Achilles. Thus the American incarnated the majesty of Atreus's Agamemnon, the experience of Nestor the old, and the fearlessness of Peleus's son. Si América. If America conquered, her victory was a source of maternal pride to Spain; the tree which begins to give forth fruits of glory, owes it to the stream that bathes it. Como en el mito. As in the myth in which sinewy Hercules, who neither in strength nor in desire equalled the rebellious Bolivar. . . . ¡Ah! Quién sabe. . . . Ah, who knows whether the universe is only an organism, immovable in essence, and which, although from appearance to appearance it keeps on undergoing transformation, is ever the same,-and who knows whether God is not its consciousness. . . . How many organisms stir in a drop of water, of blood, of sweat, of tears! How much greatness floats in littleness. Oh, Life, how much is your immortal reflection multiplied, which in each drop of water reverberates like the eucharist of the mirror which in a thousand fragments reflects you entire! . . . Within each life there are so many lives! Who could prevent the wave from changing into other waves? The sparks from a flame may become fires in themselves; each corolla is a forest perhaps; and thus universal life is one complete existence. Yo, si duda mi siglo. I, if my century doubts, doubt too. I, if my century denies, age be Suya será mi voluntad. To it will belong all my will, my reason, my ideal, my law, my spirit. But let me at least be able to say, on the other hand, "My heart is my own!" ¡Oh murmullos! Oh, murmurs of the forest! Oh, sacred voice of Nature! Oh, deep plaint of the agonizing beast! No, there is nothing that more swells the human heart than, when it vibrates, the harp of the foliage, attuned to the ocean's diapason. . . . One discovers a voice that enchants him; another, a voice that recalls a song; another, a voice that lulls or implores; yet another, who never prayed to God, hearing such solemn sounds, falls to his knees and prays! Pero hay en ese verso. But there is in this vigorous, terse verse a blood that you will scarcely find in any other, a blood that, when it circulates in the verse, penetrates like light and undulates like the wave. Pero su brazo. But his arm is made for lifting the trumpet toward there where the Prophet's dawn appears. And he is made to give to the winds the expression of the terrible trumpet of thought. y quise en el Museo. And in the Museum, thinking of my mountains, I wished to belong half to America and half to Spain. Ave que hoy se abre. -- Bird that today rends its bosom in the numerous cares of its love, why be surprised, if it is to still the hunger of your children? You, like that bird, with your own beak, are rending your entrails to give life to an entire world. La Paz fué. Peace was made. The decisive triumph of the yellow Court was not good for the Republic of the North, nor was the former rule of the Czars over such eagerly-sought lands and coveted seas. . . . Thus, in the making of peace, the United States conquered, and with sure aim, astute, agile, fore seeing, they trepanned the lands, cut the Andes, united two oceans and felt their greatness. Como es hembra. Since Life is a female, she loves the strong man; and yields to his embrace because she rejoices to surrender to strength. Will, ancient soul; we must triumph! Where there have been laurels, there must have been will-power. RUFINO BLANCO-FOMBONA El mejor poema es el de la vida. The best poem is that of life; the lost note of a piano in the night; the wake of a vessel; the flowery road that leads to unknown cities; childish sorrows; mornings of quarrel; the taste of ungiven kisses, and loveless love. Me abruma el calabozo. ... The dungeon crushes me. My soul is crossed by dark thoughts. My poet's wings, as they open, break against the four walls. In a tomb, and alive! The days are eternal, and eternal the nights! The Griefs keep me company. About me are spies, and chains upon my legs. . . . But as I close my eyes (light, fields, sky) I feel my fetters break; arm in arm with my sweetheart in the garden I breathe the scent of magnolias and verbenas. . . . I take delight in the air, the clouds, the waters of the pond, as refreshing as my beloved. . . . There is yet something good that the Despot cannot take from me or fetter. Locura? Bien. No me resigno. Madness? Very well. I refuse to resign myself. Let slaves do that. Let Destiny make me drink hemlock, and Grief drive its nails through me. . . . I will not say; "blessed art Thou, my Lord, Thy will be done." I will say, "I am less than the insect under the sole of a shoe. But there is no use in gulping down my tears, nor in trying to make a pleasure of my misfortune, or to look upon my torture with an |