From early youth Boscan was a poet; at first he wrote in the old Spanish style; but he was still young when his attention was called to the classic productions of Italy, and he was incited to adopt the Italian versification and elegiac style, so to enlarge the sphere of Spanish poetry. It was in the pear 1525 that Andrea Navagero came as ambassador from Venice to the court of the emperor Charles V. at Toledo. The Venetian was of noble birth, and so addicted to study as to injure his health by the severity of his application.[11] A state of melancholy ensued, only to be alleviated by travel. He was familiar with Greek and Latin literature, and cultivated a refined taste that could scarcely be satisfied by the most finished productions of his native land, while he exercised the severest judgment, even to the destruction of his own. At Toledo he fell in with Boscan and Garcilaso. Their tastes, their love of poetry and of the classics, were the same; and the superior learning of the Italian led him to act the preceptor to his younger friends. Through his arguments they were led to quit the composition of their national redondillas, and to aspire to introduce more elegance and a wider scope of ideas into their native poetry. Boscan, in his dedication of a volume of his poems, which included several of Garcilaso's, to the duchess of Soma, thus mentions the circumstances that led them to contemplate this change: "Conversing one day on literary subjects with Navagero the Venetian ambassador (whom I wish to mention to your ladyship as a man of great celebrity in these days), and particularly upon the different genius of various languages, he inquired of me why, in Castilian, we never attempted sonnets and other kinds of composition used by the best writers in Italy; he not only said this, but urged me to set the example. A few days after I departed home, and musing on a variety of things during a long and solitary journey, frequently reflected on Navagero's advice, and thus at length began the attempt. I found at first some difficulty, as this kind of versification is extremely complex, and has many peculiarities different from ours; but afterwards, from the partiality we naturally entertain towards our own productions, I thought I had succeeded well, and gradually grew warm and eager in the pursuit. This, however, would not have been sufficient to stimulate me to proceed, had not Garcilaso encouraged me, whose judgment, not only in my opinion, but in that of the whole world, is esteemed a certain rule. Praising uniformly my essays, and giving me the highest possible mark of approbation in following himself my example, he induced me to devote myself exclusively to the undertaking.
Every thing combines to give us the idea of Boscan as a good and a happy man, enjoying so much of prosperity and rank as would make him feel satisfied and complacent, and endowed with such talents as rendered poetry a pleasing occupation, and the fame he acquired delightful. Blessed with a mild and affectionate disposition, happily married, living contented, he possessed advantages that must have added greatly to his happiness, through the good fortune which gave him accomplished and noble friends, addicted to the same studies, delighting in the same pursuits, sympathising in his views, and affording him the assistance of their applause and imitation. What we know of Boscan, indeed, is principally through the mention made of him by his friends. Garcilaso de la Vega, superior to his friend as a poet, was one of those gallant spirits whose existence is a poem, and was closely allied to him in friendship. It was through Garcilaso's advice and encouragement that Boscan translated Castiglione's Libro del Cortigiano,—a book then just published, and which enjoyed the highest repute in Italy. The translation was accompanied by a dedication written by Garcilaso, which Sedano praises as "an exquisite piece of eloquence," in which he speaks of his friend with the fond praise which genuine affection inspires. Several of Garcilaso's sonnets, an epistle, and an elegy, are addressed to Boscan, and all breathe a mixture of friendship and esteem delightful to contemplate. He mentions him also in his second eclogue. When describing the sculpture on a vase of the God of the river Tormes, he describes don Fernando, duke of Alva, as being depicted among other heroes of the age, and Boscan, in attendance, as his preceptor. It must be remembered, that when this elegy was written, the duke was in the bloom of youth, and regarded as the man of promise of his age; while his life was yet unstained by the crimes that render him hateful in our eyes. It is a sage named Severo who is gazing on the urn of old Tormes.
"Next as his looks along the sculptures glanced,
A youth with Phœbus hand in hand advanced;
Courteous his air, from his ingenuous face,
Inform'd with wisdom, modesty, and grace,
And every mild affection, at a scan
The passer-by would mark him for a man,
Perfect in all gentilities of mind
That sweeten life and harmonise mankind.
The form which lively thus the sculptor drew,
Assured Severo in an instant knew,
For him who had by careful culture shown
Fernando's spirit, lovely as his own;
Had given him grace, sincerity, and ease,
The pure politeness that aspires to please,
The candid virtues that disdain pretence,
And martial manliness, and sprightly sense,
With all the generous courtesies enshrined
In the fair temple of Fernando's mind.
When well surveyed his name Severo read,
'Boscan!' whose genius o'er the world is spread,
In whose illumined aspect shines the fire
That, stream'd from Delphos, lights him to the lyre,
And warms those songs which with mankind shall stay
Whilst endless ages roll unfelt away."[12]
Besides Garcilaso, Boscan enjoyed the friendship of a man, far different in the qualities of his mind, but of high powers of intellect, and of a noble though arrogant and proud disposition. The epistles in verse that passed between Boscan and don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza prove the friendship that subsisted between them, and the esteem in which Boscan was held; at the same time they present a delightful picture of the tranquil happiness which the poet enjoyed. Mendoza's epistle is imitated from Horace; it is written in praise of a tranquil life. At the conclusion it describes the delights of a rural seclusion, ornamented by all the charms of nature; and he introduces his friend as enjoying these in perfection, attended on by his wife, who plucks for him the rarest grapes and ripe fruit,—the fresh and sweet gifts of summer,—waiting on him with diligence and joy, proud and happy in her task. Boscan, in his reply, dilates on the subject, and fills up the picture with a thousand graces and refinements of feeling drawn from nature, and which coming warm from the heart, reach our own.
I am tempted to introduce a portion of this epistle. The fault of the Spaniards in their literature is diffuseness; I have therefore endeavoured in some degree to compress the rambling of the poet, while I suppress no sentiment, nor introduce a new idea. Little used to versification, my translation wants smoothness; but presenting, as it does, a picture of domestic life, such as was passed at a distant age and in a distant land, yet resembling so nearly our own notions of the pleasures of home, I think it cannot fail to interest the reader.
Boscan commences, in imitation of Horace, by commending the tranquillity enjoyed in a middle station of life. He then goes on to adorn his canvass with a picture of conjugal attachment and happiness:—
'Tis peace that makes a happy life;[13]
And that is mine through my sweet wife;
Beginning of my soul and end,
I've gain'd new being from this friend,—
She fills each thought, and each desire,
Up to the height I would aspire.
This bliss is never found by ranging;
Regret still springs from saddest changing;
Such loves and their beguiling pleasures,
Are falser still than magic treasures,
Which gleam at eve with golden colour,
And change to ashes ere the morrow.
But now each good that I possess,
Rooted in truth and faithfulness,
Imparts delight to every sense;
For erst they were a mere pretence,
And long before enjoy'd they were,
They changed their smiles to grizly care.
Now pleasures please—love being single—
Evils with its delights ne'er mingle.
My bed's become a place of rest,
Two souls repose on one soft breast;
And still in peace my simple board
Is spread, and tranquil feasts afford.
Before, to eat I scarce was able,
Some harpy hover'd o'er my table,
Spoiling each dish when I would dine,
And mingling gall with gladsome wine
Now the content that foolish I
Still miss'll in my philosophy.
My wife with tender smiles bestows,
And makes me triumph o'er my woes;
While with her finger she effaces
Of my past folly all the traces,
And graving pleasant thoughts instead,
Bids me rejoice that I am wed.
* * * *
And thus, by moderation bounded,
I live by my own goods surrounded.
Among my friends, my table spread
With viands we may eat nor dread;
And at my side my sweetest wife,
Whose gentleness admits no strife,—
Except of jealousy the fear,
Whose soft reproaches more endear.
Our darling children round us gather,
Children who will make me grandfather.
And thus we pass in town our days,
Till the confinement something weighs;
Then to our village haunt we fly,
Taking some pleasant company—
While those we love not never come
Anear our rustic leafy home;
For better 'tis t' philosophise,
And learn a lesson truly wise,
From lowing herd and bleating flock.
Than from some men of vulgar stock;
And rustics, as they hold the plough,
May often good advice bestow.
Of love, too, we may have the joy—
For Phœbus as a shepherd boy
Wander'd once among the clover,
Of some fair shepherdess the lover;
And Venus wept in rustic bower,
Adonis turn'd to purple flower;
And Bacchus midst the mountains derar,
Forgot the pangs of jealous fear;
And nymphs that in the waters play,
('Tis thus that ancient fables say),
And dryads fair among the trees,
Fain the sprightly fawns would please.
So in their footsteps follow we,
My wife and I,—as fond and free,—
Love in our thoughts and in our talk,
Direct we slow our saunt'ring walk,
To some near murm'ring rivulet;
Where 'neath a shady beech we sit,
Hand clasp'd in hand, and side by side,
With some sweet kisses too beside,
Contending there, in combat kind,
Which best can love with constant mind.
As the stream flows among the grass,
Thus life's clear stream with us does pass:
We take no count of day nor night.
While, minist'ring to our delight,
Nightingales all sweetly sing,
And loving doves, with folded wing,
Above our heads are heard to coo;
And far's the ill-betiding crow.
We do not think of cities then.
Nor envy the resorts of men,—
Of Italy, the softer pleasures,
Of Asia too, the golden treasures,
All these are nothing in our eyes;
The while a book beside us lies,
Which tells the tales of olden time,
Of gods and men the hests sublime,—
Æneas' voyage by Virgil told,
Or song divine of Homer old,
Achilles' wrath and all his glory,
Or wandering Ulysses' story,
Propertius too, who well indites,
And the soft plaints Catullus writes;
These will remind me of past grief,
Till, thinking of the sweet relief
My wedded state confers on me,
My bygone 'scapes I careless eye.
O what are all those struggles past,
The fiery pangs which did not last,
Now that I live secure for aye,
In my dear wife's sweet company?
I have no reason to repine—
My joys are her's, and her's are mine;
Our tranquil hearts their feelings share,
And all our pleasures mutual are.
Our eyes drink in the shady light
Of wood, and vale, and grassy height;
We hear the waters as they stray,
And from the mountains wend their way,
Leaping all lightly down the steep,
Till at our feet they murm'ring creep;
And fanning us, the evening breeze,
Plays gamesomely among the trees;
While bleating flocks, as day grows cold,
Gladly seek their shelt'ring fold.
And when the sun is on the hill,
And shadows vast the valleys fill,
And waning day, grown near its close,
Sends tired men to their repose;
We to our villa saunt'ring walk,
And of the things we see we talk,
Our friends come out in gayest cheer,
To welcome us—and fain would hear,
If my sweet wife be tired—and smile—
Inviting us to rest the while.
Then to sup we take our seat,
Our table plentiful and neat,
Our viands without sauces drest,
Good appetite the healthy zest
To fruits we've pluck'd in our own bowers,
And gaily deck'd with od'rous flowers.
And rustic dainties,—many a one.
When this is o'er and supper done,
The evening passes swift along,
In converse gay and sweetest song;
Till slumber, stealing to the eye,
Bids us to our couches hie.
I will not tell what there we do,
Even, dearest friend, to you;
Enough that lovers ever share
Delights when they together are.
Thus our village life we live,
And day by day such joys receive;
Till, to change the homely scene,
Lest it pall while too serene,
To the gay city we remove,
Where other things there are to love;
And graced by novelty we find
The city's concourse to our mind.
While our new coming gives a joy,
Which ever staying might destroy,
We spare all tedious compliment—
Yet courtesy with kind intent,
Which savage tongues alone abuse,
Will often the same language use.
Thus in content we thankful live,
And for one ill for which we grieve,
How much of good our dear home blesses;
Mortals must ever find distresses,
But sorrow loses half its weight—
And every moment has its freight
Of joy—which our dear friends impart,
And with their kindness cheer my heart,
While, never weary us to visit,
They seek our house when we are in it:
If we are out it gives them pain,
And on the morrow come again.
Noble Dural can cure our sadness,
With the infection of his gladness:
Augustin too—well read in pages,
Productions of the ancient sages,
And the romances of our Spain—
Will give us back our smiles again;
While he with a noble gravity,
Adorned by the gentlest suavity,
Recounts us many a tale or fable,
Which well to tell he is most able;
Serious, mingled with jokes and glee,
The which as light and shade agree.
And Monleon, our dearest guest,
Will raise our mirth by many a jest;
For while his laughter rings again,
Can we to echo it refrain?
And other merriment is ours,
To gild with joy the lightsome hours.
But all too trivial would it look,
Written down gravely in a book:
And it is time to say adieu,
Though more I have to write to you.
Another letter this shall tell,
So now, my dearest friend, farewell!
Thus lived Boscan, enjoying all that human nature can conceive of happiness. One of his tasks, after the lamented death of Garcilaso, was to collect his poems, and to publish several in a volume with his own. The date of his death is uncertain: it took place, however, before the year 1543; so that he died comparatively young. In person he was handsome; his physiognomy attractive from the mildness and benevolence it expressed; and his manners distinguished by courtly urbanity and elegance.
As a poet, he does not rank so high as his friend Garcilaso; he is less of a poet, less ideal, less harmonious. His chief praise results from his coming forward as the reformer of Spanish poetry: yet he cannot be considered an imitator of the Italian style which he introduced. It is true he adopted from the Italians their versification and subjects; but nothing can be more essentially different in character and genius. The tender flow of Petrarch, the inimitable mode in which he concentrates his ideas, and presents them to us with a precision yet with grace and ideality, find no competition in Boscan's poems. But there is more simplicity, more of the nerve of aman; less enthusiasm but a plainer and completer meaning in the Spaniard. He is less dreamy—to a certain degree, more common place; but then all is true, heartfelt, and living. We have not Petrarch's diction. Garcilaso de la Vega approached that more nearly; but we have a full and earnest truth that carries us along with it. Take for instance the most perfect of Petrarch's canzone,