts, and weddings, held according to their manners and customs, and all assemblies of a joyful nature, were already interdicted; and these new regulations were published without augmenting the guards, without sending troops, without reinforcing the garrisons or establishing new ones."[22]

The effect of such a system on a proud and valorous people, passionately attached to their religion and customs, might be anticipated. The Moors collected arms secretly, and laid up stores in the rugged mountains ofthe Alpujarra: they chose for king the young Fernando de Valor, descended from their ancient sovereigns, who assumed the name of Aben Humeya. The progress of the revolt, however, met with various checks, and they did not receive the aid they expected from the sultan Selim. Instead, therefore, of taking Granada, their war became guerilla; and the spirit of vengeance incited them to the exercise of frightful cruelties, by way of reprisal, on the Christian prisoners who fell into their hands. An army was sent against them, commanded by don John of Austria, natural son of Charles V..; Mendoza's nephew, the marquis of Mondejar, was one of the principal generals under him: Mendoza, therefore, had full opportunity to learn the details of the war, which terminated in the success of the Spaniards, whose cruelties rivalled those of the unfortunate rebels. The Moriscos were put down by the massacre of several villages, and the selling of the inhabitants of a whole territory into slavery. This total destruction of the Morisco people is described by Mendoza, with a truth that prevented his history from being published until 1610, and even then with great omissions: a complete edition did not appear till 1776.

After a retreat of some years, Mendoza appeared at court again in his old age, at Valladolid: his reputation caused him to be admired as an oracle; his erudition and genius commanded universal respect. He enjoyed these honours but a few months, and died in the year 1575.

There are few men of whom the Spaniards are more proud than Mendoza, whom, to distinguish from other poets of the same name, they usually call the Ambassador. "Most certain it is," says Sedano, "that from the importance and diversity of his employments, he was considered one of the most famous among the many great men which that age produced. His ardent mind was perpetually employed in the support of the glory of his sovereign and the honour of his country; and in all the transactions inwhich he was employed, his zeal, his integrity, his deep policy, his penetration, and his understanding shone out; and the very faults of which he is accused, must be attributed to the envy and hatred of his enemies."

We may not, perhaps, be ready to echo much of this praise. The oppressor of a free people must always hold an obnoxious position; and when to the severe and unpitying system he adopted towards others, we find that he indulged his own passions even to the detriment of his sovereign's interests, we feel somewhat of contempt mingled with resentment. We are told that in person he was tall and robust, dignified in his deportment, but ugly in the face. His complexion was singularly dark, and the expression of his countenance haughty; his eyes were vivacious and sparkling; and we may believe that his irregular and harsh features were redeemed in some degree by the intellect that informed them.

In judging of him as a poet, he falls far short of Garcilaso; but in some respects he may be considered as superior to Boscan. His short and simple poems, named in Spanish vilancicos, are full of life and spirit, and are fitted to become popular from the simplicity and yet vivacity of their sentiments and versification: they are the sparkling emanations of the passions, expressed at the moment, with all the ardour of living emotion. Indeed, he so far indulged in this sort of composition, tempting to one who feels that he can thus impart, and so perhaps obtain sympathy for, the emotions that boil within him, that most of his smaller poems remain inedited as being too free; the Spanish press never being permitted to put forth works of a licentious nature. His epistles imitated from Horace, want elegance and harmony; but they are forcible, and full of excellent sense and good feeling. He could not rise to the sublime. There is a complimentary ode of his addressed to cardinal Espinosa, on his assuming the hat, for the writing of which, we are told by his secretary, that he prepared by three days' study of Pindar; but it breathes no Pindaric fire; there is bathos rather than height in thesimiles he makes, drawn from the purple of the cardinal's new dress, and the crimson colours with which the sun invests the empyreum. Mendoza was not an imaginative poet; and it is observable, that when a person, not such by nature, deals in the ideal, the result is rather the ridiculous than the sublime. Acute, earnest, playful, passionate, but neither tender nor sublime, if we except a few of his minor love poems, we read Mendoza's verses rather to become acquainted with the man than seek the soul of poetry in his compositions.

Back to Index Next