Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ROMANCERO: BOOK 2. LAMENTATIONS: SPANISH LYRICS, by HEINRICH HEINE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ROMANCERO: BOOK 2. LAMENTATIONS: SPANISH LYRICS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Twas on hubert's day - the year was
Last Line: Ask'd: had we enjoy'd our dinner? --
Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers; Death; Love; Spain; Royal Court Life; Royalty; Kings; Queens; Dead, The


'TWAS on Hubert's day -- the year was
Thirteen hundred, three and eighty --
That the king a banquet gave us
In the castle at Segovia.

These state banquets just the same are
Everywhere, and at the tables
Of all princes sov'reign tedium
Yawns with uncontested vigour.

Everywhere the same silk rabble,
Gaily dress'd, and proudly nodding,
Like a bed of gorgeous tulips;
Different only are the sauces.

Whispers all the time and buzzing
Lull the senses like the poppy,
Till the sound of trumpets wakes us
From our state of chewing deafness.

Near me, by good luck, was sitting
Don Diego Albuquerque,
From whose lips the conversation
Flow'd in one unbroken torrent.

He with wondrous skill related
Bloody stories of the palace,
Of the times of old Don Pedro,
Whom they call'd the cruel monarch

When I ask'd him why Don Pedro
Caused his brother Don Fredrego
To be secretly beheaded,
With a sigh my neighbour answer'd;

Ah, Senor! the tales believe not
Jingled on their vile guitars by
Balladsingers and muledrivers
In posadas, beershops, taverns.

And believe not what they chatter
Of the love of Don Fredrego
And Don Pedro's wife so beauteous,
Donna Blanca of Bourbon.

'Twas not to the husband's jealous
Feelings, but to his low envy
That as victim fell Fredrego,
Chief of Calatrava's order.

For the crime Don Pedro never
Would forgive him, was his glory, --
Glory such as Donna Fama
Loves with trumpet-tongue to herald --

Never could Don Pedro pardon
His magnanimous high spirit,
Or the beauty of his person,
Which was but his spirit's image.

Still within my memory blossoms
That slim graceful hero-flower;
Ne'er shall I forget those lovely
Dream-like, soft and youthful features.

They were just of that description
That the fairies take delight in,
And a fable-seeming secret
Spoke from all those features plainly.

Blue his eyes were, their enamel
Being dazzling as a jewel,
But a jewel's staring hardness
Seem'd reflected in them likewise.

Black his hair was in its colour,
Bluish black, and strangely glistening,
And in fair luxuriant tresses
Falling down upon his shoulders.

In the charming town of Coimbra
Which he from the Moors had taken,
For the last time I beheld him,
In this world, -- unhappy prince!

He was coming from Alcanzor,
Through the narrow streets fast riding
Many a fair young Moorish maiden
Eyed him from her latticed window.

O'er his head his helm-plume floated
Gallantly, and yet his mantle's
Rigid Calatrava cross
Scared away all loving fancies.

By his side, and gaily wagging
With his tail, his favourite Allan
Sprang, -- a beast of proud descent,
And whose home was the Sierra.

He, despite his size gigantic,
Was as nimble as a reindeer;
Noble was his head to look at,
Though the fox's it resembled.

Snow-white and like silk in softness,
Down his back his long hair floated,
And with rubies bright incrusted
Was his broad and golden collar.

It was said this collar hid the
Talisman fidelity;
Never did the faithful creature
Leave the side of his dear master.

O that fierce fidelity!
It excites my startled feelings,
When I think how 'twas made public
Here, before our frighten'd presence.

O that day so full of horror!
Here, within this hall, it happen'd,
And as I to-day am sitting,
At the monarch's table sat I.

At the high end of the table,
Where to-day young Don Henrice
Gaily tipples with the flower
Of Castilian chivalry,

On that day there sat Don Pedro
Darkly silent, and beside him,
Proudly radiant as a goddess,
Sat Maria de Padilla.

At the table's lower end, where
Here to-day we see the lady
With the linen frill capacious,
Like a white plate in appearance.

Whilst her yellow face is gilded
With a smile of sour complexion,
Like the citron that is lying
On the plate already mention'd, --

At the table's lower end here
Was a place remaining empty;
Some great guest of lofty station
Seem'd the golden seat to wait for.

Don Fredrego was the guest, for
Whom the golden seat was destined;
Yet he came not, -- ah! now know we
But too well why thus he tarried.

Ah! that selfsame hour the wicked
Deed of blood was consummated,
And the innocent young hero
Suddenly attack'd and basely

By Don Pedro's myrmidons,
Tightly bound, and quickly hurried
To a dreary castle dungeon
Lighted only by some torches.

Executioners stood ready,
And their bloody chief was with them,
Who, upon his axe while leaning,
Thus with sadden'd look address'd him:

"Now, Grand Master of San Jago,
"Now must thou for death propare thee;
"Just one quarter of an hour
"Still is left for thee to pray in."

Don Fredrego then knelt humbly,
And he pray'd with pious calmness,
And then said: "I now have finish'd,"
And received the stroke of death.

In the very selfsame moment
That the head roll'd on the pavement,
Faithful Allan, who had follow'd
All unseen, sprang quickly to it.

With his teeth the head straight seized he
By the long luxuriant tresses,
And with this much valued booty
Shot away with speed of magic.

Agonizing shouts resounded
Everywhere as on he hasten'd,
Through the passages and chambers,
Sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs.

Since the banquet of Belshazzar
Never company at table
Was so utterly confounded
As was ours that fill'd this hall then,

When the monstrous creature leapt in,
With the head of Don Fredrego,
Which he with his teeth was dragging
By the dripping bloody tresses.

On the seat which, being destined
For his master, still was empty,
Sprang the dog and like a plaintiff
Held the head before our faces.

Ah! it was the well-remember'd
Hero's features, but still paler
And more solemn now when dead,
And all-fearfully encircled

By the locks in black luxuriance,
Which stood up as did the savage
Serpent-headdress of Medusa,
Turning into stone through terror.

Yes, turn'd into stone felt all then,
Wildly stared we on each other,
And each tongue was mute and palsied
Both by etiquette and horror.

But Maria de Padilla
Broke the universal silence;
Wringing hands, and sobbing loudly,
She forebodingly lamented;

"Now it will be said 'twas I that
"Brought about this cruel murder;
"Rancour will assail my children,
"My poor innocent young children! --"

Don Diego interrupted
At this place his tale, observing
That the company had risen,
And the court the hall was leaving.

Kind and courteous in his manners,
Then the knight became my escort,
And we rambled on together
Through the ancient Gothic castle.

In the crossway which conducted
To the kennels of the monarch,
Which proclaimed themselves already
By far growling sounds and yelpings,

There I noticed, built up strongly
In the wall, and on the outside
Firmly fasten'd by strong iron,
Like a cage, a narrow cell.

And inside it sat two human
Figures, two young boys appearing;
By the legs securely fetter'd,
On the dirty straw they squatted.

Scarcely twelve years old the one seem'd,
Scarcely older seem'd the other;
Fair and noble were their faces,
But through sickness thin and sallow.

They were clothed in rags, half naked,
And their wither'd bodies offer'd
Plainest signs of gross ill-treatment;
Both with fever shook and trembled.

From the depth of their deep mis'ry
They upon me turn'd their glances;
White and spirit-like their eyes were,
And I felt all terror-stricken.

"Who, then, are these wretched objects?"
I exclaim'd, with hasty action
Don Diego's hand tight grasping,
Which was trembling as I touch'd it.

Don Diego seem'd embarrass'd,
Look'd if any one was listening,
Deeply sigh'd, and said, assuming
A mere worldling's jaunty accents:

These are children of a monarch,
Early orphan'd, and their father
Was Don Pedro, and their mother
Was Maria de Padilla.

After the great fight at Narvas,
Where Henrico Transtamara
Freed his brother, this Don Pedro,
From his crown's oppressive burden,

And from that still greater burden
Which by men is Life entitled,
Don Henrico's victor-kindness
Also reach'd his brother's children.

Under his own care he took them,
As becomes a kindly uncle,
And in his own castle gave them
Free of charge, both board and lodging.

Narrow is indeed the chamber
That he there allotted to them;
Yet in summer it is coolish,
And not over cold in winter.

For their food, they live on ryebread,
As delicious in its flavour
As if Ceres' self had baked it
For her dear child Proserpina.

Oftentimes he also sends them
Quite a bowl-full of garbanzos,
And the youngsters in this manner
Learn that 'tis in Spain a Sunday.

Yet not always is it Sunday,
And garbanzos come not always,
And the upper huntsman treats them
To a banquet with his whip.

For this worthy upper huntsman,
Who is with the care entrusted
Of the pack of hounds, together
With the cage that holds the nephews,

Is the most unhappy husband
Of that acid Citronella
With the frill so white and plate-like,
Whom we saw to-day at table;

And she scolds so loud, that often
On the whip her husband seizes,
Hither hastens, and chastises
First the dogs, and then the children.

But the king is very angry
With his conduct, and commanded
That his nephews should in future
Never like the dogs be treated.

He will not entrust to any
Mercenary fist the duty
Of correcting them, but do it
With his own right hand henceforward. --

Suddenly stopp'd Don Diego,
For the castle Seneschal
Now approach'd us, and politely
Ask'd: Had we enjoy'd our dinner? --





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