Chapter IV

Anger at times will issue forth in verse,But, if the angry one be light of head,His rhymes are apt to take a turn perverse;

For me I know but this: by passion led,I found me chanting forth, in tercets free,Things which the Pontine exile never said:

"Not by the mob," quoth I, "esteemed is heWho follows you, my lord, and leans his backFor rest against the laurel's sacred tree;

Envy and folly ever dog his track,And, envied thus and driven to distress,The good he hopes for he must ever lack.

I cut and fashioned by my wit the dress,With which fair Galatea sought the light,And left the region of forgetfulness;

I'm he whose La Confusa, handsome quite,Made in the theatres a grand display,If common fame hath told the matter right;

I've Comedies composed whose style of playTo reason so conformed, that on the stageThey showed fair mingling of the grave and gay;

I've given in Don Quixote, to assuageThe melancholy and the moping breast,Pastime for every mood, in every age;

I've in my Novels opened, for the rest,A way whereby the language of CastileMay season fiction with becoming zest;

I'm he who soareth in creative skill'Bove many men; who lacks a goodly shareOf this, his fame at last will fare but ill;

From tender years I've loved, with passion rare,The winsome art of Poesy the gay,In this to please thee hath been all my care;

My humble pen hath never winged its wayAthwart the field satiric, that low plainWhich leads to foul rewards, and quick decay;

I penned the Sonnet with this opening strain,(To crown my writings with their chiefest grace,)I vor to God, such grandeur stuns my brain!

I've of Romances penned a countless race—The one of Jealousy I prize the best—The rest, I trow, are in a parlous case;

And so I'm very wroth, and much distressedTo see me here on foot, alone to gaze,No tree to give me but a little rest;

I'm on the point—to use a common phrase—Of giving great Persiles to the press,Which shall my name and works still higher raise;

I, with chaste thoughts and full of subtleness,In sonnets by the dozen did arrayThree scullion beings in a comely dress;

To rival Phyllis, my Phylena gayHath carolled through the woods, whose leafy landGave back the sound of many a merry lay;

In sweet and varied rhymes the zephyrs blandHave borne my dreamy hopes away from me,Which sowed their seed on these, and on the sand.

My thoughts were ever, are, and still shall be—Thanks be to Heaven that so hath bent my mind—From every form of flattery safe and free.

Whate'er betide, my steps are ne'er inclinedWhere travel falsehood, fraud, and base deceit,The total wreck of honour in mankind.

My narrow fortune doth not stir my heat,Although to stand on foot, and in this throng,As now I see me, makes my loss complete;

With little I'm content, although I longFor much." To such proofs of disordered mindThymbræus answered, with the blandest tongue:

"Men's evil fortunes swell up from behind,Bringing their current with them from afar,And so are feared, but cannot be declined;

To some, good comes at once with sudden jar,To others, bit by bit without a strain,The steps of evil no wise different are;

The good, that hath been wrested, to maintainWith shrewd, firm grasp that cannot be undone,Is no less virtue than the good to gain;

Thyself hast fickle Fortune wooed and won,Oft have I seen thee with her times agone,But from the imprudent she is fain to run.

Yet would'st thou shew thyself, all quarrel gone,Gay, gladsome, not put out in any wise,Double thy cloak, and seat thyself thereon!

For he, who merits luck which fate deniesWithout good reason, and in mood severe,Is honoured more than if he won the prize!"

"My lord, it hath escaped you quite, I fear,That I possess no cloak!" was my reply;"No less," quoth he, "I'm glad to see thee here,

For virtue is the cloak which povertyWraps round her form, to clothe withal her shame,And so the shafts of envy pass her by!"

I bowed my head before the court of Fame,And stood on foot; good seat hath none by right,If wealth or favour do not urge the claim.

One near me murmured, pitying my plight,Deprived of honour which he thought my due,Fresh from the orb of potence and of light.

Methought at once a strange resplendent hueO'erspread the sky, and lo! the smitten airWas pierced with sweetest music through and through;

And at one side I spied a squadron fairOf beauteous nymphs come dancing to the song,With whom the ruddy god made sporting rare.

In rear of these there came at length alongA wondrous being, radiant as the lightThe Sun emits amid the starry throng;

The highest beauty pales before her sightAnd she remains alone in her array,Diffusing round contentment and delight.

She looked the likeness of Aurora gay,When, mid the roses and the pearly dew,She wakes to life and ushers in the day;

The garments rich, and jewels bright of hueWhich gemmed her person, might hold rivalryWith all the world of wonders ever knew.

The nymphs that did her bidding faithfully,In brilliant bearing and in sprightly ease,Seemed to me all the liberal arts should be;

They all with tender love, and joined to theseThe Sciences, most clear and most reserved,Did pay her reverence as on bended knees;

Showed that in serving her themselves were served,And that through her they, mid the nations all,A higher honour and respect preserved.

The Ocean's currents at her simple callTheir ebb and flow displayed; the abyss revealedThe parent source of waters great and small;

The herbs their virtues at her touch did yield,The trees their fruits, its sweetest flowers the vale,The stones their inward worth which lay concealed;

To her did love its chastest joys unveil,Benignant peace its quietude and cheer,Terrific war its horrors and its wail;

The spacious path was to her vision clear,Through which the Sun, in never-ending line,Pursues his natural and constrained career;

The force of fate which makes our wills incline,The elements that form the starry light,The influence of this planet or that sign—

All this she knows, all this she wields aright,That holy maid of loveliness complete,Who claims at once our wonder and delight.

I asked the spokesman, if beneath that sweetAnd radiant form no god lay in disguise,Whom to adore in her were worship meet;

Since by the rich adornment of her guise,And by her gallant mien and bravery,She seemed no child of earth but of the skies:

"Thou shew'st," quoth he, "thy crass stupidity,Since thou hast wooed her now for many a year,And knowest not that she is Poesy!"

"To me," I said, "she ever did appearIn homely clothes, but never met my gazeArrayed in robes so rich and grand as here;

Seems 'tis her undress I have seen always,Picked out with colours of the spring demure,Alike on working as on holidays!"

Mercurius answered: "'Tis but reason sureThat Poesy the true, the grave, discreet,The elegant, the lofty, and the pure,

Should robe herself in vesture that is meetFor all the actions which her rank become,For each in turn appropriate and complete;

She never stoops to serve the common scumOf ballad mongers, impudent and mean,Who bawl the loudest when they should be dumb.

There is a false, a base, old, haggard quean,Friend of the drum and timbrel mummery,Seldom from bench or tavern to be seen;

Hardly two hand-breadths from the floor springs she,At weddings and at baptisms she sits,Though huge her fists, her brains but scanty be;

At times she falleth into sudden fits,Cannot articulate, or if she can,Her blundering grammar proves her muddled wits;

Her tastes are those of Bacchus and his clan,And in her couplets, over mead and wold,She scatters thyme and mint and gentian.

But she whom thou dost see is, as of old,The charm and glory of the heavens and earth,With whom the Muses secret counsel hold;

She seals up secrets and she lets them forth,And of each science scans, in graver mood,At once its surface and its inner worth.

Survey her person with an eye more shrewd,Thou'lt see enshrined, and in abundance great,The very sum and quintessence of good;

There lodge with her, within the self-same gate,Philosophies both moral and divine,A style the purest and the most ornate.

At mid-day she can paint in sombrest lineThe night, and in the depth of deepest nightThe rosy dawn that makes the pearls to shine.

The river's course she quickens into might,Then curbs; she makes the breast with fury rise,Then soothes to blandness with her touch so light.

Into the midst of clashing arms she flies,Where ranks opposing meet with dire intent,She victory gives and victory denies.

Mark how the forests at her sight presentTheir shades, their songs the shepherds of the dale,Sorrow its weeds, and pleasure its content;

Pearls from the south, odours from Saba's vale,Gold from the Tiber, sweets from Hybla's mount,Galas from Milan, loves from Portingale,

Fall at her feet. In fine, she is the fountWhere blend the sweet, the useful, and the sound,Whence human bliss doth swell its rich account.

She is of wit so lively and profound,That oft she touches points, whose tangled knotBy mortal fingers cannot be unbound.

Her voice exalts the good; an evil lotShe gives the bad; and at her holy shrineThe former kneel, the last regard her not.

Her works heroic shall immortal shine:Her lyrics sweet obey such sovereign laws,That mortal things they change into divine;

If she at times with flattery urge her cause,It is with skill so rare and so refined,As deadens censure and demands applause;

The scourge of vice and virtue's crown combined,Her deeds proclaim to all the world arightHer lofty genius and her gentle mind."

I stood entranced, when thro' some loop-holes brightWith jasmines, and with roses sweet entwined,Where Love, methinks, might harbour with delight,

I spied six persons of a clerkly kind,Who seemed of reverend and grave aspect,With long white togas stately and refined.

I asked Mercurius: "Why do such affectTo hide and burrow in this lurking-place,Who yet appear most worthy of respect?"

He answered: "Fain would they preserve the graceAnd chaste reserve, that fit the high degreeThey occupy, and so they veil the face!"

"Who are they," cried I, "if 'tis given theeTo tell the same?" "Nay," quoth he, "by my fay,Such is Apollo's mandate and decree!"

"Are they not poets?" "Yea!" "Then sooth to say,It puzzles me to guess why they should fearTo bring their genius to the light of day;

Why do they play the fool and ninny here,Wrapping their talent up, great Heaven's giftTo all her sons who hold the favour dear?

Ho! in the King's name! what may be their drift?What dread or shame forbids them now to faceEarth's scurvy groundlings and their veils uplift?

Can any science claim to hold a placeBeside the science vast of Poesy,That brooks no limit to its wide embrace?

If this be truth, then prithee tell to me,To such fraternity what end doth serveThis fear, this niceness, this hypocrisy?

Monsignor maketh verses, with reserveThat none shall know it, and he shares the sameWith friends; yet will incognito preserve!

But be they good, it is the work of FameTo spread their worth, and to their master singWith voice of glory, blazoning his name!

Why this ado then? Is't a treasonous thingTo call a pontiff poet, and repeatThe name aloud? By heaven, 'tis maddening!

Now, by Lanfusa's life, the fair discreet,If I be told not who these gentry are,With rochet and biretta robed complete,

In boisterous fashion will I levy war,And bring confusion on this brotherhood,Who seem too quiet and composed by far!"

"By God," cried Mercury, "and all that's good!I may not tell thee, but an' if I do,I'll lay the blame upon thy hardihood!"

"My lord, I bind me now and henceforth tooTo tell to none what thou shalt tell to me,'Pon honour," quoth I, "of good friend and true!"

He answered: "They may think our jesting free,Come closer, I will whisper in thine ear;Faith, there be more of them than thou didst see.

He, whom thou saw'st with stiff neck and austere,Lusty, resplendent, stately to the view,In worth arrayed and modesty severe,

Is DOCTOR DON FRANCISCO SANCHEZ, whoWill soar in praises far above the skies,If now Apollo gives him but his due;

And higher yet his famous wit shall rise,Since in the green leaves of his tender primeThe pregnant hope of holy fruitage lies.

His neighbour, who on fantasies sublimeAnd savoury ecstasies doth feast withal,And with my actions makes his own to chime,

El MAESTRO ORENSE is, with claim not smallTo plume himself on higher eloquenceThan ever sounded in Athenian hall;

His native wit, joined to the sober senseWhich science lends, exalts him to the gradeWhich stamps him with the name of Excellence.

Whose face with saintly pallor is o'erlaid,Of whom that laurel branch conceals the sight,To whom that leafy cup-like plant gives shade,

FRAY JUAN BAPTISTA CAPATAZ is hight;Barefooted, poor, but well arrayed withal,For fame enrobes him with her vesture bright.

He, who from dark oblivion's tyrant thrallHath snatched his name, and endless rapture found,Loved by Apollo and the Muses all,

In wit an ancient, in his youth profound,A humanist divine, is, let me say,DOCTOR ANDRES DE POZO the renowned.

The next, a graduate with mighty playOf wit, although in Mercy's garb he go,To him as lord the Muses tribute pay;

By name RAMÓN; whose strength will deal a blow,Whereby Apollo shall to every windScatter the stolid forces of the foe.

Of him, whose temples thou dost see entwinedWith Daphne's arms, and triumph in his face,The glories are in Alcalá enshrined;

Within the theatre of that famed place,The Swan, with song auspicious, doth proclaimAnd hail him first and foremost in the race;

Upon his piquant jests he staked his fame,With sallies that the college youth befit,Whose wit composed or decomposed the same.

These six, whose characters we now have hit,Who proudly are installed in posts divine,And on the high chairs of religion sit,

Esteem as irksome all the praises fineThat would proclaim them poets, yet delightTo have the honour and the name decline."

"Why then, my lord," I cried, "do such men write,And notify the verses to mankindIt suits them to conceive and bring to light?

For genius too is greedily inclined,And will not brook that any praise be lostWhich justly falls to merit of high kind;

Who of the name of poet will not boast,Why doth he scribble and the matter tell,Why doth he scorn the thing he covets most?

I never sat content beneath the spellOf prim mock-modesty; without pretenceI courted praise for that which I did well!"

"It is Apollo's wish, take no offence,That these religious folk keep secret here!"Quoth he, the god who vaunts his eloquence.

On this a cornet's sound struck on mine ear,With tramp, tramp! stand aside! ho, clear the way!For lo! a stalwart poet draweth near!

I turned mine eyes, and up the mountain wayThey fell on a postilion and a knightPosting at tip-top speed, as people say;

He served as herald, that postilion wight,More than as guide, and at his shouts and criesThe assembled squadron rose and stood upright;

Mercurius asked me: "Dost thou recognizeThis gallant one, so lordly in his state,I fancy he's familiar to thine eyes?

"I know him well, he is the famed and greatDON SANCHO DE LEIVA, he whose bladeAnd pen shall make Apollo fortunate;

Beyond a doubt with such distinguished aidHe'll win the day!" And presently in sightThere came unlooked for, and with grand parade,

A band of allies as important quite,To try conclusions with the dreaded foe,Equipped with genius, solid worth, and might.

A gallant troop it was, and from belowIt up the left side of the hill did prance;Ye heavens! what proofs of providence ye show!

On a bay charger, riding in advance,Came JUAN DE VASCONCELOS, shrewd and gay,On whom the Lusian Muses look askance;

Behind him rode TAMAYO on the way,That Captain bold who, crippled with the gout,Yet struck the foe with terror and dismay;

At sight of him fled all the rabble rout,For in a doubtful strife, and hand to hand,Flame forth his genius and his valour stout.

Then by the right side of the mountain grand,Beneath the shadow of a banner white,Came others marching to the wealthy land,

Whose ranks Apollo mustered with delight;And first and foremost came upon the stageThat youth, FERNANDO DE LODEÑA hight,

A budding poet, and withal a sage,Within whose wit Apollo graciouslyDoth hoard his glories for the coming age.

With rarest pomp, and regal majesty,A new arrival prancèd up in stateTo claim the mountain's hospitality;

JUAN DE VERGARA he, Licentiate,Whom all the squadron welcomed with delight,Of all their dearest rights a champion great;

Apollo's glory, Esculapius' light,In him a man of double fame we hail,And Envy's self proclaims his honour bright.

Now welcomed we, with shouts that rent the vale,JUAN DE HERRERA, learned man and strong,Whose weight alone might turn the unequal scale.

O who, with fitting and unflattering tongueBut with a truthful accent, pure and plain,Shall praise aright these two who march along?

But on my shoulders doth not rest this strain,For these be men renowned for learned stores,CALVO and VALDIVIESO, masters twain!

Anon we saw, impelled by lusty oars,A little barque skim o'er the ocean wide,Which sought a refuge on the sacred shores;

We spied therein, as nearer it did glide,DON JUAN DE ARGOTE, and a man no lessThan DON DIEGO ABARCA at his side;

And with them DON DIEGO XIMENESY DE ENCISO; from the lofty prowHe gave one leap the sacred land to press;

To these great three the praise we must allowOf matchless taste, combined with wisdom's glanceTheir genius and their works proclaim it now.

With JUAN LOPEZ DEL VALLE two advance,And in their midst may PAMONES be seen,On whom the Muses look somewhat askance:

For why, he treads where foot hath never been,And with new fantasies, not void of blame,He wearies more than he delights, I ween.

By trackless paths DON JUAN BATEO came,That sturdy Irishman, across the sea,In this our day a Xerxes new to fame!

I turn me round and MANTUANO see,Whose patron is VELASCO the renowned,No worthier Mæcenas could there be;

The names of these two worthies yet shall soundThroughout their own, and foreign lands to boot,Phœbus hath willed it, so it shall be found.

Between two hillocks bearing wealth of fruit,(Can one believe so strange a thing hath been?)With palms and laurels crowned from brow to foot,

The Abbot MALUENDA'S form was seen,Gilding the mount with light and lustre sage,With hope of triumph in the struggle keen;

For say, what chance hath any foeman's rageAgainst that kindly heart, that genius bright,So worthy of a place in Memory's page?

GENTIL DE VARGAS, DON ANTONIO hight,I crave fit space thy manly form to greet,With art, and elegance, and worth bedight!

A Genoese by birth, yet at the feetOf our Castilian Muses wert thou bred,And so the squadron gives thee honour meet.

From India's furthest confines, travel-sped,Came MONTESDOCA to the front, my friend,And he who knit Arauco's broken thread;

"Ye twain!" Apollo cried, "must now defendThis wealthy land of yours, from the advanceOf that most shameless crew who hither wend!

For, armed with error and with arrogance,They fain would canonize and give acclaim,Immortal and divine, to ignorance;

For such conceit in human breast doth flame,That ignorance itself will make men boldTo deck them with the poet's worthy name!"

On this another prodigy, untoldAnd monstrous, met our vision on the strand,Which in few stanzas I will now unfold:

For lo! a ship sailed up so close to land,That I could see, from my commanding site,Its whole contents and wherewith it was manned;

Four thousand lasts, I ween, it measured quite,Or tons, the common word used by the mass,With spacious beam, and spars of towering height;

Like to the ships that with their cargoes passFrom Eastern India to Lisboa's shore,Which are esteemed the grandest of their class;

It came, from poop to prow, crammed o'er and o'erWith poets, goodly merchandise they sellIn Calicut's and Goa's ample store;

The ruddy god into convulsions fellAt sight of such a vile presumptuous crew,Who came to grace, and save the hill as well;

And silently he prayed a prayer or twoThat he, who holds the trident in his hand,Would sink the ship and in an instant too.

One of the number of that hungry band,Who seemed a moping and a peevish knave,Upon the vessel's bulwarks took his stand,

And with a croaking voice, that never gaveOne note or soft or sweet, his words did rollRight out, now choleric, now grave:

Whereat my temper I could scarce control,For, like to barbs, his words were all devisedTo go right whizzing through my heart and soul:

"Thou traitor," cried he, "who hast canonizedThe poets on thy list of wondrous size,By crooked methods and most ill-advised!

O Magancés, where didst thou keep the eyesOf thy sharp wit, that, being stricken blind,Thou mad'st thyself the chronicler of lies?

I give thee credit, man of barbarous mind,That, of the many thou hast gathered here,Without request or force of any kind,

Thou hast put some within their proper sphere;But with the rest thou hast been out of sightToo prodigal of praises, it is clear!

For many hast thou raised to Fortune's height,Who still in dark Oblivion's den should be,Without or Sun or Moon to give them light;

Iberia's shepherd, grand BERNARDO he,Had in thy mission neither lot nor part,Who bears LA VEGA'S surname and degree;

Thou hadst an envious, careless, sluggish heart,And at Henares' nymphs and shepherds fine,As if they were thy foes, didst hurl thy dart;

And yet, within that great sheepfold of thine,Worse poets hast thou, who must sweat and strain,If they would better be, as I opine!

If such an outrage hath not turned my brain,Seven rhymesters there I see before mine eyesOf the Spasmodic order, it is plain;

In whom the witty, elegant, and wiseAre at their lowest, yet thou giv'st them placeTwo leagues within the bounds of Paradise;

These quirks of thine, these whimsies void of grace,If so thou act not more composedly,Will rise one day and shame thee to thy face!"

This threat, and eke this great discourtesy,Did in my tender heart much dread inspire,And made the remnants of my patience flee;

And turning to Apollo, with more ireThan might be thought befitting my grave years,With quivering voice, and eke a spark of fire,

I said: "By such plain proofs it now appears,That serving thee makes worse my sorry plight,My future loss I read in present fears;

Let them, my lord, in public now reciteThe list Mercurius brought with him to Spain,Then shall my slender blame be brought to light;

If that your godship made wrong choice and vain,And I but echoed what Mercurius said,Why rails this fool at me with words insane?

With cause and reason do I vex my head,To see how men like these, with barbarous din,Conspire to keep me in perpetual dread:

Some scowl on me because I put them in,Others resolve, because I left them out,To make me feel the burden of my sin;

How to make peace with all I am in doubt,The chosen groan, the left-out cry apace,By both together am I put to rout.

Thou who art god, my lord, give each the placeThat fits his worth; name, summon to thine aidThe ablest and the readiest in the race;

And lest this turmoil, which keeps me afraid,Should kill me quite, I would be let alone,Cast over me thy mantle and thy shade:

Grant me a sign, whereby it may be knownThat I'm thine offspring, of thy house and name,And henceforth none at me will cast a stone!"

"Turn thee to see a sight, and mark the same!"Apollo cried, with accents nowise sweet,While burning fury wrapped his heart in flame.

I turned me, and beheld the sweetest treat,The most distressful too, most worth a tear,The world e'er met with, or again shall meet;

But do not think that I will tell it here,But in the fifth part; where I hope and planTo sing with such a living voice and clear,

That men will take me for a dying swan!