Leconte de Lisle

Of the eternal muses the sovereign realm thou traversest beneath a breath of vast inspiration, like a haughty rajah who upon his Indian elephant passes through his domains to the blast of rude winds.

Thou hast in thy chant as it were echoes of the Ocean; in thy poetry are seen the jungle and the lion; wild light radiates from the lyre that in thy hand pours forth its sonorous, robust vibration.

Thou knowest the secrets and avatars of the fakir; to thy soul the Orient gave age-old mysteries, legendary visions and an oriental spirit.

Thy verse is nourished with the sap of the earth; splendor of Ramayanas thy living stanza encloses, and thou singest in the tongue of the colossal forest.

A hard, iron cuirass may be fitted to the breast; he may guide the spear, the courser’s rein; his athlete’s muscles bear the armor... yet he seeks in rosy mouths milk and honey.

Artist, child of Capua, who adores beauty, feminine flesh his brush prefers; and in the hidden precinct of a warm, dark alcove, he adds myrtle and roses to his triumphant laurel.

He sings of lovers’ whisperings the delicious moment, the kisses and delirium of the loving woman; and in his words he hath perfume, soul, color.

His bird is the Venusian, the timid dove. He would have conquered in Greece, conquered in Rome, in every contest of art or of love.

In his land of iron dwells the grand old man, fair as a patriarch, serene and holy. He hath in the Olympian wrinkle of his brow something that commands and conquers with noble charm.

His soul seems a mirror of the infinite; his weary shoulders are worthy of the mantle; and with a harp carved from an ancient oak, like a new prophet he sings his song.

Priest, who breathes divine inspiration, he heralds in the future better times. He says to the eagle: “Fly!” “Row!” to the mariner,

and “Labor!” to the sturdy working man. Thus goes that poet along his path with his proud emperor’s visage!

Now from a Corinthian temple he chisels a metope, now from a Moorish citadel the subtle capital, now like Benvenuto, from the gold of a cup he fashions an artistic jewel, prodigy of the graver.

He paints the gentle Graces, or naked Europa, upon the polished rim of an ivory vase, or Diana: virgin goddess of unclasped robes, with huntress air, or in a pastoral group.

The muse that inspires the poet’s songs bears not the vibrant trumpet of brass, nor is she the mad bacchante who sings and raves:

she is ardent love, and in triumphant delight: she offers the singer the seven-stringed lyre, or, rhythmic and sonorous, the flute of crystal.

Thy quatrain is a team of wild eagles that love tempests and oceans; heavy broadswords, iron maces are the weapons forged for thy hands.

Thy thought hath craters and spews lavas; traversing Art’s mountains and plains, go thy rough stanzas, never enslaved, like a stampede of American buffalos.

What rings upon thy lyre resounds afar, as when the north wind speaks, or when it thunders. Son of the New World! Let humanity

hear, upon the brow of nations, the lyrical, hymnic pomp of thy songs that triumphantly greet Liberty.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Pages

To Don Rubén Darío 5

The Bourgeois King 35

The Deaf Satyr 45

The Nymph 55

The Bale 65

The Veil of Queen Mab 75

The Song of Gold 83

The Ruby 93

The Palace of the Sun 105

The Blue Bird 115

White Doves and Brown Herons 125

IN CHILE

In Search of Tableaux 137

Watercolor 139

Landscape 141

Etching 142

The Virgin of the Dove 143

The Head 144

Watercolor 145

A Portrait of Watteau 147

Still Life 149

In Charcoal 150

Landscape 151

The Ideal 152

The Death of the Empress of China 157

To a Star 171

THE LYRIC YEAR

Springtime 177

Summer 182

Autumn 189

Winter 193

Autumn Thoughts 199

To a Poet 203

Ananke 205

SONNETS

Caupolicán 209

Venus 210

In Winter 211

MEDALLIONS

Leconte de Lisle 215

Catulle Mendès 216

Walt Whitman 217

J. J. Palma 218

Salvador Díaz Mirón 219