VALLADOLID, thou art the Vale of Tears;
Whose are the eyes that weep, I need not say; The Vale of Josaphat for gloom all day,
A gloom which light of judgment never clears:
A sham each hearer deems it, when he hears
That thou dost hold Spain's Court; he wonders how
Thy burly form should play the courtier now,
Who wast so fine a clown in other years.
Thy titled Counts we know them to our cost,
Well may the Andalusian say, who rests
In lodging dark as purgatory-shade;
While no good Earl of Fairlight plays the host,
But evermore Lord Knox, and, winter guests,
Count Rainham, Snowdown, and Lord Slough and Slade.
Luis de Góngora. Tr. E. Churton.
BULL-FIGHT AT VALLADOLID.
THE place, a garden gay, — the round stockade
Festooned with flowers, - the bulls, some twelve or
Fierce as fleshed tigers in their rush and roar,
Right gallantly despatched with lance and blade:
The riders on their posts in troops arrayed,
Princes and peers, who thronged the grassy floor;
Their rival hues, such gorgeous suits they wore,
Outspangled heaven's bright rainbow ere it fade.
Their steeds Valencian children of the wind,
For whose rich bits Peru gave bars of gold,
Whose burnished reins threw back the dazzling sun:
And when o'er western hills the sun declined,
A game of shields Pisuerga might behold,
That had old Genil's Moorish vaunts outdone.
Luis de Góngora. Tr. E. Churton.
THE POET'S TROUBLES AT VALLADOLID.
GO, devoured by bugs and mules: for one,
Thanks to a dire old bedstead; for the other,
Thanks to a friend, who, kind as any brother,
Left them with me; and twenty days are gone.
Farewell, old frame, whereon I lay to groan;
Old fragment of some ship from broker's yard,
Whose crew, like true red rovers, never spared
Their prize, till they had made my blood their own.
Come, mules; your master is not lapt in proof
Against compassion, nor in cruel scorn
Would wish me done to death with heel and hoof.
Farewell, poor court, close hid in town forlorn;
Bull-ring in rural meadow. My low roof
Will find us, man and beast, cheap bread and corn.
Luis de Góngora. Tr. E. Churton.
HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY.
saw go up and down Valladolid,
A man of mark, to know next time you saw. His very serviceable suit of black
Was courtly once and conscientious still,
And many might have worn it, though none did:
The cloak that somewhat shone and showed the threads
Had purpose, and the ruff, significance.
He walked and tapped the pavement with his cane,
Scenting the world, looking it full in face,
An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels.
They turned up, now, the alley by the church,
That leads no whither; now, they breathed themselves
On the main promenade just at the wrong time.
You'd come upon his scrutinizing hat,
Making a peaked shade blacker than itself
Against the single window spared some house
Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work;
Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick
Trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks
Of some new shop a-building, French and fine.
He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade,
The man who slices lemons into drink,
The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys
That volunteer to help him turn its winch.
He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye,
And fly-leaf ballads on the vender's string,
And broad-edged bold-print posters by the wall.
He took such cognizance of men and things,
If any beat a horse, you felt he saw;
any cursed a woman, he took note;
Yet stared at nobody, they stared at him,
And found, less to their pleasure than surprise,
He seemed to know them and expect as much.
So, next time that a neighbor's tongue was loosed,
It marked the shameful and notorious fact,
We had among us, not so much a spy,
As a recording chief-inquisitor,
The town's true master if the town but knew!
We merely kept a Governor for form,
While this man walked about and took account
Of all thought, said, and acted, then went home,
And wrote it fully to our Lord the King,
Who has an itch to know things, he knows why,
And reads them in his bedroom of a night.
TO THE MEMORY OF SIR WILLIAM MYERS.
PANIARD or Portuguese! tread reverently
Upon a soldier's grave; no common heart
Lies mingled with the clod beneath thy feet.
To honors and to ample wealth was Myers
In England born; but leaving friends beloved,
And all allurements of that happy land,
His ardent spirit to the field of war
Impelled him. Fair was his career.
The perils of that memorable day
When, through the iron shower and fiery storm
Of death, the dauntless host of Britain made
Their landing at Aboukir; then not less
Illustrated than when great Nelson's hand,
As if insulted Heaven with its own wrath
Had armed him, smote the miscreant Frenchmen's fleet,
And with its wreck, wide floating many a league,
Strewed the rejoicing shores. What then his youth
Held forth of promise, amply was confirmed
When Wellesley, upon Talavera's plain,
On the mock monarch won his coronet :
There, when the trophies of the field were heaped,
Was he for gallant bearing eminent,
When all did bravely. But his valor's orb
Shone brightest at its setting. On the field
Of Albuhera he the fusileers
Led to regain the heights, and promised them.
A glorious day: a glorious day was given;
The heights were gained, the victory was achieved,
And Myers received from death his deathless crown.
Here to Valverde was he borne, and here
His faithful men, amid this olive grove,
The olive emblem here of endless peace,
Laid him to rest. Spaniard or Portuguese,
In your good cause the British soldier fell:
Tread reverently upon his honored grave.
Robert Southey.
THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA.
NING, a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim,
High glory gi'e to gallant Graham,
Heap laurels on our marshal's fame
Wha conquered at Vittoria.
|