Chapter II

Upon mine ancient lips all eager hungThe speaking god, now mute and at his ease,For he who listens may not use his tongue;

When all at once I gave a potent sneeze,And, crossing me for that ill-omened feat,I set myself great Mercury to please.

I scanned the list; and first upon the leetCame JUAN DE OCHOA the Licentiate,My friend as poet, Christian most complete;

In praise of such a man I can but stateThat from his clear discourse, a blade of might,The foe must meet a sure and speedy fate;

And should his genius well direct its flight,Now curbed by Spanish grammar, as I fear,Then would Apollo's fortune reach its height;

For with his poesy, that hath no peer,He well might gain the top of Fortune's wheel,And plant his foot upon its whirling sphere.

With POYA, the Licentiate, now we deal,Who of all comic writers is the starWhose brilliant light no clouds can e'er conceal;

But as his mind is ever borne afarBy quips, and quirks, and whimsies of the brain,He hath no stomach for the din of war.

Here DE VERGARA'S name is written plain,Third on the list; and if thou should'st decreeTo bear him to Parnassus in thy train,

He'll be a shaft, a javelin to thee,An arquebuse, a bolt, to cause dismayAnd force the hosts of ignorance to flee.

GODINEZ this; whose wit like month of MayIs crowned with flowers, and who in novel styleBrings forth new comedies to suit the day.

This other here, whose verses sweet beguileThe souls of men, and from Love's flowing fountDraw tender thoughts that cause to weep or smile,

Is one, who'll for a thousand soldiers countWhen, summoned to the strange assault and rude,The called and chosen stand before the mount;

'Tis DON FRANCISCO DE CALATAYUD,Who both in arms and letters takes a pride,And holds them with such equal claim and good,

That great Apollo ranks him by his side;I've said enough, and all that I desire,That envy now her sombre head may hide.

Next comes a poet of the sacred lyre,Known wide as MIGUEL CID, whose holy rhymeStrikes terror into all the Muses' quire.

This other here, whose soaring verse doth climbThe very shoulders of the greater Bear,So eulogized by fame, in this our time,

The best beloved, and eke most debonnair,Most pungent, most sonorous, most refined,Of all the poets Phœbus hath in care,

Who holds the key of writing, that rare kind,Wherein such mingled grace and wit appearThat on this orb its like we cannot find,

Is DON LUIS DE GONGORA, whom I fearBy such brief praise of mine to have disgraced,Although I raise it to the highest sphere.

O soul divine! who art already gracedWith honours high that to thy worth are due,And to thy hopes so well and wisely placed!

E'en now, in fitting offices and new,Thy powers, divine HERRERA, move aright,With heavenly glories ever in thy view;

Upon the splendours of thy beauteous Light,So rich and clear, thine eyes with rapture fall,As seen in her who is thy soul's delight;

And, clinging like the ivy to the wallOf Immortality, it boots not theeWhat matters in our darkened world befall.

And thou as well, DON JUAN DE JAUREGUI,Whose pen with subtle course doth upward speed,And fain would soar above all spheres that be;

Though Lucan through thy voice doth breathe indeed,One moment leave him, and with pitying eyeRegard Apollo in his time of need;

For now to thee a thousand spoils are nighOf thousand shameless daring ones, who fainWould rank as fruitful fields, though stubble dry.

And thou, whose cause the Muses all maintain,DON FELIX ARIAS, wilt give ear, I ween,While they entreat thee, in most melting strain,

To save their beauty from that rabble mean,And guard the immortal streams that gushing goFrom Aganippe and from Hippocrene;

Wilt thou consent to share the sparkling glowOf that rich liquor with some poet vile,Who sweats and belches while his numbers flow?

Thou wilt not; for thy chastely classic style,So precious and so rare, will not permitThe veriest trace of aught that can defile!

My lord, I said, let him be forced to quitWho next appears; he's but a brainless wightWho gambles, and with satire makes a hit.

But let the next find favour in thy sight,DE SALAS BARBADILLO is his name,Him I regard, and with supreme delight.

Who hither comes, if I be not to blame,Hath no right to embark, and strike him outThou mayst; quoth Mercury: "I think the same."

A certain urchin he, who loves to floutIn Gothic dress, a would-be Ganymede,'Twere best to turn him to the right about.

The next in turn deserves a better meed,The great LUIS CABRERA, who, though small,Achieveth much, for much he knows indeed;

A master he of history, prized by all,And in discreet discourses so discreet,That Tacitus himself seems at thy call.

Now comes to view a man of grace complete,Across whose life hath changing Fortune passed,And on whose head the storms of Time have beat;

Once was he rich in goods that would not last,Now richer still in goods that last for aye,He stands at thy command both firm and fast;

Around the beetling rocks in fierce arrayThe sea may rage, and all its billows bound,Nor move them from their solid base away;

And Boreas, too, may howl and rave aroundThe lofty cedars, but he strives in vainTo make their giant trunks bestrew the ground;

A living instance of this truth we gainIn DON LORENZO, he DE PRADO hight,With sweet philosophy that makes it plain.

I'll say of him who cometh now in sight,ANTONIO DE MONROY, a very storeOf wit and courtesy in him unite;

The proofs of his heroic might and loreMay satisfy the loftiest desire,Thousands I've seen, I've faith in thousands more.

Here comes a cavalier whom all admire,Of presence fine, and one who holds, I ween,Torquato's soul with unabated fire;

I DON ANTONIO DE PAREDES mean,Whose tender years his friends the Muses crownedWith antique genius, and a brow serene.

The next to carry with thee thou art bound,ANTONIO DE MENDOZA, and with rightApollo is thy debtor on this ground.

The next, who is the Muses' chief delight,Their grace, their charm, their wisdom, all in one,Who bears the palm for goodly wit at sight,

Is PEDRO DE MORALES, true-born sonOf courtly taste, the sure retreat alwaysMy poor luck finds that else might be undone.

This, though the part of Zoilus he plays,Is ESPINEL the grand, whose gay guitar,And style so rare, are worthy of all praise.

He, who with such a flight can fling the barAs leaves the heights of Pindus far behind,Who swears, and bursts, and sends his voice afar,

With more of poet's fire, than grace refined,Is JUSEPE DE VARGAS, whose astuteAnd strangely-ordered wit I've thus defined.

He, who from lustre and great wit to bootReceives fit tribute, and with homage trueCan offer to the Muses flower and fruit,

Is famed ANDRÈS DE BALMASEDA, whoWith solid judgment, and most pure intent,Will great Apollo please, and charm him too.

ENCISO this; the pride and ornamentOf Tagus and of Manzanares fair,Who well with such a son may live content.

Here comes a man, amongst a thousand there,The valiant LUIS DE GUEVARA he,Who might in truth be better styled Kill-care;

A giant poet whom to praise I'm freeFor sounding verse, and wit that can outlineA Gnatho or a Davus as they be.

DON JUAN DE ESPAÑA this, a poet fine,More worthy of divine than human fame,For in his verses he is all divine.

Comes famed SIL VEIRA, through whom Lugo's nameIs vaunted by the Muses, reason moreWhy thou shouldst strive to bear with thee the same.

Who follows is that man of curious lore,Great PEDRO DE HERRERA, who doth shineThrough lofty wit, with honour at the core.

The bard who snatched the lovely ProserpineA second time from dark oblivion's cage,And gave to Spain and Daurus wealth divine,

Thou'lt find him in the strife where rigours rage,(So feared and dreaded in our day, I ween,Fault of our pinched and not too happy age,)

Shewing his lusty powers and courage keen;But what of that? It is the grave and wiseFRANCISCO DE FARÍAS whom we mean.

PEDRO RODRIGUEZ this; whose worth I prize,The oracle of fair Granada's shrine,The Apollo of our own and distant skies.

TEJADA follows next, as I divine,Who on his lofty-sounding verse doth soar,And travels upward with majestic line.

The next, whose verses burst from every pore,Who finds his home and friends where'er he goes,And culls from every source his wealthy store,

Is MEDINILLA, who did first proposeTo sing the ballad of the sombre tombAmongst the cypress-trees, arranged in rows.

Next comes BERMUDEZ, who, with life in bloomThe sacred laurel seeks with eager smile,To cull fresh wisdom ere his years consume.

This is the poet, noted for his style,Who well displayed the sharpness of his witBy chanting in the woods of Erifile.

To name the one, who at the head doth sitOf this new column, and the other twoOf kindred soul, I hardly think it fit.

Now comes MIGUEL CEJUDO into viewWith MIGUEL SANCHEZ, pair without a peer,A bulwark of the Muses, stout and true;

Who, on the feet of their strong verse and clear,So full of doctrine rare and erudite,May march to face the combat without fear.

This cavalier, who reads with great delightAnd with the grand old poets doth consort,To reach the sacred mountain by their light,

DON FRANCISCO DE SILVA is in short,What will he be in full? O age mature,So green in years, yet full of wise retort!

DON GABRIEL GOMEZ hither comes, who's sureTo gift Apollo with no triumph meanOver the rabble witless and impure;

To crown his genius and his brow sereneWith fitting fame; that so from age to age,And ever on, his memory may be green.

In VALDES, that great personage and sage,The hope of such a deed is at its best,And well may great Apollo's doubts assuage:

In him hell find a wise and gallant breastA lofty genius, full of subtlety,Whereon his confidence may safely rest.

Comes FIGUEROA, Doctor by degree,Who sung in dulcet prose and dainty verseOf Amaryllis and her constancy.

Now four appear, whose names we must rehearse,Writ full and large in characters of gold,All doubts of their importance to disperse.

Of such quartette the glory shall be toldThrough countless ages, for their works remainWith massive weight their memory to uphold;

Should the grand throne, where Phœbus holds his reign,Be seen to topple from its lofty place,These four alone would raise it up again;

In them doth nature bounteously embraceThe whole of all the parts, held justly nowTo merit Highness which is more than Grace.

This truth, great CONDE DE SALINAS, thouDost well accredit with thy works so rare,Which touch the limits of divine, I trow.

Thou, prince of ESQUILACHE, biddest fair,From day to day, to rise to such a placeThat thou thyself wilt pass and overbear;

Thou'lt be a buckler strong in that dire caseWhich Phœbus dreads; arrayed in power complete,The scurvy squadron will not brook thy face.

Thou, CONDE DE SALDAÑA, who, with feetSo tender, climb'st up Pindus' lofty height,And soarest with thy wit on pinions fleet,

Thou hast to be a torch of quenchless light,To guide the pilgrims who would pay their vowUpon the sacred hill, nor dread the night.

Most famous, VILLAMEDIANA, thouOf all, amongst the Greeks and Latins, whoHave pressed the happy laurel on their brow;

Thou must patrol the road and sideways tooWhich to the mountain lead; that safely allThe simple strangers may their path pursue:

Before the sight of which quadruple wall,That girds Parnassus, shall the brainless throngOf these rude striplings totter down and fall.

What wondrous stories might I tell, and long,Of this quartette; what gains they have in storeFor great Apollo in the realms of song!

But lo! if ALCAÑICES join the corps,Marquess renowned, five Phœnixes will rise,Though in the world there be but one—no more!

Each one shall be a column of such sizeAs Phœbus' mansion singly to sustain,And bear its fabric far above the skies.

The next, although his weighty duties strainHis utmost powers, still bears the palm of fameApollo grants for honour and for gain;

Strange gifts in such a science hath the same,In jurisprudence, too, unique and rare,FRANCISCO DE LA CUEVA is his name.

He, whom with Homer I may well compare,Is DON RODRIGO DE HERRERA: heWho holds in letters as in worth the chair.

Now comes DON JUAN DE VERA, brave and free,Who, for his martial sword and lettered plume,Hath in the fifth and fourth sphere high degree.

This, who in soul and body casts a gloomO'er thousands, though he be no Christian sure,Still may his works survive till crack of doom!

On this I dropped the list: in accents pureThe god exclaimed: "With numbers such and greatAs thou hast named our business is secure;

See that, with ready feet and hearts elate,They hither come, while I shall keep me freeTo welcome allies of such sterling weight!"

"Scarce can FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO beIn time," I said: "Nay," quoth he, "on this cruiseI do not go, unless he go with me;

He is Apollo's son, son of the MuseCalliope; we cannot, it is clear,Go hence without him, and I do not chuse;

He is the scourge of all the poets drear,And from Parnassus, at the point of wit,Will chase the miscreants we expect and fear!"

"My lord," I said, "his pace is most unfit,He'll be a century upon the route!"Quoth Mercury: "It matters not a whit;

For be the poet gentleman to boot,Upon a dappled cloud, and through the air,He shall be borne, his courtly taste to suit!"

"For him who's none what is Apollo's care?"I asked, "what clouds, what carriages at hand?What dromedary? Brute of action rare?"

"Thy questions savour much," he said offhand,"Of hardihood; be silent and resigned!""Since not ineffable is thy command,

I yield!" So answered I, and to my mindHe seemed somewhat irate, and straight aheadRough rose the sea, and blew the gusty wind.

Then grew my face, like visage of one dead,Bedewed with pallor, for, if truth be told,I'm somewhat fearful of the thing I dread;

I saw the night and day together rolled,The sands of ocean deep began to dashUp to the realms of air, that froze with cold;

Now seemed the elements in rage to clash,Earth, water, air, and lambent fire, whose lightPierced the rent clouds with intermittent flash.

In midst of this confusion and affright,Clouds full of poets sent a pouring rainDown on the barque, and would have swamped it quite,

Had not some thousand Sirens come amain,And with their whips, from yard to yard, did makeThat hurly-burly take to flight again;

One, whom for Joan la Chasca I did take,With paunch extensive, and long neck and bare,In fashion like to that of curling snake,

Accosted me and said: "'Twas by a hairThat hung the hope of coming, as designed,Our timely succour to the barque to bear;

We tarried, 'tis no jest, on the fair windThat listless stood, in rapt attention, whileA certain Sancho Panza told his mind!"

On this began to abate that tempest vile,The sea grew calm, the sky serene and bright,And Boreas fled before the Zephyr's smile.

I turned to look, and lo! on pinions light,A cloud came bursting through the upper air,Like unto virgin ice as purely white:

O marvel without peer! O wonder rare!I saw it, and must tell it, though I strainThe faith of men in what I now declare!

What I could see, and what I will maintain,Is that the cloud, careering on its way,Split into halves, and then began to rain.

Whoe'er has seen the earth with such arrayOf power prepared, that when it rains apace,(A patent fact that none can well gainsay)

From every drop, and in the briefest space,A frog or toad from out the dust takes birth,That upward jumps, or creeps with sluggish pace;

Such may conceive (O power of sovereign worth!)How from the cloud, and from each drop, he seesA bulging shape, though human-like, leap forth;

To credit such a fact, with thousand pleasI did resist in vain; for, void of mistAnd rheum, mine eyes beheld it with great ease.

These bulging forms were poets of the list,Which we have just recited with great care,Whose energy none living can resist;

Some, honest men and honoured everywhere,Others, mere swaggerers with flaunting crest,A few well-robed, and many more threadbare.

One man of might I saw among the rest,ANTONIO DE GALARZA, as I trow,Apollo's chamberlain, in high request.

The barque was filled outright from poop to prow,So great its bulk that each one could commandA spacious seat; such praise I must allow.

Another cloud rained down that poet grand,LOPE DE VEGA, whom in prose or verseNone can surpass, nor one beside him stand.

'Twas fine to see, to speak in language terse,The needy swarm of poetasters tryWith honied voice their poems to rehearse,

This wild with thirst, and that with hungry eye;At such a sight I loudly made remark:"Good God! to sail with such a scurvy fry!"

As Mercury this needless swarm did mark,He sought his remedy, and with a shoutHe leapt into the middle of the barque;

And with a large sieve, lying there about—Whether antique or new I'm not aware—Riddled a thousand slipshod poets out;

Those of the cloak and sword he fain would spare,He sifted out two thousand souls or more,Yet sooth, 'twas but a cockle harvest there!

This crucial test the good and holy bore,The gritty, husky ones remained behind,Whose verse was hard as millstone at the core;

To all the clamant pleadings they could find,In their defence, Mercurius gave no ear,But to the sea the shouting mob consigned.

Of the expelled a blind man I did hear,Who, floundering, grumbling, 'mid the waves did cry:"Shame on Apollo, I renounce him here!"

A taylor there, of weak legs and awry,Who with his arms made sturdy strokes and great,Bawled out: "Apollo's naught, so long live I!"

Another one, a cobbler and first-rate,And yet a moody being all the same,With twice a thousand follies cursed his fate;

There toils a shearer, sweats, and doth inflameHis soul, to cleave the waves and gain the beach,For life to him is dearer far than fame!

Soon as the swimming shoals the shore did reachThey turned them to the galley, and gave ventTo their disgust, with gestures and with speech!

One said for all: "Thou brutal Envoy, sentBy Phœbus, it was surely worth thy whileTo treat us well, not rouse our discontent!

But list ye: 'tis my purpose to defileThe sacred mountain's height, from top to base,With novel books, and in a novel style!"

Dumb was Mercurius; and commenced with graceTo raise six stately cabins wondrous rare,To give the better folk a worthy place;

Anew the sounding clarions smote the air;Mercurius stood with calm, contented mind,And while the dolphins leapt with omen fair,

They dipped their oars, and sailed before the wind.