While in no sense a great poet, Boscan united simplicity, dignity, and classical taste in a remarkable degree; and, inclined as he seemed to entirely banish the ancient form of verse, he yet beyond question introduced a kind of poetry which was developed to a high degree of perfection in the Castilian tongue, and which may be studied with keen delight at this day in some of the noblest poetical monuments of Spanish literature.

The best modern edition of Boscan’s works is published under the title of ‘Las Obras de Juan Boscan’ (Madrid, 1875).

ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASO

     Tell me, dear Garcilaso,—­thou
       Who ever aim’dst at Good,
     And in the spirit of thy vow,
       So swift her course pursued
     That thy few steps sufficed to place
     The angel in thy loved embrace,
       Won instant, soon as wooed,—­
     Why took’st thou not, when winged to flee
     From this dark world, Boscan with thee?

     Why, when ascending to the star
       Where now thou sitt’st enshrined,
     Left’st thou thy weeping friend afar,
       Alas! so far behind? 
     Oh, I do think, had it remained
     With thee to alter aught ordained
       By the Eternal Mind,
     Thou wouldst not on this desert spot
     Have left thy other self forgot!

     For if through life thy love was such
       As still to take a pride
     In having me so oft and much
       Close to thy envied side,—­
     I cannot doubt, I must believe,
     Thou wouldst at least have taken leave
       Of me; or, if denied,
     Have come back afterwards, unblest
     Till I too shared thy heavenly rest.

     Translation of Wipfen.

DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.

Photogravure from a Painting by Eugen Klimsch.

[Illustration]

     A PICTURE OF DOMESTIC HAPPINESS

     From ‘Epistle to Mendoza’

     This peace that makes a happy life,—­
     And that is mine through my sweet wife;
     Beginning of my soul, and end,
     I’ve gained new being through this friend;—­
     She fills each thought and each desire,
     Up to the height I would aspire. 
     This bliss is never found by ranging;
     Regret still springs from saddest changing;
     Such loves, and their beguiling pleasures,
     Are falser still than magic treasures,
     Which gleam at eve with golden color,
     And change to ashes ere the morrow.

     But now each good that I possess,
     Rooted in truth and faithfulness,
     Imparts delight to every sense;
     For erst they were a mere pretense,
     And long before enjoyed they were,
     They changed their smiles to grisly care. 
     Now pleasures please; love being single,
     Evils with its delights ne’er mingle.