Come down with pleasing light Of art and science to the fight, O youth, and there untie The chains that heavy lie, Your spirit free to blight. See how in flaming zone Amid the shadows thrown, The Spaniard’s holy hand A crown’s resplendent band Proffers to this Indian land. Thou, who now wouldst rise On wings of rich emprise, Seeking from Olympian skies Songs of sweetest strain, Softer than ambrosial rain; Thou, whose voice divine Rivals Philomel’s refrain, And with varied line Through the night benign Frees mortality from pain; Thou, who by sharp strife Wakest thy mind to life; And the memory bright Of thy genius’ light Makest immortal in its strength; And thou, in accents clear Of Phœbus, to Apelles dear; Or by the brush’s magic art Takest from nature’s store a part, To fix it on the simple canvas’ length; Go forth, and then the sacred fire Of thy genius to the laurel may aspire; To spread around the fame, And in victory acclaim, Through wider spheres the human name. Day, O happy day, Fair Filipinas, for thy land! So bless the Power to-day That places in thy way This favor and this fortune grand! —Translated by Charles Derbyshire. TO MY MUSE Invoked no longer is the Muse, The lyre is out of date; The poets it no longer use, And youth its inspiration now imbues With other form and state. If to-day our fancies aught Of verse would still require, Helicon’s hill remains unsought; And without heed we but inquire, Why the coffee is not brought. In the place of thought sincere That our hearts may feel, We must seize a pen of steel, And with verse and line severe Fling abroad a jest and jeer. Muse, that in the past inspired me, And with songs of love hast fired me; Go thou now to dull repose, For to-day in sordid prose I must earn the gold that hired me. Now must I ponder deep, Meditate, and struggle on; E’en sometimes I must weep; For he who love would keep Great pain has undergone. Fled are the days of ease, The days of love’s delight; When flowers still would please And give to suffering souls surcease From pain and sorrow’s blight. One by one they have passed on, All I loved and moved among; Dead or married—from me gone, For all I place my heart upon By fate adverse are stung. Go thou, too, O Muse, depart, Other regions fairer find; For my land but offers art For the laurel, chains that bind, For a temple, prisons blind. But before thou leavest me, speak: Tell me with thy voice sublime, Thou couldst ever from me seek A song of sorrow for the weak, Defiance to the tyrant’s crime. —Translated by Charles Derbyshire. THE SONG OF THE TRAVELER