LOS RAY08 LE QUENTA AL SOL.
Los rayos le cuenta al sol
con un peyne de marfil
la bella Iacinta un dia
que por mi dicha la vi
en la verde orilla
del Guadalquivir.
La mano oscurece al peine
mas que mucho si el Abril
le vio oscurecer los lirios
que blancos suelen salir
en la verde orilla
del Guadalquivir.
Los pajaros la saludan
porque piensan (y es asi)
que el sol que sale en Oriente
buelve otra vez á salir
en la verde orilla
del Guadalquivir.
Por solo un cabello el sol
de sus rayos diera mil
solicitando invidioso
el que se quedaba alli
en la verde orilla
del Guadalquivir.—Gongora, ii. 135.
SHE STOOD WITH AN IVORY COMB.
She stood with an ivory comb, and told
Awakening Phoebus' locks of gold-
I saw her then-how sweet to see,
What a bright hour of bliss for me!
As she stood by the verdant river,
The flowing Guadalquivir.
If her hand were fairer than lily-flowers
That palely smile on the April hours,
The ivory comb seem'd dark compared
To her whiter hand and arm, when bared,
As she stood by the verdant river,
The flowing Guadalquivir.
The birds were singing their songs anew,
They thought the sun-and, oh! 'twas true,—
Was waking again the glorious east,
Summon'd unwonted from his rest,
When she stood by the verdant river,
The flowing Guadalquivir.
That sun for a tress of hers had given
A thousand brightest beams of heaven:
And look'd-to wonder-and adore,
As when he stood in heaven of yore-
She walked by the verdant river,
The flowing Guadalquivir.
These compositions breathe the kindest and the warmest affections, and often touch the most susceptible chords of sympathy.
SI MUERO EN TIERRAS AGENAS.
¿Si muero en tierras agenas lejos de donde naci
quien habrá dolor de mi?
Si muero en este destierro
á que yo fui condenado
no merece tan gran yerro
ser plañido ni llorado:
pues si yo lo he procurado
y toda la culpa fui:
¿quien habrá dolor de mi ?
Tu tarde podrás dolerte
que estas mui lejos si muero
yo tan cerca de la muerte
que cada rato la espero :
en aquel punto postrero
pues tu no estarás alli:
¿quien habrá dolor de mi?
JULY, 1823.
Si muero como está cierto
de vos, mis ojos ausente
¿quien sentira el verme muerto
y tan miserablemente
en tierra tan diferente
de aquella donde naci :
¿quien habrá dolor de mi?
¿Quien no la tuvo consigo
adonde busca piedad ?
¿quien à si se fué enemigo
para que quiere amistad?
pues huvo tal necedad
y tan imprudente fui
¿quien habrá dolor de mi ?
Antwerp, Cancionero, p. 399.
IP I IN FOREIGN LANDS SHOULD DIE.
If I in foreign lands should die,
Far from the scenes of infancy,
Who, who will pity me?
If in this exile dark and drear,
To which my fate has doom'd me now,
I should unnoticed die—what tear,
What tear of sympathy will flow?
For I have sought an exile's woe,
And fashion'd my own misery :
Who then will pity me?
Then thou wilt weep-but late-for thou
Art far away if I should die :-
And Death, with frowns upon his brow,
Seems calling me impatiently-
To whose fond bosom shall í fly,
For thou wilt far divided bem
Who then will pity me?
Yes! I sball die-for thou art far,
Far from my eye, though near my thought,
Die where no weeping mourners are-
No mourners--none-for thou art not:
How different there thy minstrel's lot,
Far from the scenes of infancy-
Who then shall pity me?
He dealt no mercy,—where should he,
0! where should he sweet mercy seek?
He was his own heart's enemy-
0! why to him should friendship speak ?
They who love's holy bondage break,
Will feel its vengeful enmity :
Who, who shall pity me?
Nothing can be more natural and touching than the representations and the expression of feminine affection.
CON EL VIENTO MURMURAX.
Con el viento murmuran
y al sonido me duermo
madre, las hojas,
bajo su sombra. y al sonido me duermo
Si acaso recuerdo bajo su sombra.
me hallo entre flores, Sopla un manso viento
y de mis dolores alegre y suave,
apenas me acuerdo : que mueve la nave
de vista los pierdo de mi pensamiento :
del sueño vencida. dame tal contento
y dame la vida que me parece,
el son de las hojas, que el cielo me ofrece
y al sonido me duermo bien á deshora,
bajo su sombra.
Romancero de 1604.
NOTHER, LIST! FOR THE GENTLE BREEZE,
Mother, list! for the gentle breeze
Among the branches blows :
I, 'neath the shades of the whispering trees,
And their music, will repose.
O the sweet breeze, nor loud nor strong,
Is whispering peace to me:
And bears my bark of thought along
The interminable sea-
And a sense of pleasure fills my soul
As the restless waves of passion roll:-
And my eye sweet visions of comfort sees
Shining around my woes-
And, 'neath the shades of the whispering trees,
And their music, I repose.
And if in such bright and blessed hours
A thought of sadness come,
I look, and a thousand fragrant flowers
In all their beauty bloom;
And in that Eden of peace and rest
A heavenly visitor soothes my breast;
And my soul awakes to extasies,
When my eyes in darkness close :
And, 'neath the shades of the whispering trees,
And their music, I repose.
DEL ROSAL VENGO, MI MADRE.
Del rosal vengo, mi madre,
vengo del rosale. A riberas de aquel vado,
Viera estar rosal florido. viera estar rosal granado :
cogi rosas con sospiro : vengo del rosale.
vengo del rosale, madre A riberas de aquel rio,
vengo del rosale. viera estar rosal florido :
Gil Vicenta vengo del rosale.
I COME FROM THE ROSE-GROVE, MOTHER.
I come from the rose-grove, mother,
I come from the grove of roses.
Go to the banks where the streamlet'flows,
There you may gather the damask rose:
I come from the grove of roses.
Go to the vale where the river is flowing,
There you may see the rose-trees blowing:
I come from the grove of roses.
I saw the rose-grove blushing in pride,
I gather'd the blushing rose-and sigh'd
I come from the rose-grove, mother,
I come from the grove of roses.
DICEN QUE ME CASE YO. Dicen que me case yo:
ó quizá mal empleada no quiero marido, no.
la gracia que dios me dió : Mas quiero vivir segura
no querido marido, no. en esta sierra á mi soltura
No es ni será nacido que no estar en ventura si casare bien ó no :
tal para ser mi marido, no quiero marido, no.
y pues que tengo sabido
que la flor yo me la só : Madre, no seré casada
no quiero marido, no. por no ver vida cansada,
Juan de Linares.
THEY SAY THEY'LL TO MY WEDDING GO.
They say they'll to my wedding go,
But I will have no husband-no!
I'll rather live serene and still
Upon a solitary hill,
Than bend me to another's will,
And be a slave in weal or woe:
No! I will have no husband-no!
No! mother! I've no wish to prove
The doubtful joys of wedded love-
And from those flowery pathways rove
Where innocence and comfort grow
No! I will have no husband-no!
And heaven, I'm sure, ne'er meant that he
Should thy young daughter's husband be:
We have no common sympathy-
So let youth's bud unbroken blow-
For I will have no husband-no!
FUENTECILLAS QUE REIS, ¿Fuentecillas
que
reis
y los peñascos buscais ; y con la arena jugais donde vais ?
si reposais donde en calma durmis pues de las flores huis
porque correis y os cansais ?
Francisco de Borja
YE LAUGHING STREAMLETS, SAY.
Ye laughing streamlets, say,
Sporting with the sands, where do wend
your way
From the flowrets flying,
To rocks and caverns hieing:
When ye might sleep in calmness and peace,
Why hurry thus in wearying restlessness ?
QUE NO COGERE YO VERBENA. Que no cogere yo verbena
sino penas tan crueles la mañana de San Juan
cual jamas se cogeran pues mis amores se van.
pues mis amores se van. Que no cogeré yo claveles
Romancero de 1604. madre selva ni mirabeles
I WILL NOT GATHER THE VERVAIN SWEET.
I will not gather the vervain sweet,
Though 'tis San Juan's day,
For my love is fading away.
I'll seek no pinks in their retreat,
Nor
rosemary,-nor rue-
For, ah! with sorrows such as mine-
When hearts are sick, and spirits pine,
What have sweet flowers to do?
SI DORMIS DONCELLA. Si dormis doncella
que muchas las aguas despertad y abrid
teneis que pasar. que venida es la hora
Las aguas tan hondas si quereis partir.
de Guadalquivir Si estas decalza
que venida es la hora no cureis de os calzar
si quereis partir.--Gil Vicente.
ART THOU SLEEPING, MAIDEN?
Art thou sleeping, maiden?
Wake and open I pray-
'Tis morning now—and we must go
Forward on our way.
Put not thy sandals on,
But come with thy white bare feet:
For the mountain rains have drench'd the plains,
We many a stream shall meet
And the Guadalquivir's wave
Then, maiden, no delay.
'Tis morning now—so let us go
Forward on our way.
ON THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF
SAMUEL JOHNSON, LLD.
IN CONTINUATION OF JOHNSON'S LIVES OF THE POETS.
THERE is, perhaps, no one among our English writers, who for so great a part of his life has been an object of curiosity to his contemporaries as Johnson. Almost every thing he said or did was thought worthy of being recorded by some one or other of his associates; and the public were for a time willing to listen to all they had to say of him. A mass of information has thus been accumulated, from which it will be my task to select such a portion as shall seem sufficient to give a faithful representation of his fortunes and character, without wearying the attention of the reader. That any important addition should be made to what has been already told of him, will scarcely be expected.
Samuel Johnson, the elder of two sons of Michael Johnson, who was of an obscure family, and kept a bookseller's shop at Lichfield, was born in that city on the 18th of September, 1709. His mother, Sarah Ford, was sprung of a respectable race of yeomanry in Worcestershire; and, being a woman of great piety, early instilled into the mind of her son those principles of devotion for which he was afterwards so eminently distinguished. At the end of ten months from his birth, he was taken from his nurse, according to his own account of himself, a poor diseased infant, almost blind; and, when two years and a half old, was carried to London to be touched by Queen Anne for the evil. Being asked many years after if he had any remembrance of the Queen, he said that he had a confused but somehow a sort of solemn recollection of a lady in diamonds and a long black hood. So predominant was this superstition relating to the king's evil, that there was a form of service for the occasion inserted in the Book of Common Prayer, and Bishop Bull,* in one of his Sermons, calls it a relique and remainder of the primitive gift of healing. The morbidness of consti
tution natural to him, and the defect
in his eyesight, hindered him from
partaking in the sports of other chil-
dren, and probably induced him to
seek for distinction in intellectual su-
periority. Dame Oliver, who kept a
school for little children, in Lichfield,
first taught him to read; and, as he
delighted to tell, when he was going
to the University, brought him a pre-
sent of gingerbread, in token of his
being the best scholar her academy
had ever produced. His next in-
structor in his own language was a
man whom he used to call Tom
Browne; and who, he said, pub-
lished a Spelling Book, and dedi-
cated it to the universe. He was
then placed with Mr. Hunter, the
head master of the grammar school
in his native city, but, for two years
before he came under his immediate
tuition, was taught Latin by Mr.
Hawkins, the usher. It is just that
one, who, in writing the lives of men
less eminent than himself, was al-
ways careful to record the names of
their instructors, should obtain a tri-
bute of similar respect for his own.
By Mr. Price, who was afterwards
head master of the same school, and
whose name I cannot mention with-
out reverence and affection, I have
been told, that Johnson, when late in
life he visited the place of his edu-
cation, showed him a nook in the
school-room, where it was usual for
the boys to secrete the translations of
the books they were reading; and,
at the same time, speaking of his old
master, Hunter, said to him,
"He
was not severe, Sir. A master ought
to be severe. Sir, he was cruel." John-
son, however, was always ready to
acknowledge how much he was in-
debted to Hunter for his classical
proficiency. At the age of fifteen, by
the advice of his mother's nephew,
Cornelius Ford, a clergyman of con-
siderable abilities, but disgraced by
the licentiousness of his life, and who
is spoken of in the Life of Fenton,
he was removed to the grammar
|