My mother died as soon as I was born,[23]
And I was dedicate to thee, a child,
Bequeathed by my poor mother's dying prayer.
A second parent thou, O Virgin mild.
Father and mother to the babe forlorn;
For my own father made me not his care.
It was this neglect, probably, that led him to place his affections on religious objects: and the enthusiasm he felt, he believed to be a vocation for a monastic life. At the age of sixteen, he endued the habit of the order of St. Augustin in the convent of Salamanca, and took the vows during the following year. Enthusiastically pious, but without fanaticism, his heart was warmed only by the softer emotions of religion; love, and resignation, a taste for retirement, and pleasure in fulfilling the duties of his order. His soul was purified, but not narrowed by his piety. He loved learning, and was an elegant classical scholar. Most of his poems were written when young. He translated a great deal from Virgil and Horace, and became imbued by their elegance and correctness. He was celebrated also as a theologian, and he pursued his scholastic studies with an ardour that led him to adorn his religious faith with the imaginative hues of poetry and the earnest sentiments of his heart. He was admired for his learning by his contemporaries, and rose high in the estimation of the scholars of Salamanca, where he resided. At the age of thirty-three, he was made doctor of theology by the university of that town. In the year 1561, he was elected to the chair of St. Thomas, over the heads of seven candidates, by a large majority.
Although his learning, his piety, and the austerity of his life, caused him to be regarded with universal respect, yet he had enemies, the result, probably, of his very excellencies. These took advantage of a slight imprudence he had committed, to plunge him into the most frightful misfortune. He greatly loved and admired Hebrew poetry; and, to please a friend, who did not understand the learned languages, he translated into Spanish, and commented upon, the Song of Solomon. His friend was heedless enough to permit copies to be taken, and it thus became spread abroad. Who was the machinator of the disaster that ensued we are not told; but he was accused before the tribunal of the inquisition of heresy, for disobeying the commands of the church, in translating Scripture into the vulgar tongue. He was seized, and thrown into the prison of the inquisition, at Valladolid, in the year 1572. Here he remained five years, suffering all the hardships of a rigorous and cruel confinement. Confined in a dungeon, without light or space—cut off from communication with his friends—allowed no measures of defence—hope seemed shut out from him, while all means of occupation were denied him.
His pious mind found consolation in religion. He could turn to the objects of his worship, implore their aid, and trust to the efficacy of their intercession before God. Sometimes, however, his heart failed him, and it was complaints rather than prayers that he preferred. His odes to the Virgin were written during this disastrous period; and among them that from which we have already quoted, in which he pathetically describes and laments the extremity of adversity to which he was reduced. The whole ode in Spanish is full of pathos, and gentle, yet deep-felt lamentation, a few stanzas may give some idea of the acuteness of his sufferings. Thus he speaks of the hopeless, lingering evils of his imprisonment:—
If I look back, I feel a wild despair—[24]
I shrink with terror from the coming days,
For they will mirror but the hideous past;
While heavy and intolerable weighs
The evil load of all that now I bear;
Nor have I hope but it will ever last—
The arrows come so fast;
I feel a deadly wound,
And, shudd'ring, look around;
And as the blood, rushing all warm, doth flow,
Behold! another, and another blow!
While they who deal to me such fierce annoy.
Rejoice to see my woe—
Lamenting still they do not quite destroy!
To what poor wretch did heaven e'er deny
Leave to declare the misery he feels?
Laments can ease the weight of heaviest chain;
But cruel fate with me so harshly deals,
Stifling within my lips the gushing cry,
So that aloud I never may complain:
For, could I tell my pain,
What heart were hard enough,
Though made of sternest stuff,
Tiger or basilisk, or serpent dread,
That would not gentle tears of pity shed,
Symbols of tender sorrow for my woes?
The while by hatred fed,
Fate's hostile fury ever fiercer grows.
From living man no comfort reaches me:
From me the dearest and most faithful friend
Would fly beyond the earth's remotest end,
So not to share my hopeless misery!
And my sad eyes, where'er I turn my sight,
Are strangers to the light.
No man that comes anear,
My name did ever hear—
So I myself almost myself forget!
Nor know if what I was, so am I yet—
Nor why to me this misery befell:
Nor can I knowledge get;
For none to me the horrid tale will tell.
* * * *
* * * *
Wreck'd is my vessel on a shoreless sea,
Where there is none to help me in my fear,
Where none can stretch a friendly saving hand!
I call on men—but there are none to hear;
In the wide world there's no man thinks of me;
My failing voice can never reach the land!
But, while I fearful stand,
A blessed, heaven-sent thought,
By bitter suffering brought,
Bids me, O Virgin! trust to thee alone.
Thou never turn'st away from those who cry,
Nor wilt thou let thy son,
O piteous Mother! miserably die.
My mother died as soon as I was born;
And I was dedicate to thee, a little child,
Bequeath'd by my poor mother's dying prayer;
A second parent thou, O Virgin mild!—
Father and mother to the babe forlorn!
For my own father made me not his care:—
And, Lady, canst thou bear
A child of thine thus lost,
And in such danger tost?
To other sorrows art thou not so blind:
They waken pity in thy gentle mind,
Thou givest aid to every other,
To me be also kind;
Listen, and save thy son, O piteous Mother!
It could not be, however, but that a heart so truly pious would find relief in prayer, and feel at intervals strong animating confidence in heaven. Thus, in contrast with these laments, we have a description of another mood of mind, which he gives in an epistle to a friend on his liberation. "Cut off," he writes, "not only from the conversation and society of men, but even from seeing them, I remained for five years shut up in darkness and a dungeon. I then enjoyed a peace and joy of mind that I often miss, now that I am restored to light, and the society of my friends."
He was at length liberated. Sedano tells us, that "at last his trial being over, in virtue of the proofs and exculpations which he was enabled to bring in support of his innocence, he was set at liberty at the end of the year 1576, and restored to all his honours and employments." It is some consolation to find that his imprisonment caused great scandal and outcry, and that his liberation was hailed with exultation and delight. The university had, from respect, never filled the professor's chair, vacated during his imprisonment; and, on his return to Salamanca, the most distinguished persons of the town met him on his way, and conducted him thither in triumph.