V.JUAN BAUTISTA DE ARRIAZA.

This moral fiction, which the facile Muse,Thalia kind inspired, and which awaitThe numerous crowds that throng the Spanish scene,Therein acquiring voice, and life, and form,To thee I now present, with feelings pureOf gratitude and love. By other pathThe difficult height of Pindus to ascend,In vain have I aspired, in vain; and oftHave wept me baffled, o’er the bold attempt.How often, striking the Aonian chords,To win her have I sought, so fleeting, coy,The beauty that in silence I adore!To imitate the voice and harmony,Which Echo erst repeated in the woodsOf green Zurgüen: oft as Clio wakedThe trumpet that diffuses martial rage,I wish’d, with her sublimest ardour fired,To celebrate the lofty deeds of Spain:From her proud neck as beating, broken off,The barbarous yoke; the conqueror in turnConquer’d on the burning sands of Libya:Numantia with the miseries appeased,Proud Rome was doom’d to know, abandon’d preyTo frightful military outrages:Cortes, in the valley of Otumba,Lord of the golden standard, at his feetThe sceptre of the West! but angrily,Menander’s muse offended, soon reprovedMy error, and the lyre and pastoral pipeSnatch’d from me, and the clarion of Mars.“Follow,” she said to me, “the only trackWhich my voice indicates, if thou wouldst seekThe honour, that despite of silent death,May make thy name immortal. I in loveA thousand times upon thy infant lipHave printed a soft kiss, and bade thee sleepTo the repeated heavenly tones I raised.Thou my delight wast ever, and my care;And the propitious gifts, which Nature shedOn thee, it was my joy to cultivate.Now with loud festive acclamation soundsThy country’s scene in thy just praise, on highThy glory to affirm. Thou follow onTo sacred Helicon, which Cynthia bathesWith her immortal light, the Muses’ crownOf ivy and of laurel there to gain.”Be not offended, Sir, if e’er so poorThe tribute that I dedicate; and whatCould worthy be the greatness of thy name?The gift is humble, the desire is rich;And not sufficing more my sterile vein,What I can give I offer. Prostrate thus,On the rude altars he has raised, is wontThe husbandman to heap the simple fruitsOf his fields gather’d round; and offering themTo the high tutelar deity he adores,Spreads them forth grateful, incenses and flowers.

This moral fiction, which the facile Muse,

Thalia kind inspired, and which await

The numerous crowds that throng the Spanish scene,

Therein acquiring voice, and life, and form,

To thee I now present, with feelings pure

Of gratitude and love. By other path

The difficult height of Pindus to ascend,

In vain have I aspired, in vain; and oft

Have wept me baffled, o’er the bold attempt.

How often, striking the Aonian chords,

To win her have I sought, so fleeting, coy,

The beauty that in silence I adore!

To imitate the voice and harmony,

Which Echo erst repeated in the woods

Of green Zurgüen: oft as Clio waked

The trumpet that diffuses martial rage,

I wish’d, with her sublimest ardour fired,

To celebrate the lofty deeds of Spain:

From her proud neck as beating, broken off,

The barbarous yoke; the conqueror in turn

Conquer’d on the burning sands of Libya:

Numantia with the miseries appeased,

Proud Rome was doom’d to know, abandon’d prey

To frightful military outrages:

Cortes, in the valley of Otumba,

Lord of the golden standard, at his feet

The sceptre of the West! but angrily,

Menander’s muse offended, soon reproved

My error, and the lyre and pastoral pipe

Snatch’d from me, and the clarion of Mars.

“Follow,” she said to me, “the only trackWhich my voice indicates, if thou wouldst seekThe honour, that despite of silent death,May make thy name immortal. I in loveA thousand times upon thy infant lipHave printed a soft kiss, and bade thee sleepTo the repeated heavenly tones I raised.Thou my delight wast ever, and my care;And the propitious gifts, which Nature shedOn thee, it was my joy to cultivate.Now with loud festive acclamation soundsThy country’s scene in thy just praise, on highThy glory to affirm. Thou follow onTo sacred Helicon, which Cynthia bathesWith her immortal light, the Muses’ crownOf ivy and of laurel there to gain.”

“Follow,” she said to me, “the only track

Which my voice indicates, if thou wouldst seek

The honour, that despite of silent death,

May make thy name immortal. I in love

A thousand times upon thy infant lip

Have printed a soft kiss, and bade thee sleep

To the repeated heavenly tones I raised.

Thou my delight wast ever, and my care;

And the propitious gifts, which Nature shed

On thee, it was my joy to cultivate.

Now with loud festive acclamation sounds

Thy country’s scene in thy just praise, on high

Thy glory to affirm. Thou follow on

To sacred Helicon, which Cynthia bathes

With her immortal light, the Muses’ crown

Of ivy and of laurel there to gain.”

Be not offended, Sir, if e’er so poorThe tribute that I dedicate; and whatCould worthy be the greatness of thy name?The gift is humble, the desire is rich;And not sufficing more my sterile vein,What I can give I offer. Prostrate thus,On the rude altars he has raised, is wontThe husbandman to heap the simple fruitsOf his fields gather’d round; and offering themTo the high tutelar deity he adores,Spreads them forth grateful, incenses and flowers.

Be not offended, Sir, if e’er so poor

The tribute that I dedicate; and what

Could worthy be the greatness of thy name?

The gift is humble, the desire is rich;

And not sufficing more my sterile vein,

What I can give I offer. Prostrate thus,

On the rude altars he has raised, is wont

The husbandman to heap the simple fruits

Of his fields gather’d round; and offering them

To the high tutelar deity he adores,

Spreads them forth grateful, incenses and flowers.

Yes! the pure friendship, that in kindly bondsOur souls united, durable exists,Illustrious Jovino! nor can time,Nor distance, nor the mountains us between,Nor stormy seas hoarse roaring, separateRemembrance of thee from my memory.The sound of Mars, that now sweet peace awhileSuspends, has long unhappy silence placedOn my affection. Thou I know contentLivest in obscure delicious quietude,For ever with untiring zeal inspiredTo aid the public weal; of virtue e’er.And talent, the protector and the friend.These verses which I frame unpolish’d, free,Though not corrected with thy learned taste,In truth announce to thee my constant faith.And so may Heaven but soon to me returnThe hour again to see thee, and relateFamiliarly discoursing, to my viewWhatever of its varied scenes the worldPresented. From my native shores to thoseWhich bathes the Seine, blood-stain’d and turbulent;The daring Briton’s, master of the sea,To the bold Belgian’s; from the deep-flowing RhineTo the high tops of Apennine snow-crown’d,And that height further, which in burning smokeCovers and ashes over Naples wide,The different nations I have visited,Acquiring useful knowledge, never gain’dBy learned reading in retired abodes.For there we cannot see the difference greatWhich climate, worship, arts, opinions,And laws occasion. That is found alone,If thou wouldst study man, in man himself.Now the rough Winter, which augments the wavesOf Tiber, on his banks has me detain’d,Inhabitant of Rome. O! that with thee’Twere granted me to rove through her, to scanThe wonderful remains of glories past,Which Time, whose force can naught resist, has spared!Thou nursling of the Muses and the Arts,Faithful oracle of bright history,What learning thou wouldst give the affluent lip;What images sublime, by genius fired,In the great empire’s ruin thou wouldst find!Fell the great city, which had triumph’d o’erThe nations the most warlike, and with herEnded the Latin valour and renown.And she who to the Betis from the NileHer eagles proudly bore, the child of Mars,The Capitol with barbarous trophies deck’d,Conducting to her car of ivory boundGreat kings subdued, amid the hoarse applauseOf wide-throng’d forums, and the trumpet’s sounds,Who to the world gave laws, now horribleNight covers her. She perish’d, nor expectMore tokens of her ancient worth to find.Those mouldering edifices, which the ploughBreaks through in shapeless masses, once they wereCircuses, strong palaces, and theatres;Proud arches, costly baths, and sepulchres;Where thou mayst hear perchance, for so ’tis said,In the deep silence of the gloomy shade,A funeral lament, they only tellThe glory of the people of Quirinus.And this to future races but remainsThe mistress of the world, illustrious Rome!This and no more remain’d? of all her artsAnd dreaded power? What could not aught availHer virtue, wisdom, valour, all conjoin’d,With such her opulence, the law severeTo mitigate, or stay the blows of fate?Alas! if all is mortal—if to TimeAlike the strong wall and the tender flowerMust yield—if that will bronze and porphyry break,Destroying them and burying in dust,For whom so guards unhappy AvariceHis treasuries untouch’d? for whom foretellsImmortal fame, the adulation vileThat crimes and violence traitorous exalts?For what so hastening to the tomb runs onThe human race, revengeful, envious,And haughty? Why, if all that e’er exists,And what man sees is all but ruins? all.For never to return the hours fly pastPrecipitate, and to their end but lead,Of the most lofty empires of the earth,The perishable splendour. The Deity,That hidden animates the universe,Alone eternal lives, and He aloneIs powerful and great.

Yes! the pure friendship, that in kindly bonds

Our souls united, durable exists,

Illustrious Jovino! nor can time,

Nor distance, nor the mountains us between,

Nor stormy seas hoarse roaring, separate

Remembrance of thee from my memory.

The sound of Mars, that now sweet peace awhileSuspends, has long unhappy silence placedOn my affection. Thou I know contentLivest in obscure delicious quietude,For ever with untiring zeal inspiredTo aid the public weal; of virtue e’er.And talent, the protector and the friend.

The sound of Mars, that now sweet peace awhile

Suspends, has long unhappy silence placed

On my affection. Thou I know content

Livest in obscure delicious quietude,

For ever with untiring zeal inspired

To aid the public weal; of virtue e’er.

And talent, the protector and the friend.

These verses which I frame unpolish’d, free,Though not corrected with thy learned taste,In truth announce to thee my constant faith.And so may Heaven but soon to me returnThe hour again to see thee, and relateFamiliarly discoursing, to my viewWhatever of its varied scenes the worldPresented. From my native shores to thoseWhich bathes the Seine, blood-stain’d and turbulent;The daring Briton’s, master of the sea,To the bold Belgian’s; from the deep-flowing RhineTo the high tops of Apennine snow-crown’d,And that height further, which in burning smokeCovers and ashes over Naples wide,The different nations I have visited,Acquiring useful knowledge, never gain’dBy learned reading in retired abodes.For there we cannot see the difference greatWhich climate, worship, arts, opinions,And laws occasion. That is found alone,If thou wouldst study man, in man himself.

These verses which I frame unpolish’d, free,

Though not corrected with thy learned taste,

In truth announce to thee my constant faith.

And so may Heaven but soon to me return

The hour again to see thee, and relate

Familiarly discoursing, to my view

Whatever of its varied scenes the world

Presented. From my native shores to those

Which bathes the Seine, blood-stain’d and turbulent;

The daring Briton’s, master of the sea,

To the bold Belgian’s; from the deep-flowing Rhine

To the high tops of Apennine snow-crown’d,

And that height further, which in burning smoke

Covers and ashes over Naples wide,

The different nations I have visited,

Acquiring useful knowledge, never gain’d

By learned reading in retired abodes.

For there we cannot see the difference great

Which climate, worship, arts, opinions,

And laws occasion. That is found alone,

If thou wouldst study man, in man himself.

Now the rough Winter, which augments the wavesOf Tiber, on his banks has me detain’d,Inhabitant of Rome. O! that with thee’Twere granted me to rove through her, to scanThe wonderful remains of glories past,Which Time, whose force can naught resist, has spared!Thou nursling of the Muses and the Arts,Faithful oracle of bright history,What learning thou wouldst give the affluent lip;What images sublime, by genius fired,In the great empire’s ruin thou wouldst find!Fell the great city, which had triumph’d o’erThe nations the most warlike, and with herEnded the Latin valour and renown.And she who to the Betis from the NileHer eagles proudly bore, the child of Mars,The Capitol with barbarous trophies deck’d,Conducting to her car of ivory boundGreat kings subdued, amid the hoarse applauseOf wide-throng’d forums, and the trumpet’s sounds,Who to the world gave laws, now horribleNight covers her. She perish’d, nor expectMore tokens of her ancient worth to find.

Now the rough Winter, which augments the waves

Of Tiber, on his banks has me detain’d,

Inhabitant of Rome. O! that with thee

’Twere granted me to rove through her, to scan

The wonderful remains of glories past,

Which Time, whose force can naught resist, has spared!

Thou nursling of the Muses and the Arts,

Faithful oracle of bright history,

What learning thou wouldst give the affluent lip;

What images sublime, by genius fired,

In the great empire’s ruin thou wouldst find!

Fell the great city, which had triumph’d o’er

The nations the most warlike, and with her

Ended the Latin valour and renown.

And she who to the Betis from the Nile

Her eagles proudly bore, the child of Mars,

The Capitol with barbarous trophies deck’d,

Conducting to her car of ivory bound

Great kings subdued, amid the hoarse applause

Of wide-throng’d forums, and the trumpet’s sounds,

Who to the world gave laws, now horrible

Night covers her. She perish’d, nor expect

More tokens of her ancient worth to find.

Those mouldering edifices, which the ploughBreaks through in shapeless masses, once they wereCircuses, strong palaces, and theatres;Proud arches, costly baths, and sepulchres;Where thou mayst hear perchance, for so ’tis said,In the deep silence of the gloomy shade,A funeral lament, they only tellThe glory of the people of Quirinus.And this to future races but remainsThe mistress of the world, illustrious Rome!This and no more remain’d? of all her artsAnd dreaded power? What could not aught availHer virtue, wisdom, valour, all conjoin’d,With such her opulence, the law severeTo mitigate, or stay the blows of fate?

Those mouldering edifices, which the plough

Breaks through in shapeless masses, once they were

Circuses, strong palaces, and theatres;

Proud arches, costly baths, and sepulchres;

Where thou mayst hear perchance, for so ’tis said,

In the deep silence of the gloomy shade,

A funeral lament, they only tell

The glory of the people of Quirinus.

And this to future races but remains

The mistress of the world, illustrious Rome!

This and no more remain’d? of all her arts

And dreaded power? What could not aught avail

Her virtue, wisdom, valour, all conjoin’d,

With such her opulence, the law severe

To mitigate, or stay the blows of fate?

Alas! if all is mortal—if to TimeAlike the strong wall and the tender flowerMust yield—if that will bronze and porphyry break,Destroying them and burying in dust,For whom so guards unhappy AvariceHis treasuries untouch’d? for whom foretellsImmortal fame, the adulation vileThat crimes and violence traitorous exalts?For what so hastening to the tomb runs onThe human race, revengeful, envious,And haughty? Why, if all that e’er exists,And what man sees is all but ruins? all.For never to return the hours fly pastPrecipitate, and to their end but lead,Of the most lofty empires of the earth,The perishable splendour. The Deity,That hidden animates the universe,Alone eternal lives, and He aloneIs powerful and great.

Alas! if all is mortal—if to Time

Alike the strong wall and the tender flower

Must yield—if that will bronze and porphyry break,

Destroying them and burying in dust,

For whom so guards unhappy Avarice

His treasuries untouch’d? for whom foretells

Immortal fame, the adulation vile

That crimes and violence traitorous exalts?

For what so hastening to the tomb runs on

The human race, revengeful, envious,

And haughty? Why, if all that e’er exists,

And what man sees is all but ruins? all.

For never to return the hours fly past

Precipitate, and to their end but lead,

Of the most lofty empires of the earth,

The perishable splendour. The Deity,

That hidden animates the universe,

Alone eternal lives, and He alone

Is powerful and great.

In the history of the literature of every country, it is interesting to observe with what noiseless steps true genius generally proceeds to win popular favour, compared with the means to which mediocrity resorts for whatever share of notice it can attain. There are some writers who, with great talent, have some counterbalancing deficiency, respecting whose merits more discussion will be consequently excited, than respecting the superior qualities of others, not liable to the same observations. To obtain that kind of notoriety, it is often requisite to belong to some school or party, whose praise will give a temporary importance to works written, according to their taste or system, while those out of their pale will be passed over with at best only cold commendations. In Spain, as elsewhere, poetry has had its classical and romantic schools, and the merits of all writers, belonging to one or the other of them, were fully set forth by their respective partisans; while, if there happened to be one who could not be claimed by either, like Arriaza, he was allowed to pass comparatively unnoticed by the critics of the day.

Of this very pleasing author no detailed biography has been published; and his claims to be considered one of the first modern poets of Spain seem to be scarcely recognized by his countrymen, who read with surprise the commendations passed on him abroad. Thus they have allowed seven editions of his works to be circulated and exhausted, without satisfying our curiosity by any of those particulars of private life, with which we love to consider the characters of worth and genius. All we are informed of him, in the short notices given of Arriaza by Wolf, Maury and Ochoa, is, that he was born at Madrid, in the year 1770, where the last-mentioned writer also says he died, in 1837.

From his name, it would seem that he was of Basque descent, and his family connections must have been “noble” and influential, from his career through life, though we have no account given of them. We learn, however, that he was educated at the Seminary of Nobles at Madrid, whence he was afterwards sent a cadet to the Military College at Segovia, and that he finally entered the navy. In one of his Epistles, in verse, he informs us that he was engaged in the expedition to Oran, and thence sailed to Constantinople, of which he gives a poetical description.

In 1798 he had to quit this service, on account of a disease of the eyes; and he then published the first edition of his poems. In 1802 he was appointed Secretary of Legation at London, and there wrote his principal poem, ‘Emilia,’ which was published at Madrid in the year following. The subject was the wish of a lady of fortune to bring up orphan children and others to the study of the fine arts; and it contains many fine passages, but was left unfinished.

In 1805 he went to Paris, where also he resided some time. On his return to Spain, he took part in the struggles against the French, having entered the ranks as a soldier, and having by his verses also vehemently instigated his countrymen to rise against the invaders. Of all the poets of the day, he seems to have been the most prolific in those patrioticeffusions, which, no doubt, agreeing so well with the national temperament, had no small effect in keeping up the spirit of the Spanish people throughout the war. When the French entered Madrid, Arriaza, while engaged in resisting them, had a brother killed by his side, fighting in the same cause, to whose memory he has given a tribute of affection accordingly among his verses.

In the subsequent discussions in Spain respecting the government, Arriaza took part with those who advocated the rights of the absolute king. For this advocacy, on the return of Ferdinand VII. to full power, he received his reward, having been appointed Knight of the Order of Charles III., and Secretary of Decrees, besides receiving several other minor favours and offices. Henceforth Arriaza seems to have passed his life at court, in the quiet enjoyment of literary pursuits. He might be considered the Poet Laureate of Spain, as he seems to have allowed scarcely any opportunity to pass by unhonoured, of paying homage to the court in celebration of birthdays and other such occasions. His works abound with these loyal effusions, though they might generally have been better omitted.

It must, however, be said, in justice, that he was evidently sincere in those principles, to which he adhered under all circumstances, even when the Constitutionalists were in the ascendent. Once only he was betrayed into an eulogium of the other line of opinions, which had an effect rather ludicrous, so far as he was concerned in it. In 1820, when the constitution of 1812 had been anew promulgated, a friend of his, Don Luis de Onis, was appointed minister from Spain to Naples, and a banquet having been given him on his departure, Arriaza was induced to write verses on the occasion, which, full of apparent enthusiasm, abounded in spirit and beautiful images, beyond his usual facility and fulness of expression. Carried away, no doubt, by the contagion of the company, he gave way to what, in soberer mood, he would have thought most dangerous doctrines. He painted the envoy as going “to Parthenope to announce our revolution;” adding, “To Parthenope that is now groaning beneath flowery chains, and to whom, though her syrens celebrate her in songs of slavery, thou wilt be the Spanish Tyrtæus, and raise them to the high employ to sing of country and virtue;” praising the heroism of Riego as to be offered as an example, “to throw down the holds of oppression.” The Neapolitan government obtained notice of this composition, and actually used it as sufficient cause for objecting to receive Don Luis as Spanish minister, “because he was coming to inculcate revolutionary principles.” Arriaza heard with horror that he was stigmatized as a liberal, and was urgent to disclaim such opinions, notwithstanding what he had written. Don Luis meanwhile was detained at Rome, until, by a strange coincidence, the revolution broke out at Naples also, and he entered the city almost as in fulfilment of the prophecy, that he was to be the harbinger of it.

The best edition of Arriaza’s works is that of 1829, printed at the Royal Press of Madrid, of which the one of Paris, 1834, is a reprint. They consist of almost all varieties of song, and are almost all equally charming. His satirical pieces even are light and pleasing, as well as his anacreontic and erotic effusions, while his patriotic songs and odes breathe a spirit well suited to the subjects.

Maury, who has made him better known abroad by his praises than others, his contemporaries, seems to have regarded him with especial favour. He says of him:—“Depuis Lope de Vega, M. d’Arriaza est le seul de nos poëtes qui nous semble penser en vers. La nature le fit poëte, les évènements l’ont fait auteur. Il était arrivé à sa réputation littéraire sansy prétendre, il l’accrue pour ainsi dire à son corps défendant.” In truth he seems to have poured forth his verses without effort, as a bird does its song, with a simplicity and truthfulness which went to the heart of the hearer, and left in it a sensation of their being only the echoes of its own. As Maury has well observed, “parlent à la raison et à l’esprit, comme au cœur et à l’imagination, elles offrent en même temps aux amateurs de la langue Castillane les sons harmonieux et les tournures piquantes qui la distinguent avec une grande élégance de diction et une clarté rare chez la plupart de nos écrivains.”

It is true that his style is exceedingly easy, and the expression generally very clear, but it must also be acknowledged, on the part of the translator, that obscurities are frequently to be found in his lines, when he must discover a meaning for himself. It was Arriaza’s own doctrine in the prologue to his works, “that there can be no true expression of ideas where there does not reign the utmost clearness of diction; that what the reader does not conceive at the first simple reading, cannot make in his imagination the prompt effect required, and much less move his heart in any way. This clearness,” he observes, “should also be associated with a constant elegance of expression; though he does not consider this elegance to consist in a succession of grammatical inversions, or revolving adjectives, or metaphor on metaphor, but the mode most select and noble of saying things becomingly to the style in which they are written.”

Arriaza was eminently what the French call apoëte de société; and thus his verses were favourites with the higher classes particularly. He abjured the practices of the Romanticists who affected to despise the shackles of metre, as if the melody of verse, being merely mechanism, were of inferior consideration. On the contrary, he intimates that he considers it of primary importance, as if “whether a statue shouldbe made of wax or marble.” Thus he made cadence a principal study, and his verses becoming thereby better adapted for music, obtained greater vogue in the higher circles by means of accompaniments. Some even seem to have been expressly written for that purpose; for instance, among other pieces of a domestic character, one, a very pleasing Recitative, in which his wife and daughter join him in thanksgiving for his recovery from a dangerous illness. Though generally far from being impassioned, some of his verses are full of tender feeling, as the ‘Young Sailor’s Farewell.’ This may be pronounced the most popular piece of modern poetry in Spain, being most in the memories of those whom he himself calls “the natural judges in these matters, the youth of both sexes, in whose lively imagination and sensible hearts may find better acceptation, the only two gifts with which I may rejoice to have endowed my verses, naturalness and harmony.”

Arriaza must have acquired in his youth the rudiments of a sound education, and he was distinguished in later life for a knowledge of the French, Italian and English languages. Still he was not considered by his contemporaries as a person of extensive reading; and thus we do not find in his works any allusions or illustrations of a classical character, though it is almost ludicrous to observe with what pertinacity he introduces the personages of the heathen mythology, on all occasions where he can do so. Some of his ideas also run into the ridiculous, as in one of his best pieces, ‘La Profecia del Pirineo,’ he says, that on the heroic defenders of Zaragoza “there were at once on their faithful brows raining bombs and laurels.”

The Ode to Trafalgar, notwithstanding its being liable to the observation above made, of too frequent invocations of the Muses, is an admirable exemplification of an appropriate poem on such a subject. This battle, no doubt on account of its decisive effect, has been more celebrated than others. But it must be acknowledged to have been an unequal fight between the British and the Spanish portion of the allied fleet, as the former were in a high state of discipline, and the latter were newly levied and hurried out of port, before the officers and men had become sufficiently acquainted with one another to take their respective parts, with the precision necessary for such an occasion. Yet it is well known that the Spaniards fought with desperate and unswerving courage throughout, and their poets were therefore well warranted in taking the subject, as one doing honour to the national bravery.

The circumstances of the battle have lately again come into discussion in Spain, with naturally considerable warmth, on M. Thiers, in his History of the Consulate and the Empire, having been guilty of the extraordinary error to allege that the Spanish fleet fled, the greater part of them, from the battle, when, in fact, it was only the division of the French Admiral Dumanoir that had done so. This he did “for the purpose of preserving a naval division for France,” as Dumanoir himself afterwards stated, in his justification, though he was disappointed in that patriotic wish, having been met a few days after by Sir Robert Calder’s squadron, when all his four ships were taken in a less renowned combat.

The translation of the Ode has been made as nearly into the same metre with the original, as the forms of verse used in the two languages would admit. That of the ‘Farewell’ may be considered in the same light also, though the original has the first and fourth lines rhyming together, and the second with the third. This is an old and common form in Spanish poetry, and agrees well with our alternate lines of eight and six syllables, which Johnson considered “the most soft and pleasing of our lyric measures.” In the Ode, it is interesting to observe not only the manly style of sentiment throughout, but also the absence of any ungenerous feeling against the English. Arriaza had, however, both as a seaman and a diplomatist, while resident in England, had sufficient opportunities of learning to think more justly of the English character than some other writers of the Continent.

Beyond his poems, Arriaza wrote several political pamphlets. The first was published at Seville in 1809, after the battle of Talavera, when the English, notwithstanding the victory, had to retreat into Portugal, giving occasion to the French party in Spain to allege that they were about to abandon the country to the French, and keep possession of the principal ports. In this pamphlet, which he entitled the ‘Pharos of Public Opinion,’ Arriaza combated these suspicions, and by a strenuous assertion of the good faith of the English, succeeded in disabusing the minds of his countrymen of what he termed “such malignant insinuations.”

The second pamphlet he termed ‘Virtue of Necessity,’ shortly after the disastrous battle of Ocania; and its object was to stimulate the English government and nation to give more assistance than they had yet done, by money and otherwise. He proposed in return to give the English free right of commerce with the Spanish colonies in America, at least for a stated period, observing that they already had extensive dealings with them by contraband, and that the free commerce would make the English neutral, at least, in the question of the colonies wishing to declare themselves independent, while otherwise it would be their interest to have them independent. This pamphlet especially is full of sound statesmanlike ideas, and proves how well he was acquainted with the state of public feeling in England, on the several particulars respecting which he was writing.

A third pamphlet he wrote in English, and published it in London in 1810, where he was then sent on the part of the Spanish government. This he entitled ‘Observations on the system of war of the Allies in the Peninsula;’ and he endeavoured in it to urge the English to send more troops to the Peninsula, at certain points, where he considered they would be of most avail in disconcerting the plans of the French, and assisting the Guerrilla warfare the Spaniards were carrying on. He explained the determined fidelity of the Spaniards to the cause of their independence, but showed they would be insufficient to effect it, without the assistance he came to seek. This pamphlet was favourably received in England, and was noticed in Parliament; and the author had the good fortune to hope that his efforts had been successful, as he says, “The English government then sent greater reinforcements to their army, which emerging from its inaction, acquired the superiority preserved until the happy conclusion of the war.”

For these and other writings, Arriaza received the thanks of the Regency in the name of the king, and had just cause to consider that a sufficient counterbalance to the misrepresentations made of his conduct in France, and elsewhere, by the opposite party. In a note affixed to the last edition of his poems, he complains that in a work published in France, ‘Biography of Contemporary Characters,’ there was an article respecting him “full of errors, even regarding the most public circumstances of his life,” which he seems to have considered written from party feeling. If his surmises were correct, it is the more to be regretted that he did not take the best means of correcting those misrepresentations, by giving an authentic biographical account of his career in reply. He might thus not only have done justice to himself, but also have satisfied the desires of his admirers, who would naturally havefelt sufficient interest in his fame to have rejoiced in those details. Whatever may be the course which a man of genius takes in public life from honest principles, he may always rely on finding in literature a neutral harbour where he may retire in confidence from all turmoils, and expect full justice awarded to his motives and memory. In the midst of political contentions, where so much always depends on circumstances with which we are little acquainted, it is often difficult at the time to know what is the proper course to follow. It is enough for us that those we admire have ever been distinguished for their sincerity and uprightness in the conduct they pursued.

With regard to Arriaza, our greatest regret must be that, with his apparently extreme facility of versification, and capability of elevating his mind to the conception of nobler subjects, he confined his genius so much to trivial events of the day, and thus wrote for his contemporaries instead of for posterity.

I fain would sing of victory;But know, the God of harmony,Dispenser of renown,For fortune’s turn has little care,And bids superior valour bear,Alone, the immortal crown.See in his temple, shining yet,Those at Thermopylæ who setOf manly fortitudeExamples rare, or ’neath thy wallWho, sad Numantia, shared thy fall,But falling unsubdued.There are to whom has fate bestow’dThe lot, that always on the roadOf docile laurels borne,Success should fly their steps before,And in their hands events in storeShould lose each cruel thorn.As heroes these the vulgar choose,If not as gods, but I refuseSuch homage for the mind;And in Bellona’s doubtful strife,Where fortune’s angry frowns are rife,There heroes seek to find.O! true of heart, and brave as true!Illustrious Clio, turn thy viewAfar the vast seas o’er;For deeds, in spite of fate abhorr’d,Than these more worthy to recordNe’er pass’d thy view before.To abase the wealthy Gades, see,From haunts of deep obscurity,The fellest Fury rise!And from her direful hand launch’d forth,Transform’d the forests of the North,She floating walls supplies.Her envy is the city fairOf Hercules, so proudly there,Couch’d on the Atlantic gates;Girt by the sea, that from the westComes fraught with gold, and her behestBefore her bending waits.With venal aid of hate assistsUnfruitful England, throne of mists,Whose fields no sun behold;Which Flora with false smile has cladIn sterile green, where flowers look sad,And love itself is cold.Greedy the poison gold to seize,They with the monster Avarice,The peace of Spain abhor;And by their horrid arts increased,Turn ev’n the treasures of the EastTo instruments of war.Their proud Armada, which the mainTosses to heaven, or threats in vainTo engulf, they mustering show:Ye suffer it not, ye pupils braveOf the Basans, and to the waveLaunch yours to meet the foe.As by conflicting winds close driven,The dark clouds o’er the vault of heavenAcross each other fly;And troubling mortals with the roar,The electric fluids flashing o’erDispute the sway on high,So from both sides the battle roll’d,The sails their wings of flame unfold,And ship to ship they close;Combined, O! day of hapless fame,Four elements with man proclaimThe unequal war that rose.Who in the whirlwind of dense smoke,To Mars that in fit incense woke,From hollow ordnance sent,With iron flames, a countless host,Sounds that unhinging shaking cross’dThe eternal firmament,—Who in that lake of fire and blood,Midst crashing masts and raging floodOf havoc and its train,—Who by the light the picture shows,May not your blood-stain’d brows disclose,O! noble chiefs of Spain?With crimson dyed, or with the brandOf sulphurous powder, firm ye stand,As in the conflict dire,The sacrilegious giants rear’d,Serene the shining gods appear’d,Midst rolling clouds of fire.Shouts forth your courage hoarsely highBellona’s metal roar, the cryThe combat to inflame;Nor fear ye mortals, when ye viewThe streams of blood the waves imbue,Your prowess that proclaim.With iron clogg’d the air, the breathIs drawn each with a dart of Death,Whose skeleton immenseRises exulting o’er the scene,To see such fury rage, and gleanHis devastation thence.O! how he crops youth’s fairest flowers,Or grief o’er life for ever lowers!See there for vengeance strainsOne arm for one that off is torn,Or when away the head is borne,Erect the trunk remains.But, ah! what fiery column brokeThere to the wind, and mid dense smokeThen to the abyss down threwHeads, bodies, arms and woods confused,And hands yet with the swords unloosedThey for their country drew!Struck by the sound groans Trafalgar;Olympus shakes as in the warThe savage Titans waged,When through the waves their forges roll’dÆtna, Vesuvius, and untoldVolcanoes burning raged.Trembling the monsters of the deepAgainst each other beating, sweepOff to the Herculean Strait;In horror heaven is clouded o’er,Lashing the seas the north winds roar,In shame infuriate.Of its own rage, the foaming brine,Is born the tempest, fearful signOf more disastrous night;Mars at the view restrains his cry;Bark Scylla and Charybdis high,The fiends whom wrecks delight.Swift as a thunderbolt ye come,The unhappy relics to consumeOf fire, ye winds and waves!O, Night! who may thy fearfulness,Thy vast amount of woes express,Without the tear it craves!Yield to the cruel elementAt length the ships, that long unbentIts haughtiest rage defied;Men sink yet living, and for e’erCloses o’er them their sepulchre,The insatiable tide.Save him, Minerva! who aroundFrom East to West, the earth’s wide bound,Was happier once thy care!Urania, this thy votary save!O, Love! how many fond hearts craveThat one’s last sigh to share!Some to their much-loved country swim,That horror-struck retires, and dimIn quicksands seems to fly;Hid by the waves them death unveils,And to the wreck’d-worn seamen’s wailsThey only fierce reply.Never may Time, in his long flight,Join day more terrible and night:But who in such a strife,Who constant overcame such fate,Where may we danger find so greatFor dauntless heart in life?O, Clio! where? yet midst that rage,With golden pen and deathless page,Thou lovest the brave to greet;Gravina, Alava, each nameWrite, and Escanio’s, echoes fameOlympic will repeat.And others, but my voice repelsThe love that in my memory dwells;O, Cosmo! hard thy lot!O, Muses! him the laurels give,Whose friend is only left to live,And weep him unforgot.Tried adverse fortune to endure,Your valour proved sublime and pure,O, Mariners of Spain!Your life your country’s shield and strength,Defended and avenged at length,She will be yet again.The Lion and the Eagle yetMay have them Neptune’s arm abet,Now England’s slave and boast;Who from her lofty poops shall viewYour troops resistless pouring throughIn torrents on her coast.Suffice it now, as tribute paid,Her great Chief’s death; the Thames to shade,Doubling with grief her gloom:That cover’d thus with honour’d scars,She sees you wait, in happier wars,The combat to resume.Ye go, as on the Libyan shoreThe lion walks, that fiercely toreThe hunter’s cunning snare;That not ingloriously o’erborne,Calmly and fear’d, though bleeding, worn—Regains his sandy lair.

I fain would sing of victory;But know, the God of harmony,Dispenser of renown,For fortune’s turn has little care,And bids superior valour bear,Alone, the immortal crown.

I fain would sing of victory;

But know, the God of harmony,

Dispenser of renown,

For fortune’s turn has little care,

And bids superior valour bear,

Alone, the immortal crown.

See in his temple, shining yet,Those at Thermopylæ who setOf manly fortitudeExamples rare, or ’neath thy wallWho, sad Numantia, shared thy fall,But falling unsubdued.

See in his temple, shining yet,

Those at Thermopylæ who set

Of manly fortitude

Examples rare, or ’neath thy wall

Who, sad Numantia, shared thy fall,

But falling unsubdued.

There are to whom has fate bestow’dThe lot, that always on the roadOf docile laurels borne,Success should fly their steps before,And in their hands events in storeShould lose each cruel thorn.

There are to whom has fate bestow’d

The lot, that always on the road

Of docile laurels borne,

Success should fly their steps before,

And in their hands events in store

Should lose each cruel thorn.

As heroes these the vulgar choose,If not as gods, but I refuseSuch homage for the mind;And in Bellona’s doubtful strife,Where fortune’s angry frowns are rife,There heroes seek to find.

As heroes these the vulgar choose,

If not as gods, but I refuse

Such homage for the mind;

And in Bellona’s doubtful strife,

Where fortune’s angry frowns are rife,

There heroes seek to find.

O! true of heart, and brave as true!Illustrious Clio, turn thy viewAfar the vast seas o’er;For deeds, in spite of fate abhorr’d,Than these more worthy to recordNe’er pass’d thy view before.

O! true of heart, and brave as true!

Illustrious Clio, turn thy view

Afar the vast seas o’er;

For deeds, in spite of fate abhorr’d,

Than these more worthy to record

Ne’er pass’d thy view before.

To abase the wealthy Gades, see,From haunts of deep obscurity,The fellest Fury rise!And from her direful hand launch’d forth,Transform’d the forests of the North,She floating walls supplies.

To abase the wealthy Gades, see,

From haunts of deep obscurity,

The fellest Fury rise!

And from her direful hand launch’d forth,

Transform’d the forests of the North,

She floating walls supplies.

Her envy is the city fairOf Hercules, so proudly there,Couch’d on the Atlantic gates;Girt by the sea, that from the westComes fraught with gold, and her behestBefore her bending waits.

Her envy is the city fair

Of Hercules, so proudly there,

Couch’d on the Atlantic gates;

Girt by the sea, that from the west

Comes fraught with gold, and her behest

Before her bending waits.

With venal aid of hate assistsUnfruitful England, throne of mists,Whose fields no sun behold;Which Flora with false smile has cladIn sterile green, where flowers look sad,And love itself is cold.

With venal aid of hate assists

Unfruitful England, throne of mists,

Whose fields no sun behold;

Which Flora with false smile has clad

In sterile green, where flowers look sad,

And love itself is cold.

Greedy the poison gold to seize,They with the monster Avarice,The peace of Spain abhor;And by their horrid arts increased,Turn ev’n the treasures of the EastTo instruments of war.

Greedy the poison gold to seize,

They with the monster Avarice,

The peace of Spain abhor;

And by their horrid arts increased,

Turn ev’n the treasures of the East

To instruments of war.

Their proud Armada, which the mainTosses to heaven, or threats in vainTo engulf, they mustering show:Ye suffer it not, ye pupils braveOf the Basans, and to the waveLaunch yours to meet the foe.

Their proud Armada, which the main

Tosses to heaven, or threats in vain

To engulf, they mustering show:

Ye suffer it not, ye pupils brave

Of the Basans, and to the wave

Launch yours to meet the foe.

As by conflicting winds close driven,The dark clouds o’er the vault of heavenAcross each other fly;And troubling mortals with the roar,The electric fluids flashing o’erDispute the sway on high,

As by conflicting winds close driven,

The dark clouds o’er the vault of heaven

Across each other fly;

And troubling mortals with the roar,

The electric fluids flashing o’er

Dispute the sway on high,

So from both sides the battle roll’d,The sails their wings of flame unfold,And ship to ship they close;Combined, O! day of hapless fame,Four elements with man proclaimThe unequal war that rose.

So from both sides the battle roll’d,

The sails their wings of flame unfold,

And ship to ship they close;

Combined, O! day of hapless fame,

Four elements with man proclaim

The unequal war that rose.

Who in the whirlwind of dense smoke,To Mars that in fit incense woke,From hollow ordnance sent,With iron flames, a countless host,Sounds that unhinging shaking cross’dThe eternal firmament,—

Who in the whirlwind of dense smoke,

To Mars that in fit incense woke,

From hollow ordnance sent,

With iron flames, a countless host,

Sounds that unhinging shaking cross’d

The eternal firmament,—

Who in that lake of fire and blood,Midst crashing masts and raging floodOf havoc and its train,—Who by the light the picture shows,May not your blood-stain’d brows disclose,O! noble chiefs of Spain?

Who in that lake of fire and blood,

Midst crashing masts and raging flood

Of havoc and its train,—

Who by the light the picture shows,

May not your blood-stain’d brows disclose,

O! noble chiefs of Spain?

With crimson dyed, or with the brandOf sulphurous powder, firm ye stand,As in the conflict dire,The sacrilegious giants rear’d,Serene the shining gods appear’d,Midst rolling clouds of fire.

With crimson dyed, or with the brand

Of sulphurous powder, firm ye stand,

As in the conflict dire,

The sacrilegious giants rear’d,

Serene the shining gods appear’d,

Midst rolling clouds of fire.

Shouts forth your courage hoarsely highBellona’s metal roar, the cryThe combat to inflame;Nor fear ye mortals, when ye viewThe streams of blood the waves imbue,Your prowess that proclaim.

Shouts forth your courage hoarsely high

Bellona’s metal roar, the cry

The combat to inflame;

Nor fear ye mortals, when ye view

The streams of blood the waves imbue,

Your prowess that proclaim.

With iron clogg’d the air, the breathIs drawn each with a dart of Death,Whose skeleton immenseRises exulting o’er the scene,To see such fury rage, and gleanHis devastation thence.

With iron clogg’d the air, the breath

Is drawn each with a dart of Death,

Whose skeleton immense

Rises exulting o’er the scene,

To see such fury rage, and glean

His devastation thence.

O! how he crops youth’s fairest flowers,Or grief o’er life for ever lowers!See there for vengeance strainsOne arm for one that off is torn,Or when away the head is borne,Erect the trunk remains.

O! how he crops youth’s fairest flowers,

Or grief o’er life for ever lowers!

See there for vengeance strains

One arm for one that off is torn,

Or when away the head is borne,

Erect the trunk remains.

But, ah! what fiery column brokeThere to the wind, and mid dense smokeThen to the abyss down threwHeads, bodies, arms and woods confused,And hands yet with the swords unloosedThey for their country drew!

But, ah! what fiery column broke

There to the wind, and mid dense smoke

Then to the abyss down threw

Heads, bodies, arms and woods confused,

And hands yet with the swords unloosed

They for their country drew!

Struck by the sound groans Trafalgar;Olympus shakes as in the warThe savage Titans waged,When through the waves their forges roll’dÆtna, Vesuvius, and untoldVolcanoes burning raged.

Struck by the sound groans Trafalgar;

Olympus shakes as in the war

The savage Titans waged,

When through the waves their forges roll’d

Ætna, Vesuvius, and untold

Volcanoes burning raged.

Trembling the monsters of the deepAgainst each other beating, sweepOff to the Herculean Strait;In horror heaven is clouded o’er,Lashing the seas the north winds roar,In shame infuriate.

Trembling the monsters of the deep

Against each other beating, sweep

Off to the Herculean Strait;

In horror heaven is clouded o’er,

Lashing the seas the north winds roar,

In shame infuriate.

Of its own rage, the foaming brine,Is born the tempest, fearful signOf more disastrous night;Mars at the view restrains his cry;Bark Scylla and Charybdis high,The fiends whom wrecks delight.

Of its own rage, the foaming brine,

Is born the tempest, fearful sign

Of more disastrous night;

Mars at the view restrains his cry;

Bark Scylla and Charybdis high,

The fiends whom wrecks delight.

Swift as a thunderbolt ye come,The unhappy relics to consumeOf fire, ye winds and waves!O, Night! who may thy fearfulness,Thy vast amount of woes express,Without the tear it craves!

Swift as a thunderbolt ye come,

The unhappy relics to consume

Of fire, ye winds and waves!

O, Night! who may thy fearfulness,

Thy vast amount of woes express,

Without the tear it craves!

Yield to the cruel elementAt length the ships, that long unbentIts haughtiest rage defied;Men sink yet living, and for e’erCloses o’er them their sepulchre,The insatiable tide.

Yield to the cruel element

At length the ships, that long unbent

Its haughtiest rage defied;

Men sink yet living, and for e’er

Closes o’er them their sepulchre,

The insatiable tide.

Save him, Minerva! who aroundFrom East to West, the earth’s wide bound,Was happier once thy care!Urania, this thy votary save!O, Love! how many fond hearts craveThat one’s last sigh to share!

Save him, Minerva! who around

From East to West, the earth’s wide bound,

Was happier once thy care!

Urania, this thy votary save!

O, Love! how many fond hearts crave

That one’s last sigh to share!

Some to their much-loved country swim,That horror-struck retires, and dimIn quicksands seems to fly;Hid by the waves them death unveils,And to the wreck’d-worn seamen’s wailsThey only fierce reply.

Some to their much-loved country swim,

That horror-struck retires, and dim

In quicksands seems to fly;

Hid by the waves them death unveils,

And to the wreck’d-worn seamen’s wails

They only fierce reply.

Never may Time, in his long flight,Join day more terrible and night:But who in such a strife,Who constant overcame such fate,Where may we danger find so greatFor dauntless heart in life?

Never may Time, in his long flight,

Join day more terrible and night:

But who in such a strife,

Who constant overcame such fate,

Where may we danger find so great

For dauntless heart in life?

O, Clio! where? yet midst that rage,With golden pen and deathless page,Thou lovest the brave to greet;Gravina, Alava, each nameWrite, and Escanio’s, echoes fameOlympic will repeat.

O, Clio! where? yet midst that rage,

With golden pen and deathless page,

Thou lovest the brave to greet;

Gravina, Alava, each name

Write, and Escanio’s, echoes fame

Olympic will repeat.

And others, but my voice repelsThe love that in my memory dwells;O, Cosmo! hard thy lot!O, Muses! him the laurels give,Whose friend is only left to live,And weep him unforgot.

And others, but my voice repels

The love that in my memory dwells;

O, Cosmo! hard thy lot!

O, Muses! him the laurels give,

Whose friend is only left to live,

And weep him unforgot.

Tried adverse fortune to endure,Your valour proved sublime and pure,O, Mariners of Spain!Your life your country’s shield and strength,Defended and avenged at length,She will be yet again.

Tried adverse fortune to endure,

Your valour proved sublime and pure,

O, Mariners of Spain!

Your life your country’s shield and strength,

Defended and avenged at length,

She will be yet again.

The Lion and the Eagle yetMay have them Neptune’s arm abet,Now England’s slave and boast;Who from her lofty poops shall viewYour troops resistless pouring throughIn torrents on her coast.

The Lion and the Eagle yet

May have them Neptune’s arm abet,

Now England’s slave and boast;

Who from her lofty poops shall view

Your troops resistless pouring through

In torrents on her coast.

Suffice it now, as tribute paid,Her great Chief’s death; the Thames to shade,Doubling with grief her gloom:That cover’d thus with honour’d scars,She sees you wait, in happier wars,The combat to resume.

Suffice it now, as tribute paid,

Her great Chief’s death; the Thames to shade,

Doubling with grief her gloom:

That cover’d thus with honour’d scars,

She sees you wait, in happier wars,

The combat to resume.

Ye go, as on the Libyan shoreThe lion walks, that fiercely toreThe hunter’s cunning snare;That not ingloriously o’erborne,Calmly and fear’d, though bleeding, worn—Regains his sandy lair.

Ye go, as on the Libyan shore

The lion walks, that fiercely tore

The hunter’s cunning snare;

That not ingloriously o’erborne,

Calmly and fear’d, though bleeding, worn—

Regains his sandy lair.

Sylvia! the cruel moment’s near,When I must say farewell!For hark! the cannon’s sounds we hearOf my departure tell.Thy lover comes to give thee nowThe last adieu, and part!With sorrow overcast his brow,And sorrowful his heart.Come, object of my love divine!Reach me those beauteous arms:Would fate my happy lot assignMy home and rest thy charms,The blow that threatens its decreeTo give, I should not meet;For sooner then than part, ’twould seeMe dying at thy feet.O! had our passion equal force,Or been of equal growth,The grief of absence might its courseDivide between us both!But thou a face indifferent,Or pleased, dost give to view,Whilst I have not ev’n breath contentTo say to thee, Adieu.A gentle river murmuring by,In calmness bathes the plain,And of its waters the supplySees beauteous flowers attain;In silence thou, my lonely grief,Dost bathe my wretched breast,And Sylvia’s pity in reliefFor me canst not arrest.But what, my Sylvia, dost thou say?What means that tender sigh?Why do I see, mid tears that stray,Shine forth thy beaming eye?As opens to the sun opposedOn some clear day the cloud,And his rays make the drops disclosedTo sparkle as they flow’d.On me dost thou those languid eyesTurn with that tender gaze?Loses thy cheek its rosy dyes,Nor beauty less displays?Thy ruby lips a moment briefThou opest, and sorrow seals!How fair the very show of griefItself in thee reveals!Insensate! how I wildly thoughtMy bitter griefs would gainSome ease, if thou wert also taughtA portion of my pain!Pardon the error that deceived,O, Sylvia! I implore;Me more thy sorrow now has grieved,Than thy disdain before.My bliss! I pray no more to swerve!Calm those heart-breaking pains:Thy grief to have, does not deserveAll that the world contains.May all life’s hours, in calm serene,Be ever pass’d by thee;And all that darker interveneReserved alone for me!For me, whose lonely wretched doomBy heaven has been decreedTo bear fate’s cruelty and gloom,Wherever it may lead.But not on thee, so lovely born,Form’d of a power divine,To hold ev’n fate a subject swornTo every will of thine.Whilst thou my absence mayst lament,Thy comfort mayst descry,By fate a thousand lovers sentMore to thy choice than I.Some one she pleases me aboveTo favour chance may show;But one to love thee as I love,That none can ever know.’Twas not thy graces won my heart,Nor yet thy faultless face;But ’twas some sympathy apartI might from birth retrace.I long a picture loved to drawOf charms I fancied true,And thy perfections when I saw,The original I knew.No traveller upon the groundBy sudden lightning thrown,The blow could more at once confound,Left helpless and alone,Than I to see that beauteous brow,In hapless love was lost;At thy feet forced at once to bow,To adore whate’er the cost.But I depart, alas! the painNo words can e’er express;Heaven only knows it that can scanThe inmost heart’s recess;And saw the hours of deep delight,So full now long pass’d by,That all my wishes’ utmost heightHeap’d up could satisfy.Now while the breezes fair avail,The waves are gently stirr’d,And of the mariners the hailConfused afar is heard:Now from the deep’s tenacious holdThe anchor’s fangs they heave,And all conspiring are enroll’dMe swifter death to give.Now with a vacillating footThe slender boat I tread,Soon destined from the bank to shoot,As to the great bark sped.Sylvia, in this sad moment’s pause,O! what a mournful crowdOf thoughts around thy lover close,To assault him and o’ercloud!The sweet requital in returnThou givest my love I know;And kind remembrances discernAll thy affections show;Whilst here each proof assures me wellThat naught thy heart can move;But in my absence, who can tellIf thou wilt faithful prove?For those divine attractions whenceNow all my joys arise,Perhaps may fate the cause dispenseOf all my miseries;And whilst I absent and forlornMy pledges lost deplore,Some rival gains of me in scornThe enchantments I adore!But no, my bliss, my glory! ne’erWere given the winds in vainThose vows, which envied me to shareThe universe my gain.Let us time’s tyranny defy,And distance, constant thusRemaining in that changeless tie,That then united us.When rises first the beamy sun,When sets his beauteous ray,When moon and stars their courses run,On thee my thoughts will stay.From that enchanting form my heartNo moment will be free;And traitress thou, when I departWilt ne’er ev’n think of me!At lonely hours across my thoughtGulf’d in the ocean vast,The scenes to memory will be broughtWith thee I saw and pass’d.Then will my sorrows make me feelMy lot more dark to be,And thou more cruel than the steelWilt ne’er ev’n think of me!“There first her matchless form I saw;There first my faith I swore;And from her flattering lips could drawThe happy ‘Yes’ they wore!”As these reflections by me file,Rise griefs in like degree;And thou, who knows, if thou the whileWilt e’er ev’n think of me?Then as I hours of glory callThose when I thee beheld;And of my griefs the sources allWhen from thy sight repell’d;A thousand times the thoughts enhanceThe doom ’tis mine to see,Meanwhile who knows, if thou perchanceWilt e’er ev’n think of me?When in the heavens I view unfurl’dThe awful signs arise,With which the Ruler of the worldPoor mortals terrifies;When sounds are in the deepest cavesOf horrid thunderings nigh,And of the seas the troubled wavesRage furiously on high;When by the south wind is impell’dThe proud Tyrrhenian main,As if from its deep bosom swell’dTo assault the starry train;When the despairing steersman turnsTo prayer, instead of skill,Seeing his bark the ocean spurnsThe plaything of its will;Amid the hoarse and troubled criesThe people raise around,While shines the sword before their eyesOf death, to strike them bound;Ev’n then will I my love’s farewellIn that dark hour renew,And to the winds my sighs shall tell—Sylvia! my life, Adieu!

Sylvia! the cruel moment’s near,

When I must say farewell!

For hark! the cannon’s sounds we hear

Of my departure tell.

Thy lover comes to give thee now

The last adieu, and part!

With sorrow overcast his brow,

And sorrowful his heart.

Come, object of my love divine!Reach me those beauteous arms:Would fate my happy lot assignMy home and rest thy charms,The blow that threatens its decreeTo give, I should not meet;For sooner then than part, ’twould seeMe dying at thy feet.

Come, object of my love divine!

Reach me those beauteous arms:

Would fate my happy lot assign

My home and rest thy charms,

The blow that threatens its decree

To give, I should not meet;

For sooner then than part, ’twould see

Me dying at thy feet.

O! had our passion equal force,Or been of equal growth,The grief of absence might its courseDivide between us both!But thou a face indifferent,Or pleased, dost give to view,Whilst I have not ev’n breath contentTo say to thee, Adieu.

O! had our passion equal force,

Or been of equal growth,

The grief of absence might its course

Divide between us both!

But thou a face indifferent,

Or pleased, dost give to view,

Whilst I have not ev’n breath content

To say to thee, Adieu.

A gentle river murmuring by,In calmness bathes the plain,And of its waters the supplySees beauteous flowers attain;In silence thou, my lonely grief,Dost bathe my wretched breast,And Sylvia’s pity in reliefFor me canst not arrest.

A gentle river murmuring by,

In calmness bathes the plain,

And of its waters the supply

Sees beauteous flowers attain;

In silence thou, my lonely grief,

Dost bathe my wretched breast,

And Sylvia’s pity in relief

For me canst not arrest.

But what, my Sylvia, dost thou say?What means that tender sigh?Why do I see, mid tears that stray,Shine forth thy beaming eye?As opens to the sun opposedOn some clear day the cloud,And his rays make the drops disclosedTo sparkle as they flow’d.

But what, my Sylvia, dost thou say?

What means that tender sigh?

Why do I see, mid tears that stray,

Shine forth thy beaming eye?

As opens to the sun opposed

On some clear day the cloud,

And his rays make the drops disclosed

To sparkle as they flow’d.

On me dost thou those languid eyesTurn with that tender gaze?Loses thy cheek its rosy dyes,Nor beauty less displays?Thy ruby lips a moment briefThou opest, and sorrow seals!How fair the very show of griefItself in thee reveals!

On me dost thou those languid eyes

Turn with that tender gaze?

Loses thy cheek its rosy dyes,

Nor beauty less displays?

Thy ruby lips a moment brief

Thou opest, and sorrow seals!

How fair the very show of grief

Itself in thee reveals!

Insensate! how I wildly thoughtMy bitter griefs would gainSome ease, if thou wert also taughtA portion of my pain!Pardon the error that deceived,O, Sylvia! I implore;Me more thy sorrow now has grieved,Than thy disdain before.

Insensate! how I wildly thought

My bitter griefs would gain

Some ease, if thou wert also taught

A portion of my pain!

Pardon the error that deceived,

O, Sylvia! I implore;

Me more thy sorrow now has grieved,

Than thy disdain before.

My bliss! I pray no more to swerve!Calm those heart-breaking pains:Thy grief to have, does not deserveAll that the world contains.May all life’s hours, in calm serene,Be ever pass’d by thee;And all that darker interveneReserved alone for me!

My bliss! I pray no more to swerve!

Calm those heart-breaking pains:

Thy grief to have, does not deserve

All that the world contains.

May all life’s hours, in calm serene,

Be ever pass’d by thee;

And all that darker intervene

Reserved alone for me!

For me, whose lonely wretched doomBy heaven has been decreedTo bear fate’s cruelty and gloom,Wherever it may lead.But not on thee, so lovely born,Form’d of a power divine,To hold ev’n fate a subject swornTo every will of thine.

For me, whose lonely wretched doom

By heaven has been decreed

To bear fate’s cruelty and gloom,

Wherever it may lead.

But not on thee, so lovely born,

Form’d of a power divine,

To hold ev’n fate a subject sworn

To every will of thine.

Whilst thou my absence mayst lament,Thy comfort mayst descry,By fate a thousand lovers sentMore to thy choice than I.Some one she pleases me aboveTo favour chance may show;But one to love thee as I love,That none can ever know.

Whilst thou my absence mayst lament,

Thy comfort mayst descry,

By fate a thousand lovers sent

More to thy choice than I.

Some one she pleases me above

To favour chance may show;

But one to love thee as I love,

That none can ever know.

’Twas not thy graces won my heart,Nor yet thy faultless face;But ’twas some sympathy apartI might from birth retrace.I long a picture loved to drawOf charms I fancied true,And thy perfections when I saw,The original I knew.

’Twas not thy graces won my heart,

Nor yet thy faultless face;

But ’twas some sympathy apart

I might from birth retrace.

I long a picture loved to draw

Of charms I fancied true,

And thy perfections when I saw,

The original I knew.

No traveller upon the groundBy sudden lightning thrown,The blow could more at once confound,Left helpless and alone,Than I to see that beauteous brow,In hapless love was lost;At thy feet forced at once to bow,To adore whate’er the cost.

No traveller upon the ground

By sudden lightning thrown,

The blow could more at once confound,

Left helpless and alone,

Than I to see that beauteous brow,

In hapless love was lost;

At thy feet forced at once to bow,

To adore whate’er the cost.

But I depart, alas! the painNo words can e’er express;Heaven only knows it that can scanThe inmost heart’s recess;And saw the hours of deep delight,So full now long pass’d by,That all my wishes’ utmost heightHeap’d up could satisfy.

But I depart, alas! the pain

No words can e’er express;

Heaven only knows it that can scan

The inmost heart’s recess;

And saw the hours of deep delight,

So full now long pass’d by,

That all my wishes’ utmost height

Heap’d up could satisfy.

Now while the breezes fair avail,The waves are gently stirr’d,And of the mariners the hailConfused afar is heard:Now from the deep’s tenacious holdThe anchor’s fangs they heave,And all conspiring are enroll’dMe swifter death to give.

Now while the breezes fair avail,

The waves are gently stirr’d,

And of the mariners the hail

Confused afar is heard:

Now from the deep’s tenacious hold

The anchor’s fangs they heave,

And all conspiring are enroll’d

Me swifter death to give.

Now with a vacillating footThe slender boat I tread,Soon destined from the bank to shoot,As to the great bark sped.Sylvia, in this sad moment’s pause,O! what a mournful crowdOf thoughts around thy lover close,To assault him and o’ercloud!

Now with a vacillating foot

The slender boat I tread,

Soon destined from the bank to shoot,

As to the great bark sped.

Sylvia, in this sad moment’s pause,

O! what a mournful crowd

Of thoughts around thy lover close,

To assault him and o’ercloud!

The sweet requital in returnThou givest my love I know;And kind remembrances discernAll thy affections show;Whilst here each proof assures me wellThat naught thy heart can move;But in my absence, who can tellIf thou wilt faithful prove?

The sweet requital in return

Thou givest my love I know;

And kind remembrances discern

All thy affections show;

Whilst here each proof assures me well

That naught thy heart can move;

But in my absence, who can tell

If thou wilt faithful prove?

For those divine attractions whenceNow all my joys arise,Perhaps may fate the cause dispenseOf all my miseries;And whilst I absent and forlornMy pledges lost deplore,Some rival gains of me in scornThe enchantments I adore!

For those divine attractions whence

Now all my joys arise,

Perhaps may fate the cause dispense

Of all my miseries;

And whilst I absent and forlorn

My pledges lost deplore,

Some rival gains of me in scorn

The enchantments I adore!

But no, my bliss, my glory! ne’erWere given the winds in vainThose vows, which envied me to shareThe universe my gain.Let us time’s tyranny defy,And distance, constant thusRemaining in that changeless tie,That then united us.

But no, my bliss, my glory! ne’er

Were given the winds in vain

Those vows, which envied me to share

The universe my gain.

Let us time’s tyranny defy,

And distance, constant thus

Remaining in that changeless tie,

That then united us.

When rises first the beamy sun,When sets his beauteous ray,When moon and stars their courses run,On thee my thoughts will stay.From that enchanting form my heartNo moment will be free;And traitress thou, when I departWilt ne’er ev’n think of me!

When rises first the beamy sun,

When sets his beauteous ray,

When moon and stars their courses run,

On thee my thoughts will stay.

From that enchanting form my heart

No moment will be free;

And traitress thou, when I depart

Wilt ne’er ev’n think of me!

At lonely hours across my thoughtGulf’d in the ocean vast,The scenes to memory will be broughtWith thee I saw and pass’d.Then will my sorrows make me feelMy lot more dark to be,And thou more cruel than the steelWilt ne’er ev’n think of me!

At lonely hours across my thought

Gulf’d in the ocean vast,

The scenes to memory will be brought

With thee I saw and pass’d.

Then will my sorrows make me feel

My lot more dark to be,

And thou more cruel than the steel

Wilt ne’er ev’n think of me!

“There first her matchless form I saw;There first my faith I swore;And from her flattering lips could drawThe happy ‘Yes’ they wore!”As these reflections by me file,Rise griefs in like degree;And thou, who knows, if thou the whileWilt e’er ev’n think of me?

“There first her matchless form I saw;

There first my faith I swore;

And from her flattering lips could draw

The happy ‘Yes’ they wore!”

As these reflections by me file,

Rise griefs in like degree;

And thou, who knows, if thou the while

Wilt e’er ev’n think of me?

Then as I hours of glory callThose when I thee beheld;And of my griefs the sources allWhen from thy sight repell’d;A thousand times the thoughts enhanceThe doom ’tis mine to see,Meanwhile who knows, if thou perchanceWilt e’er ev’n think of me?

Then as I hours of glory call

Those when I thee beheld;

And of my griefs the sources all

When from thy sight repell’d;

A thousand times the thoughts enhance

The doom ’tis mine to see,

Meanwhile who knows, if thou perchance

Wilt e’er ev’n think of me?

When in the heavens I view unfurl’dThe awful signs arise,With which the Ruler of the worldPoor mortals terrifies;When sounds are in the deepest cavesOf horrid thunderings nigh,And of the seas the troubled wavesRage furiously on high;

When in the heavens I view unfurl’d

The awful signs arise,

With which the Ruler of the world

Poor mortals terrifies;

When sounds are in the deepest caves

Of horrid thunderings nigh,

And of the seas the troubled waves

Rage furiously on high;

When by the south wind is impell’dThe proud Tyrrhenian main,As if from its deep bosom swell’dTo assault the starry train;When the despairing steersman turnsTo prayer, instead of skill,Seeing his bark the ocean spurnsThe plaything of its will;

When by the south wind is impell’d

The proud Tyrrhenian main,

As if from its deep bosom swell’d

To assault the starry train;

When the despairing steersman turns

To prayer, instead of skill,

Seeing his bark the ocean spurns

The plaything of its will;

Amid the hoarse and troubled criesThe people raise around,While shines the sword before their eyesOf death, to strike them bound;Ev’n then will I my love’s farewellIn that dark hour renew,And to the winds my sighs shall tell—Sylvia! my life, Adieu!

Amid the hoarse and troubled cries

The people raise around,

While shines the sword before their eyes

Of death, to strike them bound;

Ev’n then will I my love’s farewell

In that dark hour renew,

And to the winds my sighs shall tell—

Sylvia! my life, Adieu!

Connecting the present age of modern Spanish poetry with that of the past generation, by a happily protracted existence, as well as by the style and tone of his writings, the venerable subject of this memoir still survives, to close a life of active usefulness in a healthy and honoured old age.

Quintana was born at Madrid, the 11th April, 1772, of a respectable family of Estremadura. He received his primary education in classical learning at Cordova, whence he proceeded to Salamanca, and graduated there in canon and civil law. In this university he had the advantage of studying under Melendez Valdes, by whom he was soon favourably noticed, and was made known to the illustrious Jovellanos, by whose counsels also he had the good fortune to be assisted. Thus his natural disposition for the study of elegant literature was encouraged, both by precept and example, under two such able directors, to take a higher course than the mere study of law, for which profession he was destined.

Having been admitted an Advocate of the Supreme Court, he has held various appointments, as fiscal of the tribunal of commerce, and censor of theatres; afterwards chief clerk of the Secretary-General to the Central Junta of Government, secretary of decrees and interpretation of languages, member of the censorship to the Cortes, and of the commission for the formation of a new plan of education. In the last, he was charged with the duty of drawing up a report of all the works on the subject presented to the government, which was, in 1835, approved of by the Cortes.

In the two former of these employments he was interrupted by the French invasion, when he took an active part against the invaders. Receiving afterwards the other offices mentioned, he wrote many of the proclamations and other addresses which were put forth on the part of the national government, during the struggle for independence. Throughout those eventful times, he was in the most advanced rank of the party that advocated constitutional rights, so that when Ferdinand VII. returned to the possession of absolute power, in 1814, he was, amongst the proscribed, made a prisoner, and confined in the castle of Pamplona.

There he was kept six years, without being allowed to communicate with his friends, or make use of his pen. On the constitutional government becoming re-established, he was released, and restored to his offices as secretary for the interpretation of languages, and member of the board of censors. In 1821, the directorship-general of public education having been formed, he was made president, until 1823, when the constitution was again set aside, and he was again deprived of his employments.

Hereupon Quintana retired to Estremadura to his family, and lived there till the end of 1828, when he was permitted to return to Madrid, to continue his labours and literary studies. The following year he was named member of the board for the museum of natural sciences, and in 1833 was re-established in his former employment, as secretary for interpretations for which his knowledge of the French, English and other languages rendered him qualified, and also reappointed president of the council of public instruction. He was shortly after appointed preceptor to her present Majesty, Queen Isabel II., and although ever maintaining strong liberal principles, has been since, under the administration of Narvaez, named a senator of the kingdom.

Quintana first appeared as an author in 1795, when he published a small volume of poems, among which was an Ode to the Sea, considered one of his best compositions. The greater part, however, of them were of unequal merit, and those have been omitted in subsequent editions: the next one was published in 1802, and it has been reprinted with additions several times. The best and most complete edition of his poetical works was published at Madrid, in 1820, in two volumes, entitled, ‘Poems, including the patriotic odes and tragedies, the Duke of Viseo, and Pelayo.’ Of this edition five or six surreptitious reprints have been made at Bordeaux and elsewhere, the laws regarding copyright having only lately been made accordant with justice in Spain as regards authors, though they do not yet extend them protection against piratical republications from abroad.

The tragedy of the ‘Duke of Viseo,’ imitated from the English, the ‘Castle Spectre’ of Lewis, was brought forward in 1801, and that of ‘Pelayo’ in 1805. The latter, on a favourite subject of their ancient history, was received with much favour by his countrymen, as were also many of his patriotic odes and poems, written in a spirit accordant with the national feeling. Most of these were at the time inserted in two periodical works he had under his direction; the first, ‘Variedades de Ciencias, Literatura y Artes,’ and the second, the ‘Seminario Patriotico,’ which was of a political character, and established to promote, and sustain the spirit of independence, against the French invasion.

Beyond his original poems, Quintana has done an important service to Spanish literature by publishing ‘A Collection of select Spanish Poetry,’ altogether in six volumes, Madrid, 1830-33, with critical and biographical notices, reprinted in Paris by Baudry, 1838. These notices are written in a tone of great impartiality and fairness, and are preceded by a Dissertation, as an Introduction, on the History of Spanish Poetry, which, written as it is with eminent ability, Mr. Wiffen has shown great judgement in translating, prefixed to his very correct and elegant version of the works of Garcilasso de la Vega, London, 1823. Besides this valuable collection of Spanish poetry, Quintana has favoured the public with a work in three volumes,—‘Lives of celebrated Spaniards,’ of which the first volume was published in 1807, the other two in 1830 and 1833 respectively.

The first volume, which has been translated into English by Mr. Preston, London, 1823, contains the lives of the earlier heroes of Spanish history,—the Cid Campeador, Guzman the Good, Roger de Lauria, the Prince of Viana, and Gonzalo de Cordova; all bearing impressions of the enthusiastic and poetic feelings, characteristic of the comparatively youthful period of life at which they were written. It was Quintana’s intention to have proceeded with a series of like biographies; but the subsequent public events, in which he had to take so active a part, interrupted the task, and when he resumed it, after the lapse of twenty years, it was under the influence of other feelings. He then proceeded principally with the lives of persons distinguished in American history; the second volume containing those of Vasco Nunez de Balboa and Francisco Pizarro; and the third volume those of Alvaro de Luna, and Bartolome de las Casas. Of these two volumes, the former has been translated into English byMrs. Hobson, Edinburgh, 1832; and of the third a translation has been announced, London, 1851; both, and the latter especially, well deserving of study.

In the first volume, treating of heroes, whose history, almost lost in the obscurity of remote times, might be considered among the fabulous legends prevailing everywhere in the first formations of society, it seemed only appropriate to give a colouring of poetry, to characters of whose actions nothing could be judged, except by their outward bearing. But in the others he could write as a philosophic historian, inquiring into the motives of actions, and teaching lessons of public morality by individual examples. The life of Alvaro is thus particularly interesting, depicting the caprices of fortune, as they affect

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