A Poem That Has No Title

To my Creator I singWho did soothe me in my great loss;To the Merciful and KindWho in my troubles gave me repose.

Thou with that pow'r of thineSaid: Live! And with life myself I found;And shelter gave me thouAnd a soul impelled to the goodLike a compass whose point to the North is bound.

Thou did make me descendFrom honorable home and respectable stock,And a homeland thou gavest meWithout limit, fair and richThough fortune and prudence it does lack.

A Tribute to My Town

When I remember the daysthat saw my early childhoodspent on the green shoresof a murmurous lagoon;when I remember the coolness,delicious and refreshing,that on my face I feltas I heard Favonius croon;

when I behold the white lilyswell to the winds impulsion,and that tempestuous elementmeekly asleep on the sand;when I inhale the dearintoxicating essencethe flowers exude when dawnis smiling on the land;

sadly, sadly I recallyour visage, precious childhood,which an affectionate mothermade beautiful and bright;I recall a simple town,my comfort, joy and cradle,beside a balmy lake,the seat of my delight.

Ah, yes, my awkward footexplored your sombre woodlands,and on the banks of your riversin frolic I took part.I prayed in your rustic temple,a child, with a childs devotion;and your unsullied breezeexhilarated my heart.

The Creator I saw in the grandeurof your age-old forests;upon your bosom, sorrowswere ever unknown to me;while at your azure skiesI gazed, neither love nor tendernessfailed me, for in naturelay my felicity.

Tender childhood, beautiful town,rich fountain of rejoicingand of harmonious musicthat drove away all pain:return to this heart of mine,return my gracious hours,return as the birds returnwhen flowers spring again!

But O goodbye! May the Spiritof Good, a loving gift-giver,keep watch eternally overyour peace, your joy, your sleep!For you, my fervent pryers;for you, my constant desireto learn; and I pray heavenyour innocence to keep!

Child Jesus

Why have you come to earth,Child-God, in a poor manger?Does Fortune find you a strangerfrom the moment of your birth?

Alas, of heavenly stocknow turned an earthly resident!Do you not wish to be presidentbut the shepherd of your flock?

Education Gives Luster to Motherland

Wise education, vital breathInspires an enchanting virtue;She puts the Country in the lofty seatOf endless glory, of dazzling glow,And just as the gentle aura's puffDo brighten the perfumed flower's hue:So education with a wise, guiding hand,A benefactress, exalts the human band.

Man's placid repose and earthly lifeTo education he dedicatesBecause of her, art and science are bornMan; and as from the high mount aboveThe pure rivulet flows, undulates,So education beyond measureGives the Country tranquility secure.

Where wise education raises a throneSprightly youth are invigorated,Who with firm stand error they subdueAnd with noble ideas are exalted;It breaks immortality's neck,Contemptible crime before it is halted:It humbles barbarous nationsAnd it makes of savages champions.And like the spring that nourishesThe plants, the bushes of the meads,She goes on spilling her placid wealth,And with kind eagerness she constantly feeds,The river banks through which she slips,And to beautiful nature all she concedes,So whoever procures education wiseUntil the height of honor may rise.

From her lips the waters crystallineGush forth without end, of divine virtue,And prudent doctrines of her faithThe forces weak of evil subdue,That break apart like the whitish wavesThat lash upon the motionless shoreline:And to climb the heavenly ways the peopleDo learn with her noble example.

In the wretched human beings' breastThe living flame of good she lightsThe hands of criminal fierce she ties,And fill the faithful hearts with delights,Which seeks her secrets beneficentAnd in the love for the good her breast she incites,And it's th' education noble and pureOf human life the balsam sure.

And like a rock that rises with prideIn the middle of the turbulent wavesWhen hurricane and fierce Notus roarShe disregards their fury and raves,That weary of the horror greatSo frightened calmly off they stave;Such is one by wise education steeredHe holds the Country's reins unconquered.His achievements on sapphires are engraved;The Country pays him a thousand honors;For in the noble breasts of her sonsVirtue transplanted luxuriant flow'rs;And in the love of good e'er disposedWill see the lords and governorsThe noble people with loyal ventureChristian education always procure.

And like the golden sun of the mornWhose rays resplendent shedding gold,And like fair aurora of gold and redShe overspreads her colors bold;Such true education proudly givesThe pleasure of virtue to young and oldAnd she enlightens out Motherland dearAs she offers endless glow and luster.

FelicitationIIf Philomela with harmonious tongueTo blond Apollo, who manifests his faceBehind high hill or overhanging mountain,Canticles sends.

II

So we as well, full of a sweet contentment,Salute you and your very noble saintWith tender music and fraternal measures,Dear Antonino.

III

From all your sisters and your other kinReceive most lovingly the loving accentThat the suave warmth of love dictates to themPlacid and tender.

IV

From amorous wife and amiable EmilioSweetly receive an unsurpassed affection;And may its sweetness in disaster softenThe ruder torments.

V

As the sea pilot, who so bravely foughtTempestuous waters in the dark of night,Gazes upon his darling vessel safeAnd come to port.

VI

So, setting aside all [worldly] predilections,Now let your eyes be lifted heavenwardTo him who is the solace of all menAnd loving Father.

VII

And from ourselves that in such loving accentsSalute you everywhere you celebrate,These clamorous vivas that from the heart resoundBe pleased to accept.

First Inspiration

Why falls so rich a sprayof fragrance from the bowersof the balmy flowersupon this festive day?

Why from woods and valesdo we hear sweet measures ringingthat seem to be the singingof a choir of nightingales?

Why in the grass belowdo birds start at the wind's noises,unleashing their honeyed voicesas they hop from bough to bough?

Why should the spring that glowsits crystalline murmur be tuningto the zephyr's mellow crooningas among the flowers it flows?

Why seems to me more endearing,more fair than on other days,the dawn's enchanting faceamong red clouds appearing?

The reason, dear mother, isthey feast your day of bloom:the rose with its perfume,the bird with its harmonies.

And the spring that rings with laughterupon this joyful daywith its murmur seems to say:'Live happily ever after!'

And from that spring in the grovenow turn to hear the first notethat from my lute I emoteto the impulse of my love.

Flower Among Flowers

Flower among flowers,soft bud swooning,that the wind movesto a gentle crooning.Wind of heaven,wind of love,you who gladdenall you espy;you who smileand will not sigh,candour and fragrancefrom above;you who perhapscame down to earthto bring the lonelysolace and mirth,and to be a joyfor the heart to capture.They say that intoyour dawn you bearthe immaculate soula prisoner-- bound with the ties ofpassion and rapture?

They say you spreadgood everywherelike the Springwhich fills the airwith joy and flowersin Apriltime.They say you brightenthe soul that mournswhen dark clouds gather,and that without thornsblossom the rosesin your clime.If then, like a fairy,you enhancethe joy of thoseon whom you glancewith the magic charmGod gave to you;oh, spare me an hourof your cheer,a single dayof your career,that the breast may savorthe bliss it knew.

Goodbye to Leonor

And so it has arrived -- the fatal instant,the dismal injunction of my cruel fate;so it has come at last -- the moment, the date,when I must separate myself from you.

Goodbye, Leonor, goodbye! I take my leave,leaving behind with you my lover's heart!Goodbye, Leonor: from here I now depart.O Melancholy absence! Ah, what pain!

Hymn To Labor

Chorus:

For the Motherland in war,For the Motherland in peace,Will the Filipino keep watch,He will live until life will cease!

MEN:

Now the East is glowing with light,Go! To the field to till the land,For the labour of man sustainsFam'ly, home and Motherland.Hard the land may turn to be,Scorching the rays of the sun above...For the country, wife and childrenAll will be easy to our love.

Chorus:

WIVES:

Go to work with spirits high,For the wife keeps home faithfully,Inculcates love in her childrenFor virtue, knowledge and country.When the evening brings repose,On returning joy awaits you,And if fate is adverse, the wife,Shall know the task to continue.

Chorus:

MAIDENS:

H ail! Hail! Praise to labour,Of the country wealth and vigor!For it brow serene's exalted,It's her blood, life, and ardor.If some youth would show his loveLabor his faith will sustain :Only a man who struggles and worksWill his offspring know to maintain.Chorus:

CHILDREN:

Teac h, us ye the laborious workTo pursue your footsteps we wish,For tomorrow when country calls usWe may be able your task to finish.And on seeing us the elders will say:'Look, they're worthy 'f their sires of yore!'Incense does not honor the deadAs does a son with glory and valor.

Hymn to Talisay

Hail, Talisay,firm and faithful,ever forwardmarch elate!You, victorious,the elementsland, sea and airshall dominate!

The sandy beach of Dapitanand the rocks of its lofty mountainare your throne. O sacred asylumwhere I passed my childhood days!In your valley covered with flowersand shaded by fruitful orchards,our minds received their formation,both body and soul, by your grace.

We are children, children born late,but our spirits are fresh and healthy;strong men shall we be tomorrowthat can guard a family right.We are children that nothing frightens,not the waves, nor the storm, nor the thunder;the arm ready, the young face tranquil,in a fix we shall know how to fight.

We ransack the sand in our frolic;through the caves and the thickets we ramble;our houses are built upon rocks;our arms reach far and wide.No darkness, and no dark night,that we fear, no savage tempest;if the devil himself comes forward,we shall catch him, dead or alive!

Talisayon, the people call us:a great soul in a little body;in Dapitan and all its regionTalisay has no match!Our reservoir is unequalled;our precipice is a deep chasm;and when we go rowing, our bancasno banca in the world can catch!

We study the problems of scienceand the history of the nation.We speak some three or four languages;faith and reason we span.Our hands can wield at the same timethe knife, the pen and the spade,the picket, the rifle, the swordcompanions of a brave man.

Long live luxuriant Talisay!Our voices exalt you in chorus,clear star, dear treasure of childhood,a childhood you guide and please.In the struggles that await the grown man,subject to pain and sorrow,your memory shall be his amulet;and your name, in the tomb, his peace.

Kundiman Now mute indeed are tongue and heart:love shies away, joy stands apart.Neglected by its leaders and defeated,the country was subdued and it submitted.

But O the sun will shine again!Itself the land shall disenchain;and once more round the world with growing praiseshall sound the name of the Tagalog race.

We shall pour out our blood in a great floodto liberate the parent sod;but till that day arrives for which we weep,love shall be mute, desire shall sleep.

Memories of My Town

When I recall the daysThat saw my childhood of yoreBeside the verdant shoreOf a murmuring lagoon;When I remember the sighsOf the breeze that on my browSweet and caressing did blowWith coolness full of delight;

When I look at the lily whiteFills up with air violentAnd the stormy elementOn the sand doth meekly sleep;When sweet 'toxicating scentFrom the flowers I inhaleWhich at the dawn they exhaleWhen at us it begins to peep;

I sadly recall your face,Oh precious infancy,That a mother lovinglyDid succeed to embellish.I remember a simple town;My cradle, joy and boon,Beside the cool lagoonThe seat of all my wish.

Oh, yes! With uncertain paceI trod your forest lands,And on your river banksA pleasant fun I found;At your rustic temple I prayedWith a little boy's simple faithAnd your aura's flawless breathFilled my heart with joy profound.Saw I God in the grandeurOf your woods which for centuries stand;Never did I understandIn your bosom what sorrows were;While I gazed on your azure skyNeither love nor tendernessFailed me, 'cause my happinessIn the heart of nature rests there.

Tender childhood, beautiful town,Rich fountain of happiness,Of harmonious melodies,That drive away my sorrow!Return thee to my heart,Bring back my gentle hoursAs do the birds when the flow'rsWould again begin to blow!But, alas, adieu! E'er watchFor your peace, joy and repose,Genius of good who kindly disposeOf his blessings with amour;It's for thee my fervent pray'rs,It's for thee my constant desireKnowledge ever to acquireAnd may God keep your candour!

Miss C.O. y R.

Why ask for those unintellectual versesthat once, insane with grief, I sang aghast?Or are you maybe throwing in my facemy rank ingratitude, my bitter past?

Why resurrect unhappy memoriesnow when the heart awaits from love a sign,or call the night when day begins to smile,not knowing if another day will shine?

You wish to learn the cause of this dejectiondelirium of despair that anguish wove?You wish to know the wherefore of such sorrows,and why, a young soul, I sing not of love?

Oh, may you never know why! For the reasonbrings melancholy but may set you laughing.Down with my corpse into the grave shall goanother corpse that's buried in my stuffing!

Something impossible, ambition, madness,dreams of the soul, a passion and its throesOh, drink the nectar that life has to offerand let the bitter dregs in peace repose!

Again I feel the impenetrable shadowsshrouding the soul with the thick veils of night:a mere bud only, not a lovely flower,because it's destitute of air and light

Behold them: my poor verses, my damned broodand sorrow suckled each and every brat!Oh, they know well to what they owe their being,and maybe they themselves will tell you what.

My Last Thought

Land I adore, farewell! thou land of the southern sun's choosing!Pearl of the Orient seas! our forfeited Garden of Eden!Joyous I yield up for thee my sad life, and were it far brighter,Young, rose-strewn, for thee and thy happiness still would I give it.Far afield, in the din and rush of maddening battle,Others have laid down their lives, nor wavered nor paused in the giving.What matters way or place the Cyprus, the lily, the laurel,Gibbet or open field, the sword or inglorious torture,When 'tis the hearth and the country that call for the life's immolation?

Dawn's faint lights bar the east, she smiles through the cowl of the darkness,Just as I die. Hast thou need of purple to garnish her pathway?Here is my blood, on the hour ! pour it out, and the sun in his risingMayhap will touch it with gold, will lend it the sheen of his glory.

Dreams of my childhood and youth, and dreams of my strong young manhood,What were they all but to see, thou gem of the Orient ocean !Tearless thine eyes so deep, unbent, unmarred thy sweet forehead.

Vision I followed from far, desire that spurred on and consumed me!Greeting! my parting soul cries, and greeting again! . . . O my country!Beautiful is it to fall, that the vision may rise to fulfilment,Giving my life for thy life, and breathing thine air in the death-throe;Sweet to eternally sleep in thy lap, O land of enchantment !

If in the deep, rich grass that covers my rest in thy bosom,Some day thou seest upspring a lowly, tremulous blossom,Lay there thy lips, 'tis mysoul; may I feel on myforehead descending,Deep in the chilly tomb, the soft, warm breath of thy kisses.

Let the calm light of the moon fall around me, and dawn's fleeting splendor;Let the winds murmur and sigh, on my cross let some bird tell its message;Loosed from the rain by the brazen sun. let clouds of soft vaporBear to the skies, as they mount again, the chant of my spirit.There may some friendly heart lament my parting untimely,And if at eventide a soul for my tranquil sleep prayeth,Pray thou too, O my fatherland! for my peaceful reposing.Pray for those who go down to death through unspeakable torments;Pray for those who remain to suffer such torture in prisons;Pray for the bitter grief of our mothers, our widows, our orphans;Oh, pray too for thyself, on the way to thy final redemption.

When our still dwelling-place wraps night's dusky mantle about her.Leaving the dead alone with the dead, to watch till the morning,Break not our rest, and seek not to lay death's mystery open.If now and then thou shouldst hear the string of a lute or a zithern,Mine is the hand, dear country, and mine is the voice that is singing.

When my tomb, that all have forgot, no cross nor stone marketh,There let the laborer guide his plough, there cleave the earth open.So shall my ashes at last be one with thy hills and thy valleys.Little 'twill matter then, my country, that thou shouldst forget me !I shall be air in thy streets, and I shall be space in thy meadows.I shall be vibrant speech in thine ears, shall be fragrance and color,Light and shout, and loved song forever repeating my message.

My Retreat

Beside a spacious beach of fine and delicate sandand at the foot of a mountain greener than a leaf,I planted my humble hut beneath a pleasant orchard,seeking in the still serenity of the woodsrepose to my intellect and silence to my grief.

Its roof is fragile nipa; its floor is brittle bamboo;its beams and posts are rough as rough-hewn wood can be;of no worth, it is certain, is my rustic cabin;but on the lap of the eternal mount it slumbersand night and day is lulled by the crooning of the sea.

The overflowing brook, that from the shadowy jungledescends between huge bolders, washes it with its spray,donating a current of water through makeshift bamboo pipesthat in the silent night is melody and musicand crystalline nectar in the noon heat of the day.

If the sky is serene, meekly flows the spring,strumming on its invisible zither unceasingly;but come the time of the rains, and an impetuous torrentspills over rocks and chasmshoarse, foaming and aboilto hurl itself with a frenzied roaring toward the sea.

The barking of the dog, the twittering of the birds,the hoarse voice of the kalaw are all that I hear;there is no boastful man, no nuisance of a neighborto impose himself on my mind or to disturb my passage;only the forests and the sea do I have near.

The sea, the sea is everything! Its sovereign massbrings to me atoms of a myriad faraway lands;its bright smile animates me in the limpid mornings;and when at the end of day my faith has proven futile,my heart echoes the sound of its sorrow on the sands.

At night it is a mystery! Its diaphanous elementis carpeted with thousands and thousands of lights that climb;the wandering breeze is cool, the firmament is brilliant,the waves narrate with many a sigh to the mild windhistories that were lost in the dark night of time.

Tis said they tell of the first morning on the earth,of the first kiss with which the sun inflamed her breast,when multitudes of beings materialized from nothingto populate the abyss and the overhanging summitsand all the places where that quickening kiss was pressed.

But when the winds rage in the darkness of the nightand the unquiet waves commence their agony,across the air move cries that terrify the spirit,a chorus of voices praying, a lamentation that seemsto come from those who, long ago, drowned in the sea.

Then do the mountain ranges on high reverberate;the trees stir far and wide, by a fit of trembling seized;the cattle moan; the dark depths of the forest resound;their spirits say that they are on their way to the plain,summoned by the dead to a mortuary feast.

The wild night hisses, hisses, confused and terrifying;one sees the sea afire with flames of green and blue;but calm is re-established with the approach of dawningand forthwith an intrepid little fishing vesselbegins to navigate the weary waves anew.

So pass the days of my life in my obscure retreat;cast out of the world where once I dwelt: such is my raregood fortune; and Providence be praised for my condition:a disregarded pebble that craves nothing but mossto hide from all the treasure that in myself I bear.

I live with the remembrance of those that I have lovedand hear their names still spoken, who haunt my memory;some already are dead, others have long forgottenbut what does it matter? I live remembering the pastand no one can ever take the past away from me.

It is my faithful friend that never turns against me,that cheers my spirit when my spirits a lonesome wraith,that in my sleepless nights keeps watch with me and prayswith me, and shares with me my exile and my cabin,and, when all doubt, alone infuses me with faith.

Faith do I have, and I believe the day will shinewhen the Idea shall defeat brute force as well;and after the struggle and the lingering agonya voice more eloquent and happier than my ownwill then know how to utter victorys canticle.

I see the heavens shining, as flawless and refulgentas in the days that saw my first illusions start;I feel the same breeze kissing my autumnal brow,the same that once enkindled my fervent enthusiasmand turned the blood ebullient within my youthful heart.

Across the fields and rivers of my native townperhaps has traveled the breeze that now I breathe by chance;perhaps it will give back to me what once I gave it:the sighs and kisses of a person idolizedand the sweet secrets of a virginal romance.

On seeing the same moon, as silvery as before,I feel within me the ancient melancholy revive;a thousand memories of love and vows awaken:a patio, an azotea, a beach, a leafy bower;silences and sighs, and blushes of delight

A butterfly athirst for radiances and colors,dreaming of other skies and of a larger strife,I left, scarcely a youth, my land and my affections,and vagrant everywhere, with no qualms, with no terrors,squandered in foreign lands the April of my life.

And afterwards, when I desired, a weary swallow,to go back to the nest of those for whom I care,suddenly fiercely roared a violent hurricaneand I found my wings broken, my dwelling place demolished,faith now sold to others, and ruins everywhere.

Hurled upon a rock of the country I adore;the future ruined; no home, no health to bring me cheer;you come to me anew, dreams of rose and gold,of my entire existence the solitary treasure,convictions of a youth that was healthy and sincere.

No more are you, like once, full of fire and life,offering a thousand crowns to immortality;somewhat serious I find you; and yet your face beloved,if now no longer as merry, if now no longer as vivid,now bear the superscription of fidelity.

You offer me, O illusions, the cup of consolation;you come to reawaken the years of youthful mirth;hurricane, I thank you; winds of heaven, I thank youthat in good hour suspended by uncertain flightto bring me down to the bosom of my native earth.

Beside a spacious beach of fine and delicate sandand at the foot of a mountain greener than a leaf,I found in my land a refuge under a pleasant orchard,and in its shadowy forests, serene tranquility,repose to my intellect and silence to my grief.

Our Mother Tongue

IF truly a people dearly loveThe tongue to them by Heaven sent,They'll surely yearn for libertyLike a bird above in the firmament.

BECAUSE by its language one can judgeA town, a barrio, and kingdom;And like any other created thingEvery human being loves his freedom.

ONE who doesn't love his native tongue,Is worse than putrid fish and beast;AND like a truly precious thingIt therefore deserves to be cherished.

THE Tagalog language's akin to Latin,To English, Spanish, angelical tongue;For God who knows how to look after usThis language He bestowed us upon.

AS others, our language is the sameWith alphabet and letters of its own,It was lost because a storm did destroyOn the lake the bangka 1 in years bygone.

Song of the Wanderer

Dry leaf that flies at randomtill it's seized by a wind from above:so lives on earth the wanderer,without north, without soul, without country or love!

Anxious, he seeks joy everywhereand joy eludes him and flees,a vain shadow that mocks his yearningand for which he sails the seas.

Impelled by a hand invisible,he shall wander from place to place;memories shall keep him companyof loved ones, of happy days.

A tomb perhaps in the desert,a sweet refuge, he shall discover,by his country and the world forgottenRest quiet: the torment is over.

And they envy the hapless wandereras across the earth he persists!Ah, they know not of the emptinessin his soul, where no love exists.

The pilgrim shall return to his country,shall return perhaps to his shore;and shall find only ice and ruin,perished loves, and graves nothing more.

Begone, wanderer! In your own country,a stranger now and alone!Let the others sing of loving,who are happy but you, begone!

Begone, wanderer! Look not behind younor grieve as you leave again.Begone, wanderer: stifle your sorrows!the world laughs at another's pain.

The Last Poem of Rizal

Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed,Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost,With gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed;And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best,I would still give it to you for your welfare at most.

On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight,Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy,The place does not matter: cypress laurel, lily white,Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom's site,It is the same if asked by home and Country.

I die as I see tints on the sky b'gin to showAnd at last announce the day, after a gloomy night;If you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow,Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so,And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light!

My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent,My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain,Were to see you, gem of the sea of the Orient,Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high planeWithout frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain.

My life's fancy, my ardent, passionate desire,Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee;Hail! How sweet 'tis to fall that fullness you may acquire;To die to give you life, 'neath your skies to expire,And in your mystic land to sleep through eternity!

If over my tomb some day, you would see blow,A simple humble flow'r amidst thick grasses,Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so,And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow,Warmth of your breath, a whiff of your tenderness.

Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry,Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light,In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh,And should a bird descend on my cross and alight,Let the bird intone a song of peace o'er my site.

Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporizeAnd with my clamor behind return pure to the sky;Let a friend shed tears over my early demise;And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high,Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I.

Pray thee for all the hapless who have died,For all those who unequalled torments have undergone;For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried;For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied,And pray too that you may see your own redemption.

And when the dark night wraps the cemet'ryAnd only the dead to vigil there are left alone,Don't disturb their repose, don't disturb the mystery:If you hear the sounds of cittern or psaltery,It is I, dear Country, who, a song t'you intone.

And when my grave by all is no more remembered,With neither cross nor stone to mark its place,Let it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scatteredAnd my ashes ere to nothingness are restored,Let them turn to dust to cover your earthly space.

Then it doesn't matter that you should forget me:Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I'll sweep;Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be:Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep,Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep.

My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine,Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harkenThere I leave all: my parents, loves of mine,I'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmenWhere faith does not kill and where God alone does reign.

Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me,Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed;Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day;Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way;Farewell, to all I love. To die is to rest.

The Song of Maria Clara

Sweet the hours in the native country,where friendly shines the sun above!Life is the breeze that sweeps the meadows;tranquil is death; most tender, love.

Warm kisses on the lips are playingas we awake to mother's face:the arms are seeking to embrace her,the eyes are smiling as they gaze.

How sweet to die for the native country,where friendly shines the sun above!Death is the breeze for him who hasno country, no mother, and no love!

They Ask Me for Verses!

IThey bid me strike the lyreso long now mute and broken,but not a note can I wakennor will my muse inspire!She stammers coldly and babbleswhen tortured by my mind;she lies when she laughs and thrillsas she lies in her lamentation,for in my sad isolationmy soul nor frolics nor feels.

II

There was a time, 'tis true,but now that time has vanishedwhen indulgent love or friendshipcalled me a poet too.Now of that time there lingershardly a memory,as from a celebrationsome mysterious refrainthat haunts the ears will remainof the orchestra's actuation.

III

A scarce-grown plant I seem,uprooted from the Orient,where perfume is the atmosphereand where life is a dream.O land that is never forgotten!And these have taught me to sing:the birds with their melody,the cataracts with their forceand, on the swollen shores,the murmuring of the sea.

IV

While in my childhood daysI could smile upon her sunshine,I felt in my bosom, seething,a fierce volcano ablaze.A poet was I, for I wantedwith my verses, with my breath,to say to the swift wind: 'Flyand propagate her renown!Praise her from zone to zone,from the earth up to the sky!'

V

I left her! My native hearth,a tree despoiled and shriveled,no longer repeats the echoof my old songs of mirth.I sailed across the vast ocean,craving to change my fate,not noting, in my madness,that, instead of the weal I sought,the sea around me wroughtthe spectre of death and sadness.

The dreams of younger hours,love, enthusiasm, desire,have been left there under the skiesof that fair land of flowers.Oh, do not ask of my heartthat languishes, songs of love!For, as without peace I treadthis desert of no surprises,I feel that my soul agonizesand that my spirit is dead.

To My Muse

No more is the muse invoked;the lyre is out of fashion;no poet cares to use it;by other things are the dreamyyoung inspired to passion.

Now if imaginationdemands some poesies,no Helicon is invoked;one simply asks the garonfor a cup of coffee please.

Instead of tender stanzasthat move the hearts sympathy,one now writes a poemwith a pen of steel,a joke and an irony.

Muse that in the pastinspired me to sing of the throesof love: go and repose.What I need is a sword,rivers of gold, and acrid prose.

I have a need to reason,to meditate, to offercombat, sometimes to weep;for he who would love muchhas also much to suffer.

Gone are the days of peace,the days of loves gay chorus,when the flowers were enoughto alleviate the soulof its sufferings and sorrows.

One by one from my sidego those I loved so much:this one dead, that one married;for fate seals with disastereverything that I touch.

Flee also, muse! Go forthand seek a region more fine,for my country vows to give youfetters for your laurels,a dark jail for your shrine.

If to suppress the truthbe a shame, an impiety,would it not then be madnessto keep you by my sidedeprived of liberty?

Why sing when destiny callsto serious meditation,when a hurricane is roaring,when to her sons complainsthe Filipino nation?

And why sing if my songwill merely resound with a moaningthat will arouse no one,the world being sick and tiredof someone elses groaning?

For what, when among the peoplewho criticize and maltreat me,arid the soul, the lips frigid,theres not a heart that beatswith mine, no heart to meet me?

Let sleep in the depths of oblivionall that I feel, for thereit well should be, where the breathcannot mix it with a rhymethat evaporates in the air.

As sleep in the deep abyssthe monsters of the sea,so let my tribulations,my fancies and my lyricsslumber, buried in me.

I know well that your favorsyou lavish without measureonly during that timeof flowers and first lovesunclouded by displeasure.

Many years have passedsince with the ardent heatof a kiss you burned my brow That kiss has now turned cold,I have even forgotten it!

But, before departing, saythat to your sublime addressever responded in mea song for those who grieveand a challenge for those who oppress.

But, sacred imagination, once againto warm my fantasy you will come nighwhen, faith being faded, broken the sword,I cannot for my country die.Youll give me the mourning zither whosechords vibrate with elegiac strainsto sweeten the sorrows of my nationand muffle the clanking of her chains.

But if with laurel triumph crownsour efforts, and my country, united,like a queen of the East arises,a white pearl rescued from the sty:return then and intone with vigorthe sacred hymn of a new existence,and we shall sing that strain in chorusthough in the sepulcher we lie.

To the Flowers of Heidelberg

Go to my country, go, O foreign flowers,sown by the traveler along the road,and under that blue heaventhat watches over my loved ones,recount the devotionthe pilgrim nurses for his native sod!Go and say say that when dawnopened your chalices for the first timebeside the icy Neckar,you saw him silent beside you,thinking of her constant vernal clime.Say that when dawnwhich steals your aromawas whispering playful love songs to your youngsweet petals, he, too, murmuredcanticles of love in his native tongue;that in the morning when the sun first tracesthe topmost peak of Koenigssthul in goldand with a mild warmth raisesto life again the valley, the glade, the forest,he hails that sun, still in its dawning,that in his country in full zenith blazes.And tell of that daywhen he collected you along the wayamong the ruins of a feudal castle,on the banks of the Neckar, or in a forest nook.Recount the words he saidas, with great care,between the pages of a worn-out bookhe pressed the flexible petals that he took.

Carry, carry, O flowers,my love to my loved ones,peace to my country and its fecund loam,faith to its men and virtue to its women,health to the gracious beingsthat dwell within the sacred paternal home.

When you reach that shore,deposit the kiss I gave youon the wings of the wind abovethat with the wind it may roveand I may kiss all that I worship, honor and love!

But O you will arrive there, flowers,and you will keep perhaps your vivid hues;but far from your native heroic earthto which you owe your life and worth,your fragrances you will lose!For fragrance is a spirit that never can forsakeand never forgets the sky that saw its birth.

To the Philippine Youth

Hold high the brow serene,O youth, where now you stand;Let the bright sheenOf your grace be seen,Fair hope of my fatherland!

Come now, thou genius grand,And bring down inspiration;With thy mighty hand,Swifter than the wind's violation,Raise the eager mind to higher station.

Come down with pleasing lightOf art and science to the fight,O youth, and there untieThe chains that heavy lie,Your spirit free to blight.See how in flaming zoneAmid the shadows thrown,The Spaniard'a holy handA crown's resplendent bandProffers to this Indian land.

Thou, who now wouldst riseOn wings of rich emprise,Seeking from Olympian skiesSongs of sweetest strain,Softer than ambrosial rain;Thou, whose voice divineRivals Philomel's refrainAnd with varied lineThrough the night benignFrees mortality from pain;

Thou, who by sharp strifeWakest thy mind to life ;And the memory brightOf thy genius' lightMakest immortal in its strength ;

And thou, in accents clearOf Phoebus, to Apelles dear ;Or by the brush's magic artTakest from nature's store a part,To fig it on the simple canvas' length ;

Go forth, and then the sacred fireOf 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-dayThat places in thy wayThis favor and this fortune grand!

To The Philippines

Warm and beautiful like a houri of yore,as gracious and as pure as the break of dawnwhen darling clouds take on a sapphire tone,sleeps a goddess on the Indian shore.

The small waves of the sonorous sea assailher feet with ardent, amorous kisses, whilethe intellectual West adores her smile;and the old hoary Pole, her flower veil.

My Muse, most enthusiastic and elate,sings to her among naiads and undines;I offer her my fortune and my fate.

With myrtle, purple roses, and flowering greensand lilies, crown her brow immaculate,O artists, and exalt the Philippines!

To the Virgin Mary

Mary, sweet peace and dearest consolationof suffering mortal: you are the fount whence springsthe current of solicitude that bringsunto our soil unceasing fecundation.

From your abode, enthroned on heaven's height,in mercy deign to hear my cry of woeand to the radiance of your mantle drawmy voice that rises with so swift a flight.

You are my mother, Mary, and shall bemy life, my stronghold, my defense most thorough;and you shall be my guide on this wild sea.

If vice pursues me madly on the morrow,if death harasses me with agony:come to my aid and dissipate my sorrow!