Información sobre el texto
Título del texto editado:
“Castilian poetry” [5. Siglos de Oro. Barroco]
Autor del texto editado:
Wiffen, Jeremiah Holmes 1792-1836
Título de la obra:
Foreign Review,
vol. I
Autor de la obra:
Wiffen, Jeremiah Holmes [atribución muy probable; el texto apareció sin firma]
Edición:
London:
Black, Young, and Young,
1828
The name of Góngora, who died in 1627, since the downfal of that corrupt taste which he laboured to establish, is become the synonyme for a bad poet; but however defaced, as even they often are, by vile conceits, his romances and letrillas must ever redeem him from oblivion, and qualify his disgrace. In everything besides—for his cultura, that vicious system of writing which consisted in being impenetrable by forced transpositions, incoherent figures, extravagant hyperbole, and metaphor piled loftily and ambitiously on metaphor, he must be abandoned to the just and happy designation of M. Maury, who denounces him as the mighty criminal in literature, that, like the rebel angel, rather than be numbered with good spirits, chose to be the Prince of Darkness. To simple thoughts, natural expression, and true enthusiasm, succeeded the heartless frippery of point, antithesis, flourish, and far-fetched illustration, which being encouraged by the courtiers and popular preachers of the day, mounted to a rage of innovation that was perfectly ridiculous. To express the variety of tones in the nightingale's notes, Góngora says that the bird has in her throat a hundred thousand other nightingales, which sing by turns:elsewhere, he terms the Manzanares the duke of rivulets and viscount of rivers; but these are trifles. One of his followers, speaking of a shepherdess sorrowing by the sea-side, represents the sea as advancing with rapture towards her, receiving her precious tears, and shutting them in shells to convert them into pearls. But this is far surpassed by the madrigal, in which a jealous lover begs his mistress to lend him just for a moment her beautiful eyes, that he may go and slay his rival with them. Every sentiment was tortured, every thought disfigured by these capricious geniuses, and Marino in Italy catching the infection, proceeded to introduce there the same vicious taste. Lope de Vega, the poet who of all others formed in his day the delight of his country, and who reigned like a perfect monarch on the Spanish stage, opposed his talent of ridicule to check the progress of the disorder. We give in a note an extract, wherein he wittily satirizes the prevailing taste 1 .
On Lope himself we shall not spend much time. Every body knows the extraordinary fertility of his genius—how his printed verses are reckoned by millions, and how his biographer Montalban relates, that to his knowledge eighteen hundred of his comedies were actually represented, besides four hundred sacred dramas, and that of these more than a hundred were written in a day. His imagination was, says one writer, an exhaustless fountain, or rather a Vesuvius in continual eruption. The quality of the verses, so vomited forth, may be judged of by their quantity. Apart from those comedies where the sprightliness of the dialogue, the choice of characters, and the rapid succession and ingenuity of incident sustain the reader's attention, in despite of his utter disregard of the unities, we think no one could submit to the drudgery of reading any of his longer compositions, written as they generally were without plan or preparation. Followed, flattered, and caressed as Lope was, from the superfluity of his intellectual wealth, admired by monarchs, adored by the people he amused, and mourned at his death as by a nation that had received a "deep, immedicable wound," his title to a high reputation now may be said to lie interred beneath a mighty mass of writings that serve, indeed, as a monument of his universal genius; but from that monument what mortal hand can disinter it? Who will undertake to collect the spirit of fifty or a hundred volumes into one? What sturdy labourer will winnow off the loads of chaff from the precious grain that lurks amidst them, awaiting such a process to enrich the Spanish garner, if not to recompensethe toil? M. Maury, with a pardonable earnestness, defends his author from the complaints urged against his want of unity and his violation of all rule; but in our view he does the poet by far the most essential service in presenting us with a readable specimen of his powers, by skilfully retrenching the tale of Amaryllis into less than half the compass of the diffuse original. Such a process, if extended, might go far to secure him readers and admirers, both beyond the limits of his own nation, in addition to those dramatic adventurers who visit his storehouse to load themselves with treasure—a treasure too great for the mine to be impoverished from use, and too prodigally presented for appropriation to be deemed a theft. If Lope de Vega had never written, says Lord Holland, in language triumphantly appealed to by M. Maury, the masterpieces of Corneille and Moliere might never have been produced; and were not those celebrated compositions known, he might still be regarded as one of the best dramatic authors in Europe. This is a somewhat equivocal panegyric; but he has unquestionably left behind him a rich legacy to the theatres of all countries, and contrasting what he has achieved with the state of the Spanish drama before his time, we most cordially admit the truth of his lordship's concluding observation, that 'it is but an act of justice to pay honour to the memory of men whose labours have promoted literature, and enabled others to eclipse their reputation; and that such was Lope de Vega, once the pride and glory of Spaniards, who in their literary as in their political achievements, have, by a singular fatality, discovered regions and opened mines to benefit their neighbours and their rivals, and to enrich every nation of Europe but their own.' Lope de Vega died in 1635, under Philip the Fourth, and left the stage to Calderon and Moreto. The Duke of Sesa, his testamentary executor, celebrated his obsequies with a magnificence unparalleled in the history of literature. The duke himself, with the grandees and other lords of Spain, marched at the head of the procession. The ceremonies of the interment lasted nine days, and were heightened in their effect by the music of the chapel royal and the pomp of public worship: on each of these days a different bishop officiated in his pontifical robes, and in the funeral orations pronounced over his tomb, exalted no less the holy purity of his life than the surpassing splendour of his talents.
The personal history of Quevedo, better known, however, as a prose writer than a poet, who with great erudition, genius, and wit, after struggling also against the Euphuism of the day, yielded himself a victim to it, and extended its dominion, furnishes a melancholy contrast to the scarcely-varied tide of fortune and favour that flowed in upon Lope de Vega; at the same time that it presents as singular a specimen of justice as, in his love of proscription and tyranny, a Spanish intolerant of the present age might wish to see. Naturally gay of heart as lively in fancy, and equally skilful, like Lope, in the use of the sword as of the pen, Quevedo had to sustain more than one challenge which his repartees provoked. In one of these his adversary fell, and he was obliged to fly from Spain. He recommended himself to the notice of the Duke D' Osuna, viceroy of Sicily and Naples, and twice revisited his native country in the character of an ambassador on special missions to the court of Philip the Third. He was involved in the disgrace of his protector, and for a long time deprived of his liberty. When he regained it, he returned to court, and received the title of king's secretary; but he had the moderation to refuse the administration of foreign affairs, as well as the office of ambassador to Genoa, which were offered him by Philip the Fifth. Whilst residing on his little seignorial domain, it happened that some satirical writings were in circulation that gave great offence; unfortunately for Quevedo, they were at once ascribed to him, and a much bitterer persecution was commenced against him. Despoiled of his property, and thrown into the humid cell of a prison, beneath which a river flowed, he became the victim of miserable and neglected disease. For fifteen years he endured this cruel incarceration. A touching exposition of his sufferings engaged at length the pity of Olivares; he was treated withmore humanity; a discovery of the original libels led to a knowledge of the real author, and Quevedo's perfect innocence being recognised, he was set at liberty. But the blow was struck; and this illustrious victim of suspicion died in 1645 of the infirmities contracted in his hideous dungeon. His sonnet upon ruined Rome proves how ably he could write when disposed to abandon the exaggeration and conceits in which his pen indulged. Burlesque satire was the element in which he most delighted, and in this department he may be pronounced the Swift or Rabelais of Spain. In his style of satire he had several imitators: to Guevara we owe the 'Diablo Cojuelo,' and to Mateo Aleman the 'Guzman d'Alfarache,' well known to Europe from the translations of Le Sage.
In the midst of this corruption, there were a few less tinctured with the contagion, or who had the virtue altogether to resist it,— Jauregui; the two Argensolas, Villegas, and Rioja. An Italian may delight in Jauregui's harmonious and faithful version of the Aminta; in his poetical discourse against the Euphuists, he intrepidly satirizes Quevedo and the other corruptionists. The moral satire of Bartolomeo Argensola—his discourse, for instance, against Ambitious Desires, though somewhat too diffuse, together with the philosophy, respires much of the charm of Horace, to whom he was devoted. Villegas is less free from the prevalent affectation, but his Anacreontics, and his exquisite little sapphic 'To the Zephyr,' will never fail to win him warm admirers. The beauty and delicacy of the latter in particular render it a perfect gem in Spanish poetry, and we cannot refuse M. Maury the justice of affixing his translation of it. By its side we place an Italian version of infinite merit, that has hitherto remained in manuscript. It was written a few years since by a young Italian refugee, to whom we had pointed out the grace of the original, but who has proved his kindredship of genius with Villegas less by the truth and spirit of this, than by his translation of Anacreon also, which his modesty has hitherto, however, withheld from the world: we allude to the Sig. Demarchi.
AU ZÉPHYR.
Doux précurseur du printemps et des ris,
Hôte assidu des bosquets refleuris,
Chastes amours de Vénus et de Flore,
Fils de l'Aurore!
A ma bergère, O suave Zéphyr, [5]
Sur ton duvet nuancé de saphir,
Toi, qui pour elle as connu mes alarmes,
Porte ces larmes.
Nise autrefois écoutait mes douleurs,
Nise autrefois a pleuré de mes pleurs; [10]
Mais aujourd’hui mon amour, pour salaire,
Craint sa colère.
Puissent les Dieux, de ta grâce charmés,
Puissent les cieux, par ton soufflé embaumés,
Calmes, sourire aux terrestres espaces, [15]
Lorsque tu passes.
Sans que jamais le nuage du soir
Sur ton duvet ait le temps de s'asseoir,
Sans que jamais le frimas, ni la grêle
Touche ton aile! [20]
A ZEFIRO
Ospite amato della selva, Zefiro,
Compagno eterno del fiorito Aprile,
Alito puro della madre Venere,
Aura gentile!
Se già portasti le mie voci querule, [5]
Se pietà sentí del mio rio martoro,
Odimi; vanne, alla mia ninfa narralo,
Dille che moro.
Fille era un tempo del mio affanno conscia,
Fillide pianse sovra il mio tormento: [10]
Amómmi un tempo,—or dell' altera Fillide,
L'ira pavento.
Vanne: a te i Numi, a te sia il ciel propizio,
Si che nell' ore che dispieghi il volo,
Aquilon taccia, né la neve gelida [15]
Ingombri il suolo.
Così né pondo d' atra nube gravida
In sul mattino sovra te discenda,
Ne mai percossa di funesta grandine
L'ali l'offenda! [20
But Francisco de Rioja is without doubt the poet who reflects the most lustre on the reign of Philip the Fourth, It is very singular that Bouterwek, who is generally so correct, should confound him with Melo, the Count de Villamediana and others, whom he designates as devoid of taste, and servile followers of the times. The river that flows through Lake Leman without mingling with those waters its beautiful blue current, would form on the contrary a fit symbol of his purity in this respect. If the critic had actually consulted his little volume of poems, which seem indeed to have been equally unknown to Don Nicolás Antonio, he must have perceived that, for descriptive talent, sublimity of fancy, and correct taste, he merits a place by the side of Garcilaso, Herrera, and Leon. From internal signs alone it would be thought impossible that the author of the 'Ode to the Ruins of Italica,' and of the 'Silvas to the Flowers,' could have actually lived in the times of Góngora and Quevedo, much less that he could have been the intimate of either: but so it was; the friend of Quevedo, Rioja shared in his persecution. He was born in 1600, was librarian and historiographer to Philip the Fourth, and had enjoyed more than any writer of his age the favour of Olivares, the prime minister. But after his liberation from the state prisons, where, though an inquisitor, he too was confined some years, Fortune was more propitious to him than to Quevedo: he spent some happy years in a delightfulretreat near his native Seville, which he quitted with regret when recalled to the capital, where he terminated his days in the year 1659. The simple taste and philosophic temper that charm us in his beautiful moral 'Epistle to Fabio,' induce us to present it in a condensed form 2 .
It seems to have had for its object the disengagement of one of his friends from the troubles and intrigues of court. In some of its best parts it irresistibly reminds us of the classical repose which characterises Mr. Rogers' 'Epistle to a Friend,' which, though not the most popular, is not the least happy production of his muse.
1.
'Yielding
to my desired discredit, such/
A mixture's mine that it defrauds me much;/
For even whilst Taste's laconic smiles are mine,/
I offer prayers to Favour's heavenly shrine./
An Atlas, faithless to her moving sphere,/
Hurled me to Lethe in its swift career,/
And, my sun's splendour thus eclipsed, I found/
My life in shipwreck, and my fame aground./
Still in my unshorn sufferings I affect/
The world's applauses, proof to all neglect;/
Tak'st thou, good Fabio, in the wrongs I rue/
My meaning clearly?' 'Wherefore, if I do?'/
'Only, my friend, that thine's a happy lot;/
For I, the sufferer, on my life can not!'
2.
Fabio!
the courtier's hopes chains that wind/
Whit fatal strength around the ambitious mind/
And he who breaks or files them not away,/
Till life ebbs from him, or his locks turn gray,/
Nor feels, methinks, a freeman's generous fires,/
Nor wins the honour that his soul desires./
Rather than fall, the timid may remain/
In base suspense, and still caress the chain;/
But noble hearts their fate will sooner face,/
And ere they stoop to bondage, hail disgrace./
Such storms roar round us with the earliest sigh/
Heaved from our cradles,—leave them to pass by,/
Like the proud Betis, whose impetuous wave,/
Spread from the mountains, soon forgets to rave./
Not he who gains but who deserves the prize,/
Is classed with heroes by the great and wise;/
But there, where state from flattery takes the word,/
Or skilful favourites see all place conferred;—/
Gold, crime, intrigue, their path obliquely wind/
Through the thick crowd, and leave the good behind./
Who trusts for power to virtue? virtue still/
Yields to the strong supremacy of ill:/
Come then—once more to the maternal seat/
Of ancient Seville guide thy weary feet;/
This clime, these skies shall every care serene,/
And make thy future what the past has been;—/
Here, where at least if dust falls on us, nigh/
Kind lips will whisper, 'lightly may it lie!'/
Here, where my friend no angry look shall cast,/
No rise unsated from the noon's repast,/
Though no rare peacock on my board be seen,/
Nor spicy turtle grace the gold tureen./
Come, seek soft quiet as at dead of night/
The Egean pilot hails his watch-tower's light!/
Then, if some old court-friend, as wit requires,/
Of all I sought for, and despise the rest!'—/
Safe in her simple nest of moss to brood,/
And talk to echo in her wildest wood,/
More charms the nightingale, than, caged, to cheer/
With flattering songs a monarch's curious ear/
Trellised in gold; cease then thine anxious care/
And thirst for office—shun the insidious snare!/
The idol of thy daily sacrifice/
Accepts the incense, but the grant denies,/
Smiling in secret at thy dreams; but bound/
Thy restless hopes to life's restricted round,/
And thou shalt pine no more from day to day,/
Nor fret thy manhood unimproved away:/
For what is life? at best a brief delight,/
A sun scarce brightening, ere it sets in night;/
A flower—at morning fresh, at noon decayed,/
A still swift river, gliding into shade./
Shall it be said that, with true peace at strife,/
I ev'n whilst living, lose the zest of life?/
Ask of the past its fruits—the past is dumb;/
And have I surety for the good to come?/
No! seeing then how fast our years consume,/
Ere age comes on and tints us for the tomb,/
In the calm shade let sober thoughts supply/
Their moral charm, and teach us how to die!/
Passed is the vernal leaf, the summer rose,/
Autumn's sweet grapes, and winter's fleecy snows;/
All fades—all fleets—whilst we still live at ease/
On idle hopes and airy reveries./
With me tis o'er ! me Reason calls away,/
And warms my bosom with her sacred ray;/
I go, my friend—I follow where she calls—/
I leave the illusion wich the soul enthralls,/
Content to walk with those who nobly claim/
To live at ease and die without a name./
The eastern tyrant, who so proudly shines,/
And hoards in towers the wealth of various mines,/
Has scarce enough for crimes that quickly pall,—/
Virtue costs less—within the reach of all./
Poor is the man that roves o'er lands and seas/
In chase of treasures that soon cease to please:/
Me smaller things suffice—a simple seat/
Midst my loved Lares in some green/
A tranquil bliss and vacancy from care./
In dress the people's choice would I obey,/
(In manners only more refined than they,)/
Free from the brilliant hues, the glittering lace,/
That gives the stage-musician all his grace./
Modest my style of life, nor mean, nor high,/
To fix the notice of the passer-by;/
And if no myrrhine cup nor porcelain vase/
Shine on my board to draw the guests' applause,/
The Etruscan jug, or maple bowl at worst,/
Can hold the wine that soothes my summer thirst./
Not that in writing thus I would pretend/
To practise all the good I recommend;—/
This
would
I do, and Heaven its aid supplies/
Still to press on, and scorn the shows of vice:/
But not at once its fruit the vine receives,/
First spring the flowers, the tendrils, and the leaves,/
Then the young grape, austere till mellowing noons/
To perfect nectar turn the tinged festoons;/
As gradual grows each habit that survives/
To rule, compose, and charm our little lives./
But heaven forbid I e'er should ape the airs/
Of the grim stoics that disturb our squares,/
Truth's tragic mountebanks, content to live/
On the poor praise a mob consents to give./
No! as through canes and reeds the breezes roar,/
But mildly whisper on the thymy more,/
Sweet breathing as they pass,—pride's vacant throng/
Bluster where Virtue meekly steals along./
Thus would I live, and silent thus may death/
Sound the mild call that steals away my breath,/
Not with the thunder that salutes the Great—/
No burnished metals grace my lowly gate!/
"Tis thus I seem to have obtained in sooth/
The very essence and the zest of Truth./
Smile not, my friend, nor think that I confide/
In painted words, the eloquence of pride,/
That brooding study the grave strain inspires,/
That fancy only fills me with her fires./
Is virtue's less than error's force? declare;/
Her smile less winning, and her face less fair?/
And I, whilst Anger on the tented plain,/
Pride in the court, and Avarice on the main,/
Each hour face death, shall I not tempt the wings/
Of nobler motives fraught with brighter things?/
Yes; surely yes! Thou too escape, and join/
Thy thoughts, thy manners, and thy life with mine:/
Freed from thy chains, come follow, and acquire/
That perfect good to which our souls aspire;/
Ere with us Wisdom lose her tranquil charms,/
And Time, late cherished, die within our arms.
GRUPO PASO (HUM-241)
FFI2014-54367-C2-1-R FFI2014-54367-C2-2-R
2018
M Luisa Díez, Paloma Centenera
