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Ancient National Poetry of Spain IV

III. We give one more specimen of the romantic ballad, — a specimen, however, which has with equal propriety been termed Moorish. We may here remark that the classification of Spanish romances is very arbitrary; and that many which are arranged under one head might with equal propriety be transferred to another. This ballad will illustrate in a manner equally natural and striking the two predominant passions of a Moor—love and jealousy; and it will be difficult to say which of the two was more closely interwoven with his very being. It will also serve to confirm the justice of the preliminary observations we made as to the character of the contest between the Moorish and Christian nations, and the peculiar state of society which that contest generated and matured.

The Moorish Knight and the Christian Princess 1

"With Galvan in his castle proud
Will Moriana play;
And both do name the royal game
The time to while away.

Whene'er the Moor the game doth lose, [5]
A city's loss is his;
But when the maid,—he's overpaid
Her lily hand to kiss.

Well pleased at length that fiery Moor
Hath laid him down to sleep— [10]
When soon, I ween, a knight is seen
Among those mountains steep.

His eyes in tears, his feet in blood,
Full sorrowful is he!
For princess high this knight doth sigh, [15]
Fair Moriana she.

She captive by the Moors was led
The morning of St. John,
As pass'd the hours while gathering flowers
That in her garden shone. [20]

And nor her eyes the princess raised,—
That knight she knows full well!
With radiance shone the tears which on
The Moor's dark visage fell.

Up strarteth Galvan hastily, [25]
Who thus to say begun:—
'Now, lady mine! what aileth thee?
'Who wrong to thee hath done?

'If of a Moor thou dost complain,
'The rash offender dies; [30]
'If of thy damsels, noble dame!
'I them will soon chastise.

'And if the Christians thee do harm,
'My wrath on them shall light:
'My glory is in war's alarm— [35]
'My pastime is to fight.

'The flinty rock my couch doth claim;
'I sleep with watchful eye!'—
'Not of thy brethren I complain;
'No Moor for me must die: [40]

'Nor would I that my maidens good
'Through me should suffer ill,
'Nor would I that the Christians' blood
'Again thy hands should spill.

'But os this sorrow now so deep, [45]
'The truth to thee I vouch;
'For know! among these mountains steep,
'I saw a knight approach.

'That knight, Sir Moor, full well I ween,
'My own betroth'd is like. [50]
'To raise his hand the Moor is seen,
That princess sad to strike.

His teeth which erst so white did show,
With gushing blood are red;
And at his beck his servants go, [55]
That lady to behead.

And from the place where she must die,
Her lover she espies;
And in her mortal agony,
With tenderness she cries: [60]

'My death I view—a Christian true—
'Till now I ne'er confess'd,
'That you fair knight, my own delight,
'Doth rule within my breast.'"

For further specimens of the Heroic and Romantic Ballads, we refer the reader to the collections of Messrs. Lockhart and Bowring. Before we conclude our observations, however, we will, in accordance with our promise, just advert to Gonsalo Berceo, the first known Castillian poet, who flourished, we would rather say rhymed, so early as the commencement of the thirteenth century.

Though legends of the saints, and miracles pretended to have been wrought at particular shrines, cannot with strict propriety be ranked among the ancient national poetry of Spain, some of them are too curious in themselves, and too remarkable from their antiquity, to be wholly overlooked, especially as the devout Spaniard regards them with a faith little short of that which has consigned martyrs to the stake.

The volume consigned to the labours of Berceo by Sanchez, in his Coleccion de Poesias Castellanas anteriores at Siglo XV., contains some of the most amusing legends we have ever read. Here we have the devil taunting the good St. Millan with being too fond of female society: "Pretty religion, Millan!" says his infernal majesty, "thy grimaces end in something, however!—in diverting thyself with pretty women both by night and day!" "Thou liest!" replied the enraged saint, who soon compelled the deceiver to take to his heels. There we have the poor drunken monk, whom the devil attacked under three different figures—of a bull, a dog, and a lion; but whom the Virgin not only protected, but conducted to his own bed, and even smoothed his pillow for him.

Of the twenty-five miracles of Our Lady—all famous in their way—Mr. Böhl de Faber has transferred six from the work of Sanchez into his own. We present the reader with a version of one, which we have endeavoured to render as quaint and rude as the original itself; how we have succeeded we leave him to judge.

A Miracle of Our Lady. 2

"The convent to St. Michael raised, which men the Tomb do call,
Is great, and by the sea it is surrounded like a wall;
And eke a barren place is it, and want doth oft betide
The holy brotherhood who in that burial-place reside.

Good odour had that convent isle, as divers yet can tell, [5]
For all the monks that in it dwelt in virtue did excel:
An altar of the Virgin there,—where all the faithful pray'd,
And o'er it shone an image fair of costly substance made.

That image, as is wont to be, high on a throne was placed,
And in the arms an infant sweet the glorious mother graced: [10]
Around her knelt the Eastern kings to bear her company,
'Tis Heaven's own Queen in glory bright, whom God doth sanctify.

That Queen so bright upon her head a crown as bright had she,
And o'er her face a veil so rich,—as rich as veil could be:
The whole of wondrous workmanship, and eke of wondrous pride, [15]
By which the monks more favour won than any far and wide.

Before this holy image hung a fan of goodly size—
A moscadero it is called to drive away the flies:
Of peacocks' feathers eke was it— of feathers long and fine,—
Which like so many glorious stars to every eye did shine. [20]

One day,—for so our sins decreed,—the bolt of heaven did fall,
And now the church in flames was wrapt, which blazed through every wall;
Burnt was each book that lay within, each holy vest also,
And eke the monks much trouble had to flee from such a woe.

On fire were closet, altar-front, beam, rafter, roof, and tile; [25]
On fire were chalice, candlestick, and cruse for holy oil;
All, all, did blaze, from roof to floor, for so did God permit,
As other things permitteth He which in His eyes seem lit!

Yet though the fire consuming was, as fiercely it did blow.
Untouch'd was Our Sweet Lady's shrine, and her dear Infant too; [30]
And eke untouch'd the shining fan which, aye, did hang before;
So that to none was damage done to grieve the faithful more.

Untouch'd both fan and image were, again do I declare,
And that to none was damage done, in value worth a hair;
Nor either did the smoke annoy,—this of a truth I know,— [35]
Nor did it injure more than me, the bishop, Don Tello.

Consumed was both the holy pile and that which it contain'd;
Of ashes smoking on the ground a heap alone remain'd:
But round about that shrine so bright no furious flames did blare;
No mischief did the fire —for why? —no mischief did it done. [40]

This miracle, which I have told, to all did wond'rous seem,
That neither fire nor smoke could touch heaven's rich and holy Queen;
Still brightly shone the peacock-fan,—more bright than starry flame,
More beauteous did the Child appear, more beauteous eke the Dame.

Now blessed be our Lady sweet, the lofty Queen of all! [45]
As she her holy shrine did save from flames that erst did fall;
So may she all her servants save from such as never die,
And take us to her glory bright, which shines above the sky!"

Finally, we would observe, that a history at once comprehensive and philosophical—not of Spanish poetry only, but—of Spanish literature generally, is one of the greatest desiderata in the whole field of learning. We are almost afraid, however, to say that we think the task is beyond the capabilities of a native; and no foreigner could undertake it without previously spending some time in consulting the public and private libraries of Spain, as well as the treasures of her literature which have been accumulating in this country during the last fifteen years. We have understood that a Spanish translation of Mr. Bouterweck's History is now in preparation, with additions by a Spanish editor. We regret to hear of any attempt to raise a permanent superstructure on so flimsy a foundation; for we will take upon us to say, that M. Bouterweck's work is one of the most meagre and superficial that ever were put forth on a subject, which all who know any thing of it must admit to be one of pre-eminent interest.