BLACKWELL FAMILY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL SUBJECT FILE Spanish-American Poems: Translations by Alice S. BlackwellMARCO BOZZARIS by FRITZ-GREENE HALLECK At midnight, in his tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power: In dreams, through camp and court, he hore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams, his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet ring: Then pressed that monarch's throne-- a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and head. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old Plataea's day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they. An hour passed on -- the Turk awoke; That bright dream was his last; He woke -- to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke -- to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, And death shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike -- till the last armed foe expires; Strike -- for your altars and your fires; Strike -- for green graves of your sires; God -- and your native land!" They fought -- like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain, They conquered -- but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their loud hurrah. And the red field was won; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. -2- Come to the bridal chamber, Death! Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in consumption's ghastly form; The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; Come when the heart beasts high and warm, With banquet song, and dance, and wine; And thou art terrible -- the tear The groan the knell, the pall, the bier; And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, and thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come, when his task of fame is wrought -- Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought -- Come in her crowning hour -- and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prisoned men Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land wind, from woods of palm, And the orange groves, fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time Rest thee -- there is no prouder grave Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the bomb: But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babe's first lisping tells; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; Her plighted maiden, when she fears Thinks of th[e]y fate, and checks her tears: And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys, And even she who gave him birth, Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh: For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's; One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die.from - "TO THE SCHOOL TEACHERS". By Manuel Augilar Saenz. The whirlpool of madepassion sucks us in; We burn our wings, and say, "We will begin To-morrow to be good, but for today Let us keep following still the old highway - Crucify Christ, mix hemlock without ruth For lips that utter forth redeeming truth. 'Tis might makes right, nobility is treason". While thus men roam towards ruin without reason, "Is there no way," I wonder, "to prepare The paths to usher in the good, the fair, Unless we always have before our eyes The spectre of a cross, redemption's price? That Dane's lyre may sound, throughout the years, Must earth be always bathed in blood and tears? Is virtue but a name, a mask for guile, As Hamlet says with his funeral smile?" Evil will be a rock, while fools remain. We must seek light, seek lips without a stain. That kindle in all minds a lustre clear; Seeds of all truth we must sow freely here - The truth of justice and the truth of right; For all things noble For all things noble; know ourselves an oak, To break, not bend, beneath the tempest stroke! By you, O teachers. must the work be wrought, By you, the humble soldiers true of Thought. Scaling with naked feet the steep, rough ground, Your sad land's future greatness, you shall found! From "To the School Teachers" By Manuel Aguilar Saenz The whirlpool of mad passion sucks us in; We [burn] [search] burn our wings, and say, "We will begin Tomorrow to be good, but for today Let us [keep] [go] keep following still the old highway - Crucify Christ, mix hemlock with out ruth For lips that utter forth redeeming truth. 'Tis might makes right, nobility is treason." While thus men roam towards ruin with out reason, "Is there now way," I wonder, "to prepare the paths to usher in the good, the fair, unless we always have before our eyes The spectre of a cross, redemption's price? That Dante's lyre may sound, through [all] out the years Must earth be [????] always [drenched] [drowned] bathed in blood and tears? Is virtue but a name, a mask for guile, As Hamlet says with his funer[a]eal smile?" Evil will be a rock, while fools remain. We must seek light, seek lips with out a stain That [I] kindle in all minds a lustre clear; Seeds of all truth we must sow freely here - The truth of justice and the truth of right; Wake in each breast a longing full of might For all things noble; know ourselves an oak, [To b] To break, not bend, beneath the tempest stroke! (over)By you, O teachers! must the work by wrought, By you, the humble soldiers true of thought. Scaling with naked feet the steep, rough ground, Your sad land's future greatness you shall found! To the School Teachers The whirlpool of mad passion draws us in; We burn our wings, & say, "We will begin Tomorrow to be kind, but for today [We will keep] Let us go following still the old highway - Crucify Christ, mix hemlock without truth For lips that utter forth redeeming truth. 'Tis might makes right, nobility without reason is treason." And while men roam [rove] [wa] towards ruin, [without] "Is there no way", I wonder, to prepare The [pattis?] to usher in the good, the fair, Unless we always have before our eyes The spectre of a cross, redemption's price? That Dante's lyre may sound, through all the years Must earth be [always] ever bathed in blood & tears Is virtue but a name, a mask for guile, As Hamlet [says] tells us with [his] [ghostly deathly] funereal smile? (over)Evil will be a rack, while fools remain; We [needs] must seek [the] light, [through toil & pain] seek life without a stain That kindle in all minds a lustre clear; We Seeds of [all] truth must scatter without fear -- The truth of justice & the truth of right; Wake in each breast a longing full of might For all things noble; know ourselves an oak, Tp break, not bend, [befo] beneath the [stormy wind's] [tempest's] [misfortune's stroke!] tempest stroke! By you, O teachers, must the world be wrought, By you, the humble soldiers true of thought. Scaling with naked feet the steep, rough ground, Your sad land's future greatness you shall found! Sangre Eduardo Talere Núñez Sangre! licor purpúreo y opuleuto que en la mirada altiva centellea, salta, hierve, palpita y es idea, vida, fuerza, calor y movimiento. En el cerebro es luz y pensamiento, Es calor y heroísmo en la pelea, fuego, pasión y a amor cuando chispea, en el hondo laúd del sentimiento. Es el rojo horgaña que el tirano hace brotar del puelblo soberano, y en su copa de crímenes apura. Mas si el hombre del déspota la exprime, [el] es el única balsama sublime con que la herida del honor se cura.1 copy Into the Blue Sea Prose Froylan Turcios In a foreign bazar I found this amulet; it holds a wonderful flower. Its profound secet has a sacred virtue, which a dreaming fakir taughtthe me. He [*who*] that owns this rare sapphire medal wil [*shall*] not suffer from the sorrowful pain of love. Therefore I see tranquilly the merry through of damsels passing before my eyes. What shall I do with my treasure if your life's so pure tell me that you love me with deathless tenderness? I place my destiny [*into the blue see*] at your feet [*before*] in the presence [*burow my amulet and*] of the sea and sky! Into the blue sea I throw my amulet and, in knightly fashion, I surrender myself, disarmed, to your sweet inncence and your divine charm.Red sunset, Lo, embroidering the dome Of the rich, glowing twilight, there outstanding A tree's dark branches, like the shadow cast Against it by a thin, wide-open hand. A bird, a fleeting dash of sepia, Across the blaze; already in the height The flush is fading to a sombre blue, The hue & harbinger of coming night Imprisoned in that melancholy blue, [Against] Set on a shadowy background, dim afar, There glimmers in the empyrean's height [A single] One solitary pale & pensive star. Now through the forest's foliage dense and gray Subtile black lace the silent darkness weaves Yet, clinging to the branches, there remain Amid the dead gold landscape, on the leaves Faint gleams of indolent and weary light. I am alone and sunk in reverie And while I dream, & while the infinite Begins with stars to glitter over me I ope my heart to holy sadness, sent By Mother Nature, who created meArtist & dreamer - & my soul is filled With a vague, pantheistic ecstasy! Sweet, sacred sadness, coming all unsought! Meanwhile in nights deep hush, divine & clear The moon hangs [out] on high her shining lamp I fancy it a bright celestial tear![*] 1 copy (prose) [*] [*] The underlined words of [?] Spanish are lightly penciled [*] My Mountains Joaquin Gomez Vergara I am far from my country, from my country so dear; and [paleness sickens my downcast dejected brow.] its balmy breezes do not come to refresh the sickly pallor of my dejected brow. Mountains of America, my beautiful mountains! where [sings] the nightingale sings and [where] the huitlacoche builds its nest; on whose [steep] rugged slopes, girt with eternal green, the Indian hangs his [cottage] hut like a swallow's nest; where the poor man's home shines with cheerful fire, which the liquid ambor feeds with its fragrant resin, and choice timber of cedar and aloes. Where are your murmurs and that sweet music of the pine-shaped 2 leaves, stirred by the soft wind? Where the wild roaring that the echoes were wont to repeat, of the foaming torrent which, through dark passes, [roaming] rolling from rock to rock, angrily precipitates itself? Ah, if I could see that valley with its glorious outlook, its transparent lakes in which the heavens are reflected; with its blue canals, its blooming garden lots and its ring of mountains lifting their pine woods high in air; if I could see for one moment the ever-snowy summits of lofty Popocatepetl and giant Ixtacihuatl, alas! how my soul would rejoice! Ah, how great would be my happiness! But I am far, very far from that blessed land where3 the flowers do not die nor the icy north wind whistle; where the tree does not shed its leaves, and shelters amid its foliage swarms of humming birds, which in their rapid flight glitter like a lovely cascade of shining jewels. There the sky is bluer, the moon shines more beautiful, and the glowing sun sends benignant warmth; there the murmurous banana tree [and] and the crystal springs offer to the weary traveller coolness and rest. There rocked my cradle; there my beloved mother fed me from her breast and lulled me to sleep in her arms; 4 there passed those blessed hours of my infancy in which the soul knows not the sorrows of life: and there the revered ashes of my tender parents sleep under the rosebushes whose roses never fade. Oasis of the New World! My adored country! God grant that I may see you again, and that when my life closes, I may inhale my last breath [may be inhaled] amid your fragrant breezes, under your starry sky, and listening to the music of your singing birds that trill in your groves. O mountains of America, [O] my beautiful mountains!The tears [thy] your lids that press shall hold no bitterness. And I will [fill with] steep in softest, sweetest music The waving willows & the cuba trees And I will teach the little birds that slumber My motherly, caressing melodies The young child sleeps the while He slumbers with a smile. The mother [pressed] clasped him to her, on his forehead She left a kiss, a tear of [wild] sorrow And laid her down to die. Deep mourned the forest And, while the clouds half opened, Heaven smiled.[*Spanish translation*] 4 Sleep, sleep, my child, Behold, among the branches The wind has dropped asleep; in quiet blest; [The??]Among the water plants the tiger slumbers; The little birds are sleeping in the nest. Within the valley deep Even the [??] sleep Sleep, sleep; If when you wake you do not find me, I still shall speak to you from far away A sunless dawn will on your lips leave, softly My kiss invisible, as light as dawn. [Sleep] [Slumber] Sleep, they are calling; [Sweet] sleep [befall thee] night is falling [All] And round about you I shall make blue twilights That I may hover in them, full of love To pour into [thy] your soul, above & lonely, The sweetest address of the skies above. The old land of my fathers is dear to me The land of bards & singers of renown Her brave warriors, true lovers of country For [without] liberty they lost their blood. Oho, country, country! I am partial to my country While the sea forms is a wall to the pier dear bay Oh may the old language continue Old mountainous Wales, paradise of the bard Every valley, every hilltop to my view is beautiful. Through patriotic feeling [you see] How sweet the sounds of its valleys [ma] & [liv] rivers to me Oho.A free bird with blue wing Be to me a willing servant O haste thee haste thee to the maid To whom I gave my affection early O birdling pure with azure wing Be thou my willing servant To whom my heart is given Go to her & tell her That I am weeping *salt water* bitter tears That I am longing to see her And for love of her, I cannot walk Go to her & tell her truly Bitter teardrops I am weeping I am longing to behold her But I cannot walk to meet her O my God forgive the so beautifully formed one For paining a man so hardO gentle dove w pinions blue Fly swiftly to the maiden Whom long I've loved w passion true [Go] A message bear love laden Go to her and till I'm weeping One hope in my bosom keeping 'Tis to meet her, fondly greet her, Yet if her love I fail to waken May God forgive her all the pain She gives this heart forsakenBEFORE THE LOOKING GLASS By Carlos Augusta Salaverry, of Peru. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell Children twain at love are playing, Beauteous children, as I guess, With the innocent and sweetness Of the dawn of tenderness. Yesterday, 'twixt smiles and anger, Came a tiff to mar their joy. Well you know, dear, who the girl is; Well I know who is the boy! There was pettishness and fondness, Coyness, prayers, and sharp words said, When they tried, their lips approaching, Both to bite a cherry red. For a kiss there was a struggle, And he did not get it, dear. You were there that day beside me, Yet, although you were, give ear! In the glads her maiden beauty She was watching with delight. He, who loved her very image, Kissed her in the crystal bright. Modesty then straightway covered With its wings her charing face, And she felt a bloom of crimson On her countenance find place. Hastening to blot out her image, Then the girl, with might and main, Struck the looking-glass in anger, And the mirror broke in twain. Now the boy his sweetheart's image Sought again with zeal to kiss, And he saw two pictures of her In the mirror, to his bliss. Of those innocent child-kisses Two were now within his reach On the fragments of the mirror, With a hope of love in each. When into a myriad pieces She the mirror broke, behold! There she saw her heavebly visage Multiplied a hundredfold. Before the Looking Glass, Page 2. And the girl from her endeavor In the end was fain to cease, Since her face, unchanged, was mirrored Even in the smallest piece. If you thus my dream would shatter - If, sweet girl, you bid us part - Not one image, but a thousand, You will leave within my heart. There are bonds of love eternal, Faces never blotted out, Through the soul be rent and broken, And though time their memory flout. Dear, my found heart is your mirror; Should love break it, with harsh will, All unchanged each aching fibre Will retain your image still! Fuerza Blanca Alfonsina Storni Una para mimarte y una para vencerte, hombre negro de espaldas que olvidan a la Muerte: Tus músculos aceros, enjundia de titán, talar pudieran bosques como el orangután. ¿No eras tú quien cazaba brazo a brazo, de suerte que los tigres temblando se escondían al verte? Hombre negro: ¿ qué dices de la blanca paloma, garra toda de lirios, fuerza toda de aroma, que con flores te dobla las manos de titán? Oh mátala si puedes, rey negro de la selva, oh mátala y que luego tu libre mano vuelva taladora a sus mañas... Lloras orangután?1 Copy Fuerza Blanca 13 16 Alfonsina [I?] Storni Una para [minarte] mimarte y una para vencerte, hombre negro de espaldas que olvidan a la muerte: Tus músculos aceros, enjundia de [T?tan] titán, talar pudíeran bosques como el orangután. ¿No eras tú quién cazaba brazo a [bra?] brazo, de suerte que los tigres temblando se escondían al verte? Hombre negro: ¿qué dices de la blanca paloma, garra toda de lírios, fuerza toda de aroma, que con flores te dobla las manos de titán? Oh mátala si puedes, rey negro de la selva, [Oh] oh mátala y que luego tu líbre mano vuelva taladora a sus mañas... Lloras orangután?Buenos Aires Alfonsina Stormi Buenos Aires es un hombre que tiene grandes las hiervas, grandes los pies y los manos y pequeña la cabeza. Giant (Gigante que esta sentado con un río a a su derecha, restless los pies monstrusos, movibles y la mirada en pereza) En sus dos ojos, mosaicos de colores, se reflejan las cupúlas y las luces de ciudades eurofras. Bajo sus pies, todavía estan calientes las huellas name of a tribe quidios de los viejos querandies indios de boleadoras y flechas Por ese cuando los nervios se le ponen en tormenta siente que los muertos indios se le suben por las piernas. Whoca este soplo que sube por sus pies, desde la tierra cou el mosaico europeo que en los grandes ojos lleva. Entonces sus duras manos se crispan, vacilan, tiemblan, ¡a igual distacia tendidas de los pies y la cabeza! Sorda esta lucha por dentro le está restando sus fuerzas, por eso sus ojos miran todavía con pereza. Pero tras ellos, velados, rasqueña la inteligencia.3) and now its brain is growing y ya se le agranda el cráneo pujando de adentro afuera. pushing from within outward Como de mujer en cinta no fíes en la indolencia de este hombre que está sentado con el Plato a su derecha. Mira que tiene en la boca una sonrisa traviesa, y abarca en dos golpes de ojo toda la costa de América. Ponle muy cerca el oido; golpeando están sus arterías; Ah, & some say his brain ¡Ay, si algun día le crece como los pies, la cabeza! should grow big as his feet All this is so figuartive that it is difficult to explain it in good English, I suppose it refers to the thin crust of civilization, as the Europeans have it, in Buenos Aires. 9 Argentina (subhead) [THE BLUE EYES] The poems of a young woman, Alfonsina Storni, have lately attracted much attention in Argentina. She wrote "The Blue Eye": Bare sea-side rock, you never yet had held Within your veins a being soft and kind; You knew that you existed, through the blows Dealt by the sea, but you were dead and blind. One day upon your hard and rocky head There grew an eye of blue, a tiny flower That lived for you, within a crack of earth, Timidly, through a fleeting summer hour. The birds, the sea, the sky you could behold A little while, through that fair flower and kind, A small blue eye; and when ere long it closed, It left you as before, [all] dark, dead and blind. The flower, [which] that was a soft and tender thing Took pity on you, lashed by ocean's might; A life most sweet, within your breast it grew, Though at the risk of death, to give you sight!