quarrel with me daily:
Because I write to thee they scold,
Perhaps sweet verses gaily.
“A judge should be more grave,” they say,
As each my song accuses;
“From such pursuits should turn away
As trifling with the Muses.”
“How wofully you waste your time!”
Preach others; but, all slighting,
The more they scold, the more I rhyme;
Still I must keep on writing.
Enarda’s heart and mind to praise,
All others far excelling,
My rustic pipe its note shall raise,
In well-toned measures telling.
I wish, extolling to the skies,
Her beauty’s high perfection
To sing, and all her witcheries
Of feature and complexion:
With master pencil to portray
Her snowy neck and forehead,
And eyes that round so roguish play,
And lips like carmine florid.
And let the Catos go at will,
To where they most prefer it,
Who withering frowns and sneerings still
Give me for my demerit.
In spite of all, with wrinkled pate,
The censures each rehearses,
Enarda I will celebrate
For ever in my verses.
Cruel Enarda! all in vain,
In vain, thou view’st with joyful eyes
The tears that show my grief and pain,
Thyself exulting in my sighs.
The burning tears that bathe my cheek,
With watching shrunk, with sorrow pale,
Thy lightness and caprice bespeak,
Thy guilt and perfidy bewail.
Those signs of sorrow, on my face,
Are not the obsequies portray’d
Of a lost good, nor yet the trace
Of tribute to thy beauties paid.
They are the evidence alone
There fix’d thy falsehood to proclaim;
Of thy deceits the horror shown,
Of my delirium the shame.
I weep not now thy rigours o’er,
Nor feel regret, that lost to me
Are the returns, which false before
Thou gavest, or favours faithlessly.
I weep o’er my delusions blind;
I mourn the sacrifices made,
And incense to a god unkind
On an unworthy altar laid.
I weep the memory o’er debased
Of my captivity to mourn,
And all the weight and shame disgraced
Of such vile fetters to have borne.
Ever to my lorn mind return’d
Are thoughts of homage offer’d ill,
Disdains ill borne, affection spurn’d,
And sighs contemn’d, recurring still.
Then, ah, Enarda! all in vain
Thou think’st to please thee with my grief:
Love, who now looks on me again
With eyes of pity and relief,
A thousand times has me accost,
As thus my tears to censure now,
“To lose them thou hast nothing lost;
Poor creature! why then weepest thou?”
II.
TOMAS DE IRIARTE.
Of all the modern Spanish poets, Iriarte seems to have obtained for his writings the widest European reputation. He was born the 18th September 1750, at Teneriffe in the Canary Islands, where his family had been some time settled, though the name shows it to have been of Basque origin. His uncle, Juan de Iriarte, also a native of the same place, was one of the most learned men of his age, and to him the subject of this memoir was indebted for much of the knowledge he acquired, and means of attaining the eminence in literature he succeeded him in possessing. Juan de Iriarte had been partly educated in France, and had afterwards resided some time in England, so as to acquire a full knowledge of the language and literature of those countries. He was also a proficient in classical learning, and wrote Latin with great precision, as his writings, published by his nephew after his death, evince; Madrid, two volumes, 4to. 1774. Having been appointed keeper of the Royal Library at Madrid, he enriched it with many valuable works, in upwards of 2000 MSS. and 10,000 volumes. He was an active member of the Royal Spanish Academy, and one of the principal assistants in compiling the valuable dictionary and grammar published by that learned Society, as well as other works.
At the instance of this uncle, Tomas Iriarte went to Madrid in the beginning of 1764, when not yet fourteen years of age, and under that relative’s able guidance completed his studies, learning at the same time the English and other modern languages.
