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ROMANTIC POETRY OF SPAIN

Know'st thou the land where the citron-groves bloom,
And the gold orange sheds mid dark leaves its perfume?
A softer wind sighs from the blue heaven above,
There the myrtle grows fair in the tall laurel-grove:
Know'st thou it well? Ah, thither would I,
With thee, O my dearly beloved one, fly!
Goethe

Spain hase been reproached, by a celebrated man, with having produced only one good book, and that in ridicule of all the rest. This critic must undoubtedly be understood to speak of a philosophical study of her literature, otherwise his assertion (the examination of which, in its full extent, would lead us too far) will not be admitted by any one acquainted with the romantic poetry of that country. Of its more modern literature, the assertion is undeniable; for in no country has Providence written in characters more legible, that the dread of knowledge extinguishes the light of reason and truth, and that the contraction of the mind invariably produces that of the heart.

The pleasure with which we revert to the beautiful fables of the heroic ages is always increasing, and the attractions which they possess for every reader is a sufficient proof that they are as captivating now as in the days of Don Quixote. Their exquisite sensibility, their delightful naïveté, their admirable harmony, and, above all, their chivalrous melancholy, paint an age of agitation, in which the spent and languid literature of the West was renewed and invigorated from the more copious fountains of the Oriental world. The spirit of Christian love, Platonic and chivalrous, every where pervading them, is here displayed in its highest lustre. There needs no antiquarian discusión to introduce the reader into this enchanted region. Who has not heard of Orlando and the fair Angelica, of Don Quixote and Amadis, of Charlemagne and his Paladins? or "La dolorosa rotta, cuando Carlo Magno perdè la santa gesta, E sonò si terribilmente Orlando?" (Dante.)

Together with the tales engrafted thereon by Boiardo and Ariosto. A short ramble with us through the Cancionero of Pedro de Flores will acquaint the reader with a few particulars regarding those heroes which have escaped the veracious chronicle of Turpin, so enthusiastically praised by the Knight of La Mancha. The authors of these little pictures pretended but little to the merit of ingenious composition, and still less to correct and elegant execution; but the subjects, of which they had vividly felt the poetical interest, inspired their imagination with such truth and ardour that every circumstance contributed to form a whole replete with life, and left the poet nothing more to do than to paint, in appropriate colours, the situations thus offered to his fancy. He has painted them as he found them, without art or study , according to the good or bad inspiration of the moment; and every where we perceive the reflection of a privileged sky and climate— " Das Land wo die Citronen blühen. "

There is still greater simplicity in the composition of the old historical ballads: they are nothing more than anecdotes of the history of Spain, from the invasion of the Arabs until the lifetime of their authors, who have invented neither the subjects nor the situations of them. For the sake of preserving historical accuracy in their romances, they have not thought proper to embellish with fiction facts already sufficiently interesting in themselves; so there is neither found in these pieces plot nor dénouement, as in some drawn from the books of knight-errantry. They are little pictures representing situations alone. The poetry of detail is the only merit to which their authors pretend, and it may be seen they did not give themselves much pains to acquire even that. It thus happens that among the thousands of romances which have been composed, forgotten, or preserved, not a single one of their authors acquired the reputation of a great poet . If any of the situations which form the subject of these romances is described in colours more poetical than the rest, it was all chance. No honour was gained thereby. It was chance, also, which, independent of their merits, condemned some to oblivion, and prolonged the memory of others. It would require an entire book to discuss these poems, the number of which is almost infinite, and the most part of which are worthy of attention, in one light or other. Some interest us by the felicitous combination of a crowd of little details, each of little importance by itself—some by their poetical traits, and others still more by the harmony of their versification. It would be interesting to trace them from their primitive rudeness to the kind of relative beauty which they after wards acquired, and which only failed to elevate itself into th classical, because the species of poetry to which these works belong was never considered as classical in Spain.

The number of romances taken from the history of the Moors is not less great than those drawn from the history of Spain—a number so great that certain orthodox Spaniards could not but be scandalised at it. But the Oriental manners of the Moors possessed a poetical charm even for the eyes of the “old Christians” of Castile. Their magnificent armour, their brilliant plumes, that profusion of emblematical ornaments with which the Moorish warriors were decorated, could not but seduce their imaginations; and Oriental luxury, in mingling with the forms of European chivalry, imparted to it a more imposing character. The history of this people, so fertile in troubles and events, was not less romantic than their manners. The disputes of rival families, their factions, their civil wars, produced an infinite number of interesting anecdotes; and, besides these, there were heroes even among the Moors, and the Christians generally rendered ample justice to the warlike virtues of their enemies — above all, to those great lords who, according to an old romance, although infidels, were not the less gentlemen. As to the rest, the historical romances, whether taken from the history of the Moors or Christians, always present the same simplicity of composition and style. A single incident is sufficient to form its subject. At one time it is the flight of Rodrigo, the last of the Visigoths, after his last defeat, and the lamentations he pours forth over the distresses of his country, so beautifully translated by Mr. Wiffen in the Foreign Review. Now it is the Cid who returns victorious from his exile, dismounts from his horse before a cathedral, and, banner in hand, pronounces a brief and martial harangue. In another, the king joins the hands of Rodrigo and Ximena. The Cid doffs his armour and takes up his bridal garments, which are described, piece by piece, with the greatest exactness, from the bonnet down to the shoes. Or the Moorish knight Ganzul presents himself at a solemn tourney, mounted on his fiery steed. The fair Zayda, who has been unfaithful to him, is moved on beholding him, and confides her emotions to the maidens who surround her. Or the hero Abenzulema, after having peopled the prisons with Christian knights, is exiled by his ungrateful monarch, and comes to take farewell of his beloved Balaja. In almost every one of these romances, the armour of the cavalier who is the hero, and his martial panoply, are described with the most minute accuracy, not forgetting his device, so well according with the rest of his equipage. Or Agrican, faint and weary, rides out of the battle to expire in a wood. Or, lastly, the merry Gandalin, the son of the sage Urganda, plays his grotesque tricks with the magic wand of his father Merlin. Our first quotations refer to this period of Spanish literature — our last to the Italian school of Boscan and Garcilasso.

SIR LAUNCELOT RIDES IN QUEST OF THE WHITE ROE.

Tres hijuelos avia el Rey.
Three daughters had the royal king, three daughters and no more,
And for the life he led with them against their life he swore:
The one was changed into a hind, the next became a hound,
The third a Mooress turn'd, and pass'd the ocean waves beyond
Laughing walks Sir Launcelot the laughing dames among; [5]
Aloud cries one, Sir Knight, prepare your steed and hunting throng;
For if it be the will of Heaven to rule your lot and mine,
And in the bands of married love our hands together join,
Then give to me, in earnest first, the hind with the snow-white feet.
That will I give with right good-will to thee, my lady sweet! [10]
Right well I know the lands wherein the hind was born they say.
Now mounts Sir Launcelot the bold, now mounts and rides away;
And by his side to track the hind two fleetest greyhounds run;
And he hath come to a hermit's bower as slowly sinks the sun.
God save thee, father! Welcome, son, right welcome wilt thou be! [15]
As, from thy stately hounds, thou seem'st a hunter bold and free.
O tell me hermit, tell me true, thou man of holy life,
Where lives the hind with the snow-white feet that causeth all this strife?
Tarry with me, my son, I pray, until the daylight dawn,
And I will tell what I saw and heard regarding the snow-white fawn; [20]
This night, two hours before the day, she passes the hoary wood,—
Six bearded lions all by her side, a lioness red with blood;
Six paladins bold she has reft of life, the flower of chivalry.
God shield thee ever, my son, I pray, wherever thy journey be!
For whosoe'er hath sent thee, son, no gentle love has learned. [25]
Ah, Duenna de Quintanyona' with evil fire be burned,
That for thy sake so brave a knight untimely death has earned.

Pesame de vos! el Conde.

UNCLE.
It makes me weep to think how you must die, Sir Paladin;
For all the fault that you have done methinks was little sin,
For crimes of love, I will confess, our pardon more demand.
The king I pray'd that he would deign your freedom to command;
But in his dire resentment nought the king resolved to hear; [5]
And sentence it is past, nor can be now revoked, I fear;
For she, the fair Infanta, brightest beauty of his throne,
Whom safe you swore to guard from all, alas! she now has flown.
Far better, nephew, had it been to leave the dames alone!
For he who leagues his fate with theirs, desirous to elope, [10]
But death or ruin, say what else, the man can truly hope?

COUNT.
Fie! uncle, uncle, cease those words, my heart they cannot move;
For woman I prefer to die than live without her love!

BELERMA.
Durandarte, Durandarte!
Noble knight both tried and proved,
I beseech thee that we speak now
Of that time when first we loved.

Tell me now, if you remember [5]
When you swore I was so fair,
When your love in gallant tourneys
To the world you did declare?

When the Moorish king you vanquish'd
In the lists I did allot; [10]
Now forlorn and quite dejected,
Tell me—why am I forgot?

DURANDARTE.
Words are fleeting, fair seniora,
To a lady of your lot;
For if one has been so fickle, [15]
Blame thyself, for I 'twas not.

For thou lovedst Don Gayferos,
When exiled I roam'd elsewhere;
And if love with me thou seekest,
Lady, little wilt thou share. [20]
Sooner than I’d live insulted,
I would die in my despair!

THE FAIR BLEACHER BY THE SEASHORE.

Frühe am Johannis tage
Sprang ich auf, und ging am Meer
Sahich dort ein Madchen wandeln
An dem üfer him und her.
&c. &c.

Yo me levantare madre!
Early on Saint Juan's morning,
For the sea I left the town;
There I saw a damsel pacing
On the margin up and down.

All alone she wash'd, and spreading [5]
On a rosebush all along
Snow-white linens, thus the maiden,
Whilst they bleach'd, began her song.

Pangs of love! ah, countless sorrows!
Why to seek me do ye throng? [10]
Sea below and sea around her,
Singing thus she paced along.

In her hand a comb of silver,
For her hair so black and long;
Tell me, tell me, gallant sailor, [15]
So God shield thee still from wrong,
Hast thou seen my truelove passing,
As you wandered all along?

ALABEZ PREPARES TO FIGHT DON MANUEL AT GRANADA.

Ensillenme el potro ruzio!
Come saddle me now the sable steed that from Guala's lord I won,
And give me the shield and Damascus sword the Christian warriors shun;
And the lance with the points of the shining steel to wound before and behind;
And the helmet of steel and the golden crest that flutters so proud in the wind,
Where the feathers of green and the purple plumes wave aloft in the envious sky; [5]
Come give me them all ere you venture again to brook the glance of my eye
And remember the scarf of azure and gold, like stars in the firmament set,
That was wove by the hands of Zara the fair, the daughter of Zelin Hamet;
And say to my sweetest seniora, she must now come forth and the battle behold,—
The battle so fierce I am now to maintain with the lord of Alora so bold; [10]
For if she is there, in her beauty so rare, to gaze while the combatants bleed,
A glance of her eye new strength will supply, though reduced to the heaviest need.

MEDORO’S GRIEF FOR ANGELICA.

Por una triste espesura en un monte muy subido.
Through a hoary mountain's forests,
Frowning sadly overhead,
Saw I ride a noble horseman
All with blood and dust bespread.

Cruel, cruel were the sorrows [5]
Whence those heavy sighs proceed—
Whence the blood and tears all mingled
O'er the ground in torrents speed.

For Angelica, his mistress,
Riding through a flowery plain, [10]
Christian knights, in sable armour,
Stole away, and left him slain.

Now forlorn and quite dejected,
Weeping for the bliss he lost—
For Angelica, his mistress, [15]
O'er the desert mount he cross'd.

Fainting rides the gallant warrior,
Pierced by countless lances through;
Yet his gallant soul, disdainful,
Pain nor anguish can subdue. [20]

To a grassy spot arriving,
He aloft his sword suspends;
And to bind his wounds, all flowing,
From his weary steed descends.

There in grief and dolour sighing, [25]
On the ground his limbs he lays;
And, with anguish unabating,
Now to Heaven above he prays.

Now his sad misfortune curses,
And the day when he was born— [30]
That no power can now protect her,
From his side with fury torn.

In this lost estate now lying,
Pallid all his beauty grown,
To the desert air in sighing, [35]
Lo! his valiant soul has flown!

ANGELICA’S LAMENTATIONS OVER THE WOUNDED MEDORO.

Regalando el tierno bello de la boca de Medoro.
Feeding on the tender blush
Of Medoro's beautiful mouth,
Divine Angelica hangs,
Seated on the trunk of an elm!
His eyelids, languid in death, [5]
Melting, she eyes in return,
And with his bright ruby lips
Mingles kisses that burn.
Ah Moor! happy, happy Moor!
Whom all the world envies that sweet paramour! [10]

Now health to his weak limbs at last
That fair Moorish youth he completes;
But ah! so infirm is his soul,
That Heaven to his aid he entreats;
And, moved to the heart by the plaints [15]
Of Medoro, Angelica the fair,
With her own gentle hand, quickly cured
All the wounds of his love and despair.
Ah Moor! happy, happy Moor!
Whom all the world envies that sweet paramour! [20]

By the sound of their murmurs and loves,
Which they sigh'd to themselves when alone,
False Echo, betraying their haunt,
Orlando's insane mood came on;
And gazing the vine-leaves among, [25]
Round the trunk of the tree that were clasp'd,
With his hand Durindana his sword
Full of envy and madness he grasp'd.
Ah Moor! happy, happy Moor!
Whom all the world envies that sweet paramour! [30]

And now farewell to Zelins and Zelindascas, Gualas and Guadalaras, and Gandalins and Melisendras, and also to you, Angelica and Medoro! In the words of Master Peter's boy, “Go in peace, ye pair of peerless lovers; and may the eyes of your friends and kindred behold you enjoy all the days of your life, which I hope will exceed the age of Nestor.” The last pieces we shall offer belong to a different era from the preceding romances. The first is the celebrated Cancion, by Montemayor, “Ojos que ya no veis,” so well known to Spanish scholars. It is praised by Sismondi and Bouterweck as a masterpiece in the pastoral style: the original runs much in the vein of Leigh Hunt's poetry. The second is an extract from Herrera's celebrated “Ode on the Battle of Lepanto,” which we give in the manner of Mr. Shelley, the only poet who could have done justice to the prophetic sublimity of the original. This ode might almost seem to have been written with reference to the events now agitating the world; but it is exactly translated. The admirable ode by Louis de Leon, called the “Noche serena,” is also translated. The glowing fancy of this pious and correct writer seems to have attained its loftiest inspiration in this outbreaking of his heavenly muse, which, we scruple not to say, equals the finest, and soars with Plato

“—to the empyreal sphere,
To the first good, first perfect, and
first fair.”

CANZONE FROM THE “DIANA ENAMORADA” OF MONTEMAYOR.

Ojos que ya no veis quien os miraba.
Bright eyes! that now the tender glance no more
Return to him whose mirrors still ye shone,
To give content, O say what sights ye see!
O green and flowery fields, where oft alone
Each day for him, my gentle swain, I wore [5]
The sultry hours away, lament with me!
For here he first declared so tenderly
His love; I heard the while,
With more than serpent guile,
Chiding a thousand times his amorous way, [10]
And sorrowing to delay.
In tears he stood—his glance methinks I see!
Or is it but fantasy?
Ah! could I hear him now his passion own!
O streams and waving woods, whither has Sireno flown? [15]

And yonder see the stream, the flowery seat,
The verdant vale, the cool umbrageous wood,
Where oft he led his wandering flock to feed:
The noisy, babbling fountain where he stood,
And, 'mid green bowers, hid from the noontide heat, [20]
Under this oak his tender tale would plead.
And see the lawny isle,
Where first he saw me smile,
And fondly knelt. O sweet delightful hour!
Had not misfortune's power [25]
Those days serene o'ercast with deepest night.
O tree! O fountain bright!
All, all are here, but not the youth I moan.
O streams and waving woods, whither has Sireno flown?

Here in my hand his picture I admire— [30]
Pleased with the charm, methinks 'tis he; although
Deep in my heart his features brighter glow.
When comes the hour of love and soft desire,
To yonder fountain in the vale I go—
My languid limbs beneath the willows throw; [35]
Sit by his side. O Love, how blind thy ways!
Then in the waters gaze
On him, and on myself, once more revived,
Like when with me he lived.
Awhile this fancy will my cares abstract, [40]
Then utterly distract.
My fond heart weeps its foolishness to own.
O streams and waving woods, whither has Sireno flown?

Sometimes I chide, yet will he not reply;
And then I think he pays me scorn for scorn— [45]
For oft whilome I would no answer deign.
But sorrowing then, I say, Behold 'tis I!
Sireno, speak! O leave me not forlorn,
Since thou art here! Yet still
In silence will he keep immovable [50]
Those bright and sparkling eyes,
That were like twins o' the skies.
What love! what folly! with this vain pretence
To ask for life or sense—
A painted shadow, and this madness own? [55]
O streams and waving woods, whither has Sireno flown?

Ne'er with my flock at sunset can I go
Into our village, nor depart at morn,
But see I yonder, with unwilling eyes,
My shepherd's hamlet laid in ruins low. [60]
There for a time, in dreams, I linger yet,
And sheep and lambs forget—
Till shepherd boys break out
Into a sudden shout,
Ho, shepherdess! what! are you dreaming now? [65]
While yonder, see, your cow
Feeds in the corn! My eyes, alas! proclaim
From whom proceeds this shame,
That my starved flock forsake me here alone.
O streams and waving woods, whither has Sireno flown? [70]

Song ! go! thou knowest well whither;
Nay, haste, return thou hither;
For it may be thy fate
To go where they may say thou art importunate.

HERRERA'S ODE ON THE BATTLE OF LEPANTO.

El sobervio tyrano confiado.
The tyrants of the world from hell's abysm
Summon'd the demons of revenge and pride,
And, gathering round the flag of despotism
The countless hosts in whom they did confide,
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide— [5]
All who had bound men's souls within their den —
Tore down the loftiest cedar of the height,
The tree sublime; and, drunk with anger then,
Threaten’d in ghastly bands our few astonish'd men.

The little ones confounded, trembled then [10]
At their appalling fury, and their brow
Against the Lord of Hosts these impious men
Uplifting, sought, with heaven-insulting vow,
The triumph of Thy people's overthrow;
Their armed hands extending, and their crest [15]
Moving omnipotent, because that Thou
Wert as a tower of refuge, to invest
All whom man's quenchless hope had prompted to resist.

Thus said those insolent and scornful ones:
Knows not this earth the vengeance of our wrath, [20]
The strength of our illustrious fathers’ thrones:
Or did the Roman power avail? or hath
Rebellious Greece, in her triumphant path,
Scatter'd the seeds of freedom on your land?
Italia! Austria! who shall save you both? [25]
Is it your God? —Ha, ha! Shall he withstand
The glory of our might, our conquering right hand?

Our Rome, now tamed and humbled, into tears
And psalms converts her songs of freedom's rights;
And for her sad and conquer'd children fears [30]
The carnage of more Cannae's fatal fights.
Now Asia with her discord disunites;
Spain threatens with her horrors to assail
All who still harbour Moorish proselytes;
Each nation's throne a traitor crew doth veil, [35]
And, though in concord join'd, what could their might avail?

Earth's haughtiest nations tremble and obey,
And to our yoke their necks in peace incline,
And peace for their salvation of us pray;
Cry peace, but that means death when monarchs sign. [40]
Vain is their hope, their lights obscurely shine—
Their valiant gone—their virgins in our powers—
Their glory to our sceptres they resign:
From Nile to Euphrates and Tiber's towers,
Whate'er the all-seeing sun looks down on—all is ours. [45]

Thou, Lord! who wilt not suffer that thy glory
They should usurp who in their might put trust,
Hearing the vauntings of these anarchs hoary,
These holy ones beheld, whose horrid lust
Of triumph did thy sacred altars crust [50]
With blood; nor wouldst thou longer that the base
Should be permitted to oppress thy just,
Then mocking cry to Heaven. Within what place
Abides the God of these? where hideth he his fase?

For the due glory of thy righteous name, [55]
For the just vengeance of thy race opprest,
For the deep woes the wretched loud proclaim,
In pieces hast thou dash'd the dragon's crest,
And clipp'd the wings of the destroying pest.
Back to his cave he draws his poisonous fold, [60]
And trembling hisses; then, in torpid breast,
Buries his fear: for thou, to Babel sold
Captive, no more on earth thy Zion wilt behold.

Portentous Egypt, now with discord riven,
The avenging fire and hostile spear affright; [65]
And the smoke, mounting to the light of heaven,
O'erclouds her cities in its pall of night.
In tears and solitude she mourns the sight.
But thou, O Grecia! the fierce tyrant's stay,
The glory of her excellence and might, [70]
Dost thou lament, old Ocean Queen, thy prey,
Nor fearing God, dost seek thine own regenerate day?

Wherefore, ingrate, didst thou adorn thy daughters
In foul adultery with an impious race?
Why thus confederate in the unholy slaughters [75]
Of those whose burning hope is thy disgrace?
With mournful heart, yet hypocritic face,
Follow the life abhorr'd of that vile crew?
God's sharpen'd sword thy beauty shall efface,
Falling in vengeance on thy neck. O who, [80]
Thou lost one! his right hand in mercy shall subdue?

But thou, O pride of ocean! lofty Tyre!
Who in thy ships so high and glorious stood,
O'ershadowing earth's limits, and whose ire
With trembling fill'd this orb's vast multitude; [85]
How have ye ended, fierce and haughty brood?
What power hath mark'd your sins and slnveries foul,
Your neck unto this cruel yoke subdued?
God, to avenge us, clouds thy sunlike soul,
And causes on thy wise this blinding storm to roll. [90]

Howl, ships of Tarsus! Howl! for, lo! destroy'd
Lies your high hope. Oppressors of the free!
Lost is your strength — your glory is defied.
Thou tyrant-shielder, who shall pity thee?
And thou, O Asia! who didst bow the knee [95]
To Baal, in vice immerged, who shall atone
For thine idolatries? for God doth see
Thine ancient crimes, whose sileut prayers have flown
For vengeance unto heaven before his judgment-throne.

Those who behold thy mighty arms when shatter'd, [100]
And ocean, flowing naked of thy pines,
Over his weary waves triumphant scatter'd
So long, but now wreck-strown, in awful signs,
Shall say, beholding thy desertel shrines,
Who 'gainst the fearful One hath daring striven? [105]
The Lord of our Salvation their designs
O'erturn'd, and for the glory of his heaven
To man's devoted race this victory hath given.

NOCHE SERENA. FROM LUIS DE LEON.

Cuando contemplo el cielo.
When I contemplate heaven, in starry light
Adorn'd, then gaze on earth enshrined in night,
Sepulchred in oblivion and in dream,
Sorrow and love awake desire supreme
Within my soul to glorify their sleep, [5]
And while mine eyes like fountains flow, I weep.
Throne of all grandeur, temple of delight
And beauty! the deep soul that for thy height
Was born, what dire calamity doth keep
Within this lowly dungeon, dark and Deep? [10]
What mortal madness from the truth so far
Exiles the sense, that, of thy heavenly star
Oblivious, it is lost to good, to follow
The shadow ever vain, the joy still hollow?
Man! livest thou still in sleep-surrender'd dream, [15]
Careless of time, meanwhile thine hour extreme,
With silent step revolving, Heaven leads on,
When all alike are star, and flower, and sun?
O waken, mortals! shall immortal mind
Live to the shadow of true bliss confined? [20]
Ah! lift your eyes to yon celestial spheres,
Cast, of this life, and all its hopes and fears,
The fleeting vain illusions far away.
What but a shadow of all shadows, say,
Is this brief earth to yon eternal sky? [25]
Where, in those orbs' resplendent galaxy,
Lives, in a higher essence, all the vast
Being that is, or will be, or has past—
Who sees the glorious concert of that splendour,
Those ever-burning lights serene and tender, [30]
All cadencing to an harmonious lyre,
Their steps like glorious spirits; or round in quire,
With the silver moon and vesper's evening star
Shining so cold and beautiful from far?
Who looks on this, and afterwards doth prize [35]
The lowliness of earth; nor weeps and sighs
To pierce all continents which the immortal spirit,
Exile from bliss, it lingers to inherit?
Thou soft bright region, vale of holiness!
Divine realm! which calm seasons ever bless, [40]
Frost will not blight thee, nor the sun-beams wither
Thy heavenly flowers, but the Good Shepherd thither,
With white and purple blossoms crown'd, devoid
Of staff and sling, his loving flock doth guide
To pastures sweet of ever-blooming roses, [45]
Where in the noontide shade he oft reposes;
Or wandering up the mossy mountains, wends
His way to where the embowering ivy sends
Divinest echoes, whose immortal sweets
Pierce through the bounds of those ethereal seats, [50]
Each choral hymn uplifting, and each mind
Towards the good from all alloy refined.
There dove-eyed Pity, there Contentment reigns;
There all the throng of cherubim sustains
The Sacred Love, as on a promontory [55]
He sits, girt round with such exceeding glory
That we behold him not. So beams divine
Beauty immense, and o'er all spirits shine
Effulgent lights, which darkness never lours.
Eternal spring-time there for ever flowers. [60]
O vale of truth! O inexhausted bowers!
O fields! O gems divine beyond all prize!
O heavenly home! of thy sweet paradise,
Would that to me the immortal joys were given
The mind herself her own home—her own heaven! [65]