# Mexico, picturesque, political, progressive/Blossoms of Verse

CHAPTER VIII
BLOSSOMS OF VERSE
Since poetry is the flower of sentiment, and its highest expression of beauty and fragrance, one may be pardoned for closing this very inadequate sketch of picturesque Mexico by a word in its regard. Upon reflection it should not appear strange that a country in which the fiery imagination of the Castilian had been grafted upon the native gentleness of the Aztec, should blossom into verse as naturally as a plant turns toward the light. The love of flowers and birds, which is indigenous here, is always closely allied to that of song, in the heart of a nation; so that one should not be unprepared to find evidence of very general poetic feeling in a race which both history and tradition have dowered with exceptional qualities of sweetness and tenderness, and which since the Conquest has had its native predilections trained into higher literary art by education and ​association. Yet it is a pleasant surprise to one unfamiliar with modern authorship in Mexico to find the Muse so entirely at home, as the little volume, from which the subsequent translations are taken, would indicate. Under any circumstances, a book containing upon its titlepage the names of fifty poets "of reputation and popularity" might be considered worthy attention, even without a preface apologizing for the ungraciousness of being obliged to choose so few among the ranks of representative writers. A country which can count its native poets in such whole-sale numbers would certainly seem to have more than its average share.
The plan of the work is unique. Eighty or ninety pen pictures of Mexican women of position, distinguished among their associates for beauty, for talent, or for the higher grace of fascination, form its contents. A prologue, which might better be called a rhapsody, vindicates its motive. "Never has the loveliness or the virtue of woman shone more resplendently than when lifted upon the wings of poetry into the realms of the ideal; as when proclaimed in rhythmic cadence by the lyre of the poet, whose sensitive and passionate ​soul is alone capable of comprehending her. Her beauty, her tenderness, her smiles, her tears, have been the inspiration of the names that live through ages. It was she who made immortal Dante and Petrarch, Goethe and Alfred de Musset. It is for want of her inspiration that we doubt the right of Cervantes to be called a poet, in spite of his genius, and deny that of Castelar, in spite of his artistic talent. The latter contracted a civil marriage with History and Politics. From this literary polygamy may spring such daughters as Fame, as Glory, even as Immortality, but never one whose name is Poetry. . . . To sing the praise of that being, as delicate as beautiful, as loving as resigned, as generous as tender, as modest as heroic; of her who is all love and sacrifice, who has come into the world to be the beloved companion of youth, and the sweet consoler of age; who gives wisdom to science, genius to art, and heroes to the native land, — ah, to sing of woman is for the poet to pay the divine debt of inspiration to the highest work of humanity, and to the being who has brought divinity down to earth!"
The verses that follow are in no sense love-songs. There is scarce a tinge of passion or a ​hint of the glowing sensuousness of tropical imagination in the entire book. Indeed, it errs somewhat in the other extreme. Its expression is based upon the colder and more formal models of the early English and French writers, with a certain stateliness of diction and fondness for mythological simile which belonged to the conception of poetry two centuries ago. But the verse remains, in this case, almost wholly uninformed by that enthusiastic flame of devotion, which often, in old times, rendered the transparent disguise of stilted phraseology incapable of hiding the natural glow within.
The idea of prefixing to each little poem the full name of its subject has a piquancy altogether Southern. We would choose, under similar circumstances, to shoot our arrows of song in the dark, or at best against a shadowy target of initials, leaving our reader to discover their aim, — half annoyed if he should guess rightly, wholly angry if he went astray. These more sincere, or perhaps more artful, people go straight to the mark. The friend or admirer chants his hymn of praise under his lady's lattice and in the open light of day. If this be too unreserved for love, ​it is likewise too personal for friendship. One can judge of the absolute result better by listening to the strain.
The chief value of the book lies without doubt in the insight it gives concerning a phase of Mexican character little credited by the outside world,—the appreciation of woman. The preface might be quoted entire, for the elevation of its sentiment and the purity of its ideal of the sex. Space allows us to choose only one of its lighter and more graceful thoughts, interpolated in the prose text to give the editor's conception of the theme which inspired the volume:—
"'And what is Poesy?' she said. As laughingly she questioned me. 'The smile upon thy lips; the red, Ripe bloom upon thy cheek so fair; The glinting of thy golden hair; Those flashing eyes that scorn control; Thy budding form; thy waking soul— Thou, thou thyself art Poesy!'"
The first number is dedicated to Carmen Romero Rubio de Diaz, wife of the president. It is in a more hackneyed vein, and neither so graceful nor so expressive as many of the others. We may ​charitably suppose that the exalted rank of the first lady in the land somewhat overshadowed the genius of the writer, or that its insertion was an after-thought suggested by policy, and that desire to curry favor in high places, from which, alas! even poets are not wholly exempt. This is the more to be regretted, since the dark, bright beauty of Senora Diaz ought to be a prolific source of inspiration to the fortunate mortal who chose it as a text. The best lines are in this simile:—
"Generous as the stream that spreads Its rich gifts 'mid garden-beds, Yet alike through weed and sand Flows in blessing through the land."
"TO JOSEPHINA ESPERON.
"From her red lips' chalice fair Flower-like perfume fills the air; And her voice, like song of bird, Thrills the heart at every word. In her eyes' dark light divine Glories born of sunset shine, And in radiant splendor preach Eloquence that passeth speech.
If her beauty could but stand Mirrored by an artist's hand, Or inspire a poet's theme. Men would think it but a dream."
The subject of the next bit of verse has inscribed an odd mixture of sentiment and materialism in her interpreter. The combination of the earthly music-teacher with the many heavenly benefactors of the beautiful singer is a triumph of realism. In the original, the abrupt transition is even more marked, since the line rendered, "The muse who presides," etc., is written,—
"El gran Melesio En el Conservatorio,"—
a much more mythical personage to the world at large than the one by whom I have replaced him.
"TO VIRGINIA CARRASQUEDO.
"Not hers are her graces; To gods they belong I From Venus her charms; Love lent her his arms; The Muse who presides Over harmony's tides
Hath shared with her gladly the sceptre of song!
Morales, the master, Doth list and rejoice. Says: 'More than Ulysses' My fear and my bliss is: He heard but the ringing Of sirens' sweet singing;
I know the full charm of Virginia's voice.'"
A particularly graceful expression runs through the next lines:—
"TO VALENTINA GOMEZ FARIAS.
"If he should chant thy wondrous grace. Dumb would the singer's music be, If he should strive to picture thee. Never a line could artist trace. For of a soul so pure as thine. How could the semblance e'er be true, If the glad brush that painted you Had not been dipped in tints divine. Or if the poet's lyre had known No tones save those of earth alone!"
​Many of the lines are brightened by jeux d'esprit, depending for point upon Spanish words in which similarity of sound or spelling covers a totally different meaning. The archness of the little verse which follows is more comprehensible and decidedly epigrammatic:—
"TO GUADALUPE DE LA FUENTE.
"Once Cupid's eyes were clear, Open, and kind; But, alas! you, my dear. He chanced to find; Only one glance he gave,— Since then, who paints the knave Must paint him blind."
"TO CONCHA MARTINEZ.
"Above the white foam and the azure sea A gleaming shell doth float, And the bright sun that glows resplendently Kisseth the fairy boat. The world it glads with beauty doth not know The treasure in its breast,— The precious pearl, that, radiant as the snow, Within its heart doth rest.
Sweet Concha! on life's sea thy beauty rides, And man's applause doth win; But only we who love thee know it hides The fair white soul within."
"TO MARIA AMELIA ROMO.
"Earth was a bower of roses rare and pale, And heaven a starry sea; Through the soft shadow sang the nightingale His wondrous melody. 'Twas springtime, and the dewy dawn was wet, When, from its dreaming stirred. The flower's soul, in sweetness rising, met The bright soul of the bird; And from that kiss thy loveliness was born. Fair shrine that doth enclose The song-bird's voice, the brightness of the morn, The perfume of the rose."
​In some cases the tribute is paid in a prose form, or rather in one which suggests the metrical swing and irregular cadence of Walt Whitman. I transcribe literally a portion of one:—
"TO MARIA ALFARO,
"Nature, Splendid in all her manifestations, Has offered the poet An infinite number of exquisite forms With which to compare woman. But the glowing imaginations of these votaries of Apollo Not content with the enchanting realities Of flowers, of stars, of sunbeams, of birds, Of palm-trees, of pearls, of diamonds— Have flown from the visible world To seek the forms of seraphs and angels. Of celestial powers, And of the marvellous visions with which fancy has peopled infinite space. To discover new graces With which to adorn their idol.
Amid this wealth of brilliant and magnificent images. From this universe of real or imaginary beauties, I, who have now reached in my wandering the frigid and narrow zone of old age. Desire to choose from my remembrances A flower, a pearl, a star,
Which may serve as an emblem of a young girl Who has flashed Across these later days of my life. Is she a jasmine, blossom sister of the violet, And, like it, hiding From profane gaze of the vulgar? Is she Modesty, insensible to the allurements of flattery? Is she the spirit of cheerfulness? Is she angel of the fireside? Is she sunshine? Is she perfume? Alas, I know not! In vain I question my soul; Neither in one image Nor in all. Can I find the counterpart of Maria Alfaro."
I close with an occasional stanza or two from longer poems:—
"TO MARIA AUBERT Y DUPONT.
"If, mid the shades on high. They should meet, nor know her name, 'Beatrice!' would Dante exclaim, 'Leonora!' would Tasso sigh."
"TO ROSARIO BARREDA.
"Many a beautiful brown girl, splendid, With eyes of the night and morning blended, Springs from the soil of Vera Cruz;
But amid all the loveliest faces, Show me but one of your height and graces,— If but the gods would let me choose I
Exquisite rose of perfection! soon You can no longer hide; and then. When your bright face from the balcony shines, Under your window will hang, as at shrines, Rosaries—made from the hearts of men."
"TO ELENA FUENTES.
"If for beautiful Helen of old, Chosen by Paris, a city fell. And heroes of Greece spent life and gold, How many Troys, under Fate's grim spell. Would perish by fire and sword for thee, If each one who sees thee might Paris be!"