Imatges de pàgina
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longer compositions. In selecting the following specimen, we have, perhaps, been too much guided by its eminence in beauties, which the happiest translation cannot hope to preserve; it is, however, no unfair representative of Herrera's general tone :

SONNET CXX. LIB. 1.

Roxo sol, que con tu hach a luminosa, &c.

Red Sun, that dost thy torch resplendent bear,
To paint the high, empurpled heaven around,
Hast thou, in all the world, one beauty found
To match my blessed Light, serenely fair?
Or hast thou, amorous, bland, and fragrant Air,
That scatterest freshness where thy pinions sound,
When her rich veil of curls my Light unbound,
Touched tresses lovelier than that golden hair?
Thou Moon, night's glory! ye illustrious quire

Of planets, and the host that changeless shine,
Are such twin stars in all your firmament?
Clear Sun, Air, Moon, and Lamps of golden fire,

Heard ye throughout your course such wo as mine,
Or saw a Light less kind to Love's lament?

We subjoin another, which we have chosen for the sake of the elegant turn of thought, as well as because it affords a good instance of the verbal trifling with which our author frequently amuses himself. These whimsicalities present a great difficulty to the translator; we have, however, in some measure preserved the form of the puzzle.

SONNET III. LIB. 2.

Tu gozas la luz bella en claro dia, &c.

Thou, blest Endymion! through the shining day,
Enjoy'st thine own Diana's lovely light ;—
Mine from the earliest dawn enchains my sight,

And vain desires my gladness wear away.

Thee the cool Nights in gentle slumber lay,

Till red and hoary dawn on Earth alight;—

I wake, with wounds unhealed, through shadowy night,
And day's light hours, unlit by my Light's ray.
Upon thy rosy brow, and eyelids sweet,

Fair Delia sighs, and from thy kisses drains
The bliss well purchased by her former care ;-
My Light, unpitying, from her lofty seat,

Circled with golden rays, beholds my pains,
Nor thanks the grief her memory bids me wear.

But all Herrera's sonnets are not occupied with this monotonous burden of lamentation; those in which he celebrates some historical fact, or addresses an eminent personage, are amongst the best of his compositions in this form. The following we consider as nearly as possible faultless the grave and solemn pomp of the language is in admirable harmony with the melancholy sublimity of the theme.

SONNET XXXVI. LIB. 1.

Del peligro del mar, del hierro abierto, &c.

From his sea-perils, from the naked blade

Which the fierce Cimbrian waved—and, awe-inspired,
Fled at that haughty voice-escaping; tired,

Stood Marius on lamenting Byrsa's strand.

The sterile plain regarding, and the bare
Deserted site of that unhappy spot,

Sorrowing, he mourned aloud his heavy lot;
And these sad accents pierced the doubtful air:
In thy disastrous ruin I behold,

O shattered rampart, Heaven's tremendous change,
And all the troubled wreck of human fate:

What more appalling chance, or moral strange,

Can be, than Marius in his grief consoled,
By viewing thee, O Carthage, desolate!'

Hitherto, Herrera appears only as a successful follower of the great Italian poet;-in a province, which all the talent and skill of its masters have barely rescued from the indifference of posterity:-we are now to observe him in a nobler exercise of his art, wherein, amongst the moderns, at least, he had no predecessor, and has hitherto found no equal. His Canciones combine the energy of the classical lyrics with the sweetness of the Italian canzoni, coloured by the rich and sober dignity of the Spanish temperament. They do not possess the fire and abrupt variety of the Pindaric, nor the exquisite propriety of the Horatian odes; but they are far more gorgeous in their apparel, and breathe in more elevated strains. No writer has worn the mantle of lyrical inspiration with greater majesty, or uttered music of more sustained beauty, than Herrera. His imagery, lavished in the utmost profusion, is bold and varied; and he excels in felicitous changes of personification, which present his subject in forms perpetually novel and picturesque. Upon the language of these works he has exhausted all the resources of his skill,-obtaining a marvellous flexibility of manner, by the unusual freedom of construction But it is he employs; and choosing his expressions with peculiar care. in the lofty tone of these effusions that their rare excellence consists; they strike the mind with an air of sublimity, which carries the hearer upwards, as upon wings.-Herrera's canciones may be divided into two classes; the pensive, and the historical or heroic. From the former, we select his celebrated "Ode to Sleep ;" which, for harmony of versification, and tender beauty of manner, is unrivalled by any similar composition. The spirit of this lyric may, indeed, in some measure be preserved; but its delicious grace, and felicity of language, escape almost wholly in the process of translation. In the original, the imploring tone of supplication, the elegant variety in the mode of address, and the dreamy beauty of the epithets, form a whole, the effect of which is absolutely enchanting.

CANCION I.

Suave sueno, tu que en tardo buelo, &c.

Sweet Slumber, that, in slow encircling flight,
Wavest thy lazy wings, with soothing sway,
Crown'd with the drowsy poppy's purple hues,
Through the pure, floating, silent heaven of night;
Come to this furthest verge of sinking day,
And with thy blessed dews,

Bathe my sad eyes, and grateful calm infuse!

For, weary slave to mine infuriate pain,

I find no rest from care,

And grief subdues the vigour to sustain :-
Hear my submissive prayer!

Come at my prayer submissive! Thou, the pride

Of that fair nymph whom Heré made thy bride!

NO. XI.-VOL. II.

Most heavenly sleep! poor mortals' brightest dower?
Sweet respite to the sufferer's keen distress,

Most amorous sleep! O come to me, who sigh

To cheat this busy anguish for an hour,

And all my sense to deep repose address.

And wilt thou see me die

For need of thee, who wert not wont to fly ?

O cruel, thus to leave one lonely breast

Awake in weary wo,

Sole stranger to the healing calm impress'd
On all the world below!

Glad sleep! come, holy sleep! around me close,
And o'er my troubled spirit shed repose!

Display thy power in this mine urgent need!
Descend, and sprinkle melting dews around.
Veil from my sight the dawn's expanding glow.
Hear my consuming plaint, my misery plead!
And moisten my hot brow.

See! his blent rays the sun is kindling now.
Delicious sleep! return: thy pinions fair

Fan, with soft murmurings;

And bid Aurora, with unwelcome air,

Fly back, on rapid wings.

Thus shall the early day's approaching light

Heal the long injuries of icy night.

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Is not this, even as viewed through the dim medium of our translation, a strain such as few poets have uttered.

In consideration of the extent to which our comment has already proceeded, we must forego the pleasure of exhibiting any sketch of those Canciones, which Herrera addressed to his real or fancied mistress: Some of these are exquisite; and there are few which do not contain poetical thoughts expressed in language of great beauty. Unwillingly, also, do we omit an intended analysis of his Elegies in Terza Rima, dedicated to the same subject. One of these, which commences, Bien debes asconder, oscuro cielo,-bewailing the supposed death of his ladyelove, several Spanish critics* regard as the most perfect of his works; and very sweet and pathetic it certainly is :-yet we cannot admit as chefs d'œuvre of our author any imitations; such as this, however successful, must undoubtedly be termed.

We are in no wise sorry, that the straitness of our present limits defends us from the task of developing to such of our readers, as Petrarch

* Such, as far as we can gather from the tone of his remarks, is also Bouterwek's opinion.

has not already made acquainted with this vicious kind of production, the ingenuity which Herrera has wasted upon Sestinas; or compositions in six stanzas, of three couplets each, the same three pairs of rhymes preserved through all the verses; each, however, in a different order of arrangement. We may observe, that in this paltry abuse of metrical artifice, Herrera has displayed, perhaps, as much dexterity as any of his fellow-criminals. Little praise is implied in the remark; and with this brief observation we gladly quit an ungrateful subject.

We have now attempted, in some degree, to pourtray Herrera's chief attainments in two considerable provinces of the poetic art ;-our next, and by far more important task, will be to display them in a sphere wherein the genius of the poet rises to a still brighter pre-eminence. It is in virtue of his sublime Heroic Odes that Herrera is mainly entitled to the exalted station which we claim for him amongst lyrical writers; for we do not hesitate to assert, in full recollection of Chiabrera,* Guidi,† Filcaja and Quintana, and many others, his successors and imitators,that, in this department of poetical creation, for majesty of style, and grandeur of conception, Herrera as yet stands wholly unapproached. Our notice of these noble compositions, which deserve to be unfolded with more fulness and deliberation than we could now bestow upon them, will form the subject of a concluding paper.

Of these, Chiabrera has followed Herrera most nearly, and with the most success. Compare this Author's Ode on the deliverance of Vienna by Sobieski, fine as it is, with any of Herrera's three, on the Victory of Lepanto.

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SON, Christian, Patriot, Hero, Statesman, Friend,
Gentle in peace, in peril unsubdued;

All attributes that mark the great and good,
Did in the breast of Young Fitzgerald blend!
His was the rare ambition, when, to bend

Before our country's ruthless tyrants would
Have been accounted honour, with his blood
Our country's falling freedom to defend.
Nor vainly sank that blood upon the prison

Whence heavenward his martyr-spirit fled.
If now our freedom's dawning star hath risen;
If Erin now may lift her drooping head;
Not ours the glory of that change! It is on
His grave its mourning laurels must be shed!

2S2

A SUMMER EVENING DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN

ENGLISHMAN AND A POLE.

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.

POLE. You should not ask foreigners to praise your country till you can shew it them under such an aspect as this. Its rural scenes should I have told you be entered upon at this very hour of this very season. that you should approach Heidelberg at sunset, and Venice when the full moon has risen, and Genoa when the sun first peeps up from the sea. Abroad, I would say, traverse the harvest fields of England, when they wave in the golden light of an August evening.

ENGLISHMAN. Is the beauty of our landscape peculiar? I should have thought, without any allusion to your own unhappy country, that you had seen many such prospects as this in the flourishing agricultural regions through which you have travelled.

POLE. I have traversed many corn districts, during both seed-time and harvest; and the song of the vine-dressers, and the chant of the reapers, are alike familiar to me. But there is a beauty in your rural districts which I discern in no others. The haze on the horizon, which tells that a busy city is there, enhances the charm of the balmy solitude; and yonder lordly mansion among the woods, and the peasant's cottage in the lane, give a grace, by contrast, to each other.

ENGLISHMAN. And their inhabitants, likewise, I suppose. Yonder whistling labourer, plodding homeward with his sickle in his hand, contrasts well with the mechanic loitering through the field, chewing straws. And that cottage mother, gleaning in the next field, with her tribe of little ones about her, forms as pleasant an object as Lord W. with his train of high-born sons and daughters—as graceful a riding party as ever was seen-emerging from the green lane upon the down.

POLE.—It is a tranquil and fair scene. The voices of the children, pulling dog-roses and birdweed, are as sweet to the ear as the cooing of the ringdove in the grove we have just left; and there is music in the village clock, which sets all these peasants converging towards their homes. If ever there was peace, it is surely here; and it is soothing, even to the lacerated heart of a Pole, to witness it.

ENGLISHMAN. Such are the outward shows of things in this world. Do you not know, my friend, that brows often ache under coronets, and that splendid smiles sometimes disguise the wounds of the heart? Even so this fair scene yields a false show of happiness.

POLE.-Nay; but here is fact. There is reality before our eyes, and within reach of our touch. Here is golden grain, bowing beneath its own weight, in this field; and, in the next, the wain is piled high with the fruits of the harvest. And these abodes and their occupiers-are they but visions?

ENGLISHMAN.-None of these things are visions, any more than the field flowers which flourish on a tomb, or the fever-flush which brightens the eye of the sick; but it does not follow that there is not decay and pain beneath and within.

POLE. You mean that there is mortal sorrow within the bounds of this horizon. True; where humanity is present, there is sorrow.

ENGLISHMAN.-Ay; and not only unavoidable sorrow, but that of man's own choice. What I mean is, that there is hollowness under this apparent prosperity. Step a little this way, and I will shew you the ugly walls of a workhouse, where you now see only a clump of elms. The mechanic

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