The wish on earth to linger still
Were vain, when ‘t is God’s sovereign will
That we shall die. 480
“O thou, that for our sins didst take
A human form, and humbly make
Thy home on earth;
Thou, that to thy divinity
A human nature didst ally 485
By mortal birth,
“And in that form didst suffer here
Torment, and agony, and fear,
So patiently;
By thy redeeming grace alone, 490
And not for merits of my own,
Oh, pardon me!”
As thus the dying warrior prayed,
Without one gathering mist or shade
Upon his mind; 495
Encircled by his family,
Watched by affection’s gentle eye
So soft and kind;
His soul to Him who gave it rose;
God lead it to its long repose, 500
Its glorious rest!
And, though the warrior’s sun has set,
Its light shall linger round us yet,
Bright, radiant, blest.
Sonnets.
I.
The Good Shepherd
(El Buen Pastor)
By Lope de Vega
The five following sonnets are from the Coplas de Manrique volume, where they were printed with the Spanish text on the opposite pages. Two other sonnets in that volume, not retained when the volume was merged in Voices of the Night, will be found in the Appendix. The two Lope de Vega sonnets are from his Rimas Sacras.
SHEPHERD! who with thine amorous, sylvan song
Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me,
Who mad’st thy crook from the accursed tree,
On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long!
Lead me to mercy’s ever-flowing fountains; 5
For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be;
I will obey thy voice, and wait to see
Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains.
Hear, Shepherd! thou who for thy flock art dying,
Oh, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 10
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner’s vow.
Oh, wait! to thee my weary soul is crying,
Wait for me! Yet why ask it, when I see,
With feet nailed to the cross, thou’rt waiting still for me!
II.
To-morrow
(Mañana)
By Lope de Vega
LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care,
Thou didst seek after me, that thou didst wait,
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate,
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?
Oh, strange delusion, that I did not greet 5
Thy blest approach! and oh, to Heaven how lost,
If my ingratitude’s unkindly frost
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet!
How oft my guardian angel gently cried,
“Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see 10
How he persists to knock and wait for thee!”
And, oh! how often to that voice of sorrow,
“To-morrow we will open,” I replied,
And when the morrow came I answered still, “To-morrow.”
III.
The Native Land
(El Patrio Cielo)
By Francisco de Aldana
CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high,
Bright with a glory that shall never fade!
Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade,
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit’s eye.
There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, 5
Gasping no longer for life’s feeble breath;
But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death.
Beloved country! banished from thy shore,
A stranger in this prison-house of clay, 10
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee!
Heavenward the bright perfections I adore
Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way,
That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be.
IV.
The Image of God
(La Imágen de Dios)
By Francisco de Aldana
O LORD! who seest, from yon starry height,
Centred in one the future and the past,
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast
The world obscures in me what once was bright!
Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given, 5
To cheer life’s flowery April, fast decays;
Yet, in the hoary winter of my days,
Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven.
Celestial King! oh let thy presence pass
Before my spirit, and an image fair 10
Shall meet that look of mercy from on high,
As the reflected image in a glass
Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there,
And owes its being to the gazer’s eye.
V.
The Brook
(Á un Arroyuelo)
Anonymous
LAUGH of the mountain! — lyre of bird and tree!
Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn!
The soul of April, unto whom are born
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!
Although, where’er thy devious current strays, 5
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems
Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd’s gaze.
How without guile thy bosom, all transparent
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye 10
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count!
How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current!
O sweet simplicity of days gone by!
Thou shun’st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount!
Ancient Spanish Ballads
I.
Rio Verde, Rio Verde
In the chapter with this title in Outre-Mer, besides illustrations from Byron and Lockhart are the three following examples, contributed by Mr. Longfellow.
RIO VERDE, Rio Verde!
Many a corpse is bathed in thee,
Both of Moors and eke of Christians,
Slain with swords most cruelly.
And thy pure and crystal waters 5
Dappled are with crimson gore;
For between the Moors and Christians
Long has been the fight and sore.
Dukes and counts fell bleeding near thee,
Lords of high renown were slain, 10
Perished many a brave hidalgo
Of the noblemen of Spain.
II.
Don Nuno, Count of Lara
“King Alfonso the Eighth, having exhausted his treasury in war, wishes to lay a tax of five farthings upon each of the Castilian hidalgos, in order to defray the expenses of a journey from Burgos to Cuenca. This proposition of the king was met with disdain by the noblemen who had been assembled on the occasion.”
DON NUNO, Count of Lara,
In anger and in pride,
Forgot all reverence for the king,
And thus in wrath replied:
“Our noble ancestors,” quoth he, 5
“Ne’er such a tribute paid;
Nor shall the king receive of us
What they have once gainsaid.
“The base-born soul who deems it just
May here with thee remain; 10
But follow me, ye cavaliers,
Ye noblemen of Spain.”
Forth followed they the noble Count,
They marched to Glera’s plain;
Out of three thousand gallant knights 15
Did only three remain.
They tied the tribute to their spears,
> They raised it in the air,
And they sent to tell their lord the king
That his tax was ready there. 20
“He may send and take by force,” said they,
“This paltry sum of gold;
But the goodly gift of liberty
Cannot be bought and sold.”
III.
The peasant leaves his plough afield
“One of the finest of the historic ballads is that which describes Bernardo’s march to Roncesvalles. He sallies forth ‘with three thousand Leonese and more,’ to protect the glory and freedom of his native land. From all sides, the peasantry of the land flock to the hero’s standard.”
THE PEASANT leaves his plough afield,
The reaper leaves his hook,
And from his hand the shepherd-boy
Lets fall the pastoral crook.
The young set up a shout of joy, 5
The old forget their years,
The feeble man grows stout of heart,
No more the craven fears.
All rush to Bernard’s standard,
And on liberty they call; 10
They cannot brook to wear the yoke,
When threatened by the Gaul.
“Free were we born,” ‘t is thus they cry,
“And willingly pay we
The duty that we owe our king, 15
By the divine decree.
“But God forbid that we obey
The laws of foreign knaves,
Tarnish the glory of our sires,
And make our children slaves. 20
“Our hearts have not so craven grown,
So bloodless all our veins,
So vigorless our brawny arms,
As to submit to chains.
“Has the audacious Frank, forsooth, 25
Subdued these seas and lands?
Shall he a bloodless victory have?
No, not while we have hands.
“He shall learn that the gallant Leonese
Can bravely fight and fall, 30
But that they know not how to yield;
They are Castilians all.
“Was it for this the Roman power
Of old was made to yield
Unto Numantia’s valiant hosts 35
On many a bloody field?
“Shall the bold lions that have bathed
Their paws in Libyan gore,
Crouch basely to a feebler foe,
And dare the strife no more? 40
“Let the false king sell town and tower,
But not his vassals free;
For to subdue the free-born soul
No royal power hath he!”
Vida de San Millan
By Gonzalo de Berceo
AND when the kings were in the field, — their squadrons in array, —
With lance in rest they onward pressed to mingle in the fray;
But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of their foes, —
These were a numerous army, — a little handful those.
And while the Christian people stood in this uncertainty, 5
Upward to heaven they turned their eyes, and fixed their thoughts on high;
And there two figures they beheld, all beautiful and bright,
Even than the pure new-fallen snow their garments were more white.
They rode upon two horses more white than crystal sheen,
And arms they bore such as before no mortal man had seen; 10
The one, he held a crosier, — a pontiff’s mitre wore;
The other held a crucifix, — such man ne’er saw before.
Their faces were angelical, celestial forms had they, —
And downward through the fields of air they urged their rapid way;
They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce and angry look, 15
And in their hands, with dire portent, their naked sabres shook
The Christian host, beholding this, straightway take heart again;
They fall upon their bended knees, all resting on the plain,
And each one with his clenchèd fist to smite his breast begins,
And promises to God on high he will forsake his sins. 20
And when heavenly knights drew near unto the battle-ground,
They dashed among the Moors and dealt unerring blows around;
Such deadly havoc there they made the foremost ranks along,
A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the throng.
Together with these two good knights, the champions of the sky, 25
The Christians rallied and began to smite full sore and high;
The Moors raised up their voices and by the Koran swore
That in their lives such deadly fray they ne’er had seen before.
Down went the misbelievers, — fast sped the bloody fight, —
Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some half dead with fright: 30
Full sorely they repented that to the field they came,
For they saw that from the battle they should retreat with shame.
Another thing befell them, — they dreamed not of such woes, —
The very arrows that the Moors shot from their twanging bows
Turned back against them in their flight and wounded them full sore, 35
And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in drops of gore.
* * * * *
Now he that bore the crosier, and the papal crown had on,
Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of Saint John;
And he that held the crucifix, and wore the monkish hood,
Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla’s neighborhood. 40
San Miguel, the Convent
(San Miguel de la Tumba)
By Gonzalo de Berceo
SAN MIGUEL DE LA TUMBA is a convent vast and wide;
The sea encircles it around, and groans on every side:
It is a wild and dangerous place, and many woes betide
The monks who in that burial-place in penitence abide.
Within those dark monastic walls, amid the ocean flood, 5
Of pious, fasting monks there dwelt a holy brotherhood;
To the Madonna’s glory there an altar high was placed,
And a rich and costly image the sacred altar graced.
Exalted high upon a throne, the Virgin Mother smiled,
And, as the custom is, she held within her arms the Child; 10
The kings and wise men of the East were kneeling by her side;
Attended was she like a queen whom God had sanctified.
* * * * *
Descending low before her face a screen of feathers hung, —
A moscader, or fan for flies, ‘t is called in vulgar tongue;
From the feathers of the peacock’s wing ‘t was fashioned bright and fair, 15
And glistened like the heaven above when all its stars are there.
It chanced that, for the people’s sins, fell the lightning’s blasting stroke:
Forth from all four the sacred walls the flames consuming broke;
The sacred robes were all consumed, missal and holy book;
And hardly with their lives the monks their crumbling walls forsook.
* * * * * 20
But though the desolating flame raged fearfully and wild,
It did not reach the Virgin Queen, it did not reach the Child;
It did not reach the feathery screen before her face that shone,
Nor injure in a farthing’s worth the image or the throne.
The image it did not consume, it did not burn the screen; 25
Even in the value of a hair they were not hurt, I ween;
Not even the smoke did reach them, nor injure more the shrine
Than the bishop hight Don Tello has been hurt by hand of mine.
* * * * *
Song: She is a maid of artless grace
SHE is a maid of artless grace,
Gentle in form, and fair of face.
Tell me, thou
ancient mariner,
That sailest on the sea,
If ship, or sail, or evening star 5
Be half so fair as she!
Tell me, thou gallant cavalier,
Whose shining arms I see,
If steel, or sword, or battle-field
Be half so fair as she! 10
Tell me, thou swain, that guard’st thy flock
Beneath the shadowy tree,
If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge
Be half so fair as she!
Santa Teresa’s Book-Mark
(Letrilla que llevaba por Registro en su Breviario)
By Santa Teresa de Avila
LET nothing disturb thee,
Nothing affright thee;
All things are passing;
God never changeth;
Patient endurance 5
Attaineth to all things;
Who God possesseth
In nothing is wanting;
Alone God sufficeth.
From the Cancioneros.
I.
Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful
The main repository of these poems is Ochoa’s Tesoro de los Romanceros y Cancioneros Españoles, Paris, 1838. See also Antológia Española. Mr. Longfellow published his translations in the volume entitled Aftermath, 1873. His acquaintance with these Spanish popular songs was an early one, for there is an entry in his journal, when at Dresden, February 1, 1829: “At the Public Library in the morning till one o’clock. Found a very curious old Spanish book, treating of the troubadour poetry of Spain, entitled the Cancionero General.”
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 136
