There is an entire book of Cantigas or Letras to be sung, composed in the Galician dialect by this king, specimens of which are to be seen in the Anales de Sevilla of Ortiz de Zuñiga; another entitled El Tesoro, which is a treatise on the philosopher's stone, as far as can be judged, for to the present day a great part remains undeciphered; and to him likewise is attributed that of Las Querellas, of which two stanzas only are preserved. Both are written in verses of twelve syllables, with rhymes crossed like those of the sonnet, to which is given the name of coplas de arte mayor, and which was a real improvement in Spanish poetry; as the rhythm of the Alexandrine verse, the measure used both by Bercéo and Lorenzo, was insufferable from its heaviness and monotony. Let us compare the coplas with which the book El Tesoro commences, with the stanzas alluded to.
The strange intelligence then reached my ears
That in the land of Egypt lived a man,
Who, wise of wit, subjected to his scan
The dark occurrences of uncome years:
He judged the stars, and by the moving spheres,
And aspects of the heavens, unveiled the dim
Face of futurity, which then to him
Appeared, as clear to us the past appears.
A yearning toward this sage inspired my pen
And tongue that instant, with humility
Descending from my height of majesty;
Such mastery has a strong desire o'er men:
My earnest prayers I wrote—I sent—with ten
My noblest envoys, loaded each apart
With gold and silver, which with all my heart,
I offered him, but the request was vain.
With much politeness the wise man replied,
'You, sire, are a great king, and I should be
Most glad to serve you, but in the rich fee
Of gold and gems I take no sort of pride:
Deign, then, yourself to use them; I abide
Content in more abundant wealth; and may
Your treasures profit you in every way
That I can wish, your servant.' I complied;
But sent the stateliest of my argosies,
Which reached, and from the Alexandrian port
Brought safe this cunning master to my court,
Who greeted me with all kind courtesies:
I, knowing well his great abilities,
And learning in the movement of the spheres,
Have highly honoured him these many years,
For honour is the birthright of the wise.
The two coplas with which the book of Las Querellas began, are altogether superior in style, harmony, and elegance.
'Cousin, friend, faithful vassal, all and each,
Diego Perez Sarmiento, thee
The ills which from my men adversity
Makes me conceal, do I intend to teach;
To thee who, far, alas! from friendship's reach,
Hast left thy lands for my concerns in Rome,
My pen flies; hearken to the words that come,
For mournfully it grieves in mortal speech.
How lonely lies the monarch of Castile,
Emperor of Germany that was! whose feet
Kings humbly kissed, and at whose mercy-seat
Queens asked for alms; he who in proud Seville
Maintained an army sheathed from head to heel,
Ten thousand horse and thrice ten thousand foot,
Whom distant nations did with fear salute,
Awed by his wisdom[A] and his sword of steel.'
There seems to be a century between verse and verse, between language and language; but what is yet more remarkable, to meet with coplas de arte mayor of equal merit, as well in diction as in cadence, we must overleap almost two centuries more, and look for them in Juan de Mena.[B]
If the impulse which this great king gave to letters had been continued by his successors, Spanish literature would not only be two centuries forwarder, but would have produced more works, and those more perfect. The ferocious character of the times did not allow it. The fire of civil war began to blaze in the last years of Alfonso, with the disobedience and rebellion of his son, and continued, almost without intermission, for a whole century, till it arrived at the last pass of atrocity and horror in the tempestuous and terrible reign of Pedro. The Castilians, during this unhappy period, seem to have had no spirit but for hatred, no arms but for destruction. How was it possible, amidst the agitation of such turbulent times, for the torch of genius to shine out tranquilly, or for the songs of the muses to be heard? Thus only a very scanty number of poets can be named as flourishing then: Juan Ruiz, archpriest of Hita; the Infante Don Juan Manuel, author of Conde Lucanór; the Jew, Don Santo; and Ayala, the historiographer. The verses of these writers are some of them lost, others exist wholly unedited, and those only of the archpriest of Hita have seen the light, which, fortunately, are the most worthy, perhaps, of being known. The subject of his poems is the history of his loves, interspersed with apologues, allegories, tales, satires, proverbs, and even devotions. This author surpassed all former writers; and but few of those by whom he was succeeded, excelled him in faculty of invention, in liveliness of fancy and talent, or in abundance of jests and wit; and if he had taken care to choose or to follow more determinate and fixed metres, and had his diction been less uncouth and cumbrous, this work would have been one of the most curious monuments of the Middle Age. But the uncouthness of the style makes the reading insufferable. Of his versification and manner, let the following verses serve as specimens, in which the poet begs of Venus to interpose her influence with a lady whom he loved, who was, according to his pencil,
"Of figure very graceful, with an amorous look, correct,
Sweet, lovely, full of frolic, mild, with mirth by prudence checked,
Caressing, courteous, lady-like, in wreathed smiles bedecked,
Whom every body looks upon with love and with respect.
Lady Venus, wife of Love, at thy footstool low I kneel,
Thou art the paramount desire of all, thy force all feel.
O Love! thou art the master of all creatures; all with zeal
Worship thee for their creator, or for sorrow or for weal.
Kings, dukes, and noble princes, every living thing that is,
Fear and serve thee for their being; oh, take not my vows amiss!
Fulfil my fair desires, give good fortune, give me bliss,
And be not niggard, shy, nor harsh; sweet Venus, grant me this!
I am so lost, so ruined, and so wounded by thy dart,
Which I carry close concealed and buried deep in my sad heart,
As not to dare reveal the wound; I dare not e'en impart
Her name; ere I forget her, may I perish with the smart!
I have lost my lively colour, and my mind is in decay;
I have neither strength nor spirits, I fall off both night and day;
My eyes are dim, they serve alone to lead my steps astray,
If thou do not give me comfort, I shall swoon and pass away."