In 1848 Baudry published another edition of Espronceda’s works, at Paris, but, with the exception of the fifth and sixth cantos of the ‘Diablo Mundo,’ there is no additional poem given, though Del Rio points out six other pieces published in different periodicals. This omission is much to be regretted, as undoubtedly every line that proceeded from his pen was worthy of being gathered together as a rare treasure. It is to be hoped that some admirer of his genius may soon collect those scattered relics, and give them in an edition worthy of their character in Spanish literature. Another Life of him also would be most desirable, as in the Paris edition there is only repeated the account given by Ferrer del Rio, which, though ably written as a sketch, is still on the same scale with a number of other writers in the same work of far inferior merits, and utterly unworthy of so great a genius as Espronceda. Spanish versification under his influence has become “revolutionized.” He has extended the powers apparently even of the language itself, and by the force of his style as well as by the varied character of his poems, has certainly shown its capabilities more decidedly than any poet who preceded him. JOSÈ DE ESPRONCEDA. TO SPAIN, AN ELEGY. LONDON, 1829. How solitary is the nation now That peopled countries vast a former day! That all beneath her sovereignty to bow, From East to West extended once her sway! Tears now profuse to shed, unhappy one, Queen of the world! ’tis thine; and from thy face, Enchanting yet in sorrow, there is none Its overwhelming traces to erase. How fatally o’er thee has death pour’d forth Darkness and mourning, horrible and great! And the stern despot in his madden’d wrath Exulted wildly o’er thy low estate. Nothing or great or beautiful he spared, My country! the young warrior by him fell, The veteran fell, and vile his war-axe glared, Pleased all its fury o’er thee to impel. Ev’n the pure maiden fell beneath the rage Of the unpitying despot, as the rose Condemn’d the summer’s burning sun to engage Her bloom and beauty withering soon must close. Come, O! ye inhabiters of the earth, And contemplate my misery! can there, Tell me, be any found of mortal birth Bearing the sorrows I am doom’d to bear? I wretched, banish’d from my native land, Behold, far from the country I adore, Her former glories lost and high command, And only left her sufferings to deplore. Her children have been fatally betray’d By treacherous brethren, and a tyrant’s power; And these her lovely fertile plains have made Fields o’er which lamentations only lower. Her arms extended wide unhappy Spain, Her sons imploring in her deep distress: Her sons they were, but her command was vain, Unheard the traitor madness to repress.