Volume 1 — BALTÁZAR DE ALCÁZAR
Reading edition
(1530?-1606)
lthough little may be realized now of Alcázar's shadowy personality, there is no doubt that in his own century he was widely read. Born of a very respectable family in Seville, either in 1530 or 1531, he first appears as entering the Spanish navy, and participating in several battles on the war galleys of the Marquis of Santa Cruz. It is known that for about twenty years he was alcalde or mayor at the Molares on the outskirts of Utrera,--an important local functionary, a practical man interested in public affairs.
But, on the whole, his seems to have been a strongly artistic nature; for he was a musician of repute, skillful too at painting, and above all a poet. As master and model in metrical composition he chose Martial, and in his epigrammatic turn he is akin to the great Latin poet. He was fond of experimenting in Latin lyrical forms, and wrote many madrigals and sonnets. They are full of vigorous thought and bright satire, of playful malice and epicurean joy in life, and have always won the admiration of his fellow-poets. As has been said, they show a fine taste, quite in advance of the age. Cervantes, his greater contemporary, acknowledged his power with cordial praise in the Canto de Caliope.
The "witty Andalusian" did not write voluminously. Some of his poems still remain in manuscript only. Of the rest, comprised in one small volume, perhaps the best known are 'The Jovial Supper,' 'The Echo,' and the 'Counsel to a Widow.'
SLEEP Sleep is no servant of the will, It has caprices of its own: When most pursued,--'tis swiftly gone; When courted least, it lingers still. With its vagaries long perplext, I turned and turned my restless sconce, Till one bright night, I thought at once I'd master it; so hear my text! When sleep will tarry, I begin My long and my accustomed prayer; And in a twinkling sleep is there, Through my bed-curtains peeping in. When sleep hangs heavy on my eyes, I think of debts I fain would pay; And then, as flies night's shade from day, Sleep from my heavy eyelids flies. And thus controlled the winged one bends Ev'n his fantastic will to me; And, strange, yet true, both I and he Are friends,--the very best of friends. We are a happy wedded pair, And I the lord and she the dame; Our bed--our board--our hours the same, And we're united everywhere. I'll tell you where I learnt to school This wayward sleep:--a whispered word From a church-going hag I heard, And tried it--for I was no fool. So from that very hour I knew That having ready prayers to pray, And having many debts to pay, Will serve for sleep and waking too.
From Longfellow's 'Poets of Europe': by permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.
THE JOVIAL SUPPER In Jaen, where I reside, Lives Don Lopez de Sosa; And I will tell thee, Isabel, a thing The most daring that thou hast heard of him. This gentleman had A Portuguese serving man . . . However, if it appears well to you, Isabel, Let us first take supper. We have the table ready laid, As we have to sup together; The wine-cups at their stations Are only wanting to begin the feast. Let us commence with new, light wine, And cast upon it benediction; I consider it a matter of devotion To sign with cross that which I drink. Be it or not a modern invention, By the living God I do not know; But most exquisite was The invention of the tavern. Because, I arrive thirsty there, I ask for new-made wine, They mix it, give it to me, I drink, I pay for it, and depart contented. That, Isabel, is praise of itself, It is not necessary to laud it. I have only one fault to find with it, That is--it is finished with too much haste. But say, dost thou not adore and prize The illustrious and rich black pudding? How the rogue tickles! It must contain spices. How it is stuffed with pine nuts! But listen to a subtle hint. You did not put a lamp there? How is it that I appear to see two? But these are foolish questions, Already know I what it must be: It is by this black draught That the number of lamps accumulates.
[The several courses are ended, and the jovial diner resolves to finish his story.]
And now, Isabel, as we have supped So well, and with so much enjoyment, It appears to be but right To return to the promised tale. But thou must know, Sister Isabel, That the Portuguese fell sick . . . Eleven o'clock strikes, I go to sleep. Wait for the morrow.