Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain/Dedication of the Mogigata
LEANDRO FERNANDEZ MORATIN.
DEDICATION OF THE COMEDY OF THE MOGIGATA
TO THE PRINCE OF THE PEACE.
This moral fiction, which the facile Muse,
Thalia kind inspired, and which await
The numerous crowds that throng the Spanish scene,
Therein acquiring voice, and life, and form,
To thee I now present, with feelings pure
Of gratitude and love. By other path
The difficult height of Pindus to ascend,
In vain have I aspired, in vain; and oft
Have wept me baffled, o'er the bold attempt.
How often, striking the Aonian chords,
To win her have I sought, so fleeting, coy,
The beauty that in silence I adore!
To imitate the voice and harmony,
Which Echo erst repeated in the woods
Of green Zurgüen: oft as Clio waked
The trumpet that diffuses martial rage,
I wish'd, with her sublimest ardour fired,
To celebrate the lofty deeds of Spain:
From her proud neck as beating, broken off,
The barbarous yoke; the conqueror in turn
Conquer'd on the burning sands of Libya:
Numantia with the miseries appeased,
Proud Rome was doom'd to know, abandon'd prey
To frightful military outrages:
Cortes, in the valley of Otumba,
Lord of the golden standard, at his feet
The sceptre of the West! but angrily,
Menander's muse offended, soon reproved
My error, and the lyre and pastoral pipe
Snatch'd from me, and the clarion of Mars.
"Follow," she said to me, "the only track
Which my voice indicates, if thou wouldst seek
The honour, that despite of silent death,
May make thy name immortal. I in love
A thousand times upon thy infant lip
Have printed a soft kiss, and bade thee sleep
To the repeated heavenly tones I raised.
Thou my delight wast ever, and my care;
And the propitious gifts, which Nature shed
On thee, it was my joy to cultivate.
Now with loud festive acclamation sounds
Thy country's scene in thy just praise, on high
Thy glory to affirm. Thou follow on
To sacred Helicon, which Cynthia bathes
With her immortal light, the Muses' crown
Of ivy and of laurel there to gain."
Be not offended, Sir, if e'er so poor
The tribute that I dedicate; and what
Could worthy be the greatness of thy name?
The gift is humble, the desire is rich;
And not sufficing more my sterile vein,
What I can give I offer. Prostrate thus,
On the rude altars he has raised, is wont
The husbandman to heap the simple fruits
Of his fields gather'd round; and offering them
To the high tutelar deity he adores,
Spreads them forth grateful, incenses and flowers.