New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1884-03-11
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
A MODERN SPANISH POET.

sounds, lends itself naturally 10 poetlo oNP
Ever since the time of the great Midde Age ep'o .,
The Cid river of poetry has poureu i's iui nooO
fhrough the literature OF the country
No one among the modern poets has written verses
,,,,ra worthy of the land Of Manrique and Garc-
lasso and Lope de Vege than Gustavo Adoho Bee
ouer The life of this poet was short and sad ana
uneventful. He was born at Seville ON FEBRUARY
II 1896 His father IN artist OF some note,
whose paintings of Sevillan life are much admired
In Spain The early surroundings OF young Dec
ouer were in every way calculated to nourlsh ms
imaginative and poetic genius. No more httlng
birtbnace for poet could be imagined than Seville
the ancient Moorish city, the home OF song ana
dance and graceful artistic life, which nowhere in
the world is more picturesque or more lulIy oeNei-
oped than in Andalusia.
Before the boy Gustavo ten years old ms
parents died and he left to the of his god
mother a woman of property and without FANNY
whose intention it was TO make the boy her n'"'
Even in Seville there persons who see no o'Jo'
in life but money making. and such one was inc
sodnother Of young Becquer. Her sole M'o','U"
was to see her godson prosperous mefci''' VIM
10 the boy whose whole sole was deVotcu - No.
ing reading poetry and scribbhng rhymes '"0 NV
of a mercantile countingroom was worse th"n
death.
when he was seventeen he unhesitatingiy resigned
The fortune in store for him. and set ont alone for
Madrid. with only enough money in his pocket 10
cover the expenses of the journey, but with MS
brain full of illusions and dreams of future glory
and fame. One cannot help regretting that so
brilliant genius as BecQuer recklessly threw away
the good things offered him, by means OF when ne
might later on, have climbed to nobler ana gahder
heights of fancy than he ever had strength 10 iec
But practical calculation and fine poetical magma
ton rarely go hand in hand, and many son OF the
-, IL -tx- ilaol
wreck and disaster.
After reaching Madrid BecQuer set to work to
make money and fame by his pen. He bad th' Wis
dom to keep aloof from politics, but although ms
writings, both in poetry and prose, found far ac-
ceptance with the public his life from sickness and
other causes was mOnotonously unfortunate
After many years of struggles he went to live with
his brother ValerianO, who was winning some tame
as an artist. His literary prospects were brighten
ing and fortune seemed near to the unhappy poet
when the death of his brother threw him again into
trouble. "Ths last blow" says his Spanish biogFa
pher struck the chill of death to the heart of Gus
tavo. Three months later on December -, 1870
after saving with his last sigh " All is MORTAL ne
died.
The writings of Becquer more remarkable tor
brilliant thought and fancy than for perfection OF
form He was editor, artist and poet always work
ing always driven by the impetuous flow of his I'M
agination He wrote with the greatest rapldlty'
struggling for words to express the crowdng multi
tude of his ideas.
The traditions and legends of Spain his
special delight and he woye them into shape as
fantastic and weird and imaginative as the tales OF
Hoffman or Grimm.
His poems form collection of short, nameless verses
reminding one of the song of Heines Intermezzo
RHYMES run at random over the pages, coming at
times with exquisite ease and grace aid regularity
but more often the verses flow like a ripping brook
in the melodious Spanish which with its richness
of soft vowel sounds rhymes without rhyming."
In the introduction to his volume of poems Bee
auer writes Enthusiastically of his fertile Imagination
He SAYS: ain the dark corners of my brain, hud-
died together without shape or FORM sleep the eX-
travagant children of my fancy, waiting in silence
for art to eothe them with words that they may be
able 10 present themselves decently before the
world They live with Inc, they seem de-
stned to die with me. to leave no more trace than
dream of midnight. forgotten before dawn. Often.
instinct with life they revolt against such fate and
with silent but terrible tumult seek to rush out
from the darkness in which they live. But, alas,
between the world of ideas and the world of form
there exists an abysm which only words can span,
and words, shy and iudolent, refuse to second my
efforts / must make outlet for these
turbulent waters, which, augmented daily by a
living spring, beat wildly against the barrier 90,
then 90 and live the only life can give you. My
genius can at least make you presentable. VIII
elothe you, even if it be in rags. would create
for each one of Won marvellous strophe woven of
exquisite phrases in which you might fold your
selves with ride in a mantle Of purple. would
make the form in which you appear sparkling Ike
a golden vase which contains precious perfume.
But il is impossible. . If to die is to sleep,
would sleep peacefully in the night of death with
l,~ cla IL h1tr NAL
dlctions upon me for condemning you to oblivion
after being born. Go, therefore. to the world III
contact with which you have sprung into life, and
remain in 1t as the echo of soul, of It's joys and
sorrows its hopes and disasters"
The following English versions, taken at random
from Becquer's collection of his rebelli0us chill
drenD are fair specimens of his fanciful genius.
The longest poem, known as The Swallows al
though It's author left it nameess, has been set to
music and is popular song in Spanish America as
well as III Spain.
The dusky swallows wiz return again,
And once again win beat thy window-pane
With restless, nuttering wing.
Bot those same swallows that restrained their fight
That fingered lovingly in years before,
To contemplate thy charms aud my delight
Those will return no more.
Thy honeysuckle once again will bloom,
It's sprays will climb the lattice OF thy bower,
And with new beauty in the twilight gloom
Its buds viii burst TO flower
But blossoms fair OF summers that past,
Blossoms 6edecked WITH trembling drops or dew
They will not bloom anew.
Passionate words may the stern silence break
And burning upon thy ear may fan;
Thy heart, perchance, from sleep profound awake
AT loves persistent call
But that blind alteration given in vain.
Those fond Illusions, dear as they we're feet,
No other will bestow ON thee sgain-
Never again. my sweet
III.