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The third distinctive era of Spanish poetry commences with the restoration of good taste under Luzán and his followers, towards the year 1730. But M. Maury fills up the dreary interval between this period and the death of Villegas in 1669—which was occupied by Gracián and other miserable concettesti —with a selection of the national romances, ancient as well as modern, which impart to the reader a very delightful relief. Of them, and of the writers subsequent to Luzán, his second volume is composed, and it forms the most original, interesting, and most valuable portion of his work. After the elucidation which Mr. Lockhart and Mr. Bowring have given to this most popular class of Spanish poems, the former to the heroic, the latter to the domestic ballads, it might be superfluous in the narrow limits to which we are restricted to do more than allude to the satisfactory collection of M. Maury. But as the treasures of Ramon Fernández and Juan de la Cuesta are far from being exhausted by the checks which our countrymen have drawn upon them, and as we cannot altogether resist the seduction of the subject, we shall just indicate the various kinds of which they consist, and affix a specimen of each. Properly speaking, says Quintana, these ballads, although produced without effort, anddevoid of art, form truly the lyric poetry of his country, being sung to the guitar or harp in the saloons of the noble, at the windows of beauty, in the public streets. The use of the asonante or imperfect rhyme, in their composition, increased the ease with which they were multiplied, and what they want in correctness from this cause, is made up in freshness of colouring, a more uniform animation, and a more rapid and effective developement of emotion.

The Ballads or Romances commence, as in other countries, by celebrating the gestes of ancient warriors, the prowess of the Trojan Hector, whom it always represents as a gallant chevalier, disloyally slaughtered by the recreant Achilles; the exploits of knights-errant, of the Paladins of France; the loves of King Rodrigo, or of the Infanta, sister to Alphonso the Chaste; the triumphs of Bernardo del Carpio, who, like a new Hercules, stifles Roland in the pass of Roncesvalles; and above all, the courtship, the misfortunes, and heroic actions of the Cid. The following is of this heroic kind. It was the general belief of his subjects that Don Roderick, after his fatal battle with the Arabs, had perished in the Guadelete, on the banks of which were found his silken mantle, his crown, and baldric set with gems; and the ballad celebrates the catastrophe.

The Death of Don Rodrigo.

'Twas when the painted birds were mute, and the river's far-off sweep
Might be faintly heard by a listening ear, as it rolled to join the deep;
By the trembling light of a straggling star, that in silence sadly shone,
And in weeds more safe than a dazzling crown had proved, or a ruby zone,—
Of the royal ensigns stript, that make a monarch look so trim, [5]
Left in his haunting dread of death by the Guadalete's brim,—
Far, different far from the king who late had entered into fight
Rich with the gems which his arm had won, his own right arm of might,—
All black with blood those arms, some his, some borrowed from his squire,
Marked with a thousand dints, in part cleft through, and none entire,—[10]
His head without a helmet, and the dry dust on his brow,
Sad image of his princely pomp that in dust lies trampled now,—
On lorn Orelia's back, his steed, so faint and weary grown
As scarce to breathe and oft to trip o'er rising stock and stone,—
From Xeres' field, that Gilboa new, a field of many woes, [15]
In flight by mountain, wold and wood, Rodrigo grieving goes.

Sad visions swim before his eyes—still the battle-trumpet brays
In his dreaming ear, and he knows not where to look in his wild amaze;
To Heaven? he dreads its wrath—high Heaven is troubled at his sin;
To earth? ‘tis the Moor's, not his; to his breast? shall he turn his thoughts within? [20]
Midst wandering memories, griefs and wounds, a fiercer strife is there,
And thus, 'twixt sighs and groans the Goth laments in his despair.
"O wretch! hadst thou fled fast as this from thy desires, or fought
In other time against thy flame as a man and monarch ought,
Spain yet her glory had enjoyed, and her knights now palely spread [25]
On the soil disguised with their gallant blood that dies the herbage red!
And thou, the Helen of the land, mine own immortal harm,
Would I had blind been born, or thou without a single charm!
Curst be the day and curst the hour I issued from the womb;
The pleasant breast that gave me suck, had better proved my tomb:"— [30]
More would the wretched man have said, but grief and pain divide
The half-formed accents of his tongue; his horse takes to the tide;
And sighing forth Farewell, sweet Spain, and adieu to thy Moorish skies!'
By his own loved steed, in the weedy waves King Don Rodrigo lies.

When the progress of language and versification had given greater compass and variety to these ballads, the poet found his happiest inspiration in Morisco gallantry, and Castilian verse received the modulation of those Arab names, so sweet and so sonorous, interesting itself in those warriors of Granada, so tender and so terrible, and singing those loves and discords of the Zegris and Abencerrages, which hastened the fall of the last Moorish town in Spain. Sometimes, says M. Maury, the Arab costume was only used as a veil, and right good Christians, swearing by Mahomet, sighed in these verses tor Spanish Zelimas and Zelidaxas. The deep love, the sorrow, and coquetry which breathe or trifle in some of this class, are admirably pourtrayed. Zaid the Abencerrage loves the haughty Zaida, one of the Zegris, and at length touches her heart, at the time when Granada is brilliant with fêtes in honour of the king who shortly terminates her dynasty. Abdali-Tarfe, the friend and, as was thought, the secret rival of Zaïd, is entertaining the court in his pleasure-gardens, situated between the Xenil and Darro, of which the one rolls over sable sands, the other over those of the purest gold. It is there that Zaida, who has had but few opportunities of seeing her lover, grants him a favour that fills his heart with joy. She binds, with her own hand, to his turban one of her tresses, far more radiant than the golden sands of the Xenil. Tarfe remarks the joy that sparkles in the lover's eyes, and, eager to know the cause, insinuates himself into his confidence, which he is not slow to abuse. We will hear the minstrel himself upon the consequence.

The Indiscretion.

'Mark me, Zaïd, for well I warn thee, pass not near my window more;
Talk not with my Christian captives; lurk not near my garden-door;
No more of my damsels question whom I see, by whom am seen,
Nor what colours in my fancy I make choice of, pink or green;
Tis enough that through thy folly they are such as stain my face, [5]
To have known a youth so witless, so impatient of disgrace.
True, thou'rt valiant—well, I grant thee, hast thou tinged thy steel in war
Lightly dancest, sweetly singest, ably tun'st the gay guitar;
Polished too, as dame can fancy, of pure lineage well allied,
Graceful, yea, the glass of fashion, of thy friends the charm and pride; [10]
Much, I own, I lose, to lose thee—much should gain to gain thy worth,
And that I had ev'n adored thee, hadst thou but been dumb from birth.
But for this thy fault I leave thee—fare thee well—thou'rt far too free;
Lavish is thy language—bitter its false fruits have proved to me;
Well thou know'st, I'll not disguise it, not indeed to win, but woo, [15]
And with less considerate ladies much thy gifts and parts might do;
But if, bidden to a banquet they should heap thy plate with fruit,
They require thee, let me tell thee, if to taste it, to keep mute.
Hast thou done so? ask thy conscience; thou wert happy hadst thou known
Still to charm as first to please me—now thy bliss lies overthrown. [20]
Scarcely hadst thou left the arbour, than thy babbling tongue must show
Whose the tress was to thy turban tied, and by what hand of woe.
I nor ask it back, nor bid thee keep the gift thou couldst not claim.
But if kept, at least I warn thee, 'twill but speak thy double shame.
Yes! they tell me of a challenge thou hast sent the traitor youth, [25]
Much the wrath thy worth enhances! 'tis a glorious act in truth!
He must die for having whispered secrets placed within his power.
Which thyself, unjust deceiver, couldst not keep a single hour.
But 'tis fruitless to upbraid thee—this brief sight shall be thy last,
No excuse, again I tell thee, wins my ear—thy doom is cast. [30]
To the Abencerrage fair Zaida thus discoursed, and parting said,
As a gallant deals to others, must a gallant be repaid.'

There is too much regret expressed in this ballad, to lead us to suppose that the resentment of the discreet Zaida was intended to be eternal. The sequel is on record. It was in the palace, and before the court, that Zaïd first met Tarfe after his breach of confidence. He loaded him with reproaches, challenged him to battle, and in his rival's death revenged the wrongs which he had sustained. Stung with resentment upon their part for his death, and wounded by the scandal caused by the adventure, the Zegris sought to punish the conquering Abencerrage; but his relations armed in his defence, ranging on their side the Venegas, Gazuls, and Alabezes, whilst the Gomels and the Mazas took part with the kinsmen of Abdallah. They would have rushed to arms in the Plaza de Vivarrambla, and the whole city would have been involved in the discord of the two factions, had not the king, seconded by the nobles of the other principal houses, used his authority to re-establish a better understanding. Zaïd was put under arrest in the Alhambra, till the heat of passion had subsided, and then, at the desire of his sovereign, was united to the lady of his heart.

To the Morisco romances, which celebrate the fiery Mussulman warriors, and proud beauties of Granada, succeeded the pastoral ballad, a class of verses in which, it will be seen, simplicity and refinement are singularly intermingled.

To the song of birds Aurora now dispersed night's mists in air,
When, refreshed by no sweet slumber—who can sleep when pressed by care?
A lorn shepherd rose, and sadly, to keep concert with the birds.
The sore pangs of love lamented in these brief but bitter words:
'Unkind Silvia, stern as lovely, than the forest-glens more wild, [5]
Their fierce wolves are tamed by kindness, but no gifts can make thee mild!
When new fragrant flowers I send thee, them thou fling'st with scorn away,
Haply from the conscious feeling, thine are flowers more fresh than they;
And when I my harvest apples bring thee from the autumn chest,
Them thou scorn'st, perchance as bearing sweeter on thy virgin breast; [10]
If 'tis honeycomb I offer, that in truth is less divine
To the taste than thy fond kisses,—what a weary toil is mine!
But if I no rarer offerings can present to thee, and these,
Of far greater zest and beauty in thyself are found with ease,
There's myself! this have I offered, this gift too must be despised, [15]
Highly in past days regarded, now alas too lightly prized!'
Here the unhappy youth gave over, not that his laments were done,
They shall live while reason guides him, whilst his eyes yet see the sun.

This forced refinement, somewhat softened in the translation, bespeaks the school of Góngora. The sportive muse of Lope de Vega, as a change, perhaps, to the thread-barepastoral, led him sometimes to indulge in the jocose ballad, of which the following is a specimen.

'Lady! if you've any honour, prove it for my heart's repose,
Tis quite time your dallying humour and my many wrongs should close.
Put no joke on mine, I pray you—no true lady would;—'tis now
Six round years, you may remember, since you slighted first my vow.
And in all these years no reasons that have reached my ears, can prove [5]
Why this chase I should continue, why you still should mock my love.
The first two you gave for answer, you in wisdom were too young,
Much too little, far too giddy, girl too much in heart and tongue.
And the other four, fair lady, have they recompensed my pains?
Whilst you said, but one more season on my person wait in chains; [10]
Fearing, of a truth, subjection! what subjection have you learned?
Two long months I've been at Cadiz—what's the tale now I'm returned?
You're betrothed! a plague say I, on all that trust a woman's word!
Yet I'm told—(a plague on me too, if I credit what I've heard!)
That your monster of a father, by main fury makes you wed, [15]
And that none but He we worship knows the world of tears you shed,
Being so crossed in your affections; true or false will now be seen—
For with him you cannot trifle—you're now past unwise fourteen!
Take my counsel; as you journey to the Magdalen to pray,
For full pardon of your follies with what innocence you may, [20]
Come you to the palace-garden, where we take our siesta, then
We will talk the matter over, unobserved by angry men.
If you thus give satisfaction to my love for your long debt,
I shall see that 'tis no fiction, and may praise your sorrow yet.
But, betrothed or broken-hearted, wooed or warred on by your friends. [25]
Let me warn you, for these fancies I shall look for large amends.'
Thus the youth wrote, Gerineldo, Camarero to the Queen,
To the lady Quintañona, lurking in the room unseen.

The quiet wit of this is very amusing, and the mock dignity of the stately names of the parties enhances its pleasantry. But the simplest kind of ballads, and, to our apprehension, if not the most imposing, amongst the most exquisite of all, are the diminutives known under the name of letrillas, in which one favourite expression forms a kind of key-note, which is repeated at the close of each stanza. In them simplicity takes a tone of the greatest naiveté; scarcely an accent is employed that does not find its way familiarly to the heart, and the evolution of the sentiments which they confide to our sympathy is accelerated by the shortness of the verse, and the rapid movement of the measure. The letrilla is adapted more than any other species of composition, to express, with the common incidents, the every-day emotions and milder passions of the mind, whether these be the happy dreams of hope, the melancholy of remembrance, or the languor, the endearments, and laments of love. One of the most frequent purposes to which it has been put by the poets, has been to pourtray the birth or power of love, in the ingenuous bosom of young maidens, who disclose to their mothers the subject of their hopes, or fears, or fancies, in the spirit of that sweet little fragment of Sappho, where the girl tells her parent that she cannot proceed with weaving the web on which she is engaged, for thinking of the youth she loved.

Γλυκεῖα μᾶτερ, οὔτε δύναμαι κρέκειν τὸν ἱστὸν,
Πόθῳ δαμε͂ισα παιδὸς, βραδινὰν δὲ Ἀφροδίταν.

In these exquisite compositions, it is now the innocent young girl who weeps and refuses to be comforted, lamenting that her betrothed husband should leave her so soon; now one that must acquit herself of the kisses which she promised in her childhood; and now the happy creature who, contented with her own home, implores them not even to whisper of a wedding to her; or, perhaps, the little rebel who absolutely and obstinately refuses the object of her mother's choice. Elsewhere it is the maiden who congratulates herself on having passed the frightful streamlet in safety, wetted only by a single wave; or one that has at length found out the reason why she sighs. Nor does the letrilla fail in tenderness or truth, when it represents a lover invoking a sunny morning for his fair one to gather flowers in, or bidding his mother scare away the thrush that sings too sweetly for his despair. The following is one of considerable beauty:—

Con el viento murmuran.

The green leaves all murmur round,
By the wind, dear mother, swayed;
And I slumber to the sound
In their waving shade.

From the west the soothing wind [5]
In my ear so sweetly sings,
That it sets afloat my mind,
Gives my brooding fancy wings;
So contents me, that it seems
Heaven already sends me dreams, [10]
Ere the time—of joys that wound,
So they say, both youth and maid,—
And I slumber to the sound,
In the waving shade.

If perchance I wake, I find [15]
I'm among blue violet-flowers,
And I scarcely call to mind
The dim griefs of vanished hours.
Soon I lose them—the sweet strife
Winds and leaves make, gives me life; [20]
I repose, fresh dreams come round,
Still the self-same murmur's made,
And I slumber to the sound
In the waving shade.

The following, with equal simplicity, is equally beautiful.

A aquel caballero, madre.

'To that noble youth, dear mother,
When my sixth birth-day was flown,
I three simple kisses promised,—
I must give them now I'm grown.

'Twas, I mind me, the first promise [5]
Which I made in early youth;
Never shall he say I'm perjured,
Never chide my want of truth.
If that noble youth, dear mother,
Comes across our threshold stone, [10]
I can really do no other,—
Yes! I'll give them now I'm grown.'

'Nay, child, words so lightly spoken
Tis no sin to break; I blame
Even the talk of such a token, [15]
Think not of the thing, for shame.
I too vowed you to Saint Cecil,
Now the truth I needs must own,—
You should learn to read your missal.'—
—'Yes! I'll give them now I'm grown!' [20]

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