JOSÈ MARIA HEREDIA.
SONNET. DEDICATION OF THE SECOND EDITION OF HIS POEMS, TO HIS WIFE.
When yet was burning in my fervid veins
The fieriness of youth, with many a tear
Of grief, ’twas mine of all my feelings drear,
To pour in song the passion and the pains;
And now to Thee I dedicate the strains,
My Wife! when Love, from youth’s illusions freer,
In our pure hearts is glowing deep and clear,
And calm serene for me the daylight gains.
Thus lost on raging seas, for aid implores
Of Heaven the unhappy mariner, the mark
Of tempests bearing on him wild and dark;
And on the altars, when are gain’d the shores,
Faithful to the Deity he adores,
He consecrates the relics of his bark.
TO HIS HORSE.
Friend of my hours of melancholy gloom,
To soothe me now, come, scouring o’er the plain;
Bear me that I forgetfulness may gain,
Lost in thy speed from my unhappy doom.
The fond illusions of my love are gone,
Fled never to return! and with them borne
Peace, happiness and hope: the veil is drawn,
And the bared cheat shows frenzy’s end alone.
O! how the memory of pleasures past
Now wearies me! horrible that soul’s state,
Of flowers of hope, or freshness desolate!
What then remains it? Bitterness o’ercast.
This south wind kills me: O! that I could rest
In sweet oblivion, temporary death!
Kind sleep might moderate my feverish breath,
And my worn soul again with strength be blest.
My Horse, my friend, I do implore thee, fly!
Though with the effort break my frame so weak:
Grant for thy master’s brows he thus may seek
Sleep’s balmy wings spread forth benignantly.
Let him from thee gain such refreshment kind;
Though much another day it caused me shame,
In my mad cruelty and frenzy’s blame,
My crimson’d heels, and thy torn flanks to find.
Pardon my fury! beats upon my eye
The sorrowing tear. Friend, when my shouts declare
Impatience, then the biting spur to spare
Wait not, but toss thy mane, thy head, and fly.
THE SEASON OF THE NORTHERS.
The wearying summer’s burning heat
Is now assuaged; for from the North
The winds from frost come shaken forth,
’Midst clouds o’er Cuba rushing fleet,
And free us from the fever’s wrath.
Deep roars the sea, with breast swell’d high,
And beats the beach with lashing waves;
Zephyr his wings in freshness laves,
And o’er the sun and shining sky,
Veil-like, transparent vapours fly.
Hail, happy days! by you o’erthrown
We see the altar, which ’mong flowers
May rear’d to Death: attendant lowers,
With pallid face, vile Fever lone,
And with sad brilliancy it shone.
Both saw the sons, with anxious brow,
Of milder realms approaching nigh,
Beneath this all-consuming sky:
With their pale sceptres touched, they bow,
And in the fatal grave are now.
But their reign o’er, on outspread wing,
To purify the poison’d air,
The north winds cold and moisture bear;
Across our fields they sounding spring,
And rest from August’s rigours bring.
O’er Europe’s gloomy climates wide,
Now from the North fierce sweeps the blast;
Verdure and life from earth are past:
With snow man sees it whelm’d betide,
And in closed dwellings must abide.
There all is death and grief! but here,
All life and joy! see, Phœbus smile
More sooth through lucid clouds, the while
Our woods and plains new lustres cheer,
And double spring inspires the year.
O, happy land! his tenderest care
Thee, favour’d! the Creator yields,
And kindest smile: ne’er from thy fields
Again may fate me fiercely tear!
O, let my last sun light me there!
How sweet it is to hear the rain,
My love! so softly falling thus
On the low roof that shelters us!
And the winds whistling o’er the plain
And bellowings of the distant main.
Fill high my cup with golden wine;
Let cares and griefs be driven away;
That proved by thee, my thirst to stay,
Will, my adored! more precious shine,
So touch’d by those sweet lips of thine.
By thee on easy seat reclined,
My lyre how happy will I string;
My love and country’s praise to sing;
My blissful lot, thy face and mind,
And love ineffable and kind!
POESY, AN ODE.
Soul of the universe, bright Poesy!
Thy spirit vivifies, and, like the blast
That’s burning in the desert swiftly free,
In its course all inflames where it has past.
Happy the man who feels within his breast
The fire celestial purely is possess’d!
For that to worth, to virtue elevates,
And to his view makes smile the shadowy forms
Confused of joys to come, and future fates:
Of cruel fortune ’gainst the gathering storms
It shields him, causing him to dwell among
The beings of his own creation bright:
It arms him daringly with wings of light,
And to the world invisible along
Bears him, to wondering mortals to unseal
The mysteries which the horrid depths reveal.
High inspiration! O, what hours of joy,
Deep and ineffable, without alloy,
Hast thou benign conceded to my breast!
On summer nights, with brilliant hues impress’d,
’Tis sweet to break with sounding prow the wave
Of the dark surging sea, which shows behind
A lengthen’d streak of light the current gave.
’Tis sweet to bound where lofty mountains wind,
Or on thy steed to scour along the plain;
But sweeter to my fiery soul ’tis far
To feel myself whirl’d forward in the train
Of thy wild torrent, and as with a star
The brow deck’d proudly, hear thy oracles
Divine; and to repeat them, as of old
Greece listen’d mute to those from Delphic cells
The favour’d priestess of Apollo told;
While she with sacred horror would unfold
The words prophetic, trembling to refer
To the consuming god that frenzied her.
There is of life a spirit that pervades
The universe divine: ’tis he who shades
All Nature’s loveliest scenes with majesty,
And glory greater: beauty’s self ’tis he,
Who robes with radiant mantle, and endows
Her eye with language eloquent, while flows
Soft music from her voice; ’tis he who lends
To her the magic irresistible,
And fatal, which her smile and look attends,
Making men mad and drunk beneath her spell.
If on the marble’s sleeping forms he breathe,
To life they start the chisel’s touch beneath:
In Phædra, Tancred, Zorayde he wrings
The heart within us deep; or softly brings
Love-fraught delight, as do their strains inspire
Anacreon, or Tibullus, or the lyre
Of our Melendez, sweetest languishings.
Or wrapt in thunder snatches us away
With Pindar, or Herrera, or thy lay,
Illustrious Quintana! to the heights,
Where virtue, and where glory too invites.
By him compels us Tasso to admire
Clorinda; Homer fierce Achilles’ ire;
And Milton, elevated all beyond,
His direful angel, arm’d of diamond.
O’er all, though invisible, this spirit dwells;
But from ethereal mansions he descends
To show himself to men, and thus portends
His steps the night rain, and the thunder tells.
There have I seen him: or perhaps serene
In the sun’s beam, he wanders to o’erflow
Heaven, earth and sea, in waves of golden glow.
On music’s accent trembles he unseen;
And solitude he loves, he lists attent
The waters’ rush in headlong fury sent:
The wandering Arabs o’er their sands he leads,
And through their agitated breasts inspires
A feeling undefined, but great to deeds
Of desperate and wild liberty that fires.
With joy he sits upon the mountain heights,
Or thence descends, to mirror in the deep,
In crystal fixedness, or animates
The tempest with his cries along to sweep:
Or if its clear and sparkling veil extend
The night, upon the lofty poop reclined,
With ecstasy delights to inspire his mind,
Who raptured views the skies with ocean blend.
Noble and lovely is the ardour felt
For glory! for its laurel pants my heart;
And I would fain, this world when I depart,
Of my steps leave deep traces where I dwelt.
This of thy favour, spirit most divine!
I well may hope, for that eternal lives
Thy glowing flame, and life eternal gives.
Mortals, whom fate gave genius forth to shine,
Haste anxious to the sacred fount, where flows
Thy fiery inspiration; but bestows
The world unworthy guerdon on their pains:
While them a mortal covering enshrouds,
Obscure they wander through the listless crowds;
Contempt and indigence their lot remains,
Perchance ev’n impious mockery all their gains:
At length they die, and their souls take the road
Of the great fount of light whence first they flow’d;
And then, in spite of envy, o’er their tomb
A sterile laurel buds, ay, buds and grows,
And thus protects the ashes in the gloom,
’Neath its immortal shade; but vainly shows
To teach men justice. Ages onward fleet
The lamentable drama to repeat,
Without regret or shame. Homer! thou divine,
Milton sublime, unhappy Tasso thine,
The fate to tell it. Genius yet the while
Faces misfortune undismayed; his ears
Dwell only on the applauses to beguile,
His songs will happy gain in future years;
His glory, his misfortunes will excite
Sweet sympathy; posterity will requite
Justice against their sires, who thus condemn
Him now to grief and misery, shame on them!
From his tomb he will reign; his cherish’d name
Will beauty with respect and sighs proclaim.
On her eye gleams the bright and precious tear
His burning pages then will draw from her,
Kind-hearted loveliness! he sees it near;
His heart beats, he is moved; and strong to incur
The cruelty and injustice, is consoled;
And waiting thus his triumph to obtain,
Enjoying it, though but in death to hold,
Flies his Creator’s bosom to regain.
O, sweet illusion! who has had the power
To save himself from thee, who was not born
Than the cold marble, or the rough trunk lower?
With ardour I embrace, and wait thee lorn.
Yet of my Muse perchance some happier strains
Will me survive, and my sepulchral stone
Will not be left to tell of me alone!
Perhaps my name, which rancour now detains
Proscribed, will yet resound o’er Cuba’s plains,
On the swift trumpet of enduring fame!
Correggio, when he saw his canvas flame
With life, “a painter,” it was his to cry,
“I also am!”—A poet too am I.
ODE TO NIGHT.
Night reigns; in silence deep around
Dreams whirl through empty space;
Clothing with her pure light the ground,
The moon shows bright her face:
Soft hour of peace; without a trace
Of Man, where rise these heights uphurl’d,
I sit abandon’d of the world.
How Nature’s quietude august
Delights the feeling mind,
That heeds her voice, and learns to trust
Its joys with her to find!
Sweet silence! here I rest reclined,
With but the river’s murmurings heard,
Or leaves by gentle breezes stirr’d.
Now its repose on languid wings,
Its freshness Night supplies;
To shaded heaven which faithful clings,
And blaze of daylight flies:
Unseen by that, mysterious lies
On mount and plain, to please though sad,
Still beauteous ev’n in horrors clad.
How is the ecstatic soul impress’d
With melancholy thought!
The lovely picture here possess’d
Sublime with sadness fraught!
How more its music to be sought,
And peace, than all that may entrance
The echoes of the noisy dance.
Around the proud saloon reflect
Each face the mirrors there;
With diamonds, pearls, and gold bedeck’d,
Light dance the gentle fair;
And with their witching grace and air,
O’er thousand lovers holding sway,
Their vows and plaudits bear away.
Lovely is that! I one day too,
When childhood scarce above,
Through balls and banquets would pursue
The object of my love.
And from the young beloved I strove,
As magic treasure, to obtain
A passing look, or smile to gain.
But now by cares subdued, and bound
By languor and disease,
Than gilded halls, these plains around
Me more the night hours please:
To the gay dance preferring these,
The calm asylum they supply,
To meditate beneath this sky.
O! ever shine on me the stars,
In a clear heaven as now!
And as my Maker that avers,
There let me turn my brow.
O! God of heaven, to Thee I bow!
And raise by night my humble strain,
The voice of my consuming pain.
Thee, also, friendly Moon! I hail;
I always loved thee dear:
Thou, Queen of heaven! me ne’er didst fail,
In fortunes fair or drear,
To guide, to counsel, and to cheer:
Thou know’st how oft, to enjoy thy ray,
I chide the blaze and heat of day.
Oft seated on the wide sea-shore,
Whose waves reflected thee,
To muse alone, thou smiling o’er,
I pass’d the night hours free;
And ’midst my clouded hopes to see
Thy face serene, I found relief,
In sweet complaint to pour my grief.
For throbs, alas! my breast with pain,
Consumption’s wounds to bear;
And pales my cheek, as thou must wane
Beneath the morning’s glare.
When I shall sink, grant this my prayer,
That thy light ne’er to shine defer,
On thy friend’s humble sepulchre.
But, hark! what dulcet notes arise
The neighbouring woods among?
Causing these tender thoughts and sighs
My lonely breast to throng.
Sweet Nightingale, it is thy song!
I always loved thy wood-notes wild,
Like me from sorrow ne’er beguiled.
Perish whoe’er for thy soft note
Seeks thee to oppress or take.
Why rather not like me remote,
Thee follow through the brake,
Where these thick woods our shelter make?
Fly free and happy round thy nest;
Enslaved I wish none, none oppress’d.
Night, ancient goddess! Chaos thee
Produced before the sun;
And the last sun ’tis thine to see
When the world’s course is run;
And the Lord wills his work undone!
Hear me, while this life’s breath is raised,
By me thou shalt be loved and praised.
Before time was, in Chaos vast
Thou laid perhaps mightst view
Thy coming beauties, as forecast
Thy destined glories grew:
Looking thy veil of shadows through
With face obscured, to meditate
Calm on thy future power and state.
Thou camest, O Queen! from Ocean’s bars
At the Creator’s voice,
With sceptre raised, and crown’d with stars,
And mantle glittering choice;
And bade the silent world rejoice,
To see through space thy brow severe
Shine with the kind moon’s silvery sphere.
How many high truths have I learn’d
Beneath thy solemn shade!
What inspirations in me burn’d
’Mid the wood’s silence laid!
In thee I saw sublime display’d
The Almighty’s power, and seized my lyre,
And fervid dared to Heaven aspire.
Great Goddess, hail! in thy calm breast
Let me soothe every care!
Thy peaceful balm may give me rest
From ills my heart that tear.
Sweet pitying friend! to whom repair
Poets and mourners for repose,
O, Night! in soft peace end my woes.
XI.
JOSÈ DE ESPRONCEDA.
In the introductory part of this work, while acknowledging the merits of the earlier poets of Spain, it may be remembered that a claim was made in favour of the still superior excellences of their successors in the present day. If the reader, who has followed us so far through these notices, has not already come to the same conclusion, his assent may be confidently expected to the assertion, in consideration of the surpassingly poetical genius of the two writers who have now to come under his review.
In considering the merits of their earlier poets, the best critics of Spain have not been so blinded by national partiality as to be led into awarding them unqualified commendations. In the very able prologue to the ‘Moro Esposito’ of the Duke de Rivas, said to have been written by the celebrated Alcalà Galiano, we find an estimation of them which we can adopt, as correct in judgement as it is unexceptionable for an authority. He says, “Though the tenderness of Garcilasso, the warmth of Herrera, the fancy, at once lively and thoughtful, of Rioja, and, above all, those strong feelings of devotion which give to Fray Luis de Leon a character so original, even when he is most an imitator, are sources of great perfections, and most glorious crowns of the Spanish Parnassus, yet we are obliged to confess, that in the Spanish poets, lyric and pastoral, we see too great a sameness, that their stock of ideas and images is limited and common to them all, and that if varied and choice in expression, they are uniform in their arguments and plans, founding their merit more in the gala and pomp of language, in the floridness and sonorousness of verse, and in the ingenious dexterity of making variations on one theme, than in the vigour and originality of their thoughts, or in the strength and profoundness of the emotions which they felt, or which their works excite in the minds of their readers.”
Entirely coinciding in the opinions thus expressed, we feel, on the other hand, with regard to the modern Spanish poets, that while they have fully maintained the grace and beauty that distinguished their predecessors in former ages, their genius has expanded over far wider fields, and embraced subjects of as varied and powerful interest as the contemporary poetry of any other country can present to delight or captivate. As instances in support of this opinion, we have, in particular, to refer to the comparatively few but exceedingly brilliant compositions of Espronceda, whose early loss, at only thirty-two years of age, the whole literary world has to deplore.
We have great cause to be thankful to Ferrer del Rio that we have any account at all of this very eminent lyric poet, though the one he has given is far from being so full as the admirers of his genius might have desired. From that account, we learn that it was in the spring of 1810, during the most momentous period of the war of independence, a colonel of cavalry, after some long and harassing marches, was obliged to halt at the small town of Almendralejo, in the province of Estremadura, in the face of the enemy, on account of his wife, who had followed him through the campaigns, having there had a son born, the subject of this narrative. We have no other particulars of his earlier years, than that on the conclusion of the war his parents settled at Madrid, where he was placed at an early age under the tuition of Lista, a writer who enjoyed considerable reputation at the time as a poet, but whose chief merit consisted in his critical and elementary works. Under such a preceptor, his natural genius found a congenial course of tuition, and verse-making seems to have been a part of his usual studies. It was remarked, that though he was by no means inclined to steady application, yet, that by the force of his quick comprehension, he shone as prominently as others of greater industry, and when a mere boy produced verses which gave tokens of future eminence.
When only fourteen years of age he joined a society of youths who called themselves Numantines, and was elected one of their tribunes. In their meetings, no doubt, there was much intended treason debated, for which, whether deservedly or not, the government of the day thought proper to proceed against them at law, and Espronceda, with others, was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment in the convent of Guadalajera, in which town his father then resided. There, in the solitude of his imprisonment, his active mind found employment in poetry, and he was bold enough to begin an epic poem on the subject of the national hero, Pelayo. Of this poem there are fragments given among his works, from which we may judge favourably of what it might have proved when completed, containing as it does many striking passages. The representation of Hunger, and the Dream of the King, Don Roderic, are bold conceptions, and if they were not the additions of after-years, were truly remarkable as the productions of any one at so early an age.
On his release from the convent he returned to Madrid, but feeling himself under restraint as subject to the observation of the police, and desirous also of visiting other countries, he shortly afterwards went to Gibraltar and thence to Lisbon. There he seems to have been subjected to great privations, which, however, did not prevent his being involved in romantic adventures, characteristic of one of his temperament, such as he subsequently described with all the warmth of poetic feeling. But the ministers of the king, now restored to absolute power by French intervention, could not allow Spanish emigrants to be congregated so near to Spain, and at their instance Espronceda and others were obliged to go from Lisbon to London. How he maintained himself, during these wanderings, we are not informed, but his relatives probably had the means to afford him sufficient for his pressing necessities, and the love of adventure would lead him, oftentimes willingly, into situations from which most others would have recoiled.
In London, we are informed, that he enjoyed the happiest period of his life, though not abounding in resources; passing his time between his studies and gaieties, which resulted in confirmed dissipation. He learned to read Shakespeare and Milton, as well as Byron, and considering his inclinations, his habits and his writings, we need not be surprised to find him supposed to have taken the last for his model. There he began the series of compositions which place him in the first rank of lyric poets, though we have to lament that they are tinctured with a spirit of such evil character. His ‘Elegy to Spain,’ dated London, 1829, is in the original written with peculiar sweetness of expression, which Del Rio finds in the style of the Prophet of the Lamentations, and which, though not so well suited for translation as most of his other poems, has been chosen as the effusion of the patriotic muse of Spain, no less worthy of note than others of more general application.
From London he passed over to Paris, and happening to be there during the three memorable days of July 1830, he took part in the fearful scenes which then took place with all the ardour of his character as well as of youth. He joined afterwards the small band of emigrants who crossed the Pyrenees in the hopeless attempt of subverting the despotic sway that then prevailed, resulting in the death of Don Joaquin de Pablo, whom his friends regarded as falling heroically, and to whose memory Espronceda has left a poem of great beauty. Returning to Paris, he entered himself in the rank of the bold spirits who volunteered to lend their aid in the regeneration of Poland, from which, and other similar schemes, he was rescued by the promulgation of the first amnesty, of which he took advantage immediately to return to Spain.
On his arrival in Madrid, he entered himself in the Royal Guard, where he soon won the goodwill and affections of his officers and comrades, and might have risen to distinction, but for an unfortunate though characteristic occurrence. He had written some verses on passing events connected with the service, which were recited at a banquet, and having been much applauded and passed from hand to hand, came to the knowledge of the ministry, who thereupon, notwithstanding the efforts of his colonel to the contrary, dismissed Espronceda from the corps, and banished him to the town of Cuellar. There he composed a work, which he called a novel, under the title of the ‘Sancho of Saldania,’ but which, though containing some good sketches and descriptions, is only worthy of notice as having been one of his compositions.
“On the dawning of liberty in Spain with the promulgation of the Estatuto,” by Martinez de la Rosa, he came forward as a journalist, connected with the paper published as ‘The Age.’ His proud spirit could not submit to the censorship previously existing, but even now he had to feel its influence. The fourteenth number of his paper, the most violent of the time, was found to contain some articles which were forbidden by the censor, and as the time pressed, the editors did not know how to supply the deficiency. The ready genius of Espronceda suggested a scheme, which, after a little hesitation, was adopted: this was to publish the sheet in blank, with merely the headings, which had not been struck out of the manuscript by the censor. Accordingly, the usual sheet appeared with the titles only of the subjects it had originally to bear, namely—“The Amnesty;” “Domestic Policy;” “Letter from Don Miguel and Don Manuel Bravedeed in defence of their honour and patriotism;” “On the Cortes;” “Song on the Death of Don Joaquin de Pablo.” The effect was startling, and perhaps more powerful than the forbidden articles would have proved. The people supplied the deficiencies according to their individual feelings, and the ingenuity of the device had its fullest success. As the result, the publication of the paper was forbidden, and the managers had to hide themselves for a time to escape further prosecution.
In the years 1835 and 1836, there were several serious commotions in Madrid in which he joined, erecting barricades in the principal square, and making violent harangues to the people. On both occasions the disturbances were soon put down by the military, and he had to hide himself in the provinces, until, in the year 1840, Espartero having put himself at the head of the liberal party, the public principles prevailed for which Espronceda had so exerted himself. He then came forth again from his retirement, and made himself conspicuous by appearing as an advocate in a case in which a paper named the ‘Hurricane’ had been denounced at law for a seditious article it contained. Espronceda’s speech in defence, from some passages of it given by Del Rio, appears to have been very energetic, and as inflammatory as the article accused, but he was successful, and the proprietor of the paper was acquitted.
In the same year, 1840, he published the volume of poems on which his fame rests, as perhaps the first lyric poet that Spain has produced. Most of the contents had been previously given in the periodical publications of Madrid, but it was a great service to literature to have them collected. They contained the fragment of the epic poem, ‘Pelayo,’ and a short dramatic piece, entitled, ‘The Student of Salamanca,’ in which his own character is supposed to have been depicted; as well as the lyric odes and other poems. They are comparatively few in number, not exceeding fifteen altogether, but of such rare excellence as to make us regret that so gifted a writer was to be so soon cut off, depriving the literary world of the hopes of still further excellence they gave reason to expect. In the following year, 1841, he published his poem, ‘The Devil World, El Diablo Mundo,’ in four cantos, to which three others were afterwards added, found among his papers after his death. His friends had long feared that he was not destined to attain a prolonged period of life, but their fears were unhappily realized much sooner than they had imagined.
In December 1841, Espronceda was sent to the Hague as Secretary of Legation, but the coldness of the climate affecting too severely his enfeebled constitution, he was obliged, almost immediately, to return to Spain. He had meanwhile been elected Deputy to the Cortes for Almeria, and he attempted to take accordingly his share of public duties. But his health and strength had been undermined by the life of hazard, of privations and excesses he had undergone, and the journey to the Hague in the depth of winter seemed to give the final shock to his frame, from which it could not recover. On the 23rd of May, 1842, his friends and admirers were thrown into unexpected grief by hearing that he had died that morning, after what was termed a four days’ illness. The immediate cause was said to have been some disorder affecting the throat, and his sufferings have been described by an intimate friend and schoolfellow, who was with him at the time, as very painful. The loss to Spain and the whole literary world was as great as it was irreparable; and so the people seemed to feel it, by the general expression of regret over his fate, such as it seldom falls to the lot of any one to excite.
The moralist might dilate on the evil courses which probably hastened his death, and all must lament that a man of such extraordinary genius should have sunk under them; but before we judge any one severely, we should be certain of being able to form a right judgement. The utmost remark, therefore, we permit ourselves to make, may be to consider his history as a lesson to all under similar circumstances of life, that if they will not take heed to a moral in others, they may become a warning themselves. Every man’s character may be taken as a whole, in which his good and evil qualities are often so blended together as to make them inseparable. The excesses of youth are often “the flash and outbreak of a fiery mind,” which shows itself in its true characters in other respects, though often with the alloy of lower passions to lead them to a fatal end. Thus Byron and Espronceda, two kindred geniuses in our days, have sunk prematurely into the grave, most unhappily, when new fields of glory seemed to be opened before them to retrieve the past errors of life, and make it in future as honourable as they had already rendered it renowned.
The genius of Espronceda was kindred to Byron’s, of whom he has been accused of having been an imitator. But this seems to me unquestionably a mistake. During his residence in England he had certainly acquired a good knowledge of the English language and literature, much to his advantage; but he could scarcely have acquired such a knowledge of either as to put him in the position of an imitator. The utmost that can be alleged of him in this respect is, that the style of Byron’s writing was so congenial to his own taste and talent, as to make him imbibe it intuitively, and so obtain a more decided character for his own than perhaps it would have otherwise attained.
It is certain that Spanish poetry never before presented such depth of thought and feeling, and such fulness and vigour of expression, as he gave to it; and it is apparent, in every page of his works, that he had studied in a higher school and become imbued with a brighter inspiration than he could have done on the Continent. But what ordinary imitators would have considered the characteristics of Byron as models to follow, he had the good sense entirely to discard. He has none of the egotism and affectation which distinguish that school; and if he indulged in some of its propensities, it is clear that they were the natural results of the circumstances in which he was placed, and not the wilful perversions of misdirected abilities. His poem to Harifa is written with an earnestness of feeling that must be felt, even through the haze of translation, giving tokens of its origin too distinct to admit any supposition of its being a suggestion from any other source than his own experience of life. Neither in this poem nor in any other of his works is there any of those mysterious suggestions of dark histories, or of those morbid denunciations of imaginary wrongs which abound in the productions of the Byronian school. His complaints are the evident effusions of a mind maddened at finding itself in a state unworthy of its powers, and thus, instead of venting his rage on others, he turned it against his own misdeeds, in giving way to excesses that he scorned, and which he felt degraded him. But even in his aspirations for higher thoughts, he had the same leaven of earth to keep him from attaining them. He had not learned the lessons which Jovellanos inculcated in the Epistle to Bermudez, to seek wisdom where only it ought to be sought; as he might have done even from the heathen poet, that the hidden things of God could not be found out, though he were to traverse over all space in search of them.
Ἀλλ’ οὐ γὰρ ἆν τὰ θεία, κρύπτοντος Θεοῦ,
Μάθεις ἆν, οὐδ’ εἰ πάντ’ ἐπεξελθοις σκότων.
In somewhat of the same strain with these lines is the second canto of his poem, the ‘Diablo Mundo,’ addressed to Theresa, which, however, has no connexion with the rest of the poem to which it is attached. The verses ‘To a Star,’ contain also poetical thoughts no less exquisite, though perhaps not of so decided a character; and they are all valuable at least in this, that instead of gilding over vices and follies, they show the confession of one so highly gifted by nature, that the indulgences of sensual gratifications are in reality only sources of unhappiness.
Two other of his poems, ‘The Mendicant’ and ‘The Executioner,’ are no less distinguishable for the power of thought and expression they display; but they also unfortunately indicate such objectionable tendencies, as to make us regret that his extraordinary talents had not been directed to nobler subjects. Not so the two poems selected for translation, ‘The Song of the Pirate,’ and that of the ‘Criminal Condemned to Die,’ in addition to those previously mentioned. Of these, the latter is one of such peculiarly energetic character, as to need no comment. The other is one of the most favourite poems known in Spain, and having been set to music, is therefore heard repeated more frequently. It has been said to have been taken from the French, but I believe erroneously. It bears strongly the impress of Espronceda’s genius; and if the poem intended be either of those by Floran or Victor Hugo, any one who will take the trouble of comparing them will observe that they are essentially different, as each also is from the song of Lord Byron’s ‘Corsair.’
At the first view of it, the ‘Diablo Mundo’ appears to be an imitation of ‘Don Juan;’ but it would be as unjust to declare it so, as to say the latter had been copied from the various Italian poems written in the same style. Espronceda might have had the idea suggested by reading Lord Byron’s poem, or Goëthe’s ‘Faust,’ or both, but he has carried it much higher, and given the outlines of a nobler conception than either. He begins by supposing that, absorbed in meditation, during the silence of the night, he hears an extraordinary noise, which calls back his feelings and arouses them. That confused noise, with sublime music and solemn sound, are all the passions of the world, all the interests found in life,—the affections and hatreds, love, glory, wealth, the vices and the virtues; they are, in fine, the complaint of the whole universe that comes like a revolving whirlwind, and displays before the fancy a thousand allegorical monsters, traced with inimitable facility and astonishing vigour.
The visions pass away, the noise goes gradually off, losing itself in the distance, until it ceases, where begins the introduction of the poem. The first canto is the exposition of the great drama proposed to be developed.
A man bowed down with age and embittered by sorrowful and useless experience, shuts in despair a book he was reading, and mournfully convinced of the barrenness of learning, falls asleep. Death then presents itself, and intones a hymn inviting him to the peace of the grave. With pleasure he feels his benumbed limbs growing stiff with cold, and is enjoying himself in the enervation of his spirit, when Immortality suddenly rises up before him and sings another hymn in opposition to that of Death, and like that also offering herself to the man about to die.
The election is immediate; he chooses Immortality, and is re-endowed with youth. The song of this deity, however, does not lead to the immortality of the spirit, but of the material part of man, and it is that he receives. The image of death is invested with melancholy beauty; it is soft and gentle; that which is desired when, free from prejudices, we feel the heart worn and the soul discontented. The immortality that rises over the pale front of death, effaces it with a magnificent lustre. “It is impossible,” says Ros de Olano, who has written the prologue to this beautiful poem, “to approach, by any words of ours whatever, to the luxuriousness of thought, of expression, and of knowledge displayed in this sublime description, the most happy perhaps yet presented in the Spanish language.” Grand, extended and immense is the field which the poet has displayed to trace out a course for his hero, and the variety of tones he employs are like the face of the world, over which he has to range. As the character is developed, the hero, with the body of a man and the soul of a child, is placed in situations equally original and interesting, and the whole scheme is one which gave full scope to the writer for an unlimited work, even if he had been permitted to live to the utmost period of human existence.
Del Rio states, that Espronceda was in his public discourses an ineffective speaker, and ascribes it to the physical weakness of his frame; he describes him as having been distinguished for sarcasms, and only at intervals powerful in declamation. “In conversation he made an affectation of laughing at the restraints and virtues which are necessary for the order of society, and yet in private life no one was more remarkable for kindness and generosity. When the cholera was raging in Madrid, he was one of the most active in disregarding its attacks, and in attending to the wants of those near him who were suffering from it.” “All who knew him loved him, and even to his faults he knew how to give a certain impression of greatness.” Del Rio proceeds to describe him as having been graceful in his bearing, endowed with manly beauty, and his countenance marked with a melancholy cast that rendered it more interesting. He concludes by observing, that notwithstanding the years that have passed since his friends had to lament his loss, a garland of everlastings never fails to be found renewed over his grave.
In 1848 Baudry published another edition of Espronceda’s works, at Paris, but, with the exception of the fifth and sixth cantos of the ‘Diablo Mundo,’ there is no additional poem given, though Del Rio points out six other pieces published in different periodicals. This omission is much to be regretted, as undoubtedly every line that proceeded from his pen was worthy of being gathered together as a rare treasure. It is to be hoped that some admirer of his genius may soon collect those scattered relics, and give them in an edition worthy of their character in Spanish literature. Another Life of him also would be most desirable, as in the Paris edition there is only repeated the account given by Ferrer del Rio, which, though ably written as a sketch, is still on the same scale with a number of other writers in the same work of far inferior merits, and utterly unworthy of so great a genius as Espronceda. Spanish versification under his influence has become “revolutionized.” He has extended the powers apparently even of the language itself, and by the force of his style as well as by the varied character of his poems, has certainly shown its capabilities more decidedly than any poet who preceded him.