[21]The penetration with which Mendoza saw through the lofty pretensions of diplomacy, and the keenness of his observation, which stripped this science of all its finery, is forcibly expressed in one of his epistles, He exclaims—"O embaxadores, puros majaderos,que si los reges quieren engañar,comiençan por nosotros los primeros.Nuestro major negocio es, no dañar,y jamas hacer cosa, ni dezilla,que no corramos riesgo de enseñar."O ye ambassadors! ye simpletons! When kings wish to deceive they begin first with us.—Our chief business is to do no harm, and never to do or say anything, that we may not run the risk of making others as wise as ourselves.
[21]The penetration with which Mendoza saw through the lofty pretensions of diplomacy, and the keenness of his observation, which stripped this science of all its finery, is forcibly expressed in one of his epistles, He exclaims—
"O embaxadores, puros majaderos,que si los reges quieren engañar,comiençan por nosotros los primeros.Nuestro major negocio es, no dañar,y jamas hacer cosa, ni dezilla,que no corramos riesgo de enseñar."
"O embaxadores, puros majaderos,que si los reges quieren engañar,comiençan por nosotros los primeros.Nuestro major negocio es, no dañar,y jamas hacer cosa, ni dezilla,que no corramos riesgo de enseñar."
O ye ambassadors! ye simpletons! When kings wish to deceive they begin first with us.—Our chief business is to do no harm, and never to do or say anything, that we may not run the risk of making others as wise as ourselves.
[22]Mendoza felt himself obliged in his own person to refrain from all censure on the edicts of his sovereign. But in a speech he introduced after the manner of Sallust, as spoken by one of the chiefs, he conveyed, in forcible terms, his sense of the persecution which the unhappy Moors endured. The conspirator exclaims: "What hinders a man, speaking Castilian, from following the law of the prophet, or one who speaks Morisco from following that of Jesus? They take our children to their congregations and schools, teaching them arts which our ancestors forbade, that purity of the law might not be disturbed nor its truth disputed. We are threatened at every hour that they shall be taken from the arms of their mothers and the bringing up of their fathers, and carried into distant lands, where they will forget our customs, and learn to become the enemies of the fathers who begot them, and the mothers who bore them. We are ordered to cast off our national dress, and to adopt the Castilian. Germans dress after one manner, the French after another, the Greeks after another. The clergy have a peculiar garb—youths one sort of dress—old men another—each nation, and each profession, and each rank, adopts its own style of dress. Yet all are Christians. And we Moors—why do we dress in the Morisco, as if our faith hung in our garb—not in our hearts?"
[22]Mendoza felt himself obliged in his own person to refrain from all censure on the edicts of his sovereign. But in a speech he introduced after the manner of Sallust, as spoken by one of the chiefs, he conveyed, in forcible terms, his sense of the persecution which the unhappy Moors endured. The conspirator exclaims: "What hinders a man, speaking Castilian, from following the law of the prophet, or one who speaks Morisco from following that of Jesus? They take our children to their congregations and schools, teaching them arts which our ancestors forbade, that purity of the law might not be disturbed nor its truth disputed. We are threatened at every hour that they shall be taken from the arms of their mothers and the bringing up of their fathers, and carried into distant lands, where they will forget our customs, and learn to become the enemies of the fathers who begot them, and the mothers who bore them. We are ordered to cast off our national dress, and to adopt the Castilian. Germans dress after one manner, the French after another, the Greeks after another. The clergy have a peculiar garb—youths one sort of dress—old men another—each nation, and each profession, and each rank, adopts its own style of dress. Yet all are Christians. And we Moors—why do we dress in the Morisco, as if our faith hung in our garb—not in our hearts?"
There is a variety in the physiognomy and character of the poets whose biography is here traced, that renders each in himself highly interesting; our misfortune is that we know so little of them. Sedano bitterly laments the obscurity which wraps the history of the great literary men of Spain, through the neglect of their contemporaries to transmit the circumstances of their lives. We have but slight sketches; yet their works, joined to these, individualise the man, and give animation and interest to very slender details. We image Boscan in his rural retirement, philosophising, book in hand;—revolving in his thoughts the harmonies of verse, conversing with his friends, enjoying with placid smile the calm content, or rather, may we not say, the perfect home-felt, heart-reaching happiness of his married life, which he felt so truly, and describes in such lively colours. Young still, his affections ardent, but concentrated, he acknowledges that serenity, confidence, and sweet future hopes; unreserved sympathy, and entire community of the interests of life, is the real Paradise on earth. Garcilaso, the gallant soldier, the tender poet, the admired and loved of all, is of another character, more heroic, more soft, more romantic. Mendoza, with his fiery eye, his vehement temper, his untamed passions—and these mingled with respect for learning, friendship for the worthy, and talents that exalted his nature to something noble and immortal, despite his defects, contrasts with his friends: and the fourth now coming, Luis de Leon—more earnest and enthusiastic than Boscan—tender as Garcilaso, but with a soul whose tenderness wasengrossed by heavenly not earthly love—pure and high-hearted, with the nobility of genius stamped on his brow, but with religious resignation calming his heart,—he is different, but more complete—a man Spain only could produce; for in Spain only had religion such sovereign sway as wholly to reduce the rebel inclinations of man, and, by substituting supernal for terrestrial love, not diminish the fulness and tenderness of passion, but only give it another object. High poetic powers being joined not only to the loftiest religious enthusiasm, to learning, but also the works of this amiable and highly-gifted man are different from all others, but exquisite in their class. We wish to learn more of his mind: as it is, we know little, except that as his compositions were characteristic of his virtues, so were the events of his life of his country.
The family of Luis Ponce de Leon was the noblest in Andalusia. He was born at Granada in the year 1527. It would appear that his childhood was not happy, for in an ode to the Virgin, written when in the dungeons of the inquisition, he touchingly speaks of his abandonment in infancy, saying:—
My mother died as soon as I was born,[23]And I was dedicate to thee, a child,Bequeathed by my poor mother's dying prayer.A second parent thou, O Virgin mild.Father and mother to the babe forlorn;For my own father made me not his care.
My mother died as soon as I was born,[23]And I was dedicate to thee, a child,Bequeathed by my poor mother's dying prayer.A second parent thou, O Virgin mild.Father and mother to the babe forlorn;For my own father made me not his care.
It was this neglect, probably, that led him to place his affections on religious objects: and the enthusiasm he felt, he believed to be a vocation for a monastic life. At the age of sixteen, he endued the habit of the order of St. Augustin in the convent of Salamanca, and took the vows during the following year. Enthusiastically pious, but without fanaticism, his heart was warmed only by the softer emotions of religion; love, and resignation, a taste for retirement, and pleasure infulfilling the duties of his order. His soul was purified, but not narrowed by his piety. He loved learning, and was an elegant classical scholar. Most of his poems were written when young. He translated a great deal from Virgil and Horace, and became imbued by their elegance and correctness. He was celebrated also as a theologian, and he pursued his scholastic studies with an ardour that led him to adorn his religious faith with the imaginative hues of poetry and the earnest sentiments of his heart. He was admired for his learning by his contemporaries, and rose high in the estimation of the scholars of Salamanca, where he resided. At the age of thirty-three, he was made doctor of theology by the university of that town. In the year 1561, he was elected to the chair of St. Thomas, over the heads of seven candidates, by a large majority.
Although his learning, his piety, and the austerity of his life, caused him to be regarded with universal respect, yet he had enemies, the result, probably, of his very excellencies. These took advantage of a slight imprudence he had committed, to plunge him into the most frightful misfortune. He greatly loved and admired Hebrew poetry; and, to please a friend, who did not understand the learned languages, he translated into Spanish, and commented upon, the Song of Solomon. His friend was heedless enough to permit copies to be taken, and it thus became spread abroad. Who was the machinator of the disaster that ensued we are not told; but he was accused before the tribunal of the inquisition of heresy, for disobeying the commands of the church, in translating Scripture into the vulgar tongue. He was seized, and thrown into the prison of the inquisition, at Valladolid, in the year 1572. Here he remained five years, suffering all the hardships of a rigorous and cruel confinement. Confined in a dungeon, without light or space—cut off from communication with his friends—allowed no measures of defence—hope seemed shut out from him, while all means of occupation were denied him.
His pious mind found consolation in religion. He could turn to the objects of his worship, implore their aid, and trust to the efficacy oftheir intercession before God. Sometimes, however, his heart failed him, and it was complaints rather than prayers that he preferred. His odes to the Virgin were written during this disastrous period; and among them that from which we have already quoted, in which he pathetically describes and laments the extremity of adversity to which he was reduced. The whole ode in Spanish is full of pathos, and gentle, yet deep-felt lamentation, a few stanzas may give some idea of the acuteness of his sufferings. Thus he speaks of the hopeless, lingering evils of his imprisonment:—
If I look back, I feel a wild despair—[24]I shrink with terror from the coming days,For they will mirror but the hideous past;While heavy and intolerable weighsThe evil load of all that now I bear;Nor have I hope but it will ever last—The arrows come so fast;I feel a deadly wound,And, shudd'ring, look around;And as the blood, rushing all warm, doth flow,Behold! another, and another blow!While they who deal to me such fierce annoy.Rejoice to see my woe—Lamenting still they do not quite destroy!To what poor wretch did heaven e'er denyLeave to declare the misery he feels?Laments can ease the weight of heaviest chain;But cruel fate with me so harshly deals,Stifling within my lips the gushing cry,So that aloud I never may complain:For, could I tell my pain,What heart were hard enough,Though made of sternest stuff,Tiger or basilisk, or serpent dread,That would not gentle tears of pity shed,Symbols of tender sorrow for my woes?The while by hatred fed,Fate's hostile fury ever fiercer grows.From living man no comfort reaches me:From me the dearest and most faithful friendWould fly beyond the earth's remotest end,So not to share my hopeless misery!And my sad eyes, where'er I turn my sight,Are strangers to the light.No man that comes anear,My name did ever hear—So I myself almost myself forget!Nor know if what I was, so am I yet—Nor why to me this misery befell:Nor can I knowledge get;For none to me the horrid tale will tell.* * * ** * * *Wreck'd is my vessel on a shoreless sea,Where there is none to help me in my fear,Where none can stretch a friendly saving hand!I call on men—but there are none to hear;In the wide world there's no man thinks of me;My failing voice can never reach the land!But, while I fearful stand,A blessed, heaven-sent thought,By bitter suffering brought,Bids me, O Virgin! trust to thee alone.Thou never turn'st away from those who cry,Nor wilt thou let thy son,O piteous Mother! miserably die.My mother died as soon as I was born;And I was dedicate to thee, a little child,Bequeath'd by my poor mother's dying prayer;A second parent thou, O Virgin mild!—Father and mother to the babe forlorn!For my own father made me not his care:—And, Lady, canst thou bearA child of thine thus lost,And in such danger tost?To other sorrows art thou not so blind:They waken pity in thy gentle mind,Thou givest aid to every other,To me be also kind;Listen, and save thy son, O piteous Mother!
If I look back, I feel a wild despair—[24]I shrink with terror from the coming days,For they will mirror but the hideous past;While heavy and intolerable weighsThe evil load of all that now I bear;Nor have I hope but it will ever last—The arrows come so fast;I feel a deadly wound,And, shudd'ring, look around;And as the blood, rushing all warm, doth flow,Behold! another, and another blow!While they who deal to me such fierce annoy.Rejoice to see my woe—Lamenting still they do not quite destroy!
To what poor wretch did heaven e'er denyLeave to declare the misery he feels?Laments can ease the weight of heaviest chain;But cruel fate with me so harshly deals,Stifling within my lips the gushing cry,So that aloud I never may complain:For, could I tell my pain,What heart were hard enough,Though made of sternest stuff,Tiger or basilisk, or serpent dread,That would not gentle tears of pity shed,Symbols of tender sorrow for my woes?The while by hatred fed,Fate's hostile fury ever fiercer grows.
From living man no comfort reaches me:From me the dearest and most faithful friendWould fly beyond the earth's remotest end,So not to share my hopeless misery!And my sad eyes, where'er I turn my sight,Are strangers to the light.No man that comes anear,My name did ever hear—So I myself almost myself forget!Nor know if what I was, so am I yet—Nor why to me this misery befell:Nor can I knowledge get;For none to me the horrid tale will tell.* * * ** * * *Wreck'd is my vessel on a shoreless sea,Where there is none to help me in my fear,Where none can stretch a friendly saving hand!I call on men—but there are none to hear;In the wide world there's no man thinks of me;My failing voice can never reach the land!But, while I fearful stand,A blessed, heaven-sent thought,By bitter suffering brought,Bids me, O Virgin! trust to thee alone.Thou never turn'st away from those who cry,Nor wilt thou let thy son,O piteous Mother! miserably die.
My mother died as soon as I was born;And I was dedicate to thee, a little child,Bequeath'd by my poor mother's dying prayer;A second parent thou, O Virgin mild!—Father and mother to the babe forlorn!For my own father made me not his care:—And, Lady, canst thou bearA child of thine thus lost,And in such danger tost?To other sorrows art thou not so blind:They waken pity in thy gentle mind,Thou givest aid to every other,To me be also kind;Listen, and save thy son, O piteous Mother!
It could not be, however, but that a heart so truly pious would find relief in prayer, and feel at intervals strong animating confidence in heaven. Thus, in contrast with these laments, we have a description of another mood of mind, which he gives in an epistle to a friend on his liberation. "Cut off," he writes, "not only from the conversation and society of men, but even from seeing them, I remained for five years shut up in darkness and a dungeon. I then enjoyed a peace and joy of mind that I often miss, now that I am restored to light, and the society of my friends."
He was at length liberated. Sedano tells us, that "at last his trial being over, in virtue of the proofs and exculpations which he wasenabled to bring in support of his innocence, he was set at liberty at the end of the year 1576, and restored to all his honours and employments." It is some consolation to find that his imprisonment caused great scandal and outcry, and that his liberation was hailed with exultation and delight. The university had, from respect, never filled the professor's chair, vacated during his imprisonment; and, on his return to Salamanca, the most distinguished persons of the town met him on his way, and conducted him thither in triumph.
Few events after this are recorded of his life. He visited Madrid; and the royal council confided to him the task of the revision and correction of the works of St. Theresa de Jesu, which were much mutilated, and of preparing them for the press. About the same time, there was attempted the reform of his order in Portugal, a work of importance and difficulty to the catholic church. The assistance of Luis de Leon was required, and it is supposed that he even made a journey to Portugal for that purpose. In 1591, he was named vicar-general of his province, and soon afterward elected provincial; but he did not long enjoy this honour: nine days after his election he was attacked by some acute malady. The Spanish biographers take pains to assure us of the edifying piety of his end; and we can easily believe that a man who in youth was entirely dedicate to religion, should in the calmness of old age and in the hour of death, reap from his belief the composure of spirit that makes a happy end. He died on the 23d of August 1591; in the sixty-fourth year of his age.
In person, Luis Ponce de Leon is described as of fair height, well-proportioned in person, vigorous and robust. His countenance was manly, and the expression, despite the vivaciousness of his eyes, serious and calm. His mind was ever bent on religious objects: he seems to have forgotten his high birth and the splendour of his name, and to have aspired only to Christian humility. Love of poetry and classicalliterature were the only objects that ever called his attention from pious contemplations; and these he followed chiefly in his youth. "God gifted him," says Sedano, "with a noble birth he adorned him with understanding and extraordinary talents; he made him the son of a house abounding in riches and prosperity, and bestowed on him religious and literary honours; and it was necessary, for the sake of proving his virtues and purifying his soul, to visit him with the misfortunes belonging to the age in which he lived, proportionate to the greatness of his gifts." Sad as it is to reflect on an age and country in which virtues so exemplary, and talents so exalted, met with unmerited persecution, we are almost glad to find that one of the pillars of the very institutions that exercised such barbarous sway, was visited by its cruelty and injustice, to prove that no obedience and no excellence could shelter even the submissive slaves of despotism from its tyranny. Luis de Leon had indeed a soul at once above submission and suffering. He bowed before a higher than earthly power, and was exalted above persecution through his very humility—a proud humility, mixed with a consciousness of strength and worth. On his liberation from prison, and restoration to his professor's chair, all Salamanca flocked to hear his first lecture, drawn thither by reverence and curiosity. Luis de Leon appeared serene and cheerful, and commenced as if nothing had happened; nor alluded to the long interval, filled with such misery, that had intervened since his last lecture, beginning thus:—"We said yesterday that he had a willow for his symbol, and at its foot a hatchet, with this inscription, 'Through injury and death.' Nobleness, virtue, and generosity spring up under the very attacks of adversity and persecution. A willow the more it is cut, so much the more vigorously does it throw out its shoots; and for this cause has it its name (salix) from the vigour with which it sprouts, and the swiftness ofits growth."[25]And thus he adopted for his emblem, a pruned tree with the knife at its foot, and the motto "Ab ipso ferro."
As a theologian, his works are held in high repute. It is to his praise that, though austere and regular as a monk, he yet studied the liberal arts with assiduity and success. He was well versed in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin, besides being entire master of his native Castilian. His poetry is held in great estimation: the purity and elegance of his style are unsurpassed. Those Spaniards, who are addicted to the tinsel of versification, accuse him of want of loftiness; but nothing can exceed the harmony and flow of his verse, the grace and propriety of his ideas, and the truth and simplicity—the extreme ease and animation, of his style. It is unornamented—but for that very reason, more purely poetic. The most perfect of his compositions is his "Ode to Tranquil Life," in which he dwells with brooding, earnest delight on all the objects, and all the reveries that bless a man, content in solitude. His religious poetry comes less home to our hearts: it is so entirely catholic, but all is marked by enthusiasm and sincerity.
As a translator, he holds a high place; though he may be said rather to paraphrase than translate his models. He thus rendered into Spanish many of the odes of Horace, and various others selected from Pindar, Tibullus, and Theocritus. He translated all the Eclogues of Virgil, and the first book of his Georgies. He tells us, that he endeavoured to make the ancient poets speak as they would have expressed themselves, had they been born in his own age, in Castile, and had written in Castilian. In an inferior poet this attempt had been indiscreet and rash, but Luis de Leon was so much master of style and harmony, that it is impossible to regret the new costume with which he invests our old favourites. He is chiefly blamed because the beauty of his paraphrases is so great: andthey have taken such hold of Spanish readers, that they preclude all future attempts at more literal translation. This is of slight import. If the poems he gives us in Castilian are in themselves beautiful, the Spanish reader must be satisfied. A vigorous desire to have a perfect understanding of the originals ought to lead to the study of them in their native language—the only way really to attain it, and, to a Castilian, not a difficult one.
Were there a good translation of the ode
"Que descansada vida,"
"Que descansada vida,"
we should prefer quoting it, as most characteristic of the peculiar imagery and feeling of the poet. As it is, we are tempted to present Mr. Wiffen's spirited translation of his ode on the Moorish invasion: the animation and fire which it breathes has made it a favourite, and shows that Luis de Leon was confined to didactic subjects rather from choice, than by the necessity or narrowness of his genius.
"As by Tagus' billowy bed,[26]King Rodrigo, safe from sight,With the lady Cava fedOn the fruit of loose delight;From the river's placid breast,Slow its ancient Genius broke;Of the scrolls of fate possess'd,Thus the frowning prophet spoke:'In an evil hour dost thou,Ruthless spoiler, wanton here!Shouts and clangours even now,Even now assail mine ear—Shout and sound of clashing shield,Shiver'd sword, and rushing car—All the frenzy of the field!—All the anarchy of war!'O what wail and weeping springForth from this, thine hour of mirth,From you fair and smiling thing,Who in an evil hour had birth!In an evil day for SpainPlighted in your guilty troth—Fatal triumph! costly gainTo the sceptre of the Goth!'Flames and furies, griefs and broils,Slaughter, ravage, fierce alarms,Anguish and immortal toilsThou dost gather to thine arms,—For thyself and vassals—thoseWho the fertile furrow break,Where the stately Ebro flows.Who their thirst in Douro slake!'For the throne—the hall—the bower—Murcian lord and Lusian swain—For the chivalry a flowerOf all sad and spacious Spain!Prompt for vengeance, not for fame,Even now from Cadiz' halls,On the Moor, in Allah's name,Hoarse the Count—the Injur'd calls.'Hark, how frightfully forlornSounds his trumpet to the stars,Citing Afric's desert-bornTo the gonfalon of Mars!Lo! already loose in airFloats the standard—peals the gong;They shall not be slow to dareRoderick's wrath for Julian's wrong.'See their spears the Arabs shake,Smite the wind, the war demand;Millions in a moment wake,Join, and swarm o'er all the sand.Underneath their sails, the seaDisappears—a hubbub runsThrough the sphere of heaven, a-lee,Clouds of dust obscure the sun's.'Swift their mighty ships they climb,Cut the cables, slip from shore;How their sturdy arms keep timeTo the dashing of the oar!Bright the frothy billows burnRound their cleaving keels, and gales,Breathed by Æolus astern,Fill their deep and daring sails.'Sheer across Alcides' strait,He whose voice the floods obey,With the trident of his state,Gives the grand armada way.In her sweet subduing arms,Sinner! dost thou slumber still,Dull and deaf to the alarmsOf this loud inrushing ill?'In the hallow'd Gadite bay,Mark them mooring from the main;Rise, take horse!—away! away!Scale the mountain—scour the plain!Give not pity to thy hand,Give not pardon to thy spur;Dart abroad thy flashing brand,Bare thy fatal scimitar.'Agony of toil and sweatThe sole recompence must beOf each horse, and horseman yet,Plumeless serf, and plumed grandee.Sullied in thy silver flow,Stream of proud Sevilla, weep!Many a broken helm shalt thouHurry to the bordering deep.'Many a turban and tiar,Moor, and noble's slaughtered corse,Whilst the furies of the warGore your ranks with equal loss!Five days you dispute the field;When 'tis sunrise on the plains,—O loved land! thy doom is seal'd—Madden—madden in thy chains!'"
"As by Tagus' billowy bed,[26]King Rodrigo, safe from sight,With the lady Cava fedOn the fruit of loose delight;From the river's placid breast,Slow its ancient Genius broke;Of the scrolls of fate possess'd,Thus the frowning prophet spoke:
'In an evil hour dost thou,Ruthless spoiler, wanton here!Shouts and clangours even now,Even now assail mine ear—Shout and sound of clashing shield,Shiver'd sword, and rushing car—All the frenzy of the field!—All the anarchy of war!
'O what wail and weeping springForth from this, thine hour of mirth,From you fair and smiling thing,Who in an evil hour had birth!In an evil day for SpainPlighted in your guilty troth—Fatal triumph! costly gainTo the sceptre of the Goth!
'Flames and furies, griefs and broils,Slaughter, ravage, fierce alarms,Anguish and immortal toilsThou dost gather to thine arms,—For thyself and vassals—thoseWho the fertile furrow break,Where the stately Ebro flows.Who their thirst in Douro slake!
'For the throne—the hall—the bower—Murcian lord and Lusian swain—For the chivalry a flowerOf all sad and spacious Spain!Prompt for vengeance, not for fame,Even now from Cadiz' halls,On the Moor, in Allah's name,Hoarse the Count—the Injur'd calls.
'Hark, how frightfully forlornSounds his trumpet to the stars,Citing Afric's desert-bornTo the gonfalon of Mars!Lo! already loose in airFloats the standard—peals the gong;They shall not be slow to dareRoderick's wrath for Julian's wrong.
'See their spears the Arabs shake,Smite the wind, the war demand;Millions in a moment wake,Join, and swarm o'er all the sand.Underneath their sails, the seaDisappears—a hubbub runsThrough the sphere of heaven, a-lee,Clouds of dust obscure the sun's.
'Swift their mighty ships they climb,Cut the cables, slip from shore;How their sturdy arms keep timeTo the dashing of the oar!Bright the frothy billows burnRound their cleaving keels, and gales,Breathed by Æolus astern,Fill their deep and daring sails.
'Sheer across Alcides' strait,He whose voice the floods obey,With the trident of his state,Gives the grand armada way.In her sweet subduing arms,Sinner! dost thou slumber still,Dull and deaf to the alarmsOf this loud inrushing ill?
'In the hallow'd Gadite bay,Mark them mooring from the main;Rise, take horse!—away! away!Scale the mountain—scour the plain!Give not pity to thy hand,Give not pardon to thy spur;Dart abroad thy flashing brand,Bare thy fatal scimitar.
'Agony of toil and sweatThe sole recompence must beOf each horse, and horseman yet,Plumeless serf, and plumed grandee.Sullied in thy silver flow,Stream of proud Sevilla, weep!Many a broken helm shalt thouHurry to the bordering deep.
'Many a turban and tiar,Moor, and noble's slaughtered corse,Whilst the furies of the warGore your ranks with equal loss!Five days you dispute the field;When 'tis sunrise on the plains,—O loved land! thy doom is seal'd—Madden—madden in thy chains!'"
[23]"Luego como nací, murió mi madre:á tí quedé yo niño encomendado:dejoteme mi madre por tutora:del vientre de mi madre en tí fue echado;murió mi madre, desechóme mi padre,tú sola eres padre y madre ahora."
[23]
"Luego como nací, murió mi madre:á tí quedé yo niño encomendado:dejoteme mi madre por tutora:del vientre de mi madre en tí fue echado;murió mi madre, desechóme mi padre,tú sola eres padre y madre ahora."
"Luego como nací, murió mi madre:á tí quedé yo niño encomendado:dejoteme mi madre por tutora:del vientre de mi madre en tí fue echado;murió mi madre, desechóme mi padre,tú sola eres padre y madre ahora."
[24]"Se miro lo pasado pierdo el seso,y si lo por venir pierdo el sentido,porque veo sera qual lo pasado:si lo presente, hallome oprimidode tan pesada carga y grave peso,que resollar apenas no me es dado:apenas ha tiradoun enemigo un tiro,la fresca llaga mirola sangre por las sienes ir corriendo:otro por otra parte me está hiriendo,mientras aquel en ver que me maltratancontentos está haciendo,pero tristes en ver que no me matan.¿ Á quál hombre jamas le fue negadalicencia de decir el mal que siente?Que parece que alivia su tormento—á mí, porque mi mal mas me atormiente,la boca fuertemente me es cerrada,para que no publique el mal que siento;que es tal que si lo cuento,á un corazón mas duroque una roca, ó un muro,ó sierpe, ó basilisco, ó tigre hircana,sin duda hará llorar, y muy de ganaen señal que mi mal les enternece;pero la furia insanade los que me persiguen siempre crece.En ningun hombre hallo ya consuelo:la lumbre de mi ojos no es conmigo—el mas estrecho; fiel, y caro amigohuirá la tierra, el mar, el alto cielo,á trueco de se ver de mi apartado.Si mirò al diestro lado,no hallo solo un hombreque sepa ya mi nombre;y asi yo mismo del tambiéen me olvido,y nose mas de mi de que hube sido;si mi troque, si soy quien antes era,aun nunca lo he sabido,que no me dá lugar mi suerte fiera.* * * ** * * *Metido estoy en este mar profundo,dó no hay quien me socorra, quien me ayude;dó no hay quien para mí tienda su mano.Llamo á los hombres, mas ninguno acude:no tengo hombre alguno en todo el mundoestoy ronco de dar voces en vano:tomé un consejo sanodespues de tanto acuerdo,que el mal me hizo cuerdo:á tí sola pedir socorro quiero,que de los que te llaman no te escondes:pues me ves que me muero,¿ como, piadosa Madre, no respondes?* * * *Luego como nací murió mi Madre;á tí quedé yo niño encomendado:dejoteme mi madre por tutora;del vientre de mi madre en tí fue echado:murió mi madre, desechóme el padre,tú sola eres padre y madre ahora;¿ y puede ser, Señora,que un hijo tuyo mueramuerte tan lastimera,siendo por tí mil otros socorridos?¿ Porque me cierras, Virgen, los oidos?¿ Porque no escucharme? ¿ Dí, porque te abscondes?Y si oyes mi gemidos,¿ como, piadosa Madre, no respondes?"
[24]
"Se miro lo pasado pierdo el seso,y si lo por venir pierdo el sentido,porque veo sera qual lo pasado:si lo presente, hallome oprimidode tan pesada carga y grave peso,que resollar apenas no me es dado:apenas ha tiradoun enemigo un tiro,la fresca llaga mirola sangre por las sienes ir corriendo:otro por otra parte me está hiriendo,mientras aquel en ver que me maltratancontentos está haciendo,pero tristes en ver que no me matan.¿ Á quál hombre jamas le fue negadalicencia de decir el mal que siente?Que parece que alivia su tormento—á mí, porque mi mal mas me atormiente,la boca fuertemente me es cerrada,para que no publique el mal que siento;que es tal que si lo cuento,á un corazón mas duroque una roca, ó un muro,ó sierpe, ó basilisco, ó tigre hircana,sin duda hará llorar, y muy de ganaen señal que mi mal les enternece;pero la furia insanade los que me persiguen siempre crece.En ningun hombre hallo ya consuelo:la lumbre de mi ojos no es conmigo—el mas estrecho; fiel, y caro amigohuirá la tierra, el mar, el alto cielo,á trueco de se ver de mi apartado.Si mirò al diestro lado,no hallo solo un hombreque sepa ya mi nombre;y asi yo mismo del tambiéen me olvido,y nose mas de mi de que hube sido;si mi troque, si soy quien antes era,aun nunca lo he sabido,que no me dá lugar mi suerte fiera.* * * ** * * *Metido estoy en este mar profundo,dó no hay quien me socorra, quien me ayude;dó no hay quien para mí tienda su mano.Llamo á los hombres, mas ninguno acude:no tengo hombre alguno en todo el mundoestoy ronco de dar voces en vano:tomé un consejo sanodespues de tanto acuerdo,que el mal me hizo cuerdo:á tí sola pedir socorro quiero,que de los que te llaman no te escondes:pues me ves que me muero,¿ como, piadosa Madre, no respondes?* * * *Luego como nací murió mi Madre;á tí quedé yo niño encomendado:dejoteme mi madre por tutora;del vientre de mi madre en tí fue echado:murió mi madre, desechóme el padre,tú sola eres padre y madre ahora;¿ y puede ser, Señora,que un hijo tuyo mueramuerte tan lastimera,siendo por tí mil otros socorridos?¿ Porque me cierras, Virgen, los oidos?¿ Porque no escucharme? ¿ Dí, porque te abscondes?Y si oyes mi gemidos,¿ como, piadosa Madre, no respondes?"
"Se miro lo pasado pierdo el seso,y si lo por venir pierdo el sentido,porque veo sera qual lo pasado:si lo presente, hallome oprimidode tan pesada carga y grave peso,que resollar apenas no me es dado:apenas ha tiradoun enemigo un tiro,la fresca llaga mirola sangre por las sienes ir corriendo:otro por otra parte me está hiriendo,mientras aquel en ver que me maltratancontentos está haciendo,pero tristes en ver que no me matan.
¿ Á quál hombre jamas le fue negadalicencia de decir el mal que siente?Que parece que alivia su tormento—á mí, porque mi mal mas me atormiente,la boca fuertemente me es cerrada,para que no publique el mal que siento;que es tal que si lo cuento,á un corazón mas duroque una roca, ó un muro,ó sierpe, ó basilisco, ó tigre hircana,sin duda hará llorar, y muy de ganaen señal que mi mal les enternece;pero la furia insanade los que me persiguen siempre crece.
En ningun hombre hallo ya consuelo:la lumbre de mi ojos no es conmigo—el mas estrecho; fiel, y caro amigohuirá la tierra, el mar, el alto cielo,á trueco de se ver de mi apartado.Si mirò al diestro lado,no hallo solo un hombreque sepa ya mi nombre;y asi yo mismo del tambiéen me olvido,y nose mas de mi de que hube sido;si mi troque, si soy quien antes era,aun nunca lo he sabido,que no me dá lugar mi suerte fiera.* * * ** * * *Metido estoy en este mar profundo,dó no hay quien me socorra, quien me ayude;dó no hay quien para mí tienda su mano.Llamo á los hombres, mas ninguno acude:no tengo hombre alguno en todo el mundoestoy ronco de dar voces en vano:tomé un consejo sanodespues de tanto acuerdo,que el mal me hizo cuerdo:á tí sola pedir socorro quiero,que de los que te llaman no te escondes:pues me ves que me muero,¿ como, piadosa Madre, no respondes?* * * *Luego como nací murió mi Madre;á tí quedé yo niño encomendado:dejoteme mi madre por tutora;del vientre de mi madre en tí fue echado:murió mi madre, desechóme el padre,tú sola eres padre y madre ahora;¿ y puede ser, Señora,que un hijo tuyo mueramuerte tan lastimera,siendo por tí mil otros socorridos?¿ Porque me cierras, Virgen, los oidos?¿ Porque no escucharme? ¿ Dí, porque te abscondes?Y si oyes mi gemidos,¿ como, piadosa Madre, no respondes?"
[25]"Dicebamus hesterno die: Pro suis insignibus habet salicem, ad cujus pedem secuta et hæc verba: Per damna—per cædes. Virtuosum enim nobule ac generosum germen oritur ex passionibus et summis cruciatibus. Salix enim quo magis ceditur, et magis germinans, ramos extollitur; et ideo dicitur: salix, à saliendo, et celeritate crescendi."
[25]"Dicebamus hesterno die: Pro suis insignibus habet salicem, ad cujus pedem secuta et hæc verba: Per damna—per cædes. Virtuosum enim nobule ac generosum germen oritur ex passionibus et summis cruciatibus. Salix enim quo magis ceditur, et magis germinans, ramos extollitur; et ideo dicitur: salix, à saliendo, et celeritate crescendi."
[26]"Folgaba el rey Rodrigo,con la hermosa Caba en la riberade Tajo sin testigo:El pecho sacó fuera,El rio, y le habló de esta manera.'En mal punto te goces,injusto forzador, que ya el sonidooyo ya y las voces,las armas y el bramidode Marte, de furor y ardor ceñido.'¡Ay esa tu alegriaqué llanto acarrea! y esa hermosa,que vio el sol en mal dia,á España ay quan llorosa,y al ceptro de los Godos quán costosa!'Llamas, dolores, guerras,muertos asolamientos, fieros males,entre tus brazos cierras,trabajos immortalesá tí y á tus vasallos naturales.'Á los que en Constantinarompen el fértil suelo, á los que bañaEl Ebro, á la vecinaSansueña, ó Lusitaña,á toda la especiosa y triste España.Ya desde Cadiz llamael injuriado Conde, á la venganzaatento, y no á la fama,la barbara pujanzaen quien, para tu daño, no hay tardanza.'Oye que al cielo tocacon temeroso son la trompa fiera,que en Africa convocael Moro á la vanderaque el ayre desplegada va ligera.'La lanza ya blandeael Arabe cruel, y hiere al viento,llamando a la pelea;innumerable quentode esquadras juntas vide en un momento.'Cubre la gente el suelo,debajo de las velas desparecela mar, la voz al cieloconfusa y varia crece,el polvo roba el dia y le obscurece.'¡ Ay que ya presurososSuben las largas naves, ay que tiendenlos brazos vigorososá los remos, y enciendenlas mares espumosas por dó hienden!'El Eolo derechohinche la vela en popa, y larga entradapor el Herculeo estrechocon la punta aceradael gran padre Neptuno da á la Armada.'! Ay triste y aun te tieneel mal dulce regazo, ni llamadoal mal que sobrevieneno acorres! ¿ Ocupadono ves ya al puerto á Hercules sagrado?'Acude, acorre, buela,trapasa el alta sierra, occupa el llano,no perdones la espuela,no dez paz á la mano,menea fulminando el hierro insano.'¡ Ay quánto de fatiga!¡ Ay quanto de dolor está presenteal que biste loriga,al Infante valiente,á hombres, y á caballos juntamente!'Y, tu, Betis divino,de sangre agena y tuya amancillado,darás al mar vecino¡ quanto yelmo quebrado!¡ quanto cuerpo de nobles destrozado'El furibondo Martecinco luces las haces desordena,igual á cada parte:la sexta ¡ ay! te condena,ó cara patria, ó barbara cadena!'"
[26]
"Folgaba el rey Rodrigo,con la hermosa Caba en la riberade Tajo sin testigo:El pecho sacó fuera,El rio, y le habló de esta manera.'En mal punto te goces,injusto forzador, que ya el sonidooyo ya y las voces,las armas y el bramidode Marte, de furor y ardor ceñido.'¡Ay esa tu alegriaqué llanto acarrea! y esa hermosa,que vio el sol en mal dia,á España ay quan llorosa,y al ceptro de los Godos quán costosa!'Llamas, dolores, guerras,muertos asolamientos, fieros males,entre tus brazos cierras,trabajos immortalesá tí y á tus vasallos naturales.'Á los que en Constantinarompen el fértil suelo, á los que bañaEl Ebro, á la vecinaSansueña, ó Lusitaña,á toda la especiosa y triste España.Ya desde Cadiz llamael injuriado Conde, á la venganzaatento, y no á la fama,la barbara pujanzaen quien, para tu daño, no hay tardanza.'Oye que al cielo tocacon temeroso son la trompa fiera,que en Africa convocael Moro á la vanderaque el ayre desplegada va ligera.'La lanza ya blandeael Arabe cruel, y hiere al viento,llamando a la pelea;innumerable quentode esquadras juntas vide en un momento.'Cubre la gente el suelo,debajo de las velas desparecela mar, la voz al cieloconfusa y varia crece,el polvo roba el dia y le obscurece.'¡ Ay que ya presurososSuben las largas naves, ay que tiendenlos brazos vigorososá los remos, y enciendenlas mares espumosas por dó hienden!'El Eolo derechohinche la vela en popa, y larga entradapor el Herculeo estrechocon la punta aceradael gran padre Neptuno da á la Armada.'! Ay triste y aun te tieneel mal dulce regazo, ni llamadoal mal que sobrevieneno acorres! ¿ Ocupadono ves ya al puerto á Hercules sagrado?'Acude, acorre, buela,trapasa el alta sierra, occupa el llano,no perdones la espuela,no dez paz á la mano,menea fulminando el hierro insano.'¡ Ay quánto de fatiga!¡ Ay quanto de dolor está presenteal que biste loriga,al Infante valiente,á hombres, y á caballos juntamente!'Y, tu, Betis divino,de sangre agena y tuya amancillado,darás al mar vecino¡ quanto yelmo quebrado!¡ quanto cuerpo de nobles destrozado'El furibondo Martecinco luces las haces desordena,igual á cada parte:la sexta ¡ ay! te condena,ó cara patria, ó barbara cadena!'"
"Folgaba el rey Rodrigo,con la hermosa Caba en la riberade Tajo sin testigo:El pecho sacó fuera,El rio, y le habló de esta manera.
'En mal punto te goces,injusto forzador, que ya el sonidooyo ya y las voces,las armas y el bramidode Marte, de furor y ardor ceñido.
'¡Ay esa tu alegriaqué llanto acarrea! y esa hermosa,que vio el sol en mal dia,á España ay quan llorosa,y al ceptro de los Godos quán costosa!
'Llamas, dolores, guerras,muertos asolamientos, fieros males,entre tus brazos cierras,trabajos immortalesá tí y á tus vasallos naturales.
'Á los que en Constantinarompen el fértil suelo, á los que bañaEl Ebro, á la vecinaSansueña, ó Lusitaña,á toda la especiosa y triste España.
Ya desde Cadiz llamael injuriado Conde, á la venganzaatento, y no á la fama,la barbara pujanzaen quien, para tu daño, no hay tardanza.
'Oye que al cielo tocacon temeroso son la trompa fiera,que en Africa convocael Moro á la vanderaque el ayre desplegada va ligera.
'La lanza ya blandeael Arabe cruel, y hiere al viento,llamando a la pelea;innumerable quentode esquadras juntas vide en un momento.
'Cubre la gente el suelo,debajo de las velas desparecela mar, la voz al cieloconfusa y varia crece,el polvo roba el dia y le obscurece.
'¡ Ay que ya presurososSuben las largas naves, ay que tiendenlos brazos vigorososá los remos, y enciendenlas mares espumosas por dó hienden!
'El Eolo derechohinche la vela en popa, y larga entradapor el Herculeo estrechocon la punta aceradael gran padre Neptuno da á la Armada.
'! Ay triste y aun te tieneel mal dulce regazo, ni llamadoal mal que sobrevieneno acorres! ¿ Ocupadono ves ya al puerto á Hercules sagrado?
'Acude, acorre, buela,trapasa el alta sierra, occupa el llano,no perdones la espuela,no dez paz á la mano,menea fulminando el hierro insano.
'¡ Ay quánto de fatiga!¡ Ay quanto de dolor está presenteal que biste loriga,al Infante valiente,á hombres, y á caballos juntamente!
'Y, tu, Betis divino,de sangre agena y tuya amancillado,darás al mar vecino¡ quanto yelmo quebrado!¡ quanto cuerpo de nobles destrozado
'El furibondo Martecinco luces las haces desordena,igual á cada parte:la sexta ¡ ay! te condena,ó cara patria, ó barbara cadena!'"
There are several other poets whose names belong to this age, of whom very little is known except by their works. Yet to complete the history of Spanish literary men, it will be necessary to mention what has come down to us.
The first on the list is Herrera. Fernando Herrera was a native of Seville. We learn nothing of his family, and even the date of his birth is unknown. It is conjectured that he was born at the beginning of the sixteenth century. He was an ecclesiastic; but it is believed that he adopted this profession late in life, and we are ignorant of the position he held in the hierarchy, and of all the events of his life. It is believed that he died at a very advanced age; but when and where we are not told. In the midst of all these negatives as to events, we get at a few affirmatives with regard to his qualities. There is an inedited work, entitled "The illustrious Men, Natives of Seville," written by Rodrigo Caro, who thus mentions him:—"Herrera was so well known in his native town of Seville, and his memory is so regarded there, that I may be considered in fault if my account of his works is brief: however, I will repeat all I have heard without futile additions, for I knew, though I never spoke to him,—I being a boy when he was an old man; but I remember the reputation he enjoyed. He understood Latin perfectly, and wrote several epigrams in that language, which might rival the most famous ancient authors in thought and expression. He possessed only amoderate knowledge of Greek. He read the best authors in the modern languages, having studied them with care; and to this he added a profound knowledge of Castilian, carefully noting its powers of expressing with nobleness and grandeur. He evidently wrote prose with great care, since his prose is the best in our language. As to his Spanish poetry, to which his genius chiefly impelled him, the best critics pronounce his poems correct in their versification, full of poetic colouring, powerful and forcible as well as elegant and beautiful; although, indeed, as he did not write for every vulgar reader, so that the uneducated are unable to judge of the extent of his erudition. He excelled in the art of selecting epithets and expressions, without affectation. He was naturally grave and severe, and his disposition betrays itself in his verses. He associated with few, leading a retired life, either alone in his study, or in company, with some friend, who sympathised with him, and to whom he confided his cares. Whether from this cause, or from the merit of his poetry, he was called the 'divine Herrera:' as a satirist of those days mentions:—
'Thus a thousand rhymes and sonnetsDivine Herrera wrote in vain.'
'Thus a thousand rhymes and sonnetsDivine Herrera wrote in vain.'
"His poems were not printed during his life; Francisco Pacheco, a celebrated painter of this city, whose studio was the resort of all clever men of Seville and the environs, performed this office. He was a great admirer of his works, and collected them with great care, and printed them under the patronage of the count de Olivarez. Herrera's prose works are the best in our language. They consist of the Life and Martyrdom of Thomas More, president of the English parliament in the time of the unhappy Henry VIII., leader and abettor of the schism of that kingdom (translated from the Latin of Thomas Stapleton); the Naval Battle against the Turks at Lepanto; a Commentary on Garcilaso; all of which display deep reading in Greek, Latin, and modern languages, and which he published while living. He employed himself on a generalHistory of Spain, to the time of the emperor Charles V., which he brought up to the year 1590. He was well versed in philosophy: he studied mathematics, ancient and modern geography, and possessed a chosen library. The reward of all this was only a benefice in the parish church of St. Andres in this city. But he has many associates in the moderation of his fortune; for though every one praises merit, few seek and fewer reward it."[27]
The praise of Caro is echoed by others of more note. Cervantes, when he resided at Seville, frequented the society of Herrera; in his "Voyage to Parnassus" he calls him the "Divine," and says that the "ivy of his fame clung to the walls of immortality." Lope de Vega in his "Laurel de Apollo," calls him the "learned," and speaks of him with respect and admiration. Sedano tells us that he was a handsome man; tall, of a manly and dignified aspect, lively eyes, and thick curled hair and beard. In addition, we learn that the lady of his love, whom he celebrates under the names of Light, Love, Sun, Star—Eliodora, was the Countess of Gelves. He loved her, it is said, all his life, to the very height of platonic passion, which burnt fiery and bright in his own heart, but revealed itself only by manifestations of reverence and self-struggle. This sort of attachment, when true, is certainly of an heroic and sublime nature, and demands our admiration and sympathy; but we must be convinced of the reality of the sufferings to which it gives rise, and of the unlimited nature of its devotion, or it becomes a mere picture wanting warmth and life. Petrarch's letters give a soul to his poetry: the various accounts they contain of his solitary struggles at Vaucluse, make us turn with deeper interest to his verses, which, otherwise, might almost be reasoned away into a mere ideal feeling. Knowing nothing of Herrera but that he loved "a bright particular star," shining far above, we are willing to find an accord between this love of the elevated andunattainable, and the grandeur of the subjects he celebrates in his poetry, and the dignity of his verse.
Herrera is a great favourite with those Spanish critics who prefer loftiness to simplicity of style, and the ideas of the head rather than the emotions of the heart: the sublime style at which he aimed gained for him the surname of Divine. Boscan, Garcilaso, and Luis de Leon, adopted the Italian metres, and with greater diffuseness, and therefore less classical elegance, but with equal truth and poetic verve, and informed the Spanish language with powers unknown to former poets. But this did not suffice for Herrera. He delighted in the grandiose and sonorous. He altered the language, introducing some obsolete and some new words, and, attending with a sensitive ear to the modulations of sound, endeavoured to make harmony between the thought and its oral expression. Lope de Vega held Herrera's versification in high esteem: quoting a passage from his odes, he exclaims, "Here, no language exceeds our own—no, not even the Greek nor the Latin. Fernando de Herrera is never out of my sight." Quintana, whose criticism is rather founded on artificial, rather than genuine and simple taste, as is apt to be the case with critics, is also his great admirer. He considers that he contributed more than any other to elevate, not only the poetic style of the Spanish language, but the essence of its poetry, in gifting it with more boldness of imagination and fire of expression than any preceding poet. Sedano is less partial: while he praises and admits his right to his name of "divine," he observes, that in endeavouring to purify and elevate his diction, he erred in rendering it harsh and barren, wanting in suavity and flow, and injured it by the affectation of antiquated phrases. His odes are certainly grand: we feel that the poet is full of his subject, and rises with it. It is rash of a foreigner, indeed, to give an opinion; still, we cannot help saying that while we admire the fervour of expression, the grandeur of the ideas, and the harmony of the versification, we miss the while a living grace more charming than all. It is the poetry of the head rather than the heart. And thus, amongHerrera's poems, the one we admire most is his Ode to Sleep; for, joined to elegant chasteness and great purity of language, we find a pure genuine feeling, feelingly expressed.