Poets, Spanish; Spanish poetry -- History and criticism; Spanish poetry -- Translations into English
Of such a glory at the radiant light,
With noble emulation fill’d his breast,
A Spaniard rose,--“Let not my country slight,”
He cried, “on such a great occasion’s test,
Her ancient magnanimity to employ.
’Tis fortune’s gift discovering it alone;
That let an Englishman his right enjoy.
Let Spain’s sublime and generous heart be shown,
Giving her majesty more honour true,
By carrying this treasure to the lands
Which most the evil’s dire oppressions knew.
There, for I feel a deity commands,
There will I fly, and of the raging wave
Will brave in bearing it the furious strife;
America’s infested plains to save
From death, as planting there the tree of life.”
He spoke, and scarcely from his burning lip
These echoes had beneficently flowed,
When floating in the port, prepared the ship,
To give commencement to so blest a road,
Moved spreading her white canvas to the air.
On his fate launch’d himself the aëronaut.
Waves of the sea, in favouring calmness bear,
As sacred, this deposit to be brought
Through your serene and liquid fields. There goes
Of thousand generations long the hope;
Nor whelm it, nor let thunder it oppose;
Arrest the lightning, with no storms to cope,
Stay them until that from those fertile shores
Come forth the prows, triumphant in their pride,
That fraught remote with all their golden stores,
With vice and curses also come allied.
Honour to Balmis! O, heroic soul!
That in such noble toil devotest thy breath,
Go fearless to thy end. The dreadful roll
Of ocean always hoarse, and threatening death;
The fearful whirlpool’s all-devouring throat,
The cavern’d rock’s black face, where dash’d by fate,
Break the wreck’d barks, the dangers they denote
Greatest are not most cruel thee that wait.
From man expect them! Impious, envious man,
In error wrapped and blind, will prove him bent,
When hush’d against thee is the hurricane,
To combat rough the generous intent.
But firmly and secure press forward on;
And hold in mind, when comes for strife the day,
That without constant, anxious toil, can none
Hope glory’s palms to seize, and bear away.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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