Chapter VII

Thou, martial Muse, who hast, attuned to wars,The voice of sounding brass and clarion tongue,What time thou sing'st the feats of savage Mars!

Thou, at whose call a countless human throngConsumes its strength away! Thou, who canst blessMy foolish pen and make it wise and strong!

Thou open hand, with favours and largesseSo fully fraught, O grant me one, I pray,It will not make thy wealthy store the less!

The perverse spirit, insolent display,And bold designs of an ill-favoured race,With din infernal seek the light of day!

Give me a voice in keeping with the case,A well-cut pen with facile point and fleet,Exempt from prejudice or passion base,

That in one focus I may cause to meetWith chastest sentiment of novel kind,With perfect frankness and with grasp complete,

The opposing projects, and conflicting mindOf these two squadrons who, with furious cry,Display their banners to the fitful wind.

The catholic band regards with steady eyeThe spurious host that lines the mountain's base,With foul intent to scale its summit high;

In compact order, and with rapid pace,They crown the hill, and to the rage insaneOf these insensates show determined face;

They seize each coign of vantage, and maintainCool courage for the onset arrogant,Where glory and revenge they hope to gain.

With rage o'erflowing, and of patience scant,Apollo bids them, with a speedy hand,His finest standard on the summit plant;

Unfurled it is, and by a Marquis grand,Whose lordly bearing Mars himself might own,Nature's own gift that art can ne'er command;

A poet he of mark, to fame well known,In whom Apollo sees, with vigour rare,Increase the strength and lustre of his throne;

Thereon was limned a swan, so white and fair,So painted to the life, that one might sayIts joyous cries woke up the listless air.

Behind the standard came a grand arrayOf flags, by gallant ensigns borne on high,For all the rents they show, more glorious they!

The tambours, mingling with the battle cry,Give speed and vigour to each lagging son,While the shrill bugles' pealings rend the sky.

Up doth JERÓNIMO DE MORA run,A painter exquisite, and poet sweet,A Virgil and Apelles, rolled in one;

He comes with his jineta armed complete,—Distinction that bespeaks the captain's name—To give his aid and force the foe's retreat.

Still more to awe, and put to very shameThe pride of that fierce crowd, there hither spedThe grand BIEDMA of undying fame,

With GASPAR DE AVILA, a chief and headOf Phœbus' body-guard, whose winged plumeIciar might envy, and Sincerus dread.

JUAN DE MEZTANZA came, the very bloomAnd sum of so much learning, wit, and grace,That Death can touch it not, nor Time consume;

Apollo gave him a distinguished place,And had him brought from Guatimala's land,To do despite to that detested race.

CEPEDA thinks to make a wondrous standIn this encounter, and MEJIA too,True poets both, who boundless praise command.

Now came GALINDO, peerless to the view,La Mancha's star, and Andalusia's light,Whose manly stride bespeaks his valour true.

Came down from far-famed Pindus' lofty heightThree Lusitanians of consummate skill,Who well may claim my highest praise by right;

With ready feet, and with determined will,CORREA DE LACERDA lighted there,And with RODRIGUEZ LOBO trod the hill;

And that Apollo might have force to spare,ANTONIO DE ATAIDE joined the band,Inflamed with ardour, wise as it was rare.

When Phœbus had the opposing forces scanned,And weighed them with his own, he in his scornResolves to fight, and battle doth demand;

The hoarse rough sound of more than one shrill horn,An instrument of chase and war, I trow,On to Apollo's deafened ears is borne;

The frightened earth begins to tremble now,As countless poets tramp along the plain,And rush to scale the sacred Mountain's brow.

The fierce commander of that daring train,Whose standard bears the semblance of a Crow,Is ARBOLÁNCHES, very rogue in grain.

So did these armies twain, one down below,One at the mountain-top, stand face to face,While Mars grew faint to see the fearsome show;

When lo! a troop, that seemed not void of grace,In number twenty, left the Catholic band,To swell the numbers of the spurious race.

With straining eyes I marked them on their course,And when I saw the end of their intent,I to Apollo cried with accents hoarse:

"What prodigy is this, what strange event?Or better said, what omen big with bale,That takes my breath away, and leaves me spent?

That base deserter there, who first turned tail,I reckoned him a bard, nor that alone,But a brave twaddler on the largest scale!

That light-toed one, who at his heels hath flown,I've heard, in thousand circles of Madrid,Trill out his verses with the tenderest tone!

The third, who left with such uncommon speed,Hath by the wise been ever ill-received,Satiric fool, unbearable indeed!

It is a thing not easily conceivedWhy Mercury inscribed them on his roll!""I" quoth Apollo, "was the one deceived;

At the first blush they gave such proofs of soul,That worthy adjutants they seemed to meTo bring this emprise to the wished-for goal!"

"My lord, I thought that deities were freeAnd safe from such deceptions," I replied,"I mean deceptions in the least degree!

The prudence, born of years and knowledge wide,Is the divinity, within our ken,That wards off such misjudgments from our side!"

Apollo answered: "On my conscience then,I understand thee not!" and knit his brow,To see the daring of these twenty men.

LOFRASO, soldier of Sardinia, thouWert one of those barbarian runaways,That swelled the numbers of the foe, I trow!

But such desertion had no power to raiseOne spark of terror in the catholic band,Well-seasoned poets, worthy of all praise;

Nay, such resentment did they show off-handAgainst these light-heeled gentry, void of grace,That hip and thigh they smote them from the land.

O false, accursèd, troubadouring race,That fain would pass for poets wise and strong,Being the very scum of all that's base!

Between the palate, tongue, and lips, your songComes surging forth in never-ending blast,Affronting Virtue with unmeasured wrong!

Ye poets, in deception unsurpassed,Beware, for now the awful threatened dayThat seals your final doom hath come at last!

The sounds confused, that wildering winged their wayAloft to heaven, condensed in middle air,And formed of murky clouds a thick array.

The steep hill-side a troop of rhymesters rareClimbed up like cats, and cleared the broken ground,To gain the summit, though well-guarded there;

From time to time they took a leap and bound,And from their slings and cross-bows, plied with might,Whole books came flying with a whizzing sound;

Not balls of gleaming lead, that fearful sight,Have on their way such dire confusion sown,Nor reached their destined goal with speedier flight.

A book, much harder than the hardest stone,Struck JUSEPE DE VARGAS on the brow,And caused him terror grim, and many a groan;

He howled, and to a Sonnet cried: "O thou,Who hither com'st shot from satiric quill,Why dost not stay thy foul careering now!"

Like pelted dog, that vents its fierce ill-willUpon the stones, not him who threw the same,As if they were the authors of the ill,

With fingers fine he seized it as it came,And into pieces tore that sonnet great,That menaced sun, and moon, and starry frame.

Mercurius cried: "O living bolt of fate,Whose righteous indignation moves aright,In lofty sweep, and with tremendous weight!

Grasp now the falchion in thy dreaded right,And launch thee, with impetuous bravery,Where peril looms in thickest of the fight!"

On this came whizzing, like a bird on high,A Book in prose and verse, shot by our foes,In bulk and height a very Breviary;

From its extravagance in verse and prose,'Twas ARBOLANCHES' work, we well could guess,His dull "Avidas," heavy to the close.

Some Rhymes were hurled, that boded much distressAnd great disaster to the Christian band,Had they but gone a second time to press;

Mercurius got a blow on his right handFrom an old Satire, rotten at the core,Piquant in style, but of unsavoury brand.

Of tangled prose, and ill-digested lore,With subject quite devoid of sense or grace,PEDROSA launched at us his 'Novels four!'

With a sharp hiss, and cleaving empty space,Another book, with nought but rhymes, was sped,With modesty self-conscious on its face;

Apollo looked at them, and looking said:"God shrive their author, and preserve my pateFrom certain Spanish verses, blank as lead!"

The SHEPHERD OF IBERIA came, though late,Attacked fourteen of ours and beat them too,A striking proof of wit and valour great.

But now two men of heart, great masters two,Two of Apollo's luminaries bright,Two soldiers quick to speak and prompt to do,

From sides opposing of the mountain's height,Pressed back the surging mass, which grew so weakThat all the foremost turned and took to flight;

GREGORIO DE ANGULO, and ekePEDRO DE SOTO did that deed of fate,Men of high culture and of wit unique;

That one a Doctor, this LicentiateOf high degree, both in Apollo's guard,Great in their works, and in devotion great.

The ranks opposing, fierce in their regard,Now measure swords, and now keep closer file,In action stolid and in purpose hard;

They use their teeth to bite, and in fierce styleThey rive with pointed nails like beasts of prey,As void of pity as they're full of guile.

At tip-top speed, and sweating by the way,LA PICARA JUSTINA'S author came,The laic chaplain of the rude array;

As if despatched from mortar's mouth of flame,He launched his big and monstrous tome on high,And as it fell our camp a wreck became:

Good TOMAS GRACIAN lost an arm thereby,Poor MEDINILLA mourned a molar dear,And eke a goodly portion of one thigh.

A wakeful sentinel of ours gave cheer,And cried: "Heads down, my comrades all,The foe hath launched another Novel here!"

Two wrestled with each other for a fall,When lo! the one, in his insensate rage,And with a dexterous art that was not small,

Forced down the other's throat, at the last stage,Six Seguidillas; on the which his soulLeapt lightly out, and left its narrow cage.

There fury raged, here reigned a calm control,And still through all the ranks the question ran,Which side will gain the palm, the victor's goal!

When lo! the Crow, that decked the banner wan,With stricken heart and piercèd thro' and through,Fell to the ground and yielded to the Swan!

Its ensign was an Andalusian true,A stripling poet, improvising wight,Whose pride soared to the sky, and topped it too;

His blood congealed as he beheld the sight,And when he died, that pertinacious raceSaw ruin face them on the field of fight.

Though empty was the grand LUPERCIO'S place,One of his Sonnets did for him a deed,In keeping quite with its astounding grace;

It broke, it shattered, caused to fly with speedFourteen good files of the opposing band,Slew two Creoles, and wounded one half-breed!

The great Cordovan, note-book in his hand,Full of his sappy jests and serious wit,Discharged it, and there fell four banners grand!

Now tired and worn, there oozed out bit by bitThe courage of that barbarous canaille,More and more pithless grew each aimless hit;

But once again rose up the battle's wail,In confused melée all together strive,No armour saves, nor hardest coat of mail.

Astride five colts, five honied bards arrive,And making quite a sudden charge in flank,They of our men bear off in triumph five;

In robes Moresque they show full many a prank,With more of mystic scroll than missive sentBy some old wily foe of princely rank.

On this a shower of Moorish ballads rentThe air, like missiles formed of chained shot,That rained in fury and with vile intent;

Had not two bands of ours due notice gotOf that most sudden and most bitter fire,Ruin and speedy death had been their lot.

Now in Apollo's breast raged fierce desireTo show the full resources of his might,And crush his enemies with righteous ire;

An ode divine, where shone the genius bright,The strength and grandeur of that poet true,BARTOLOMÉ DE ARGENSOLA hight,

Apollo launched; and like a bomb it flew,And ploughed the ranks with most unerring shot,Where fought most fiercely that malignant crew;

"When I sit down to muse upon my lot,"Begins the Song which, by Apollo's grace,Received the crown of honour on the spot.

The god with Argus' eyes surveys the chase,He bids, forbids, disposes all anew,And to the foeman shows his sternest face.

So mingled are they, none have knowledge trueTo tell the good from bad, or to make knownWho GARCILASO, TIMONEDA who;

Till came a youth, to ignorance unknown,A mighty sifter of historic lore,Flash in his pen, and thunder in his tone;

Whose memory teemeth with such wealthy storeThat Phœbus and the Muses all revereHis sound firm judgment, healthy to the core;

Thanks to his aid, the victory comes near,For he could say, what none could better know:"This merits praise, that punishment severe!"

And as the difference begins to showBetwixt the boastful champions and the brave,The pleasure grows with each descending blow;

O PEDRO MANTUANO, wise and grave,'Twas thou who, out of these conflicting views,Didst separate the true man from the knave!

DE ALMENDARIZ could not well refuse,Though late he came, to give his succour freeTo ruddy Phœbus with his far-famed Muse.

By the red hairs I comb, I blush to seeHow the bedevilled Comedies do raiseTheir heads aloft and claim divine to be;

And, spite of all the pure and high-toned playsOf our Hesperia's highest comic son,Aspire to solid gain as well as praise;

But much in such a mart will not be won,Our honest town's folk are too shrewd by far,Although the common stress they cannot shun!

Ye Polyphemian stanzas, leave your scar,And with the sharp edge, on the poet's faceWho will not take you as his guiding star!

Your matchless splendour, fraught with hidden grace,Proclaim you as the standard at all cost,To which all other elegance gives place!

Thus reinforced, our strong embattled hostGrew stronger still, with such o'erwhelming might,That our dashed foes gave up their cause as lost.

Their proud presumption was in woeful plight,For headlong down the precipice were thrownAs many as presumed to scale the height;

Their rude hoarse chaunting, with its dreary drone,Was changed by the disaster of that dayTo dismal sobbing, and convulsive moan,

One, as he fell, contrived his fall to stay,And, as to some wild fig or thorn he clung,He melted in Ovidian tears away;

Four, like a swarm of bees, suspended hungFrom a gnarled oak, beneath whose friendly shadeThey thought themselves the laurel leaves among;

Another company, with virgin bladeAnd harlot tongue, betook themselves to flight,To save their lives they called their feet to aid.

BARTOLOMÉ, he DE SEGURA hight,Struck the last note of victory complete,His wit and wisdom had such wondrous might.

The listening hills unto the skies repeatThe voice of triumph, as it rang elateFrom thousand lips in accents clear and sweet;

The final fall, the miserable fate,Of these the Muses of the savoury drain,Was wailed for many an age with dolour great.

There stands (alack!) among this weeping trainZapardiel, renowned for fishery,Who not one instant can her tears restrain!

The day is ours; and "Victory" is the cry,From mouth to mouth the stirring accents run,The Victory of our gallant soldiery,

Who chaunt with joy the glory they have won!