When I was yet a child,A child Dorila too,To gather there the flowerets wild,We roved the forest through.And gaily garlands then,With passing skill display’d,To crown us both, in childish vein,Her little fingers made.And thus our joys to share,In such our thoughts and play,We pass’d along, a happy pair,The hours and days away.But ev’n in sports like these,Soon age came hurrying by!And of our innocence the easeMalicious seem’d to fly.I knew not how it was,To see me she would smile;And but to speak to her would causeMe pleasure strange the while.Then beat my heart the more,When flowers to her I brought;And she, to wreathe them as before,Seem’d silent, lost in thought.One evening after thisWe saw two turtle-doves,With trembling throat, who, wrapt in bliss,Were wooing in their loves.In manifest delight,With wings and feathers bow’d,Their eyes fix’d on each other bright,They languish’d, moaning loud.The example made us bold,And with a pure caress,The troubles we had felt we told,Our pains and happiness.And at once from our viewThen, like a shadow, fledOur childhood and its joys, but new,Love gave us his instead.
When I was yet a child,A child Dorila too,To gather there the flowerets wild,We roved the forest through.And gaily garlands then,With passing skill display’d,To crown us both, in childish vein,Her little fingers made.And thus our joys to share,In such our thoughts and play,We pass’d along, a happy pair,The hours and days away.But ev’n in sports like these,Soon age came hurrying by!And of our innocence the easeMalicious seem’d to fly.I knew not how it was,To see me she would smile;And but to speak to her would causeMe pleasure strange the while.Then beat my heart the more,When flowers to her I brought;And she, to wreathe them as before,Seem’d silent, lost in thought.One evening after thisWe saw two turtle-doves,With trembling throat, who, wrapt in bliss,Were wooing in their loves.In manifest delight,With wings and feathers bow’d,Their eyes fix’d on each other bright,They languish’d, moaning loud.The example made us bold,And with a pure caress,The troubles we had felt we told,Our pains and happiness.And at once from our viewThen, like a shadow, fledOur childhood and its joys, but new,Love gave us his instead.
When I was yet a child,A child Dorila too,To gather there the flowerets wild,We roved the forest through.
When I was yet a child,
A child Dorila too,
To gather there the flowerets wild,
We roved the forest through.
And gaily garlands then,With passing skill display’d,To crown us both, in childish vein,Her little fingers made.
And gaily garlands then,
With passing skill display’d,
To crown us both, in childish vein,
Her little fingers made.
And thus our joys to share,In such our thoughts and play,We pass’d along, a happy pair,The hours and days away.
And thus our joys to share,
In such our thoughts and play,
We pass’d along, a happy pair,
The hours and days away.
But ev’n in sports like these,Soon age came hurrying by!And of our innocence the easeMalicious seem’d to fly.
But ev’n in sports like these,
Soon age came hurrying by!
And of our innocence the ease
Malicious seem’d to fly.
I knew not how it was,To see me she would smile;And but to speak to her would causeMe pleasure strange the while.
I knew not how it was,
To see me she would smile;
And but to speak to her would cause
Me pleasure strange the while.
Then beat my heart the more,When flowers to her I brought;And she, to wreathe them as before,Seem’d silent, lost in thought.
Then beat my heart the more,
When flowers to her I brought;
And she, to wreathe them as before,
Seem’d silent, lost in thought.
One evening after thisWe saw two turtle-doves,With trembling throat, who, wrapt in bliss,Were wooing in their loves.
One evening after this
We saw two turtle-doves,
With trembling throat, who, wrapt in bliss,
Were wooing in their loves.
In manifest delight,With wings and feathers bow’d,Their eyes fix’d on each other bright,They languish’d, moaning loud.
In manifest delight,
With wings and feathers bow’d,
Their eyes fix’d on each other bright,
They languish’d, moaning loud.
The example made us bold,And with a pure caress,The troubles we had felt we told,Our pains and happiness.
The example made us bold,
And with a pure caress,
The troubles we had felt we told,
Our pains and happiness.
And at once from our viewThen, like a shadow, fledOur childhood and its joys, but new,Love gave us his instead.
And at once from our view
Then, like a shadow, fled
Our childhood and its joys, but new,
Love gave us his instead.
In the sharp pains the tyrant LoveSince first I saw thee made me feel,To thee a thousand times above,I come those pains to heal,My village girl! but soon as nighTo thee I find my way,If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.My voices fail, and mournful sighs,Malicious phrenzy watching o’er,The place of them alone supplies;While mocks my efforts moreThe traitor god, when anxious byMy thoughts to speak I pray;If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.Then feels his fire so strong my soul,Meseems to die my only fate,My tears in torrents freely roll,And with deep groanings wait,To move thy feeling heart’s reply;But vainly, all astray,If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.I know not what, in trembling fear,That seals my lips, as yet to learnA foolish hope, thou mayst ev’n hereMy hapless love discern.I feel I must for ever flyFrom thy side far away;If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.Alas! if thou couldst, my adored!But hear those sighs, and thoughts express’d,What happiness ’twould me afford!I should be, Phyllis, blest.But woe is me! beneath thine eye,To sink in mock’d dismay,If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.
In the sharp pains the tyrant LoveSince first I saw thee made me feel,To thee a thousand times above,I come those pains to heal,My village girl! but soon as nighTo thee I find my way,If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.My voices fail, and mournful sighs,Malicious phrenzy watching o’er,The place of them alone supplies;While mocks my efforts moreThe traitor god, when anxious byMy thoughts to speak I pray;If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.Then feels his fire so strong my soul,Meseems to die my only fate,My tears in torrents freely roll,And with deep groanings wait,To move thy feeling heart’s reply;But vainly, all astray,If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.I know not what, in trembling fear,That seals my lips, as yet to learnA foolish hope, thou mayst ev’n hereMy hapless love discern.I feel I must for ever flyFrom thy side far away;If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.Alas! if thou couldst, my adored!But hear those sighs, and thoughts express’d,What happiness ’twould me afford!I should be, Phyllis, blest.But woe is me! beneath thine eye,To sink in mock’d dismay,If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.
In the sharp pains the tyrant LoveSince first I saw thee made me feel,To thee a thousand times above,I come those pains to heal,My village girl! but soon as nighTo thee I find my way,If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.
In the sharp pains the tyrant Love
Since first I saw thee made me feel,
To thee a thousand times above,
I come those pains to heal,
My village girl! but soon as nigh
To thee I find my way,
If e’er so bold to be I try,
I know not what to say.
My voices fail, and mournful sighs,Malicious phrenzy watching o’er,The place of them alone supplies;While mocks my efforts moreThe traitor god, when anxious byMy thoughts to speak I pray;If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.
My voices fail, and mournful sighs,
Malicious phrenzy watching o’er,
The place of them alone supplies;
While mocks my efforts more
The traitor god, when anxious by
My thoughts to speak I pray;
If e’er so bold to be I try,
I know not what to say.
Then feels his fire so strong my soul,Meseems to die my only fate,My tears in torrents freely roll,And with deep groanings wait,To move thy feeling heart’s reply;But vainly, all astray,If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.
Then feels his fire so strong my soul,
Meseems to die my only fate,
My tears in torrents freely roll,
And with deep groanings wait,
To move thy feeling heart’s reply;
But vainly, all astray,
If e’er so bold to be I try,
I know not what to say.
I know not what, in trembling fear,That seals my lips, as yet to learnA foolish hope, thou mayst ev’n hereMy hapless love discern.I feel I must for ever flyFrom thy side far away;If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.
I know not what, in trembling fear,
That seals my lips, as yet to learn
A foolish hope, thou mayst ev’n here
My hapless love discern.
I feel I must for ever fly
From thy side far away;
If e’er so bold to be I try,
I know not what to say.
Alas! if thou couldst, my adored!But hear those sighs, and thoughts express’d,What happiness ’twould me afford!I should be, Phyllis, blest.But woe is me! beneath thine eye,To sink in mock’d dismay,If e’er so bold to be I try,I know not what to say.
Alas! if thou couldst, my adored!
But hear those sighs, and thoughts express’d,
What happiness ’twould me afford!
I should be, Phyllis, blest.
But woe is me! beneath thine eye,
To sink in mock’d dismay,
If e’er so bold to be I try,
I know not what to say.
When able happily am ITo my poor village to escape,From all the city’s noise to fly,And cares of every shape;Like a new man my spirits giveMe then to feel, in joyous link;For only then I seem to live,And only then to think.The insufferable hours that thereIn weariness to me return’d,Now on a course so gently bear,Their flight is scarce discern’d.The nights that there in sloth and playAlone their occupations keep,Here with choice books I pass away,And in untroubled sleep.With the first dawn I wake, to changeRejoiced the soft bed’s balmy rest,Through the life-giving air to range,That free dilates the breast.It pleases me the heavens to view,O’erspread with red and golden glows,When first his lustres to renew,His splendours Phœbus shows.It pleases me, when bright his rays,Above the zenith fiery shine,To lose me in the thick wood’s maze,And in their shade recline.When languidly he hides his head,In last reflection, even thenThe mountain heights I eager tread,To follow him again.And when the night its mantle wideExtends around of beaming lights,Their motions, measuring as they glide,My watchful eye recites.Then to my books return’d, with awe,My wondering thoughts, to trace, rehearseThe course of that portentous law,That rules the universe.From them, and from the lofty heightOf such my thoughts, I then descendTo where my rustic friends await,My leisure to attend.And with them taking up the part,They give me in their toils and caresTo share, with jokes that merry start,Away the evening wears.About his crops one tells me all,Another all about his vines,And what their neighbours may befallEach many a tale combines.I ponder o’er each sage advice;Their proverbs carefully I store;Their doubts and quarrels judge concise,As arbitrator o’er.My judgements all extol they free,And all together talking loud;For innocent equalityReigns in their breasts avow’d.Then soon the servant comes to bringThe brimming jugs, and next with theseThe mirthful girl supplies the ringWith chestnuts, and the cheese.And all, in brotherly content,Draw nearer round, to pass untoldThe sparkling cups, that wine presentOf more than three years old.And thus my pleasant days to pass,In peace and happiness supreme,(For so our tastes our pleasures class,)But like a moment seem.
When able happily am ITo my poor village to escape,From all the city’s noise to fly,And cares of every shape;Like a new man my spirits giveMe then to feel, in joyous link;For only then I seem to live,And only then to think.The insufferable hours that thereIn weariness to me return’d,Now on a course so gently bear,Their flight is scarce discern’d.The nights that there in sloth and playAlone their occupations keep,Here with choice books I pass away,And in untroubled sleep.With the first dawn I wake, to changeRejoiced the soft bed’s balmy rest,Through the life-giving air to range,That free dilates the breast.It pleases me the heavens to view,O’erspread with red and golden glows,When first his lustres to renew,His splendours Phœbus shows.It pleases me, when bright his rays,Above the zenith fiery shine,To lose me in the thick wood’s maze,And in their shade recline.When languidly he hides his head,In last reflection, even thenThe mountain heights I eager tread,To follow him again.And when the night its mantle wideExtends around of beaming lights,Their motions, measuring as they glide,My watchful eye recites.Then to my books return’d, with awe,My wondering thoughts, to trace, rehearseThe course of that portentous law,That rules the universe.From them, and from the lofty heightOf such my thoughts, I then descendTo where my rustic friends await,My leisure to attend.And with them taking up the part,They give me in their toils and caresTo share, with jokes that merry start,Away the evening wears.About his crops one tells me all,Another all about his vines,And what their neighbours may befallEach many a tale combines.I ponder o’er each sage advice;Their proverbs carefully I store;Their doubts and quarrels judge concise,As arbitrator o’er.My judgements all extol they free,And all together talking loud;For innocent equalityReigns in their breasts avow’d.Then soon the servant comes to bringThe brimming jugs, and next with theseThe mirthful girl supplies the ringWith chestnuts, and the cheese.And all, in brotherly content,Draw nearer round, to pass untoldThe sparkling cups, that wine presentOf more than three years old.And thus my pleasant days to pass,In peace and happiness supreme,(For so our tastes our pleasures class,)But like a moment seem.
When able happily am ITo my poor village to escape,From all the city’s noise to fly,And cares of every shape;
When able happily am I
To my poor village to escape,
From all the city’s noise to fly,
And cares of every shape;
Like a new man my spirits giveMe then to feel, in joyous link;For only then I seem to live,And only then to think.
Like a new man my spirits give
Me then to feel, in joyous link;
For only then I seem to live,
And only then to think.
The insufferable hours that thereIn weariness to me return’d,Now on a course so gently bear,Their flight is scarce discern’d.
The insufferable hours that there
In weariness to me return’d,
Now on a course so gently bear,
Their flight is scarce discern’d.
The nights that there in sloth and playAlone their occupations keep,Here with choice books I pass away,And in untroubled sleep.
The nights that there in sloth and play
Alone their occupations keep,
Here with choice books I pass away,
And in untroubled sleep.
With the first dawn I wake, to changeRejoiced the soft bed’s balmy rest,Through the life-giving air to range,That free dilates the breast.
With the first dawn I wake, to change
Rejoiced the soft bed’s balmy rest,
Through the life-giving air to range,
That free dilates the breast.
It pleases me the heavens to view,O’erspread with red and golden glows,When first his lustres to renew,His splendours Phœbus shows.
It pleases me the heavens to view,
O’erspread with red and golden glows,
When first his lustres to renew,
His splendours Phœbus shows.
It pleases me, when bright his rays,Above the zenith fiery shine,To lose me in the thick wood’s maze,And in their shade recline.
It pleases me, when bright his rays,
Above the zenith fiery shine,
To lose me in the thick wood’s maze,
And in their shade recline.
When languidly he hides his head,In last reflection, even thenThe mountain heights I eager tread,To follow him again.
When languidly he hides his head,
In last reflection, even then
The mountain heights I eager tread,
To follow him again.
And when the night its mantle wideExtends around of beaming lights,Their motions, measuring as they glide,My watchful eye recites.
And when the night its mantle wide
Extends around of beaming lights,
Their motions, measuring as they glide,
My watchful eye recites.
Then to my books return’d, with awe,My wondering thoughts, to trace, rehearseThe course of that portentous law,That rules the universe.
Then to my books return’d, with awe,
My wondering thoughts, to trace, rehearse
The course of that portentous law,
That rules the universe.
From them, and from the lofty heightOf such my thoughts, I then descendTo where my rustic friends await,My leisure to attend.
From them, and from the lofty height
Of such my thoughts, I then descend
To where my rustic friends await,
My leisure to attend.
And with them taking up the part,They give me in their toils and caresTo share, with jokes that merry start,Away the evening wears.
And with them taking up the part,
They give me in their toils and cares
To share, with jokes that merry start,
Away the evening wears.
About his crops one tells me all,Another all about his vines,And what their neighbours may befallEach many a tale combines.
About his crops one tells me all,
Another all about his vines,
And what their neighbours may befall
Each many a tale combines.
I ponder o’er each sage advice;Their proverbs carefully I store;Their doubts and quarrels judge concise,As arbitrator o’er.
I ponder o’er each sage advice;
Their proverbs carefully I store;
Their doubts and quarrels judge concise,
As arbitrator o’er.
My judgements all extol they free,And all together talking loud;For innocent equalityReigns in their breasts avow’d.
My judgements all extol they free,
And all together talking loud;
For innocent equality
Reigns in their breasts avow’d.
Then soon the servant comes to bringThe brimming jugs, and next with theseThe mirthful girl supplies the ringWith chestnuts, and the cheese.
Then soon the servant comes to bring
The brimming jugs, and next with these
The mirthful girl supplies the ring
With chestnuts, and the cheese.
And all, in brotherly content,Draw nearer round, to pass untoldThe sparkling cups, that wine presentOf more than three years old.
And all, in brotherly content,
Draw nearer round, to pass untold
The sparkling cups, that wine present
Of more than three years old.
And thus my pleasant days to pass,In peace and happiness supreme,(For so our tastes our pleasures class,)But like a moment seem.
And thus my pleasant days to pass,
In peace and happiness supreme,
(For so our tastes our pleasures class,)
But like a moment seem.
Like a clear little stream,That with scarcely a sound,Through the plain among flowers,Glides whirling around,So the fugitive yearsOf my easy life sped,Amidst laughter and play,Like a dream have fled.On that dream to look back,Oft in wonder I dwell;Nor to tear me have powerFrom its pleasing spell.On each side in soft ease,With friends cherish’d and gay,In diversions and dance,In banquets and play,With roses CytheranSweet martyrdoms twine,Of the blinded ring join’dTo deliriums of wine.And hopes so fallacious,Bright castles that shoneIn the air as upraised,By the winds overthrown.With the Muses to crownThe grave tasks, that are bornOf wisdom, with laurelTheir sons to adorn:Here a thousand retreatsOf charm’d leafy arcade,That to slumber beguile,In freshness and shade:There beyond in the bowersOf sweet Cnidus arise,As of fear and desire,Half mingled, the sighs:There the broad river spreads,Showing soft its delights,To oblivion of allWhose crystal invites;With a gaze of desireThe fair banks I descend,And to the false watersMy thirsty lips bend;For a full draught I seek,But feel suddenly by,Disenchant me the callOf a friendly cry:—“Where impell’d dost thou go,In such blind madness, where?O, fool! round thy footstepsHid dangers are there!“The wild fancy restrain,Light ill-omen’d is this,Where but lures thee to whelmA fatal abyss.“Of thy happier yearsIs the verdure dispell’d,And what were then gracesNow vices are held.“Thou art man! it befitsThee repenting in truth,To gild virtuous with toilsThe errors of youth!”I yield, from the currentI tremblingly fly:But with eyes looking back,Repeat with a sigh,—“If to fall be a sin,What hast thou, Nature, meant?The path made so easy,So sweet the descent?“How blest are the creatures,With instincts secure,Whom to swerve from the rightNo perils allure!”
Like a clear little stream,That with scarcely a sound,Through the plain among flowers,Glides whirling around,So the fugitive yearsOf my easy life sped,Amidst laughter and play,Like a dream have fled.On that dream to look back,Oft in wonder I dwell;Nor to tear me have powerFrom its pleasing spell.On each side in soft ease,With friends cherish’d and gay,In diversions and dance,In banquets and play,With roses CytheranSweet martyrdoms twine,Of the blinded ring join’dTo deliriums of wine.And hopes so fallacious,Bright castles that shoneIn the air as upraised,By the winds overthrown.With the Muses to crownThe grave tasks, that are bornOf wisdom, with laurelTheir sons to adorn:Here a thousand retreatsOf charm’d leafy arcade,That to slumber beguile,In freshness and shade:There beyond in the bowersOf sweet Cnidus arise,As of fear and desire,Half mingled, the sighs:There the broad river spreads,Showing soft its delights,To oblivion of allWhose crystal invites;With a gaze of desireThe fair banks I descend,And to the false watersMy thirsty lips bend;For a full draught I seek,But feel suddenly by,Disenchant me the callOf a friendly cry:—“Where impell’d dost thou go,In such blind madness, where?O, fool! round thy footstepsHid dangers are there!“The wild fancy restrain,Light ill-omen’d is this,Where but lures thee to whelmA fatal abyss.“Of thy happier yearsIs the verdure dispell’d,And what were then gracesNow vices are held.“Thou art man! it befitsThee repenting in truth,To gild virtuous with toilsThe errors of youth!”I yield, from the currentI tremblingly fly:But with eyes looking back,Repeat with a sigh,—“If to fall be a sin,What hast thou, Nature, meant?The path made so easy,So sweet the descent?“How blest are the creatures,With instincts secure,Whom to swerve from the rightNo perils allure!”
Like a clear little stream,That with scarcely a sound,Through the plain among flowers,Glides whirling around,
Like a clear little stream,
That with scarcely a sound,
Through the plain among flowers,
Glides whirling around,
So the fugitive yearsOf my easy life sped,Amidst laughter and play,Like a dream have fled.
So the fugitive years
Of my easy life sped,
Amidst laughter and play,
Like a dream have fled.
On that dream to look back,Oft in wonder I dwell;Nor to tear me have powerFrom its pleasing spell.
On that dream to look back,
Oft in wonder I dwell;
Nor to tear me have power
From its pleasing spell.
On each side in soft ease,With friends cherish’d and gay,In diversions and dance,In banquets and play,
On each side in soft ease,
With friends cherish’d and gay,
In diversions and dance,
In banquets and play,
With roses CytheranSweet martyrdoms twine,Of the blinded ring join’dTo deliriums of wine.
With roses Cytheran
Sweet martyrdoms twine,
Of the blinded ring join’d
To deliriums of wine.
And hopes so fallacious,Bright castles that shoneIn the air as upraised,By the winds overthrown.
And hopes so fallacious,
Bright castles that shone
In the air as upraised,
By the winds overthrown.
With the Muses to crownThe grave tasks, that are bornOf wisdom, with laurelTheir sons to adorn:
With the Muses to crown
The grave tasks, that are born
Of wisdom, with laurel
Their sons to adorn:
Here a thousand retreatsOf charm’d leafy arcade,That to slumber beguile,In freshness and shade:
Here a thousand retreats
Of charm’d leafy arcade,
That to slumber beguile,
In freshness and shade:
There beyond in the bowersOf sweet Cnidus arise,As of fear and desire,Half mingled, the sighs:
There beyond in the bowers
Of sweet Cnidus arise,
As of fear and desire,
Half mingled, the sighs:
There the broad river spreads,Showing soft its delights,To oblivion of allWhose crystal invites;
There the broad river spreads,
Showing soft its delights,
To oblivion of all
Whose crystal invites;
With a gaze of desireThe fair banks I descend,And to the false watersMy thirsty lips bend;
With a gaze of desire
The fair banks I descend,
And to the false waters
My thirsty lips bend;
For a full draught I seek,But feel suddenly by,Disenchant me the callOf a friendly cry:—
For a full draught I seek,
But feel suddenly by,
Disenchant me the call
Of a friendly cry:—
“Where impell’d dost thou go,In such blind madness, where?O, fool! round thy footstepsHid dangers are there!
“Where impell’d dost thou go,
In such blind madness, where?
O, fool! round thy footsteps
Hid dangers are there!
“The wild fancy restrain,Light ill-omen’d is this,Where but lures thee to whelmA fatal abyss.
“The wild fancy restrain,
Light ill-omen’d is this,
Where but lures thee to whelm
A fatal abyss.
“Of thy happier yearsIs the verdure dispell’d,And what were then gracesNow vices are held.
“Of thy happier years
Is the verdure dispell’d,
And what were then graces
Now vices are held.
“Thou art man! it befitsThee repenting in truth,To gild virtuous with toilsThe errors of youth!”
“Thou art man! it befits
Thee repenting in truth,
To gild virtuous with toils
The errors of youth!”
I yield, from the currentI tremblingly fly:But with eyes looking back,Repeat with a sigh,—
I yield, from the current
I tremblingly fly:
But with eyes looking back,
Repeat with a sigh,—
“If to fall be a sin,What hast thou, Nature, meant?The path made so easy,So sweet the descent?
“If to fall be a sin,
What hast thou, Nature, meant?
The path made so easy,
So sweet the descent?
“How blest are the creatures,With instincts secure,Whom to swerve from the rightNo perils allure!”
“How blest are the creatures,
With instincts secure,
Whom to swerve from the right
No perils allure!”
I applied myself to science,In its great truths believing,That from my troubles I henceSome ease might be receiving.O! what a sad delusion!What lessons dear I learn’d me!To verses in conclusion,And mirth and dance I turn’d me.As if it were that life couldProduce so little trouble,That we with toils and strife wouldMake each one of them double.I stand by smiling Bacchus,In joys us wont to wrap he;The wise, Dorila, lack usThe knowledge to be happy.What matters it, if evenIn fair as diamond splendour,The sun is fix’d in heaven?Me light he’s born to render.The moon is, so me tell they,With living beings swarmy;“There may be thousands,” well theyCan never come to harm me!From Danube to the Ganges,History tells how did heThe Macedonian launch hisProud banner fierce and giddy!What’s that to us, to entice us,If only half this valley,To feed our lambs suffice us,With all our wants to tally?If not, leave all to justice:Give me some drink, o’erpower’dWith but to name this goddess,I feel myself a coward.They much who study everHave thousand plagues annoy them;Which in their best endeavourTheir peace and joy destroy them:And then what do they gather?A thousand doubts upspringing,Which other puzzlings fartherThem other doubts are bringing.And so through life they haste on,One enviable truly!Disputes and hates to waste on,And ne’er agreeing throughly.My shepherd girl! but bring meThen wine abundant very,And fear not songs I’ll sing thee,As endlessly and merry.
I applied myself to science,In its great truths believing,That from my troubles I henceSome ease might be receiving.O! what a sad delusion!What lessons dear I learn’d me!To verses in conclusion,And mirth and dance I turn’d me.As if it were that life couldProduce so little trouble,That we with toils and strife wouldMake each one of them double.I stand by smiling Bacchus,In joys us wont to wrap he;The wise, Dorila, lack usThe knowledge to be happy.What matters it, if evenIn fair as diamond splendour,The sun is fix’d in heaven?Me light he’s born to render.The moon is, so me tell they,With living beings swarmy;“There may be thousands,” well theyCan never come to harm me!From Danube to the Ganges,History tells how did heThe Macedonian launch hisProud banner fierce and giddy!What’s that to us, to entice us,If only half this valley,To feed our lambs suffice us,With all our wants to tally?If not, leave all to justice:Give me some drink, o’erpower’dWith but to name this goddess,I feel myself a coward.They much who study everHave thousand plagues annoy them;Which in their best endeavourTheir peace and joy destroy them:And then what do they gather?A thousand doubts upspringing,Which other puzzlings fartherThem other doubts are bringing.And so through life they haste on,One enviable truly!Disputes and hates to waste on,And ne’er agreeing throughly.My shepherd girl! but bring meThen wine abundant very,And fear not songs I’ll sing thee,As endlessly and merry.
I applied myself to science,In its great truths believing,That from my troubles I henceSome ease might be receiving.
I applied myself to science,
In its great truths believing,
That from my troubles I hence
Some ease might be receiving.
O! what a sad delusion!What lessons dear I learn’d me!To verses in conclusion,And mirth and dance I turn’d me.
O! what a sad delusion!
What lessons dear I learn’d me!
To verses in conclusion,
And mirth and dance I turn’d me.
As if it were that life couldProduce so little trouble,That we with toils and strife wouldMake each one of them double.
As if it were that life could
Produce so little trouble,
That we with toils and strife would
Make each one of them double.
I stand by smiling Bacchus,In joys us wont to wrap he;The wise, Dorila, lack usThe knowledge to be happy.
I stand by smiling Bacchus,
In joys us wont to wrap he;
The wise, Dorila, lack us
The knowledge to be happy.
What matters it, if evenIn fair as diamond splendour,The sun is fix’d in heaven?Me light he’s born to render.
What matters it, if even
In fair as diamond splendour,
The sun is fix’d in heaven?
Me light he’s born to render.
The moon is, so me tell they,With living beings swarmy;“There may be thousands,” well theyCan never come to harm me!
The moon is, so me tell they,
With living beings swarmy;
“There may be thousands,” well they
Can never come to harm me!
From Danube to the Ganges,History tells how did heThe Macedonian launch hisProud banner fierce and giddy!
From Danube to the Ganges,
History tells how did he
The Macedonian launch his
Proud banner fierce and giddy!
What’s that to us, to entice us,If only half this valley,To feed our lambs suffice us,With all our wants to tally?
What’s that to us, to entice us,
If only half this valley,
To feed our lambs suffice us,
With all our wants to tally?
If not, leave all to justice:Give me some drink, o’erpower’dWith but to name this goddess,I feel myself a coward.
If not, leave all to justice:
Give me some drink, o’erpower’d
With but to name this goddess,
I feel myself a coward.
They much who study everHave thousand plagues annoy them;Which in their best endeavourTheir peace and joy destroy them:
They much who study ever
Have thousand plagues annoy them;
Which in their best endeavour
Their peace and joy destroy them:
And then what do they gather?A thousand doubts upspringing,Which other puzzlings fartherThem other doubts are bringing.
And then what do they gather?
A thousand doubts upspringing,
Which other puzzlings farther
Them other doubts are bringing.
And so through life they haste on,One enviable truly!Disputes and hates to waste on,And ne’er agreeing throughly.
And so through life they haste on,
One enviable truly!
Disputes and hates to waste on,
And ne’er agreeing throughly.
My shepherd girl! but bring meThen wine abundant very,And fear not songs I’ll sing thee,As endlessly and merry.
My shepherd girl! but bring me
Then wine abundant very,
And fear not songs I’ll sing thee,
As endlessly and merry.
If, as thou sayst, thou lovest me well,Dear girl, those scornfulnesses cease;For love can ne’er in union dwellWith such asperities.Show sharp disdain, to plight if e’erAnother proffers thee his troth;To two at once to listen fairIs an offence to both.Let one be chosen, so to proveHow great your happiness may be;Thou calmly to enjoy his love,And he to love thee free;Above all maids to extol thee most;And thou to tenderness incline,To yield repaying him the boastHis love gives forth for thine.Reserve and rigour to presideIn love, is like the ice in spring,That robs fair May of all its pride,The flocks of pasturing:But kindness, like the gentle rain,Which April gives to glad the field,Which makes all flourishing the plain,And seeds their stores to yield.Be not disdainful then, but kind:Know not to certain beauteous eyesAlone all beauty is confined,Or locks of golden dyes.Vain puff’d-up beauty will appear,But like some showy ivy stem;They may surprise, but fruitless, ne’erHave any valuing them.If join’d with kindness, like the vineIt seems, with fruitful stores array’d;Where all contentedly recline,Beneath its peaceful shade:And whose green stems, the elm around,When twining with adorning graceIts leaves, will hold it also bound,Firm in its fond embrace.Flower of a day is beauty’s bloom;Time leaves it soon behind: if e’erThou doubt’st my word, let Celia’s doomThe lesson true declare.Celia, for witching beauty famedOnce far and wide, so foolish proud,A thousand captives who contemn’dThat all before her bow’d,Now worn by years would blindly tryWho to her service may be won;But finds all from her turn to fly,To look at her finds none.For with her snow and rose the beamsAnd lustre of her eyes are flown,And like a wither’d rose-tree seems,Sad, wrinkled and alone.’Tis but ingenuous kindness true,The maid that loves in honour’s bonds,Who listens to her lover sue,And tenderly responds;Who at his pleasantries will smile,Who dances with him at the feast,Receives the flowers his gift, the whileHis love with like increased;Who him her future husband sees,Is neither coy nor feels ashamed,For he as hers, and she as his,The village through are named,That always like the dawn will seem,When calm its light shines o’er the plain,And keeping all beneath her beamBound captive in her chain:Years without clouding pass away;Care to oppress her ne’er affects;Ev’n rivalry forgives her sway,And envy’s self respects.Her cheerfulness and happy vein,Being to latest age to share,Delight of all the shepherd train,Enchantment of the fair.Be then, my Amaryllis! kind;Cease those disdainfulnesses, cease;For with thy pleasing grace combinedSuch harshness ill agrees.The heavens ne’er form’d thee perfect thus,Surpassingly of matchless cost,That such high gifts should ruinousBe miserably lost.Be kind, receive thy lover’s vow,And all the village thou wilt find,Who murmur at thy coldness now,To praise thee then as kind.Thus sang Belardo, at her door,His shepherd girl to wait upon,Who scornful, from her casement o’er,Bids him be silent and begone.
If, as thou sayst, thou lovest me well,Dear girl, those scornfulnesses cease;For love can ne’er in union dwellWith such asperities.Show sharp disdain, to plight if e’erAnother proffers thee his troth;To two at once to listen fairIs an offence to both.Let one be chosen, so to proveHow great your happiness may be;Thou calmly to enjoy his love,And he to love thee free;Above all maids to extol thee most;And thou to tenderness incline,To yield repaying him the boastHis love gives forth for thine.Reserve and rigour to presideIn love, is like the ice in spring,That robs fair May of all its pride,The flocks of pasturing:But kindness, like the gentle rain,Which April gives to glad the field,Which makes all flourishing the plain,And seeds their stores to yield.Be not disdainful then, but kind:Know not to certain beauteous eyesAlone all beauty is confined,Or locks of golden dyes.Vain puff’d-up beauty will appear,But like some showy ivy stem;They may surprise, but fruitless, ne’erHave any valuing them.If join’d with kindness, like the vineIt seems, with fruitful stores array’d;Where all contentedly recline,Beneath its peaceful shade:And whose green stems, the elm around,When twining with adorning graceIts leaves, will hold it also bound,Firm in its fond embrace.Flower of a day is beauty’s bloom;Time leaves it soon behind: if e’erThou doubt’st my word, let Celia’s doomThe lesson true declare.Celia, for witching beauty famedOnce far and wide, so foolish proud,A thousand captives who contemn’dThat all before her bow’d,Now worn by years would blindly tryWho to her service may be won;But finds all from her turn to fly,To look at her finds none.For with her snow and rose the beamsAnd lustre of her eyes are flown,And like a wither’d rose-tree seems,Sad, wrinkled and alone.’Tis but ingenuous kindness true,The maid that loves in honour’s bonds,Who listens to her lover sue,And tenderly responds;Who at his pleasantries will smile,Who dances with him at the feast,Receives the flowers his gift, the whileHis love with like increased;Who him her future husband sees,Is neither coy nor feels ashamed,For he as hers, and she as his,The village through are named,That always like the dawn will seem,When calm its light shines o’er the plain,And keeping all beneath her beamBound captive in her chain:Years without clouding pass away;Care to oppress her ne’er affects;Ev’n rivalry forgives her sway,And envy’s self respects.Her cheerfulness and happy vein,Being to latest age to share,Delight of all the shepherd train,Enchantment of the fair.Be then, my Amaryllis! kind;Cease those disdainfulnesses, cease;For with thy pleasing grace combinedSuch harshness ill agrees.The heavens ne’er form’d thee perfect thus,Surpassingly of matchless cost,That such high gifts should ruinousBe miserably lost.Be kind, receive thy lover’s vow,And all the village thou wilt find,Who murmur at thy coldness now,To praise thee then as kind.Thus sang Belardo, at her door,His shepherd girl to wait upon,Who scornful, from her casement o’er,Bids him be silent and begone.
If, as thou sayst, thou lovest me well,Dear girl, those scornfulnesses cease;For love can ne’er in union dwellWith such asperities.
If, as thou sayst, thou lovest me well,
Dear girl, those scornfulnesses cease;
For love can ne’er in union dwell
With such asperities.
Show sharp disdain, to plight if e’erAnother proffers thee his troth;To two at once to listen fairIs an offence to both.
Show sharp disdain, to plight if e’er
Another proffers thee his troth;
To two at once to listen fair
Is an offence to both.
Let one be chosen, so to proveHow great your happiness may be;Thou calmly to enjoy his love,And he to love thee free;
Let one be chosen, so to prove
How great your happiness may be;
Thou calmly to enjoy his love,
And he to love thee free;
Above all maids to extol thee most;And thou to tenderness incline,To yield repaying him the boastHis love gives forth for thine.
Above all maids to extol thee most;
And thou to tenderness incline,
To yield repaying him the boast
His love gives forth for thine.
Reserve and rigour to presideIn love, is like the ice in spring,That robs fair May of all its pride,The flocks of pasturing:
Reserve and rigour to preside
In love, is like the ice in spring,
That robs fair May of all its pride,
The flocks of pasturing:
But kindness, like the gentle rain,Which April gives to glad the field,Which makes all flourishing the plain,And seeds their stores to yield.
But kindness, like the gentle rain,
Which April gives to glad the field,
Which makes all flourishing the plain,
And seeds their stores to yield.
Be not disdainful then, but kind:Know not to certain beauteous eyesAlone all beauty is confined,Or locks of golden dyes.
Be not disdainful then, but kind:
Know not to certain beauteous eyes
Alone all beauty is confined,
Or locks of golden dyes.
Vain puff’d-up beauty will appear,But like some showy ivy stem;They may surprise, but fruitless, ne’erHave any valuing them.
Vain puff’d-up beauty will appear,
But like some showy ivy stem;
They may surprise, but fruitless, ne’er
Have any valuing them.
If join’d with kindness, like the vineIt seems, with fruitful stores array’d;Where all contentedly recline,Beneath its peaceful shade:
If join’d with kindness, like the vine
It seems, with fruitful stores array’d;
Where all contentedly recline,
Beneath its peaceful shade:
And whose green stems, the elm around,When twining with adorning graceIts leaves, will hold it also bound,Firm in its fond embrace.
And whose green stems, the elm around,
When twining with adorning grace
Its leaves, will hold it also bound,
Firm in its fond embrace.
Flower of a day is beauty’s bloom;Time leaves it soon behind: if e’erThou doubt’st my word, let Celia’s doomThe lesson true declare.
Flower of a day is beauty’s bloom;
Time leaves it soon behind: if e’er
Thou doubt’st my word, let Celia’s doom
The lesson true declare.
Celia, for witching beauty famedOnce far and wide, so foolish proud,A thousand captives who contemn’dThat all before her bow’d,
Celia, for witching beauty famed
Once far and wide, so foolish proud,
A thousand captives who contemn’d
That all before her bow’d,
Now worn by years would blindly tryWho to her service may be won;But finds all from her turn to fly,To look at her finds none.
Now worn by years would blindly try
Who to her service may be won;
But finds all from her turn to fly,
To look at her finds none.
For with her snow and rose the beamsAnd lustre of her eyes are flown,And like a wither’d rose-tree seems,Sad, wrinkled and alone.
For with her snow and rose the beams
And lustre of her eyes are flown,
And like a wither’d rose-tree seems,
Sad, wrinkled and alone.
’Tis but ingenuous kindness true,The maid that loves in honour’s bonds,Who listens to her lover sue,And tenderly responds;
’Tis but ingenuous kindness true,
The maid that loves in honour’s bonds,
Who listens to her lover sue,
And tenderly responds;
Who at his pleasantries will smile,Who dances with him at the feast,Receives the flowers his gift, the whileHis love with like increased;
Who at his pleasantries will smile,
Who dances with him at the feast,
Receives the flowers his gift, the while
His love with like increased;
Who him her future husband sees,Is neither coy nor feels ashamed,For he as hers, and she as his,The village through are named,
Who him her future husband sees,
Is neither coy nor feels ashamed,
For he as hers, and she as his,
The village through are named,
That always like the dawn will seem,When calm its light shines o’er the plain,And keeping all beneath her beamBound captive in her chain:
That always like the dawn will seem,
When calm its light shines o’er the plain,
And keeping all beneath her beam
Bound captive in her chain:
Years without clouding pass away;Care to oppress her ne’er affects;Ev’n rivalry forgives her sway,And envy’s self respects.
Years without clouding pass away;
Care to oppress her ne’er affects;
Ev’n rivalry forgives her sway,
And envy’s self respects.
Her cheerfulness and happy vein,Being to latest age to share,Delight of all the shepherd train,Enchantment of the fair.
Her cheerfulness and happy vein,
Being to latest age to share,
Delight of all the shepherd train,
Enchantment of the fair.
Be then, my Amaryllis! kind;Cease those disdainfulnesses, cease;For with thy pleasing grace combinedSuch harshness ill agrees.
Be then, my Amaryllis! kind;
Cease those disdainfulnesses, cease;
For with thy pleasing grace combined
Such harshness ill agrees.
The heavens ne’er form’d thee perfect thus,Surpassingly of matchless cost,That such high gifts should ruinousBe miserably lost.
The heavens ne’er form’d thee perfect thus,
Surpassingly of matchless cost,
That such high gifts should ruinous
Be miserably lost.
Be kind, receive thy lover’s vow,And all the village thou wilt find,Who murmur at thy coldness now,To praise thee then as kind.
Be kind, receive thy lover’s vow,
And all the village thou wilt find,
Who murmur at thy coldness now,
To praise thee then as kind.
Thus sang Belardo, at her door,His shepherd girl to wait upon,Who scornful, from her casement o’er,Bids him be silent and begone.
Thus sang Belardo, at her door,
His shepherd girl to wait upon,
Who scornful, from her casement o’er,
Bids him be silent and begone.
Spanish writers have in general too much overrated themerits of their national dramas, and foreigners have too often repeated the eulogies, as if they were deserved. Like those of antiquity, the Spanish, though they abound in passages of much poetry and feeling, are almost entirely deficient in that delineation of individual character, which constitutes the highest class of the art. Thus all the representations may be observed of the same description of personages and incidents, given often with much ingenuity, but also often in the worst taste, and always betokening a limited power of invention. Of this school Calderon de la Barca was the great type, both as regards his merits and defects. Lopez de Vega too, though his comedies are more representations of manners and every-day life than Calderon’s, only showed his capability of something better, if he had allowed his genius to seek a reputation for perfectness, rather than for fecundity. The inferior order of writers mistook the errors of these for excellences, and thus exaggerated them.
There were not, however, wanting in Spain persons of better judgement, who observed those errors with a view to correct them, and among whom the prominent place is due to the two Moratins, father and son. Of these the former seems to have been the first of his countrymen who openly denounced the wrong tendencies of the national dramatists; and the latter, following in the same track, may be pronounced the great reformer of the Spanish stage, to whom it owes some of its best productions.
The elder Moratin was one of the ablest writers of verses in Spain during the last century, before the new æra of poetry arose, and his merits, if not of themselves superior to those of his contemporaries, have had an advantage over them, in connexion with the reputation of the son, who has rendered them more celebrated by a pleasing memoir of his father, prefixed to his works. From this we learn, that if the father did not attain a high rank himself as a poet or dramatist, yet he well deserves to be remembered as a bold and judicious critic, who, both by precept and example, effected much good in his own day, and still more by instilling good lessons into the mind of the son, so as to enable him to attain his merited success.
In the words of this memoir, “Calderon at that time enjoyed so high a reputation, that it appeared a sacrilegious hardihood to notice defects in his comedies or sacramental pieces, which, repeated annually on the stage with every possible pomp and appliance, delighted the vulgar of all classes, and perpetuated the applauses of their famous author. Moratin published three Discourses, which he entitled, ‘Exposition of the Misconceptions of the Spanish Theatre,’ written with the good judgement of a man of taste, and with the zeal of a citizen interested in the progression and literary glory of his country. In the first he showed the defects in which the old plays abounded; as also the modern, with which poets, without rule or plan, supplied the players, sanctioning every time more irregularity and ignorance. In the two following, he proved that the Autos of Calderon, so admired by themultitude, ought not to be suffered in a country that prided itself as civilized. It is unnecessary to say what opposition these discourses encountered; it is enough to add, that the third was scarcely published when the government prohibited the repetition of what he had condemned:—a memorable epoch in the annals of the Spanish stage, which can never remember, without praise, that judicious and intrepid writer to whom it owed so useful a reform.”
Of this able critic, Leandro Moratin was the only son that survived childhood. He was born at Madrid, the 10th of March, 1760, and in his earliest years is described as having been remarkable for infantile grace and vivacity. At four years of age, however, he unfortunately had a severe attack of the smallpox, which not only left its disfiguring marks on his countenance, but also seemed to have changed his character, making him the rest of his life shy and reserved. As he grew up he shunned all playfellows; like Demophilus, he was a man among boys,—Κεῖνος γὰρ ἐν παισὶν νέος—and devoting himself to drawing and making juvenile verses, pursued his favourite studies in secret, so that even the father seemed not to have been ever fully aware of the bent of his son’s genius.
The elder Moratin, whose father had been jewel-keeper to Isabel Farnesi, widow of Philip V., had been brought up to the profession of the law, in which he had not acquired any eminence, though he had some as an author. Seeing his son’s talent for drawing, he had first intended him to take advantage of it as an artist, but finally placed him with a brother, Miguel de Moratin, who was a jeweller, to learn his occupation. In his earlier years the younger Moratin had been only at an obscure private school in Madrid, but he had good examples and lessons at home, and recourse to his father’s library, where he found all the best works in Spanish literature, for secret study, beyond the tasks set in routine for his education. In 1779 the Spanish Academy, in the course of its objects for the promotion of literary pursuits, had offered, as a subject for a prize poem, The Taking of Granada; when the Accessit was awarded to a competitor who had signed himself Efren de Lardnoz y Morante. On this person being called for, Leandro Moratin, to the surprise of his father, presented himself as the author, producing the rough copy of the verses he had sent. This was naturally a source of great delight to the father, who might thus foresee, in hope at least, his son’s future success. But he did not live to witness it, having died the following year, at only forty-two years of age, leaving a widow dependent on his son’s labours as a working jeweller. At this business he continued, therefore, combining however with it his former studies, as far as his leisure permitted him.
In 1782 he obtained the honour of another Accessit from the Academy for a Satire on the vicious practices introduced into the Spanish language, and a greater feeling thereupon arose in his favour from literary persons who remembered his father, with the respect due to his merits. Hence, also, Leandro Moratin, notwithstanding his natural reserve, was drawn from his retirement into the company of several young men of kindred tastes and pursuits, whose conversation and society had great and good effect on his mind and future efforts.
In 1785 he published an edition of his father’s poems, with reflections, which may be considered his first essay on criticism and declaration of opinion on matters of taste, according to the precepts of the purest classicism, then so much in fashion. From his earliest years he had been much attached to the theatre, then sunk to the low state which he so feelingly describes in the preliminary discourse to his Comedies, subsequently published; and having witnessed his father’s anxiety to reform its abuses, he felt it a sort of inheritance left him to attempt the task. He had already begun one of his plays, which however he had not sufficient leisure to complete, on account of the demands for his daily labour; but about this time his mother died, and Leandro had then only his own wants to consider.
At the same time the good and great Jovellanos, whose notice he had attracted, proposed him as secretary to the Conde de Cabarrus, then going to Paris on a special mission, where accordingly Leandro went with that able and enlightened statesman, in January 1787, returning to Madrid in the January following. Shortly after the Conde and Jovellanos fell into ill-favour at court, and all their friends were involved in their fall. Moratin took shelter in the obscurity of his original occupation, and so escaped notice. He completed his play, but could not get it represented, and in the course of delays had the license for it withdrawn. He wished to be exempt from labour for maintenance, to give himself up to his favourite studies, but sought in vain for other means of attaining this end than from the favour of the government. A change in the ministry having now occurred, he wrote a petition, in verse, to the Conde de Florida Blanca, in which, humorously depicting his wants, he asked a small benefice in the church. This, though a very small one, was granted him, and thereupon he had to take the first orders of the tonsure. Shortly afterwards, Godoy, Prince of the Peace, came into power, and became a still more effectual patron for Moratin, on whom he conferred other benefices and favours, to the amount of about £600 a year sterling, so that he became at once, for his position in life, wealthy, and enabled to devote himself entirely to literature.
It has been the fashion lately for all parties to decry Godoy, and there can be no doubt that he was guilty of much misconduct in the exercise of power. But he was in this only acting according to the circumstances in which he was placed, and the favourite and minister of a weak-minded and despotic monarch could not be expected to have acted much otherwise than he did. In the memoirs he published in his later years in his justification, Godoy has, in a tone of apparent sincerity and earnestness, sometimes amounting even to eloquence, shown that often he could not have acted otherwise, and that his faults were the faults of his position, while his merits were his own. He declares that he was the first minister in Spain who curbed the power of the Inquisition, and that he had never instituted any prosecution for private opinions. His treatment of Jovellanos he might well excuse to himself, as a return for hostility manifested to him under circumstances that he might consider to warrant it. But of other eminent men of learning and of the arts he was the munificent patron, of Melendez among others, and of Moratin more especially. The former dedicated to him the second edition of his works, and Moratin now one of his plays, which had been received with much favour. From this dedication, a judgement may be formed by the translation, of the spirit of Moratin, that, while under the sense of great obligations, he did not condescend, like other poets, to flatter his Mæcenas’s vanity by ascriptions of descent from ancient kings or other fictions; but dwelt only on his personal qualities, and the great power which he undoubtedly possessed, as exercised in his favour. The same spirit Moratin showed in his letter to Jovellanos, in which adulation could less be imputed to him, as that illustrious individual was in disgrace at court, and no longer the dispenser of the favours of the government.
But Moratin showed the independence of his character still more decidedly, in refusing the request made by Godoy that he should write eulogistic verses on a lady of the court; and it is to the honour of Godoy, we are informed, that though he was at first angry at the refusal, he passed it over without subsequent notice.
To another request made by Godoy, for an ode on the Battle of Trafalgar, Moratin acceded, though it is stated with considerable disinclination to the task. He could not, he replied at first, celebrate a lost battle, and as Hermosillia tells us, could not hide from himself the ridiculousness of having to represent a complete defeat as a glorious triumph, though the “dreaded Nelson” had fallen in it. He felt bound, however, to obey the favourite and to reconcile his task to justice, wrote his ‘Shade of Nelson,’ in imitation of the Prophecy of Nereus, and of the Tagus by Fray Luis de Leon. In this poem, he represents Nelson appearing the same night on the heights of Trafalgar, and foretelling England’s approaching ruin, notwithstanding the victory which had been gained “so dearly, as to be in reality a discomfiture.” He observes, that “Napoleon, having overcome the Austrians, would now turn all his energies to the conquest of England, while Spain would raise a mightier fleet to join him. He therefore counselled his countrymen to abandon their ambitious projects and make peace, and to create disunion in foreign countries by corrupting their cabinets, for the purpose of maintaining their preponderance.” The thoughts are expressed in elegant poetical language, but the whole argument shows how little feeling he had in favour of the subject. In the last edition of his works prepared for publication before his death, he took care to have it omitted, but it has been again inserted in subsequent editions.
Prior to this, however, he had had a full opportunity of judging the character of the English nation. He had obtained permission to go abroad from Godoy, who also munificently gave him the means for that purpose. He first went to Paris, where he had scarcely arrived, in September 1792, when hearing a great tumult in the streets, and looking out for the occasion of it, he saw the head of the Princess de Lamballe borne along by the infuriated multitude on a pike. Horror-struck at the sight, he immediately left Paris for London, as, says his biographer, “anxious to contemplate for the first time true liberty arrayed in popular forms, without the mortal convulsions of licentiousness, or the withering foot-marks of oppression.” Here he stayed about a year, taking notes of the lively impressions made on him of the “character, ideas, traditions, legislation, and political and commercial tendency of that singular nation, so worthy of being studied.” It may be allowed us to regret that those notes were never published, and perhaps the censor’s license for them could not have been obtained. The only fruit of his visit was a translation of Hamlet, which he published in 1798, on his return.
On leaving England, Moratin passed through Flanders and some parts of Germany and Switzerland to Italy, whence, after visiting all the principal cities there, he returned to Spain in December 1796. Previous to his arrival in Madrid, he had been appointed Secretary Interpreter of languages, a valuable appointment in itself, but still more so to him, as it left him sufficient leisure for study. He took advantage of this to proceed with several dramas with which he enriched the Spanish stage, and had projected others which he felt under the necessity of abandoning. In several of his pieces, and especially in the Mogigata, which Maury translates La Femelle Tartuffe, he had offended the clerical party, so that hewas denounced to the Inquisition, and though preserved from their power under the protection of Godoy, he was subjected to many and great annoyances. In consequence of these, he determined to give up further writing for the stage, contenting himself with producing afterwards only some translations from the French, and with preparing his most valuable work, ‘On the Spanish Theatre.’ This work treats the subject historically, and abounds with much interesting information as well as sound criticisms. On it he passed the latter years of his life, so that it was not published until after his death.
Shortly after his return from Italy he was named one of a commission to reform the stage, and on this proving insufficient for the purposes intended, he was appointed Director of Theatres by royal order. No one, it might be thought, could be better adapted for this office, and it would have seemed one agreeable to his inclinations; but he declined it, preferring to effect the reforms he recommended by example rather than by exercise of authority.
The events of the 19th March, 1808, deprived Godoy of his power, and the French armies soon after entered Madrid. Moratin had remained at his post in the execution of the duties of his office, and became involved in the course of proceedings, the final character of which he could not foresee. He was set down as one of the French party, and so exposed to public obloquy, that when the French had to evacuate Madrid, he felt himself under the necessity of going with them. When they returned he returned with them, and was appointed, by Joseph Buonaparte, Chief of the Royal Library, an appointment which was most congenial to his taste, and which would have been exceedingly appropriate for him to accept, had it been only from the national government.
As it was, he had to fly from Madrid a second time with the intruders, and henceforth there was nothing for him in life but privations to endure. Some houses which he had bought had been seized, and one of them sold. Another, which was restored to him, had been much injured, and his books and property destroyed. His benefices were denied him; a merchant, with whom he had entrusted his money, became bankrupt; and a dependent, in whom he had confided, by his defalcation brought a further heavy loss on his means. He had at first retired to France, but having been excepted from the list of the proscribed by Ferdinand VII., he returned to Spain, and for a length of time resided at Barcelona. But the Inquisition was attempting to rise again into power, and Moratin, naturally of a timid disposition, felt himself marked out for a victim. He could not submit to live subject to be watched and kept in constant alarm; and even when this office was finally put down, he felt the frequent recurrence of public commotions more agitating than he could endure. He therefore determined again to retire to France, first to Bayonne, in 1823, and afterwards to Bordeaux, to live with a friend, named Silvela, who had a seminary at that place, and in whose society he felt sure of enjoying domestic happiness.
Through his whole life, Moratin seems to have required the aid of friends on whom to rely for daily needs and attentions; and it was fortunate for him, in his advanced age and under the pressure of infirmities, to possess such a resting-place as in Silvela’s establishment. Shortly after this friend removed to Paris, where also Moratin followed him, and there he died, the 21st June, 1828. He was buried in the cemetery of Père la Chaise, in one of the lines to the right of the chapel, between the remains of Molière and Lafontaine, where a simple monument, with a cinerary urn, marks his grave.
“There,” says his biographer, “in a foreign land, lies a celebrated Spaniard, to whom his country did not offer sufficient security to allow him to die tranquilly in her bosom. A manaverse to all party feeling, obedient to existing authority, whether of fact or of right, absorbed in his studies, teacher from his retirement of the purest morality, incapable of injuring any one, or of exciting disorder even indirectly, he had to wander forth many years, not proscribed, but driven away by apprehensions too justly entertained.”
After his death there were several editions of his works published, both in France and Spain: the last one in the collection of Spanish authors by Rivadeneyra, Madrid 1848, as the last seems most correct and complete. This republication is more interesting, as also containing, in the same volume, the works of his father, Nicolas Moratin. It is to be regretted that other works of his, yet existing in manuscript, have not been added, especially the account of his travels.
Moratin was an exceedingly careful writer, and very fastidious in the correction of his verses. His admirers, especially those of the classic school, have praised him as a great lyric poet, even superior to Melendez. This, however, he felt was not just; and without derogating from his merits, we must pronounce him far inferior to that eminent poet, whose works surpassed all that had preceded him in Spanish poetry. The fame of Moratin must rest on his plays, into which, however, it is not the object of this work to enter, confined as it is to lyric poetry. They are only five in number, and, like Sheridan’s, are remarkable for neatness and elegance of dialogue, as much as for incident and character. The Spanish theatre owes all its subsequent merit to Moratin; he reformed the taste of the times by giving the stage better works than it had previously possessed, and assuredly was thus one of the greatest public benefactors of his age.