BLACKWELL FAMILY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL SUBJECT FILE Spanish-American Poems: Translations by Alice S. BlackwellA Funeral Lamp Adhemar O'Connor D'Arlach. When the sun sets, when the sighing breeze speaks to me of dying without fame, I kindle in the shadow of my grief my inseparable lamp, lamp of alabaster: the memory of thee! When I follow the wandering caravan, tragical and wearied out, of my sorrows, in my soul of crystal I carry lighter my inseparable lamp, lamp of alabaster: the memory of thee! when the leaves as they are swept away sing their aria, fleeting as was thy history, tears break forth and impearl my beloved lamp, lamp of alabaster, the memory of thee. Only my pale betrothed, Death the redeemer, must some day put out the light of that lamp, lamp of alabaster, the memory of thee. And You Do Not Feel? Juan Zorilla de San Martin The repressed tear clouded the transparent sky of your eyes. How beautiful are the stars when they tremble, reflected in the crystal of a lake! Now you will not deceive me, for now I have seen trembling, hidden under your eyelashes, the precious wealth of your tenderness, condensed, as it broke forth, into a tear.The Mouths of the Oronoco José Santos Chocano [Forth from thy rocky prison] From prisoning towers of rock for miles on miles Thou fleest through the forest, gliding there Like some long dragon borne on wings of air; And fifty times thou [dashest] [beatest] dashest on their isles. Twisting and winding, shifting ceaselessly, Through fifty gates at last thou rushest free; Reaching the broad blue space of the sea, [As] Thou through thy [50] fifty mouths dost [breathe] breathe a sigh. Though seemest, when thou [joinest] meetest ocean's tide, No end of source [huge] [huge] [vast] huge rope, [ontravelled?] wide, (over)[While fastened to] [And anchored by an isle] While anchored to an isle each strand remains. Hail to thee, Conqueror, who towards the [sea] deep In [echoing] sounding silver car dost onward sweep, Holding within thine hand-graph fifty [500 reins!] reins![?] "To the Sun," Heredia But sometimes, too, the tempest thunders along our summits. Sadly you veil your [p]ure face, while the clouds [move] roll their black waves with fury through the glowing air, and the lightning, imprisoned, roars impatient, [breaks] bursts forth, glitters, smit[?], and a deluge of wind, water and fire is let loose upon the trembling earth, and chaos threatens to return. But no! For you launch your irresistible arrow, O Sun, and break through the confusion of the clouds, and come to give hope to the earth. She receives. it eagerly and smiles, and [?] the tempest, bellowing repeatedly, flees before you. Purer scintillates your broad disk in the west. The world breathes peace; wood and meadow deck themselves with new ornaments, while the rainbow spreads its bright wings, joining earth with heaven. To the Czar of All the Russias (Nicholas II) Salvador Diaz Miron Now you have been blessed and crowned, consecrated, magnificently amid unparalleled pomp. Give ear to me, then; listen to the counsels of one who came to the festivities without your leave. I am Liberty! You command a hundred million servants; ten thousand cannon, vomiting lightnings, break into thunder at [thy] your triumphant voice; four seas, slaves of your sword, kiss your imperial feet; but - I am Liberty! Be kind and just, for [God is becoming wrathful] the wrath of God (over) is growing. He loves this people that stirs at [thy] your feet with the latent boiling of a volcano. Persecute me no more, stretch out your hand to me; if not - tremble, tyrant! I am liberty! [*Salvador*] The Sowing Armando Rodriguez Portillo Under the morning sun in spring, which embroiders the leaves with touches of gold, the plow is opening the fair meadow, near the torrent with its deafening roar. The laborer bears his [?] weight on the handle of the clumsy flow, and with the fat pulse of oxen goes the rich slope, that overflows in black florescences. Behind, sprinkling the seed, step by step, over the [?] ridge, with fertilizing draughts, goes the robust, broad-shouldered plowman, while the echoing air is crossed by a loquacious flock of fleeing parrots, like a necklace of green emeralds. The Bells Chime "Gloria" A miracle, little Clara, is an event as rare as hard to explain; like that Good Friday when the bronze bell of our noble old cathedral pealed the "Gloria," of their own accord, seeing you pass. Do you remember? There was terror and there was rejoicing: a confusion arose during mass; simple people laid it to a miracle, and the wise to an earthquake, and the real reason, maiden, noThe song your waters sing as they rejoice The sky's blue dome, calm air the waves that beat And by the light of ardent fantasy On thee, o sea of tragic memory I [see] view Bauduin's lost squadron in retreat170 The sea of Veracruz, or violet blue Oh lilac, emerald or turquoise fair, While sunlight gold or purple filled the air, Praws clear the Castle's outline to our view. Above that restless plain of changeful hue In childhood I saw girls with shoulders bare Like marble rise: the wreaths they wove [?] thure Were laurel for my lyre where life was You taught me, [pefair] [?] [sea] to know the weird's weld voice.Ante el Mar de Veracruz El mar de Veracruz, ora violeta. ora lila, turquesa o esmeralda, a los rayos de un sol purpúrea y gualda [dibiya] dibuja del Castillo la silueta. Vi, cuando niño en su llanura inquieta, surgir mencidas de marmórea esfalda, y de esas ninfas la gentil guirnalda fué el laurel de mi lira de poeta. Tú me enseñaste; ¡ oh mar! la voy del viento, la cancion de tus aguas y la gloria de la cúpula azul del firmamento. Ya la luz de mi ardiente fantasia en lu linfa de trágica memoria, la escuadra de Blaudin retrocedia!You cannot be an efficient suffragist without it THE WOMAN'S JOURNAL AND SUFFRAGE NEWS Edited By Alice Stone Blackwell 45 Boutwell Street, Dorchester, Boston, Massachusetts What do the suffrage planks say? What is the Susan B. Anthony Amendment? What is the war doing to women? Who is "Hi" Gill? What did the Boston and Maine do? What is the matter with Colorado? What is the good of a vote? Why were windows broken in England? How can a girl live on $6 per week? How would suffrage help the farm? Hughes or Wilson -- Which? Why did Iowa lose? What happened to Rose Livingstone? How did a vote bring good milk? What suffrage states are dry? What does Mrs. Catt want? Who stole Michigan? Why isn't Reno different yet? How did New Zealand save babies? Why should farmers' wives vote? Would women serve on juries? Who bought girls at $1 a pound? What countries have woman suffrage? Is there a Negro woman menace? What churches stand for suffrage? What does State Rights mean? How does the rotten egg traffic work? Was Dickens a suffragist? What have the women's clubs done with the vote?4 copies Restfulness By Roberto Brenes Mesen of Honduras. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell. Yearnings refreshed I feel within my being, As feels [the bough] a branch in spring about to flower; The golden thoughts a stir in me resemble songs of an ardent lark in dawn's bright hour. My soul now holds a murmur of the future, As in the grain the wheat ears whisper low- As in the buried acorns is the verdure And coolness of the oaks that are to grow. My being is all restless like the ocean, And storms seen gathering, dark and broodingly, And thoughts within my mind are going, coming, Like the swift stir of ships upon the sea. metre 2 copies, please metre My Rose Tree By Fabio F. Fiallo of San Domingo. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell Within the courtyard of my home There grows a rose tree fair. The passers by all envy me Those roses bright and rare. In every rose there is a grief! Some dexterous knife indeed Seems to have pierced a thousand hearts; The sunlight makes them bleed. Like tears appear the dewdrops clear. It wears at break of day. who knows the mysteries it hides, Of which it naught may say? Its color and its perfume strange Are like naught known before. He who has once that fragrance breathed Forgets it nevermore.2 The fairest daughter of the Czar asked for my roses bright, To weave a wreath of triumph For her father's brow of might. "Pardon, your Highness, but my flowers I could not bear to see Adorn a chain to strangle men Aspiring to be free." An elegant proud Cardinal, For roses asked one day, Upon his altar and his board Their beauty to display. "Your Eminence, I crave excuse! I did not nurse their grace To make a table's garland rich Or deck an altar place." With sad tears running down her cheeks, To bitter grief a prey, A girl whose face was angle-fair Came to my door today. 3 "Give me two roses, only two!" She pleaded sighing deep, "Just to make sweet the lowly grave Where lies my love asleep!" Without a word, while fast as hers My tears came gushing there, For that sweet maiden in her grief I stripped the rose tree bare. To bring her ruddy offering She flew with footsteps light; And straightaway on my rose-tree blooms A myriad roses white! Spanish American Poets -- page 4 . (Alice Stone Blackwell) Rodrigo soaks his purse; it is not there. "O Cid, an alms!" the lost soul makes his prayer. "The bare alms of my hand I offer thee, Brother!" He doffs his gauntlet hastily, And to the wretch holds out his bare right hand. The beggar weeps; his heart can understand. The Constable this deed like precious wine Pours out, within his cup of France to shine. I add a sip of liquor brewed in Spain! The Cid, when he had donned his glove again, Followed the vernal pathway fair to see, A bird flung notes of crystal from a tree; A perfume as of grace the deep sky shed, In the day's glory, o'er the landscape spread. The chapels' bells poured out o'er wood and wold Their sweet melodious rain of sounds of gold; The soul of flowers went forth along the ways To blend with pilgrims' voices, chanting praise. Content, the great Rodrigo de Bivar Went as if in his breast he bore a star. Then from the fragrant field sprung up a maid, And came to him, in innocence arrayed. She might have been a woman; sweet and white, With frank, angelic eyes that shone with light; She might have been a fly, a magic thing, An incarnation of the heavenly Spring. "O soul of love and fire! I bring to thee, In God's and Ximena's name," said she, "This budding rose and this fresh laurel spray!" The leaves of laurel waved his helmet o'er, In his steel glove a budding rose he bore, And honey-sweetness in his soul that day. 4 From that time on the condor followed the flag of freedom through all its vicissitudes till its final victory. Now that the great South American general is being brought home to his last resting-place, the condor determines to fly to the seashore, perch upon a rock, and await his coming: He will be there! When comes the ship that bears The hero and his glory--when the sea Of Patagonia hails his passing by With hymns of victory-- To greet him yet once more the bird will fly, "This is the great man!' to the world to cry, As once from his lone peak amid the sky In Spanish America, as everywhere else, a main theme of the poets is love. Some of their verse show a tender and delicate fancy, like "A Secret," by the Chilean poet Luis A. Zamora: O swallow, when you come again To shady valleys, cool with dew, And when the violets in the fields Unfold their leaves and bud anew, If toward the South you turn your wings, In my love's ear speak secretly; Swallow, dark arrow of the air, Tell her to watch and wait for me! If she has died, O swallow dear, Then bid her for my coming wait Beneath a pall of rosebushes, -- For there it never is too late! 3 copies Loneliness [Gorge?] Mateus (Colombia) All dark and sad the path has grown Because my love has passed away; Now in a new and unknown peace The ancient poplars rock and sway The dog, that haply thinks it strange To see me at this hour alone, Begins to look at me, and whines Sadly, as when his dumb heart pines. For someone he has loved and known. And, in the evening's glowing calm, The outline of a distant palm Stands out against the west; the tree Seems like her spirit's ghostly shade, That haply has its passing stayed To gaze at me!And fallen from the branches, lo, their nests That late were happy homes of warmth & loved Now tossed by wintry breezes to & fro Roll on the ground mid [?] & snow A lukewarm languid sun of sickly hue Moves slowly o'er the heaven's boundless height Upon the river's crystal far below Breaking the beams of its diminished light And taken away from mountain plain & vale The leaves are but the playthings of the gale.The mountains all are plunged in mist & cloud And of the echoing reeds naught now remains But [dead] thin, dry stubble, standing stark & thin The green has vanished from the fields & plains Now, desolate & dead, they but display The ruin of the life of yesterday. The wind sweeps whistling through the leafless trees Of the mute birds, none soar toward heaven aboveVanished art thou, [O heaven] alas! Twas passion mad Inflicted on thee death by treachery The country thou didst love well Thy fatherland beloved shall mourn for thee Long years in silence grieving thy [?] on earth. O memory of bitterness and war Disgrace [that] which tears can ne'er redeem Ah! what a treasure rich of manly work Was ravished from the future in its bloom. Let dark oblivion veil that scene of woe! And let the hero quake, though men acclaim him, If a black deed [but] hath stained his grave, to shame him But thou, Rodriguez, live [forevermore]! in Joy divine Live thou in triumph, live forevermore The land where thou wast martyred ruthlessly to thy proud name.Springfield Class Voters should watch educational conference at State House today Mrs. Arthur P Smith They mournful memory Hath built within her heart a lasting shrine The Inner Life Daniel de Vega If you are superficial, things will seem superficial to you; and everything will be deep and profound to you, if you descend deep into your spirit. While the further you penetrate into yourself the better you will understand the inner meaning of life. Life is like our heart! Always go down deep into yourself with noble courage, and it will seem to you that you are continually entering into the womb of the Day. The smallest laws that you discover in the bottomless depth of your soul, you will see them in earth and sky; and scattered throughout infinity. The slightest movement of your soul, the softest cries of your body. (over)answer to [callings] calls of the earth and great movement of the heavens. Live your life with attention for your body is the earth and your soul the sky. Fasten yourself to the stars! La Gloria del Progreso A la Sociedad "La Juventud" Salomé Ureña de Henriquez No basta á un pueblo libre la corona ceñirse de valiente: No inforta, no, que cuente [** cuente=count ** ] Orgulloso mil páginas de gloria, Ni que la lira del pacta [velire?]. Sus hechos pregonando y su victoria; Cuando sobre sus Lauros de adonices, Y al progreso no nuira, E insensible á los bienes que le ofrece. De sabio el nombre á merecer no [aspira?] El [muindo?] se, conmueve Cual de una fuerza mágica impulsaló; El prógreso su luz [estivde?] breve Desde la zona ardiente, al mar helado, y vida y movimiento á todo imprime Por eso las naciónes convocadas En lucha tan sublime, Disfrutanse agrupados El lauro insigue del saber devenio;2 Y cada pueblo aspira Con afán á cumplir su alto destino. Lucha sublime, sí, donde se mira En héroe convertido al [ciuadano] ciudadano, Ceñir triunfante la inmortal corona, Desda el [prob] pobre artesano Que en su taller humilde se aprisiona, Hasta el genio que escala al firmamento Y fija al ígneo sol su inmoble asiento. Contemplad al que aterito y cuidadoso Se desvela en su estancia retirado Indagando la ciencia. Al que afanoso Sorprende los secretos de natura, Y con mano segura Al lienzo los traslada trasportado. Mirad al que domando Del mármol ó del bronce la dureza, De forma le [la] reviste y de belleza; [Ah] Al hábil arquitecto que elevando Hasta el cielo la cúpula gigante, Sublime y arrogante, [Parc] Parece desafiar del tiempo cano La destructora acción. [Y] Ved al que refano 3 El ánimo sorprende y maravilla, Trocando fácil con su diestra mano En deslumbrante vidrio humilde arcilla; Al incansable obrero. Que sobre su telar constante vela, Que sin cesar se afana, Y con prodijo esmero, [*prolijo?] Hace que de algodon ó tosca lana Brote bajo sus dedos rica tela; Al que tenáz horada las montañas Y en sus rudas entrañas Abre á la industria salvadora senda; Al que su rica hacienda No consume en estéril apulencia, Y con afán loable Acorre presuroso á la indijencia Y el pan de la instrucción [la] le brinda afable. Mirad al que á su imperio Hace que salve el líquido elemento Y atraviese; mas rápido que el viento, La palabra veloz otro hemisferio. Miradlos todos, vedlos agrupados Oponer una valla al retrocesa: Ellos son los guerreros denodados4 Que forman la vanguardia del Progreso. Oh! dichosas mil veces las naciones Cuyos nobles campeones, Deponiendo la espada vengadora De la civil contienda asoladora, Anhelan de la paz en dulce calma Conquistar del saber la insigne palma. Esa del genio inmarcesible gloria, Es el laurel mas santo, Es la sola victoria Que sin dolor rejistrará la historia Porque escrita no está con sangre y llanto. Tú, Juventud, que dela Patria mia Eres honor y orgullo y esperanza, Ella entusiasta su esplendor te fia, En pos de gloria al porvenir te lanza. Haz que de ese profundo Y letárgico sueño se levante, Y entre el aplauso, inteligente, al mundo El gran hosanna del Progreso cante. The Glory of Progress To the Society "Youth" Salomé Ureña de Henriquez It is not enough for a free people to put on the [crown of courage] laurel wreath; it [is] does not matter that [for] they have written with pride a thousand glorious pages [of glory], nor that the poet's lyre quivers, proclaiming their deeds and their victory; when they go to sleep on their laurels, and do not look towards progress, and, insensible to the blessings that it offers, do not aspire to deserve the name of being wise. The world is stirred, as if unfelled by a magic power; progress [spreads] is spreading its light quickly from the glowing zone to the frozen sea, and [stamps] is pressing life and motion upon everything. For this the nations, [gathered] called together in so sublime a contest, compete with [in] each other in groups for the illustrious laurel of2 knowledge, and every people aspires with zeal to fulfill its lofty destiny. A sublime contest, yes, where the citizen, changed to a hero, is seen to puton in triumph the immortal crown, from the poor artisan shut up in his humble workshop to the genius who scales the sky and [fashions] fixes his immovable seat [to] upon the fiery sun. Look at him who, [with attentive care] attentive and careful, keeps awake in his sequestered home, searching into science; [At] at him who eagerly surprises nature's secrets, and with a sure hand, [conveys] [transcribes] [them] exalts, transfers them to canvas. Look at him who, subduing the hardness of marble or bronze, clothes with with form and beuty; at the skilful architect who, raising even to the sky the [gig] [giant] colossal dome, sublime and haughty [proud], seems to defy the destructive power of hoary Time. Look at him who [*diestro mano: sure hand*] with sure hand surprises and astounds the mind, 3 changing [easily with his right hand] lowly clay into [shining] glittering glass; at the tireless workman, watching continually over his loom, who toils without ceasing, and with long-continued attention makes a rich fabric blossom under his fingers, out of cotton or rough wool; to him who persistently bores through the mountains, and in their rough entrails opens a [saving] [redeeming] path of salvation to industry; at him who does not use up his rich estate in barren opulence, [and] but with praiseworthy zeal hastens to give help to poverty, and kindly offers it the bread of education. Look at him who at his command, [makes] over the vast expanse of the water, [stand aside] [remove and] the swift, word, more rapid than the wind, cross to another hemisphere. Look at them all, see them, gathered together oppose a wall to retrogression! They are the intrepid warriors who 4 form the vanguard of Progress. Oh, a thousand times happy are those nations whose champions, laying aside the vengeful sword of desolating civil [war] strife, desire to win the illustrious palm of knowledge, in the sweet calm of peace! This is the unfading glory of genius; it is the holiest laurel, the only victory that history will record without grief, because it is not written [with] in blood and tears. You, O young men, the honor and pride and hope of my country, she entrusts to you with enthusiasm her renown, and sends you towards the future in pursuit of glory. Make her arise from this deep and lethargic slumber, and amid the insistent appluase, let [thinkers] the great hosanna of Progress sing to the world! The Frontier Daniel de la Vega There is in human life a hidden frontier, where our own truth opens its eyes; there the spring never fades, and our hands feel the waters of eternity. Life burns with the flame of a votive lamp, that no hostile wind can put out, and our soul, atthirst for the things above, sleeps in a most sweet attitude of flight. When man crosses the unknown frontier, new stars rise in his desert nights; and the cosmos and the spirit and the atom and the void give themselves over to him [to one another] as faithfully as open hands. I go climbing those lonely slopes; kind souls impel my boat over the sea. I feel in the wind the track of glowing wings, footprints of thoughts as lofty and glorious that my poor soul cannot contain them.2 Petty dreams, human vanities, falsehoods and hatreds, all are left behind. The first mornings of some great days are [just] [barely] just growing bright. I want to go higher! Sadnesses Sorrows of [the ea] earth which I have loved so much and am never to feel again... No matter. Sirens are alluring me in a song that comes from [on high] far above. I want to go higher! And to men who remain alone with their passions, I shall [bequeath] leave when I quit this gloomy dream, some simple verses and some good deeds - the only thing that was wholly mine. My hands, trembling, take leave [with?] of tenderness; men, love, everything is left behind. I look for the last time at the dark and narrow path, and I unfold my wings [face to face] straight up [with the height]. I want to go higher! I [wa] want to go higher! [543] La Frontera Daniel de la Vega Hay en la vida humana una oculta frontera, en donde abre los ojos nuestra propia verdad, - allí no languidece nunca la primavera y nuestras manos palpan aguas de eternidad. La vida arde con fuegos de lámpara votiva que no habrá viento adverso que la pueda apagar, y nuestra alma sedienta de las cosas de arriba duerma en una dulcísima actitud de volar... Cuando el hombre atraviesa la frontera ignorada nuevas estrellas surgen en sus noches desiertas; y el cosmos y el espíritu y el átomo y la nada, se le entregan leales como manos abiertas... Yo voy trepando aquellas solitarias pendientes; Buenas almas empujan mi barca sobre el mar... En el viento presienta rastros de [las] alas ardientes, huellas de pensamientos tan altos y esplendentes que mi espíritu pobre no los puede abarcar,,,2 Ilusiones pegueñas, vanidades humanas, mentiras y rencores: todo se quedó atrás. Están clareando apenas las primeras manañas de unos días enormes: - Yo quiero subir más! Tristezas de la tierra que yo he querido tanto y que no he de volver a sentirlas jamás... No importa. Unas sirenas me atraen en un canto A que viene de la altura: ¡Yo quiero subir más! Ya los hombres que quedan solos con sus pasiones, les dejaré, al partir de este sueño sombrío, unos versos sencillos y unas buenas acciones... Lo único que fué enteramente mío... Mis manos se despiden temblando de ternura, Los hombres, los amores, todo se queda atrás... Contemplo por vez áltima la angosta senda obscura y despliego las alas cara a cara a la altura. ¡Yo quiero subir más! ¡Yo quiero subir más! [(over)] The Master's Footprints Daniel de la Vega I [To open the] Open your heart like a hand to everyone who asks for a [dream] vision or for bread. I know that our alms will reach even to the farthest stars. The money that we give some night without knowing why, the beggar receives it, and the star as well. The rosebush that sheds its fragrance on the wind, the broad, bright river that gives itself to the sea, the sun that lights up the earth - [When] when we give, we go on growing greater in the others. II And thus your hours will be sacred. Let the wild beast [bar] smite you, and let its claws remain fragrant till the day of its death! Let the bramble thickets tear your body, and when they touch your aching flesh, let them remain changed [for] [life] to rosebushes as long as they live! (over)Let the dark and gloomy hands of humanity pluck our your eyes, but through your empty sockets let them be able to see the splendor of heaven! Las Huellas del Maestro Daniel de la Vega Abrir el corazón como una mano para todo el que pide ensueño o [por?]. Yo sé que hasta a los astros más distantes nuestras [limusinas?] lograrán llegar. La moneda que demás alguna noche sin saber por qué la recibe el mendigo y la estrella también... Rosal que suelta al viento se perfume, río [mucho?] y claro que se entrega al mar, sol que alumbra la tierra. Cuando demás mas vamos [agraudando?] en las demás... [II] ...y asé tus horas estarán sagradas. !Que la fiera te hiera y que [quedan?] sus zarpas perfumadas hasta el día en que muera! !Que te rompan el cuerpo las zarzales, y que el tocar tu carme dolorida [(over)]se quiden convertidas en rosales para toda la vida! ¡Que te arranquen los ojos las sombrias y obscuras manos de la humanidad, pero que por tus cuencas ya vacias [pud] pueden ver la celeste claridad! Remember Daniel de la Vega It is sweet to talk sometimes of the women who have died, who [went when away] went away leaving us a [??gh] faint fragrance. Their sad names have [a vague resonances] dim echoes, and fill our souls with snowy memories. And those pale memories are open windows, through which our brief life looks at the sky; while [upon] above their worshipped, unmoving hands fall[s] earth and forgetfulness, the years pass, and it rains. And we all say: "Yes. There was something [dist] far off and sad in her smile. Do you remember? So much grace in her walk!" We are mute. A silence has fallen from heaven, something like a light or a shadow or a flight; (over)and all of us have lost the wish to speak. [65] Remember Daniel de la Vega Es dulce hablar a veces de las mujeres muertas, que al irse nos dejaron una fragrancia leve. Sus nombres tristes tienen resonancias inciertas y nos llenan el alma de recuerdos de nieve. Y esos recuerdos lívidos son ventanas abiertas por donde mira al cielo nuestra existencia breve; mientras sobre sus manos adoradas y yertas cae tierra y olvido, pasan los años, llueve... Y todos comentamos: - Sí... No sé que tenía de lejano y de triste cuando se sonreía. ¿Te acuerdas? Tanta gracia en el modo de andar... Callamos. Ha caido un silencio del cielo, Algo como una luz o una sombra o un vuelo; y a [d] todos se nos quitan los déseos de hablar.40 [Ella] She Daniel de la Vega Simplicity is a little lass with very pretty eyes. She goes along the roads playing with the branches of the trees, and on the brink of the lowliest pools she stops for a moment. Sometimes she dreams in a poem, sometimes laughs in a landscape, and often she sings in the water. She is awake everywhere, but very few behold her. And she is a girl with such charming eyes! [40] Ella Daniel de la Vega La sencillez es una mucha chuela con ojos [muy] muy bonitos... Anda por los caminos jugando con las ramas de los árboles, y al borde de los charcos más humildes se detiene un instante... A veces sueña en un verso, otras ríe en un paisaje, y no es raro que en el agua a veces cante... Despierta en todas partes, pero la ven muy pocos... ¡Y es una muchacha con tan bonitos ojos!The Bird and the Nest Salomé Ureña de Henriquez Why are you terrified, innocent bird? Why do you fix your eyes upon me? I do not mean, poor little bird, to carry away your nest. Here in the hollow of the hard stone I saw you, tranquil and alone, as I passed by, and I am bringing flowers from the plain for you to adorn your free home. But you look at me and tremble, and flap your wings, uneasily, and sometimes fly forward boldly, with loving anxiety, Because you do not know how highly I respect innocence, and that to the gentle soul the free home of your love is sacred. Poor little bird! Return to your nest, while I go away from the meadow. [In it] There my hand prepared for you a soft bed of leaves and flowers. But if I see your tender offspring in future on a hard bed as I pass by, let me adorn your free home with flowers and leaves from the plain! El Ave y el Nido Salomé Ureña de Henriquez Porqué te asustas, ave sencilla? ¿Porqué tus ojos fijas en mí? Yo no pretendo, pobre avecilla, Llevar tu nido lejos de aquí. Aquí en el hueco de piedra dura Tranquila y sola te ví al pasar, Y traigo flores de la llanura Para que adornes tu libre hogar. Pero me miras y te estremeces, Y el ala bates con inquietud, Y te adelantas, resuelta, á veces, Con amorosa solicitud; Porque no sabes hasta qué grado Yo la inocencia sé respetar, Que es para el alma tierna, sagrado De tus amores el libre hogar. Pobre avecilla? vuelve á tu nido Mientras del prado me alejo yo, En él mi mano lecho mullido De hojas y flores te preparó. Mas si tu tierna prole futura En duro lecho miro al pasar, (over)[Deja que] Con flores y hojas de la llanura Deja que adorne tu libre hogar. Hymn to Love M Magalanes Moure Love, you are like the light. You enwrap everything, you light up everything, [give color to] to everything you give color. You are a sunbeam in [gladness] joy, a vague brightness in dreaming, a penumbra in sadness, and endless night in grief. You are gratified shade at mid-day, at midnight you are dawn. You are [contradiction] clashing and music, a destroyer and a creator. Love, you are like the light. By you everything is transfigured; [the] mire into [brightness] splendor and carrion into a flower. II Love, you are like the water. You bathe everything, you penetrate everything [to everything you] you make everything fresh. You are a wild torrent in joy, an enchanting lake in dreaming, a [subtle] thin2 shower in sadness, and the salt sea-wave in grief. You are a song of triumph in drought you are calmness and tenderness in [ardor] great heat, you are the [wave and] fierce wave and the [flattering] soothing rivulet. O Love, you are like the water. By you the rock is [worn away] softened, the iron is broken and the flower unfolds. O Love, you are like the earth. You receive everything, you make everything fruitful, to everything you give strength. You are a blooming garden in joy, and a slumbrous wood in dreaming, an autumnal garden in sadness, and a boundless desert in grief. You are a [sleek] rough and gloomy mountain, a cheerful and alluring froth; you are a barren mountain ridge and a [field of] field of labor. O Love; you are like the earth. Through 3 you the seed germinates, and the fruit rises up in the [purple flower] violet flower. IV O Love, you are like the fire. You kindle everything, you devour everything, [you] to everything you give warmth. You are a smilng gleam in joy, and a languid [splendor] glory in dreaming; you are [gentle warmth] lukewarm heat in sadness, and the coldness of death in grief. In my home you were light and [poesy[ poetry, and you are changed to burning lightning. Fire of my soul, purify me, O purifier! O love, you are like the fire; and the souls, in a winged circle, go wheeling [around] round and round your crimson flower. HOW THE MOUNTAINS TALK. One day to Tupungato came a sound from far away, Of waves or of battalions, rolling upward to the hight. It rose from out the forests deep upon the swelling slopes To mighty Tupungato, mountain of craters white, Who from his veins pours waterfalls, whose peak is like a lance, Submerged in dawnlight when the sun, with eye of blazing gold, Looks from that giant balcony of heaven to explore The moveless host of granite rocks, far stretching, manifold. And Tupungato, turret of the winds, the home of storms, White like a pillow vast whereon the age-long dreams repose Of countless generations - he lifted up his voice, And all the world around him heard; the sea, that darkly flows, The forests where on stormy nights the wind wakes deep laments, The green plains, wrinkled over with cattle where they spread. In his great voice, unwonted for a thousand years to speak, He called to Chimborazo: "Be on the watch!" he said. Asleep was Chimborazo. Dead pride of conquered faiths, The vanquished, lost religions, that hoary grandsire now Was but a corpse, mute, motionless, a pillar of the sky, Above a waste of ruin lifting a silent brow. He let a hundred winters make white his shoulders broad, And in his beard the condors nest, and rear their fledglings there. In vain the stormy hurricane plucked with its wild, fierce hand At the enormous cataract of his white flowing hair. The roots of oak trees pierced his sides; the sunsets and the dawns Spread o'er his grim and savage pride their colors delicate. That summit in the distance was terrible to see! When a cloud nimbus veiled his rest, he seemed to meditate. Perhaps the clouds that floated around him were his thoughts. The tempests talked to him, the winds hurled at him insults deep, And in her blooming purity the Dawn upon him smiled. The giant kept the silence of disdain. He was asleep. But when he heard the cry that stirred the mountains far and near, He lifted from his eyes their veil of hoary lashes white; He looked and saw the glaciers of the might mountain chain All flushed and shining, gilded with an ecstasy of light; The ocean calm, the cloudless day, just breaking, diamond clear; The caravans of trees far off, outlined o'er vale and hill; And yonder, almost at his feet, the great fire of the sun. All things were swimming in its light, and all was hushed and still. The frosty summits mingled the outlines of their backs Like sheep that journey in a flock, upon a long march led. The sky its cup inverted above the picture fair - And to the stern, steep mountain the lofty mountain said: "I hear a suddem tempest approaching through the vales, That sweeps on, roaring. It would seem the sea is drawing nigh! The trees are bending, dust-clouds wast rise from the troubled plains, Black, shapeless masses surge along, a torrent wild and high." How the mountains talk. - 2. The other mountain answered and said, "It is the wind." Heavy with sleep, his brow he veiled among the clouds once more. But Tupungato reared his head far upward to behold The cause of that broad galloping the mountain echoes bore. Higher it came, all streaked with flame, that sparkled in the sun. The mountain on his shoulder huge lifted the arching sky; He saw, and spake: "'Tis not the wind. He fancies that in vain!" He said to Chimborazo, "'Tis God who passes by! "No, it is Freedom! Bronze and steel have crowned her brow with stars. The flashes glitter keen and bright, far shining in the sun!" Then Chimborazo raised his voice above the deep abyss, And, with a crash of breaking rocks, replied, "The two are one!"THE CONDOR'S NEST. [From the Spanish of the Argentine poet,] Olegario [W] Victor Andrade. [Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell.] (General San Martin, the liberator of his country from Spanish rule, died abroad, in France. This poem was written when his body was brought back to America.) In the black shadow of the mountain-side A huge dark rock stands out, high, stern and chill. 'Tis like an arm [out] stretched forth towards the abyss To bid its sounds be still. A band of snow encircles it about, And from that snow-band white Fall drops, like dark blood dripping from a wound Received in deadly fight. All things around are soundless, to the clouds; They pass in solemn silence, night and day, Like troops of spectres that the icy gusts Scatter and drive away. Silence reigns all around! Yet something stirs On that same rock, all desolate and bare, As if the sick heart of the deep abyss Throbbed in the stillness there. It is a condor's nest! From that huge neck It hangs suspended o'er the gulf below, And like a banner [on] in the mountain['s] wind Sways slowly to and fro. The condors of the Andes! Those wild birds Within whose dark-hued breasts, fermenting deep, The mountain tempests seem to brew and brood, The thunder-bolts to sleep! That black mass with a strange uneasiness Is trembling in the eyrie; it would seem The ancient dweller of the mountain height Is troubled by some dream. He dreams not of the mountain or the vale, To which the charm of magic beauty clings, Nor of the rushing torrent's foamy spray That moistened his dark wings. 2 He dreams not of the peak no feet may tread, Which glows so redly in the depth of night, Flinging upon steep rocks and wild ravines Broad sheets of [flaming] fiery light. Nor is he dreaming of the floating cloud That in the morning drifted on the air, Slow trailing through the boundless fields of space Its robe of scarlet fair. Oh, many clouds have passed within his sight, Many volcanoes lain beneath his feet! Often the torrents and the hurricanes Have on his feathers beat. Something more dear to him has made the bird So strangely restless in his eyrie high. The ancient dweller of the mountain stirs, Moved by a memory. When, yester eve, a victor pitiless, The condor flew upon his homeward way, And with him in his powerful talons bore His palpitating prey, He saw two travellers descend in haste The steep slope of the mighty mountain wall-- A boy and an old man with snow-white hair And stature proud and tall. The two were talking; and in ringing tones He heard the old man lift his voice and cry: "The hero whom this giant mountain loves Is drawing nigh!" The condor, when he heard it, soared far up, Launched a hoarse note, that rang to east and west, And came at last his weary wings to fold On his deserted nest. Restless and trembling, as if wounded sore By deadly anguish, long he gazed on high; All night he watched; morn found him waking still, With his red eye. [*(skip from here to page 4. I will tell them what happens between)*]3 II. A swarm of stinging memories through his mind Came thronging, while he waited for the day-- Of bygone times of splendor and delight, Of glory past away-- When all too small his valor used to find The spacious region of the wandering wind. Then with white neck and glossy, glittering wing He chased the fleeting mists through heaven's expanse, Pursuing swift and far the Orient clouds; Oh, then, with lofty glance, On his strong claws he stood, with swelling breast, As on his club a Titan leans, at rest. Upon a morning ne'er to be forgot He started forth his sovereign flight to wend-- To furrow far the dark immensity, Then to the plain descend, And there, with eager zest, enjoy afresh His bloody banquet of warm, living flesh. In the deep passes of the west he hear[s][*d*] A sound that ne'er had met his ear before-- A noise as of a torrent wild unchained, The dread and angry roar Of the volcano that, with awful sound, Wallows within its fiery gulf profound. Then war-songs echoed, and the clash of arms Rang out, foretelling battle's deadly shock; Sharply the steed of Argentin[e][*a*] then Neighed from the silent rock. Amid the giant Andes then he heard The thrilling clarions cry their warlike word. A swelling multitude came crowding on, Like ocean billows beating on the shore. Horsemen and foot, together on they pressed, And naked steel they bore; And the astonished mountain when it heard Stooped its proud crest, and felt its entrails stirred. Where do they go? God urges them! Their guide Is love of country and of freedom brave. Thither they go, where loudest roars the storm-- Where the wild-beating wave Most roughly smites the waters of the sea; They go to die, or set a whole world free! 4 III. Pensive, as though in commune mute with Fate, The hero went -- the man who by the side Of Argentin[e][*a*]'s river broad had faced The Spanish lion's pride, And seized him by the mane with mighty hand, And dragged him, vanquished, o'er the bloody sand. The condor saw him. To the highest peak Then with a strident note soared up the bird. "This is the great man!" o'er and o'er he cried; And when San Martin heard, As though it were a prophe[s][*c/*]y, he cried, "Look there! that is my glory and my pride!" IV. Forever flapping his loud-rustling wings, Riding on clouds and winds his lofty course, Night met him, and morn found him flying still. The bird with accents hoarse Scared the calm Spaniard, who had dared to roam, Upon the threshold of another's home. One day he ceased; for he had heard the sound Of battle raging fierce and fearfully; The storm wind wafted upwards to his nest The roarings of the sea; And he alighted on a summit high, His curved claws spread, war gleaming from his eye! Stubborn the strife was! Down the mountain-side The brave battalions came, and helm and plume, Gun carriages and cannon, swords and spears, Pressed onward[*s*] to their doom. All, as if seized by one dread vertigo, Went plunging to the deadly gulf below. Stubborn the struggle was! Amid the smoke Waved overhead the standard of the free, By the glad wind caressed, that swelled its folds And tossed it in the sun, for all to see, Till, in a blaze of glory, Victory Came at the end to lift that flag on high!5 The condor uttered then a cry of joy, A note immense of wild and savage glee; And, spreading in the empty waste of air His plumage fair to see, He [flew forth,] [*kept on*] scattering o'er mount and plain The tattered fragments of the flags of Spain. V. From that time on, the rider of the air, 'Mid cloudy whirlwinds, braving storm and stress, By icefield and volcano, mountain lone And desert wilderness, Kept following still, where'er its bright folds moved, The gleam of the blue banner that he loved. He saw it by the margin of the sea, Which rose to watch that standard passing by, And on the bronze harp of its waves intoned, As with an angry cry, The hymn with which the ocean breaks the chain Of rocks and sands that bind the mighty main. He saw it at Maipu* and at Junin,+, And on that night of curses and of woe On which the banner vanished, like a star When clouds across it blow. With notes of sorrow, flying far and near, The bird among the sleepers scattered fear. He followed it, and followed, till one day Upon the world a new sun's brightness broke-- The sun of liberty, that dawned at last Behind thick clouds and smoke. Then, while that glorious light around him burned, He proudly to his native peak returned. VI. How many memories the traveller stirred Within the bald lord of the mountain high! 'Twas this that made him thrill within his nest With strange unrest, and watch with wakeful eye. At the first kiss of sunrise, cawing loud, He flew to shake once more his pinions proud, And lose himself in seas of Orient cloud. *A volcano in the Andes. +A town where the South American army won a great victory. 6 Where does he go, led by what dizzy dream? What false illusion clouds his vision clear? He flies to the Atlantic, to await The sacred relics dear Of that great conqueror of conquerors all, Whose name was wont earth's tyrants to appal, And make oppressors prone and prostrate fall. He goes to perch upon some lofty rock, Lashed by the winds and by the billowy sea, There where the shore complains and mourns aloud, Lamenting bitterly To hear a foreign foot pass o'er the ground, And not to hear a warning thunder sound. * There will he be! When comes the ship that bears The hero and his glory -- when the sea Of Patagonia hails his passing by With hymns of victory-- To greet him yet once more the bird will fly, "This is the great man!" to the world to cry, As once from his lone peak amid the sky! *Argentina was at war with Peru when this poem was writtenA white dove wings noiseless its course on high Far off across again the blue, transparent sky Hill is the evening, hushed below , above One of those evenings that the poets love, All things write us, as they rest from strife, To meditate profoundly upon life.