NOTES.

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

Lady of the dark head-dress,And monkish vest of purple hue,Gladly would Boabdil giveGranada for a kiss of you.

Lady of the dark head-dress,

And monkish vest of purple hue,

Gladly would Boabdil give

Granada for a kiss of you.

He would give the best adventureOf the bravest horseman tried,And with all its verdant freshnessA whole bank of Darro’s tide.

He would give the best adventure

Of the bravest horseman tried,

And with all its verdant freshness

A whole bank of Darro’s tide.

He would give rich carpets, perfumes,Armours of rare price and force,And so much he values you,A troop, ay, of his favourite horse.

He would give rich carpets, perfumes,

Armours of rare price and force,

And so much he values you,

A troop, ay, of his favourite horse.

“Because thine eyes are beautiful,Because the morning’s blushing lightFrom them arises to the East,And gilds the whole world bright.

“Because thine eyes are beautiful,

Because the morning’s blushing light

From them arises to the East,

And gilds the whole world bright.

“From thy lips smiles are flowing,From thy tongue gentle peace,Light and aërial as the courseOf the purple morning’s breeze.

“From thy lips smiles are flowing,

From thy tongue gentle peace,

Light and aërial as the course

Of the purple morning’s breeze.

“O! lovely Nazarene, how choice!For an Eastern harem’s pride,Those dark locks waving freelyThy crystal neck beside.

“O! lovely Nazarene, how choice!

For an Eastern harem’s pride,

Those dark locks waving freely

Thy crystal neck beside.

“Upon a couch of velvet,I n a cloud of perfumed air,Wrapp’d in the white and flowing veilOf Mahomet’s daughters fair.

“Upon a couch of velvet,

I n a cloud of perfumed air,

Wrapp’d in the white and flowing veil

Of Mahomet’s daughters fair.

“O, Lady! come to Cordova,There Sultana thou shalt be,And the Sultan there, Sultana,Shall be but a slave for thee.

“O, Lady! come to Cordova,

There Sultana thou shalt be,

And the Sultan there, Sultana,

Shall be but a slave for thee.

“Such riches he will give thee,And such robes of Tunisine,That thou wilt judge thy beauty,To repay him for them, mean.”

“Such riches he will give thee,

And such robes of Tunisine,

That thou wilt judge thy beauty,

To repay him for them, mean.”

O! Lady of the dark head-dress!That him a kiss of thee might bless,Resign a realm Boabdil would!But I for that, fair Christian, fainWould give of heavens, and think it gain,A thousand if I only could.

O! Lady of the dark head-dress!

That him a kiss of thee might bless,

Resign a realm Boabdil would!

But I for that, fair Christian, fain

Would give of heavens, and think it gain,

A thousand if I only could.

I go, fair Nazarene, tomorrowTo queenly Cordova again;Then thou, my song of love and sorrowTo hear, no longer mayst complain,Sung to the compass of my chain.When home the Christians shall return,In triumph o’er the Moorish foe,My cruel destiny wouldst thou learn?The history of my loves to know,The blood upon their hands shall show.Better it were at once to close,In this dark tower a captive here,The life I suffer now of woes,Than that today thou sett’st me clear;Alas! thou sell’st it very dear.Adieu! tomorrow o’er, thy slaveMay never vex thy soul again,But vain is all the hope it gave:Still must I bear the captive’s chain,Thine eyes my prison still remain.Fair Christian! baleful is my star;What values it this life to me,If I must bear it from thee far?Nor in Granada’s bowers may be,Nor, my fair Cordova, with thee?Today’s bright sun to me will seemA lamp unseasonably by:Daughter of Spain, thy beauties gleamAlone my sun and moon on high,The dawn and brightness of my sky.Since then I lose thy light today,Without that light I cannot live!To Cordova I take my way;But in the doom my fortunes give,Alas! ’tis death that I receive.A paradise and houri fairHas Mahomet promised we shall prove:Aye, thou wilt be an angel there,And in that blissful realm aboveWe meet again, and there to love.

I go, fair Nazarene, tomorrowTo queenly Cordova again;Then thou, my song of love and sorrowTo hear, no longer mayst complain,Sung to the compass of my chain.

I go, fair Nazarene, tomorrow

To queenly Cordova again;

Then thou, my song of love and sorrow

To hear, no longer mayst complain,

Sung to the compass of my chain.

When home the Christians shall return,In triumph o’er the Moorish foe,My cruel destiny wouldst thou learn?The history of my loves to know,The blood upon their hands shall show.

When home the Christians shall return,

In triumph o’er the Moorish foe,

My cruel destiny wouldst thou learn?

The history of my loves to know,

The blood upon their hands shall show.

Better it were at once to close,In this dark tower a captive here,The life I suffer now of woes,Than that today thou sett’st me clear;Alas! thou sell’st it very dear.

Better it were at once to close,

In this dark tower a captive here,

The life I suffer now of woes,

Than that today thou sett’st me clear;

Alas! thou sell’st it very dear.

Adieu! tomorrow o’er, thy slaveMay never vex thy soul again,But vain is all the hope it gave:Still must I bear the captive’s chain,Thine eyes my prison still remain.

Adieu! tomorrow o’er, thy slave

May never vex thy soul again,

But vain is all the hope it gave:

Still must I bear the captive’s chain,

Thine eyes my prison still remain.

Fair Christian! baleful is my star;What values it this life to me,If I must bear it from thee far?Nor in Granada’s bowers may be,Nor, my fair Cordova, with thee?

Fair Christian! baleful is my star;

What values it this life to me,

If I must bear it from thee far?

Nor in Granada’s bowers may be,

Nor, my fair Cordova, with thee?

Today’s bright sun to me will seemA lamp unseasonably by:Daughter of Spain, thy beauties gleamAlone my sun and moon on high,The dawn and brightness of my sky.

Today’s bright sun to me will seem

A lamp unseasonably by:

Daughter of Spain, thy beauties gleam

Alone my sun and moon on high,

The dawn and brightness of my sky.

Since then I lose thy light today,Without that light I cannot live!To Cordova I take my way;But in the doom my fortunes give,Alas! ’tis death that I receive.

Since then I lose thy light today,

Without that light I cannot live!

To Cordova I take my way;

But in the doom my fortunes give,

Alas! ’tis death that I receive.

A paradise and houri fairHas Mahomet promised we shall prove:Aye, thou wilt be an angel there,And in that blissful realm aboveWe meet again, and there to love.

A paradise and houri fair

Has Mahomet promised we shall prove:

Aye, thou wilt be an angel there,

And in that blissful realm above

We meet again, and there to love.

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

Dark-shadow’d giant! shame of proud Castille,

Castle without bridge, battlements or towers,

In whose wide halls now loathsome reptiles steal,

Where nobles once and warriors held their bowers!

Tell me, where are they? where thy tapestries gay,

Thy hundred troubadours of lofty song?

Thy mouldering ruins in the vale decay,

Thou humbled warrior! time has quell’d the strong:

Thy name and history to oblivion thrown,

The world forgets that there thou standst, Munion.

To me thou art a spectre, shade of grief!With black remembrances my soul’s o’ercast;To me thou art a palm with wither’d leaf,Burnt by the lightning, bow’d beneath the blast.I, wandering bard, proscribed perchance my doomIn the bier’s dust nor name, nor glory know;With useless toil my brow’s consumed in gloom;Of her I loved, dark dwelling-place below,Whom I was robb’d of, angel from above,Cursed be thy name, thy soil, as was my love.

To me thou art a spectre, shade of grief!

With black remembrances my soul’s o’ercast;

To me thou art a palm with wither’d leaf,

Burnt by the lightning, bow’d beneath the blast.

I, wandering bard, proscribed perchance my doom

In the bier’s dust nor name, nor glory know;

With useless toil my brow’s consumed in gloom;

Of her I loved, dark dwelling-place below,

Whom I was robb’d of, angel from above,

Cursed be thy name, thy soil, as was my love.

There rest, aye, in thy loftiness,To shame the plain around,Warderless castle, matron lone,In whom no beauty’s found.At thee time laughs, thy towers o’erthrown,Scorn’d by thy vassals, by thy LordDeserted, rest, black skeleton!Stain of the vale’s green sward.

There rest, aye, in thy loftiness,

To shame the plain around,

Warderless castle, matron lone,

In whom no beauty’s found.

At thee time laughs, thy towers o’erthrown,

Scorn’d by thy vassals, by thy Lord

Deserted, rest, black skeleton!

Stain of the vale’s green sward.

Priestless hermitage of Castille,On thee no banners wave;Unblazon’d gate, thy pointed vaultsNo more their weight can save:Thou hast no soldier on thy heights,No echo in thy halls,And rank weeds festering grow uncheck’dBeneath thy mouldering walls.

Priestless hermitage of Castille,

On thee no banners wave;

Unblazon’d gate, thy pointed vaults

No more their weight can save:

Thou hast no soldier on thy heights,

No echo in thy halls,

And rank weeds festering grow uncheck’d

Beneath thy mouldering walls.

Chieftain dead in a foreign land,Forgotten of thy race,While storm-torn fragments from thy browAre scatter’d o’er thy place;And men pass careless at thy feet,Nor seek thy tale to find;Because thy history is not read,Thy name’s not in their mind.

Chieftain dead in a foreign land,

Forgotten of thy race,

While storm-torn fragments from thy brow

Are scatter’d o’er thy place;

And men pass careless at thy feet,

Nor seek thy tale to find;

Because thy history is not read,

Thy name’s not in their mind.

But thou hast one, who in a luckless hourInscribed another’s name on thy worn stone:’Twas I, and that my deep relentless shameRemains with thee alone.When my lips named that name, they play’d me false;When my hands graved it, ’twas a like deceit;Now it exists not; in time’s impious course’Twas swept beneath his feet.

But thou hast one, who in a luckless hour

Inscribed another’s name on thy worn stone:

’Twas I, and that my deep relentless shame

Remains with thee alone.

When my lips named that name, they play’d me false;

When my hands graved it, ’twas a like deceit;

Now it exists not; in time’s impious course

’Twas swept beneath his feet.

And that celestial name,To time at length a prey,A woman for my sin,For a seraph snatch’d away;The hurricane of lifeHas left me, loved one, worseFor my eternal grief,In pledge as of a curse,Thy name ne’er from my thoughts to part,Nor thy love ever from my heart.

And that celestial name,

To time at length a prey,

A woman for my sin,

For a seraph snatch’d away;

The hurricane of life

Has left me, loved one, worse

For my eternal grief,

In pledge as of a curse,

Thy name ne’er from my thoughts to part,

Nor thy love ever from my heart.

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

Yesterday the morning’s light

Shone on thy window crystal bright,

And lightsome breezes floating there

Gave richest perfumes to the air,

Which the gay flowers had lent to them,

All scatter’d from the unequal stem.

The nightingale had bathed his wingBeneath the neighbouring murmuring spring;And birds, and flowers, and streamlets gay,Seem’d to salute the new-born day;And in requital of the light,Their grateful harmony unite.

The nightingale had bathed his wing

Beneath the neighbouring murmuring spring;

And birds, and flowers, and streamlets gay,

Seem’d to salute the new-born day;

And in requital of the light,

Their grateful harmony unite.

The sun was bright, the sky serene,The garden fresh and pleasant seen;Life was delight, and thou, sweet maid,No blush of shame thy charms betray’d;For innocence ruled o’er thy breast,Alike thy waking and thy rest.

The sun was bright, the sky serene,

The garden fresh and pleasant seen;

Life was delight, and thou, sweet maid,

No blush of shame thy charms betray’d;

For innocence ruled o’er thy breast,

Alike thy waking and thy rest.

Maiden, or angel upon earth,Thy laugh, and song of gentle mirth,In heaven were surely heard; thine eyesWere stars, and like sweet melodiesThy wandering tones; thy breath perfume,And dawn-like thy complexion’s bloom.

Maiden, or angel upon earth,

Thy laugh, and song of gentle mirth,

In heaven were surely heard; thine eyes

Were stars, and like sweet melodies

Thy wandering tones; thy breath perfume,

And dawn-like thy complexion’s bloom.

As phantoms then thou didst not findThe hours pass heavy on thy mind,A poet, under Love’s decree,Sang melancholy songs to thee;And of his griefs the voice they lendThou didst not, maiden, comprehend.

As phantoms then thou didst not find

The hours pass heavy on thy mind,

A poet, under Love’s decree,

Sang melancholy songs to thee;

And of his griefs the voice they lend

Thou didst not, maiden, comprehend.

Poor maiden, now what change has comeO’er that glad brow and youthful bloom?Forgotten flower, thy leaves are sere,Thy fruitless blossoms dried appear;Thy powerless stem all broken, low,May to the sun no colours show.

Poor maiden, now what change has come

O’er that glad brow and youthful bloom?

Forgotten flower, thy leaves are sere,

Thy fruitless blossoms dried appear;

Thy powerless stem all broken, low,

May to the sun no colours show.

O! dark-eyed maid of ill-starr’d birth,Why camest thou on this evil earth?Rose amid tangled briars born,What waits thee from the world but scorn?A blasting breath around thee, see,Thy bloom is gone, who’ll ask for thee?

O! dark-eyed maid of ill-starr’d birth,

Why camest thou on this evil earth?

Rose amid tangled briars born,

What waits thee from the world but scorn?

A blasting breath around thee, see,

Thy bloom is gone, who’ll ask for thee?

Return, my angel, to thy sphere,Before the world shall see thee here:The joys of earth are cursed and brief,Buy them not with eternal grief!Heaven is alone, my soul, secureThe mansion for an angel pure.

Return, my angel, to thy sphere,

Before the world shall see thee here:

The joys of earth are cursed and brief,

Buy them not with eternal grief!

Heaven is alone, my soul, secure

The mansion for an angel pure.

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

Upon the obscure and lonely tomb,

Beneath the yellow evening’s gloom,

To offer up to Heaven I come,

For her I loved, my prayer!

Upon the marble bow’d my head,

Around my knees the moist herbs spread,

The wild flowers bend beneath my tread,

That deck the thicket there.

Far from the world, and pleasures vain,From earth my frenzied thoughts to gain,And read in characters yet plainNames of the long since past;There by the gilded lamp alone,That waves above the altar stone,As by the wandering breezes moan,A light’s upon me cast.

Far from the world, and pleasures vain,

From earth my frenzied thoughts to gain,

And read in characters yet plain

Names of the long since past;

There by the gilded lamp alone,

That waves above the altar stone,

As by the wandering breezes moan,

A light’s upon me cast.

Perchance some bird will pause its flightUpon the funeral cypress height,Warbling the absence of the light,As sorrowing for its loss;Or takes leave of the day’s bright power,From the high window of the tower,Or skims, where dark the cupolas lower,On the gigantic cross.

Perchance some bird will pause its flight

Upon the funeral cypress height,

Warbling the absence of the light,

As sorrowing for its loss;

Or takes leave of the day’s bright power,

From the high window of the tower,

Or skims, where dark the cupolas lower,

On the gigantic cross.

With eyes immersed in tears, aroundI watch it silent from the ground,Until it startled flies the soundThe harsh bolts creaking gave;A funeral smile salutes me dread,The only dweller with the dead,Lends me a hard and rough hand, ledTo ope another grave.

With eyes immersed in tears, around

I watch it silent from the ground,

Until it startled flies the sound

The harsh bolts creaking gave;

A funeral smile salutes me dread,

The only dweller with the dead,

Lends me a hard and rough hand, led

To ope another grave.

Pardon, O God! the worldly thought,Nor mark it midst my prayer;Grant it to pass, with evil fraught,As die the river’s murmurings broughtUpon the breezy air.

Pardon, O God! the worldly thought,

Nor mark it midst my prayer;

Grant it to pass, with evil fraught,

As die the river’s murmurings brought

Upon the breezy air.

Why does a worldly image riseAs if my prayer to stain?Perchance in evil shadow’s guise,Which may when by the morrow fliesSign of a curse remain.

Why does a worldly image rise

As if my prayer to stain?

Perchance in evil shadow’s guise,

Which may when by the morrow flies

Sign of a curse remain.

Why has my mind been doom’d to dreamA phantom loveliness?To see those charms transparent gleam,That brow in tranquil light supreme,And neck’s peculiar grace?

Why has my mind been doom’d to dream

A phantom loveliness?

To see those charms transparent gleam,

That brow in tranquil light supreme,

And neck’s peculiar grace?

Not heighten’d its enchantments shineBy pomp or worldly glow;I only see that form reclineIn tears, before some sacred shrine,Or castle walls below.

Not heighten’d its enchantments shine

By pomp or worldly glow;

I only see that form recline

In tears, before some sacred shrine,

Or castle walls below.

Like a forgotten offering lone,In ruin’d temple laid;Upon the carved and time-worn stone,Where fell it by the rough wind thrown,So bent beneath the shade.

Like a forgotten offering lone,

In ruin’d temple laid;

Upon the carved and time-worn stone,

Where fell it by the rough wind thrown,

So bent beneath the shade.

With such a picture in my mind,Such name upon my ear,Before my God the place to find,Where the forgotten are consign’d,I come, and bow down here.

With such a picture in my mind,

Such name upon my ear,

Before my God the place to find,

Where the forgotten are consign’d,

I come, and bow down here.

With eyes all vaguely motionless,Perhaps my wanderings viewThe dead, with horror and distress,As, roused up in their resting-place,They look their dark walls through.

With eyes all vaguely motionless,

Perhaps my wanderings view

The dead, with horror and distress,

As, roused up in their resting-place,

They look their dark walls through.

’Twas not to muse I hither cameOf nothingness my part;Nor of my God, but of a name,That deep in characters of flameIs written on my heart.

’Twas not to muse I hither came

Of nothingness my part;

Nor of my God, but of a name,

That deep in characters of flame

Is written on my heart.

Pardon, O God! the worldly thought,Nor mark it midst my prayer;Grant it to pass, with evil fraught,As die the river’s murmurings broughtUpon the breezy air.

Pardon, O God! the worldly thought,

Nor mark it midst my prayer;

Grant it to pass, with evil fraught,

As die the river’s murmurings brought

Upon the breezy air.

This name (pronounced Hovellianos) was formerly written as two distinct names, Jove Llanos, as it is still by several members of the family, one, an Advocate, at present at Madrid, and another the Spanish Consul at Jamaica.

Antonio Alcalà Galiano, author also of the able article in the Foreign Quarterly Review on Jovellanos, afterwards mentioned. He was born at Cadiz, in 1789, the son of a distinguished officer in the Spanish navy, who was killed at Trafalgar. In his youth, Alcalà Galiano studied the English language so assiduously as to receive much benefit from his knowledge of it when he had to take refuge in London, on the various political changes that took place in Spain. He then wrote much for the Westminster and Foreign Quarterly Reviews, as well as other publications, and was subsequently named one of the Professors of Languages in the London University. Having returned to Spain, on the death of Ferdinand VII., he was appointed a Minister of State, with the Señor Isturitz, and has held, at various times, several high offices in the government. In the Cortes he was considered one of the most able orators of his time, having been put on a rivalry with Martinez de la Rosa and Argüelles. He has published a few poems, and contributed several valuable papers for the different learned societies of Madrid, besides having written much for the periodicals, according to the continental system for public men seeking to disseminate their opinions. His principal work as anauthor is a ‘History of Spain.’ Ferrer del Rio says of him, that “he writes Spanish with an English idiom, and though he puts his name to a history of Spain, it seems a translation from the language of Byron.” Few foreigners have ever obtained so complete a knowledge of the English language; in fact his writings in the several reviews might be pointed out as compositions which would do credit to our own best writers. As an instance of his knowledge of the state of literature in England, we may quote a few observations from an article bearing his name in the first number of the Madrid Review. He says, “The Bible and the Plays of Shakespeare, if they may be named together without profanation, are the two works which have most influence on the thoughts of the English;” adding, that “classical literature is there better cultivated than in France, or at least cultivated with more profound knowledge,” deducing the conclusion, “that the English drama is consequently radically different from the French.”

This industrious writer was born at Gijon, in 1749, and died at Cadiz in 1829. He may be termed the Vasari of Spain, as the historian of the artists of his country. His two biographical works, the one on her painters, the other on her architects, are a rich mine of materials. The former was published in six volumes 8vo, in 1800: the latter, in four volumes 4to, was almost the last work on which he was engaged, and did not appear till 1829. Besides these, he was the author of various other publications on the principal edifices in Seville, and had completed a ‘History of the Roman Antiquities in Spain;’ a ‘General History of Painting;’ a work on ‘Architecture,’ and other pieces, which yet remain unedited. As a fellow-townsman, as well as an artist of considerable genius, he was much assisted by Jovellanos, who, when Minister of State, gave him a valuable appointment at Madrid under the government. When that eminent individual fell, his friends had to suffer also, and Cean Bermudez, deprived of his appointment, had to return to Seville, where he instituted a school for drawing. It was no doubt under the feelings of regret, occasioned by the reflection of having his friends involved in his misfortunes, that Jovellanos wrote to him the Epistle selected for translation in this work.

See Hermosilla, ‘Juicio Critico de los principales Poetas Españoles de la ultima era,’ vol. i. p. 11.

From Works of Jovellanos, Mellado’s edition, vol. iv. p. 226.

From the same, p. 369.

From the same, p. 368. In submission to the recommendations of several friends to give the original of at least part or the whole of some one poem of each author, from whose works the translations have been made, selections of such as the English students of Spanish literature would probably most desire, are offered for their comparison.

Riñen me bella EnardaLos mozos y los viejos,Por que tal vez jugandoTe escribo dulces versos.Debiera un magistrado(Susurran) mas severo,De las livianas MusasHuir el vil comercio.Que mal el tiempo gastas!Predican otros,—peroPor mas que todos riñanTengo de escribir versos.Quiero loar de EnardaEl peregrino ingenioAl son de mi zampoñaY en bien medidos metros.Quiero de su hermosuraEncaramar al cieloLas altas perfecciones;De su semblante quieroCantar el dulce hechizoY con pincel maestroPintar su frente hermosaSus traviesos ojuelos,El carmin de sus labios,La nieve de su cuello;Y vàyanse à la … al rolloLos Catonianos ceñosLas frentes arrugadasY adustos sobrecejos,Que Enarda serà siempreCelebrada en mis versos.

Riñen me bella Enarda

Los mozos y los viejos,

Por que tal vez jugando

Te escribo dulces versos.

Debiera un magistrado

(Susurran) mas severo,

De las livianas Musas

Huir el vil comercio.

Que mal el tiempo gastas!

Predican otros,—pero

Por mas que todos riñan

Tengo de escribir versos.

Quiero loar de EnardaEl peregrino ingenioAl son de mi zampoñaY en bien medidos metros.Quiero de su hermosuraEncaramar al cieloLas altas perfecciones;De su semblante quieroCantar el dulce hechizoY con pincel maestroPintar su frente hermosaSus traviesos ojuelos,El carmin de sus labios,La nieve de su cuello;Y vàyanse à la … al rolloLos Catonianos ceñosLas frentes arrugadasY adustos sobrecejos,Que Enarda serà siempreCelebrada en mis versos.

Quiero loar de Enarda

El peregrino ingenio

Al son de mi zampoña

Y en bien medidos metros.

Quiero de su hermosura

Encaramar al cielo

Las altas perfecciones;

De su semblante quiero

Cantar el dulce hechizo

Y con pincel maestro

Pintar su frente hermosa

Sus traviesos ojuelos,

El carmin de sus labios,

La nieve de su cuello;

Y vàyanse à la … al rollo

Los Catonianos ceños

Las frentes arrugadas

Y adustos sobrecejos,

Que Enarda serà siempre

Celebrada en mis versos.

From Works of Jovellanos, vol. iv. p. 364.

From Works of Tomas Iriarte, 1805, vol. ii. p. 56.

Domingo Iriarte was subsequently much engaged in the diplomatic service of Spain, and signed the treaty of peace with France of 1795, as Plenipotentiary, along with the celebrated M. Barthélemy.

The following is the original of this passage:—

Mas ya dexar te miroLos confines Germanos,Y el polìtico giroSeguir hasta los ùltimos Britanos.Desde luego la corte populosaCuyas murallas bañaLa corriente anchurosaDel Tàmesis, la imàgen te presentaDe una nacion en todo bien extraña:Nacion en otros siglos no opulenta,Hoi feliz por su industria, y siempre esenta:Nacion tan liberal como ambiciosa;Flemàtica y activa;Ingenua, pero adusta;Humana, pero altiva;Y en la causa que abraza, iniqua ó justaViolenta defensora,Del riesgo y del temor despreciadora.Alli serà preciso que te asombresDe ver (qual no habràs visto en parte alguna)Obrar y hablar con libertad los hombres.Admiraràs la rapida fortunaQue alli logra el valor y la eloqüencia,Sin que ni el oro, ni la ilustre cunaRoben el premio al mèrito y la ciencia.Adverteràs el numeroso enxambreDe diligentes y habiles IsleñosQue han procurado, del comercio DueñosNo conocer la ociosidad ni el hambre;Ocupados en ùtiles inventosEn fàbricas, caminos, arsenales,Escuelas, academias, hospitales,Libros, experimentos,Y estudios de las Artes liberales.Alli sabràs, en fin, à quanto alcanzaLa sabia educacion, y el acertadoMètodo de patriòtica enseñanza,La privada ambicion bien dirigidaAl pùblico provecho del Estado;La justa recompensa y acogidaEn que fundan las Letras su esperanza,Y el desvelo de un pròvido GobiernoQue al bien aspira, y à un renombre eterno.

Mas ya dexar te miro

Los confines Germanos,

Y el polìtico giro

Seguir hasta los ùltimos Britanos.

Desde luego la corte populosa

Cuyas murallas baña

La corriente anchurosa

Del Tàmesis, la imàgen te presenta

De una nacion en todo bien extraña:

Nacion en otros siglos no opulenta,

Hoi feliz por su industria, y siempre esenta:

Nacion tan liberal como ambiciosa;

Flemàtica y activa;

Ingenua, pero adusta;

Humana, pero altiva;

Y en la causa que abraza, iniqua ó justa

Violenta defensora,

Del riesgo y del temor despreciadora.

Alli serà preciso que te asombres

De ver (qual no habràs visto en parte alguna)

Obrar y hablar con libertad los hombres.

Admiraràs la rapida fortuna

Que alli logra el valor y la eloqüencia,

Sin que ni el oro, ni la ilustre cuna

Roben el premio al mèrito y la ciencia.

Adverteràs el numeroso enxambre

De diligentes y habiles Isleños

Que han procurado, del comercio Dueños

No conocer la ociosidad ni el hambre;

Ocupados en ùtiles inventos

En fàbricas, caminos, arsenales,

Escuelas, academias, hospitales,

Libros, experimentos,

Y estudios de las Artes liberales.

Alli sabràs, en fin, à quanto alcanza

La sabia educacion, y el acertado

Mètodo de patriòtica enseñanza,

La privada ambicion bien dirigida

Al pùblico provecho del Estado;

La justa recompensa y acogida

En que fundan las Letras su esperanza,

Y el desvelo de un pròvido Gobierno

Que al bien aspira, y à un renombre eterno.

This Epistle is addressed to his brother, as the reader may observe, in the second person singular, which, in Spanish, has a tone of more familiarity than in English, and understanding it so intended, I have altered it, in the translation, into our colloquial form of the second person plural.

The above extract is the same in his printed works of both editions; but I have in my possession a collection of his manuscripts, among which is a copy of this Epistle, with several variations, less flattering to England. Had he lived to superintend the second edition, these variations might probably have been adopted in it. They are not, however, of any material variance, but they seem to me to show that his eulogium had not been favourably received in some quarters, and that he had therefore thought it prudent to soften it in preparing for another edition. The publisher of the edition of 1805 does not seem to have been aware of these manuscripts, nor indeed to have taken the trouble of doing more for Iriarte’s memory than merely to reprint the first edition, without even any biographical or critical notice of him or his writings, as he might well have done, Iriarte having been then deceased fourteen years.

For another eloquent and encomiastic description of English usages and institutions, the student of Spanish literature would do well to read a work, published in London in 1834, by the Marques de Miraflores, ‘Apuntes historico-criticos para escribir la Historia de la Revolucion de España.’ This distinguished nobleman was born the 23rd December, 1792, at Madrid, and succeeded to the honours and vast property of his ancient house in 1809, on the death of his elder brother, during the campaign of that year. He has been much engaged in public affairs, having held various offices in the state. He has been twice Ambassador to England; the last time, Ambassador Extraordinary on the coronation of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. The Marques has written several works on political subjects, of which the one above-mentioned is particularly deserving of study.

Stet quicumque volet potensAulæ culmine lubrico:Me dulcis saturet quies.Obscuro positus locoLeni perfruar otio.Nullis notus QuiritibusÆtas per tacitum fluat.Sic cum transierint meiNullo cum strepitu dies,Plebeius moriar senex.Illi mors gravis incubatQui notus nimis omnibusIgnotus moritur sibi.

Stet quicumque volet potens

Aulæ culmine lubrico:

Me dulcis saturet quies.

Obscuro positus loco

Leni perfruar otio.

Nullis notus Quiritibus

Ætas per tacitum fluat.

Sic cum transierint mei

Nullo cum strepitu dies,

Plebeius moriar senex.

Illi mors gravis incubat

Qui notus nimis omnibus

Ignotus moritur sibi.

Thyestes, Act II. The critical reader will observe, that the translation into English has been made from the Spanish rather than the Latin.

The Fables translated are numbered respectively III., VIII., XI., LIII. and LIV., in the original collection. The two first, III. and VIII., having been given by Bouterwek as specimens of Iriarte’s style, without any translation, I took them for my first essays, and had already versified them, before finding Roscoe had done the same also in his translation of Sismondi, and it was subsequently to that I became aware of other similar versions. Having, however, made those translations, I have, notwithstanding the others, allowed them to remain in this work. The fable of the Two Rabbits has been selected as particularly noticed by Martinez de la Rosa, and the others almost without cause of peculiar preference. The last one contains an old but good lesson, which cannot be too frequently and earnestly repeated:—

Ego nec studium sine divite venâNec rude quid prosit video ingenium, alterius sicAltera poscit opem res et conjurat amicè.

Ego nec studium sine divite venâ

Nec rude quid prosit video ingenium, alterius sic

Altera poscit opem res et conjurat amicè.

Diego Gonzalez was born at Ciudad Rodrigo in 1733, and died at Madrid, 1794. Josè Iglesias de la Casa was born at Salamanca in 1753, and died there in 1791. His poems were first published seven years after his death, and have been several times reprinted. The best edition is that of Barcelona, 1820, from which the one of Paris, 1821, was taken. The poems of Gonzalez also were first published after his death, and have been several times reprinted. Both wrote very pleasing verses, and are deservedly popular in Spain.

Hermosilla, author of a work, ‘Juicio Critico de los principales Poetas Españoles de la ultima era,’ published after his death, Paris 1840, gives in it, as Mr. Ticknor pithily observes, “a criticism of the poems of Melendez so severe that I find it difficult to explain its motive;” at the same time that he gives “an unreasonably laudatory criticism of L. Moratin’s works.” Hermosilla appears to have been a man of considerable learning, but little judgement. His criticisms are generally worthless, and the only excuse for him, with regard to his book, is, that he did not publish it. With regard to Melendez, taking every opportunity to depreciate his merits, he is constantly found constrained to acknowledge them, and sometimes even in contradiction to himself. Thus, having several times intimated, as at p. 31, that the erotic effusions of Melendez only were praiseworthy, he says, at p. 297, when speaking of his Epistles, that they are “his best compositions; thoughts, language, style, tone and versification, all in general are good.” In another part he censures Melendez for his poems addressed to different ladies, especially some to ‘Fanny,’ who appears to have been an Englishwoman; and yet those epistles, addressed to her, on the death of her husband, are among the purest and most elegant specimens that can be pointed out of consolation to a mourner. It is but justice to his editor, Salva, to say, that he has expressed his dissent from these criticisms, though he thought proper to publish the work.

This estimable nobleman, who died in 1850, was descended from the Counts of Haro, one of the three great families of Spain. He was the munificent friend of literary men, and in the case of Melendez extended his protection to the dead, having taken much personal trouble to have his remains removed from the common burying-ground to a vault, where they might not afterwards be disturbed. He also wrote verses occasionally, of which havebeen preserved, by Del Rio, a ‘Sonnet to the Duke of Wellington,’ and by Ochoa, an ‘Elegy on the Death of his Duchess,’ whose virtues will be found hereafter commemorated by Martinez de la Rosa.

In taking the edition of 1820 for the text, Salvà, in his edition, has exercised much judgement in giving some of the poems as they were originally published, rather than as Melendez afterwards had left them, weakened by over-correction.

Salvà was in early life distinguished for learning and study, having been, when only twenty years of age, named Professor of Greek in the University of Alcalà de Henares. On the French invasion he returned to his native city Valencia, and engaged in trade as a bookseller, in which occupation he continued in London, when obliged to emigrate hither in 1823, in consequence of his having joined in the political events of the times. He had been, during those events, Deputy from Valencia, and Secretary to the Cortes. In 1830 he transferred his house to Paris, where he continued his pursuits, publishing many valuable works of his own compilation, as a Grammar and Dictionary of the Spanish language, as well as editing and superintending the publication of many other standard works. He closed his useful life, in his native city, in 1850.

Works of Melendez, Salvà’s Edition, vol. i. p. 39.

This piece was also taken for translation from Bouterwek, when first entering on a study of Spanish literature. From Bouterwek it was copied by Sismondi, when borrowing, as he did largely, from that compiler; but Mr. Roscoe has not given a translation of this, as he probably found it difficult to do so satisfactorily. It is in fact almost as difficult to translate Melendez as it is to translate Anacreon, their peculiar simplicity and grace being so nearly allied.

Works of Melendez,ibid., p. 263.

This poem having been particularly mentioned by Martinez de la Rosa as favourably characteristic of the style of the author, may be considered best to be selected as an exemplification of it. It is what is termed a Letrillia.

El Amante timido.En la pena agudaQue me hace sufrirEl Amor tiranoDesde que te viMil veces su alivioTe voy à pedir,Y luego, aldeana,Que llego ante ti,Si quiero atrevermeNo sè que decir.Las voces me faltanY mi frenesíCon mìseros ayesLas cuida suplirPero el dios que aleveSe burla de miCuanto ansio mas tiernoMis labios abrirSe quiero atrevermeNo sè que decir.Sus fuegos entoncesEmpieza à sentirTan vivos el almaQue pienso morir,Mis làgrimas corren,Mi agudo gemirTu pecho sensibleConmueve, y al finSi quiero atrevermeNo sè que decir.No lo sè, temblandoSi por descubrirCon loca esperanzaMi amor infeliz,Tu lado por siempreTendrè ya que huir:Sellàndome el miedoLa boca: y asìSi quiero atrevermeNo sè que decir.Ay! si tu, adorada,Pudieras oirMis hondos suspirosYo fuera feliz.Yo, Filis, lo fueraMas, triste de mi!Que tìmido al verteBurlarme y reir,Si quiero atrevermeNo sè que decir.

En la pena agudaQue me hace sufrirEl Amor tiranoDesde que te viMil veces su alivioTe voy à pedir,Y luego, aldeana,Que llego ante ti,Si quiero atrevermeNo sè que decir.

En la pena aguda

Que me hace sufrir

El Amor tirano

Desde que te vi

Mil veces su alivio

Te voy à pedir,

Y luego, aldeana,

Que llego ante ti,

Si quiero atreverme

No sè que decir.

Las voces me faltanY mi frenesíCon mìseros ayesLas cuida suplirPero el dios que aleveSe burla de miCuanto ansio mas tiernoMis labios abrirSe quiero atrevermeNo sè que decir.

Las voces me faltan

Y mi frenesí

Con mìseros ayes

Las cuida suplir

Pero el dios que aleve

Se burla de mi

Cuanto ansio mas tierno

Mis labios abrir

Se quiero atreverme

No sè que decir.

Sus fuegos entoncesEmpieza à sentirTan vivos el almaQue pienso morir,Mis làgrimas corren,Mi agudo gemirTu pecho sensibleConmueve, y al finSi quiero atrevermeNo sè que decir.

Sus fuegos entonces

Empieza à sentir

Tan vivos el alma

Que pienso morir,

Mis làgrimas corren,

Mi agudo gemir

Tu pecho sensible

Conmueve, y al fin

Si quiero atreverme

No sè que decir.

No lo sè, temblandoSi por descubrirCon loca esperanzaMi amor infeliz,Tu lado por siempreTendrè ya que huir:Sellàndome el miedoLa boca: y asìSi quiero atrevermeNo sè que decir.

No lo sè, temblando

Si por descubrir

Con loca esperanza

Mi amor infeliz,

Tu lado por siempre

Tendrè ya que huir:

Sellàndome el miedo

La boca: y asì

Si quiero atreverme

No sè que decir.

Ay! si tu, adorada,Pudieras oirMis hondos suspirosYo fuera feliz.Yo, Filis, lo fueraMas, triste de mi!Que tìmido al verteBurlarme y reir,Si quiero atrevermeNo sè que decir.

Ay! si tu, adorada,

Pudieras oir

Mis hondos suspiros

Yo fuera feliz.

Yo, Filis, lo fuera

Mas, triste de mi!

Que tìmido al verte

Burlarme y reir,

Si quiero atreverme

No sè que decir.

This and the two following poems are taken from those at pages 94, 110 and 64 of the first volume of the Works of Melendez Valdes; the Disdainful Shepherdess from the one at p. 62 of vol. ii.

For an excellent criticism on the Spanish drama, see the article in the twenty-fifth volume of the Quarterly Review.

In the sketch prefixed to the edition by Rivadeneyra, from which the two poems following are taken, at pages 581 and 582. The one to Jovellanos has been justly praised by Mr. Ticknor as one of his best, and from it we may in preference extract the commencement, as an exemplification of his style.

Si, la pura amistad, que en dulce nudoNuestras almas uniò, durable existeJovino ilustre, y ni la ausencia largaNi la distancia, ni interpuestos montesY proceloso mar que suena roco,De mi memoria apartaràn tu idea.Duro silencio à mi cariño impusoEl son de Marte, que suspende ahoraLa paz, la dulce paz. Sè que en obscuraDeliciosa quietud, contento vives,Siempre animado de incansable celoPor el pùblico bien; de las virtudesY del talento protector y amigo.Estos que formo de primor desnudos,No castigados de tu docta lima,Fàciles versos, la verdad te anuncienDe mi constante fe; y el cielo en tantoVuèlvame presto la ocasion de verteY renovar en familiar discursoCuanto à mi vista presentò del orbeLa varia escena. De mi patria orillaA las que el Sena turbulento baña,Teñido en sangre, del audaz BritanoDueño del mar, al aterido Belga,Del Rin profundo à las nevades cumbresDel Apenino, y la que en humo ardienteCubre y ceniza à Nàpoles canora,Pueblos, naciones, visitè distintasUtil sciencia adquirì, que nunca enseñaDocta leccion en retirada estancia,Que alli no ves la diferencia sumaQue el clima, el culto, la opinion, las artes,Las leyes causan. Hallaràsla soloSi al hombre estudias en el hombre mismo.

Si, la pura amistad, que en dulce nudo

Nuestras almas uniò, durable existe

Jovino ilustre, y ni la ausencia larga

Ni la distancia, ni interpuestos montes

Y proceloso mar que suena roco,

De mi memoria apartaràn tu idea.

Duro silencio à mi cariño impusoEl son de Marte, que suspende ahoraLa paz, la dulce paz. Sè que en obscuraDeliciosa quietud, contento vives,Siempre animado de incansable celoPor el pùblico bien; de las virtudesY del talento protector y amigo.Estos que formo de primor desnudos,No castigados de tu docta lima,Fàciles versos, la verdad te anuncienDe mi constante fe; y el cielo en tantoVuèlvame presto la ocasion de verteY renovar en familiar discursoCuanto à mi vista presentò del orbeLa varia escena. De mi patria orillaA las que el Sena turbulento baña,Teñido en sangre, del audaz BritanoDueño del mar, al aterido Belga,Del Rin profundo à las nevades cumbresDel Apenino, y la que en humo ardienteCubre y ceniza à Nàpoles canora,Pueblos, naciones, visitè distintasUtil sciencia adquirì, que nunca enseñaDocta leccion en retirada estancia,Que alli no ves la diferencia sumaQue el clima, el culto, la opinion, las artes,Las leyes causan. Hallaràsla soloSi al hombre estudias en el hombre mismo.

Duro silencio à mi cariño impuso

El son de Marte, que suspende ahora

La paz, la dulce paz. Sè que en obscura

Deliciosa quietud, contento vives,

Siempre animado de incansable celo

Por el pùblico bien; de las virtudes

Y del talento protector y amigo.

Estos que formo de primor desnudos,

No castigados de tu docta lima,

Fàciles versos, la verdad te anuncien

De mi constante fe; y el cielo en tanto

Vuèlvame presto la ocasion de verte

Y renovar en familiar discurso

Cuanto à mi vista presentò del orbe

La varia escena. De mi patria orilla

A las que el Sena turbulento baña,

Teñido en sangre, del audaz Britano

Dueño del mar, al aterido Belga,

Del Rin profundo à las nevades cumbres

Del Apenino, y la que en humo ardiente

Cubre y ceniza à Nàpoles canora,

Pueblos, naciones, visitè distintas

Util sciencia adquirì, que nunca enseña

Docta leccion en retirada estancia,

Que alli no ves la diferencia suma

Que el clima, el culto, la opinion, las artes,

Las leyes causan. Hallaràsla solo

Si al hombre estudias en el hombre mismo.

This poet’s name is pronounced Arriatha; the two poems selected for translation are taken, the first from p. 60 of Book III. of his works, edition of 1829. ‘The Parting, or the Young Sailor’s Farewell,’ fromibid., Book I. p. 77.

The eighth stanza, beginning in the translation, ‘With venal aid of hate assists,’ is in the original—

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