The vast number of poets who flourished in Spain at this epoch renders the task of furnishing the biography of even a selection from among them, hopeless. When we turn to the "Laurel de Apolo" of Lope de Vega, and see stanza after stanza devoted to different poets; and when, in the "Voyage to Parnassus" of Cervantes we find poets rain in showers, we give up the task as hopeless--especially when we are told that, although many of those so brought forward are unknown, many there are, who wrote well, who are not mentioned at all in these works. Poetry was then the fashion; and it was easy to spin many hundred lines with few ideas, and those few common-place, though pretty and graceful. Despotism and the inquisition gave the creative or literary spirit of Spain no other outlet. Thought was forbidden. Description, moral reflection, where no originality nor boldness was admitted, and love and sentiment,--these were all the subjects that Spanish poets rung the changes on, till we wonder where they found fresh words for the same thoughts. In any longer poems they wholly failed: and the only compositions we read with pleasure are songs, madrigals, redondillas, and romances, which are often fresh and sparkling--warm from the heart, either dancing with animal spirits or soft with pathetic tenderness. Among the writers of such, none excelled Vicente Espinel. The following is a specimen, and may be taken as an example of that style of Spanish poetry, simple, feeling and elegant, which preceded the innovations of the refined school. It is taken from Dr. Bowring's translation, and is good, though not comparable to the charming simplicity of the original:-- "A thousand, thousand times, I seek[104] My lovely maid; But I am silent still--afraid That if I speak, The maid might frown, and then my heart would break. I've oft resolved to tell her all, But dare not--what a woe 't would be From doubtful favour's smiles to fall To the harsh frown of certainty. Her grace, her music cheers me now; The dimpled roses on her cheek; But fear restrains my tongue--for how, How should I speak, When, if she frown'd, my troubled heart would break? No, rather I'll conceal my story In my full heart's most secret cell: For though I feel a doubtful glory, I 'scape the certainty of hell. I lose, 't is true--the bliss of heaven,-- I own my courage is but weak,-- That weakness may be well forgiven, For should she speak In words ungentle--O, my heart would break!"