Likewise, at the end of its publication, the following was noted regarding the prize won by this composition: “The prize consisted of the works of the immortal Calderón de la Barca, luxuriously bound and with a prologue by Don Marcelino Menéndez Pelayo. This composition first saw the light of day in the newspaper La Fraternidad, a publication also founded by the creator of El Eco de Daimiel, Don Deogracias Fisac.”
The author of this poem was the physician, journalist,
and poet Gaspar Fisac Orovio (Daimiel, Ciudad Real, Spain, 1859–1937).
Verses
I
I know not what strange emotion
seizes hold of my being,
a force I cannot restrain,
this impulse, this deep devotion.
What ails you, my heart so keen?
Why do you beat with such haste?
Something solemn, vast, and chaste
stirs within you to ignite,
rousing you from silent night
to a rhythm newly traced.
II
Calm your beating for a spell,
let me search my memory’s lore
for some tale I might restore
that stirs my senses to this swell;
lost loves from days of yore
rise within my mind’s embrace,
then fade with fleeting grace,
like landscapes swift and grand
that slip from the traveler’s hand
in their boundless, rushing pace.
III
No, it’s not the impressions
of love’s fleeting, fair delight,
so deceptive, yet so bright,
that fuel my poetic sessions;
for after wise reflections,
a sage made me understand
that pure love, at its command,
fell so low upon the earth,
it fled to a sky of worth,
where woman’s cloud gave it birth.
IV
Another secret tale I feel
throbs within my restless mind,
another dream, a song entwined,
that sets my eager thoughts a-reel;
’tis a poet’s death, so real,
that moves my soul to weep,
for Spain mourns, in sorrow deep,
the day his final breath was spent,
when Spanish verse, in last lament,
fell silent in eternal sleep.
V
Yet no, inspiration’s flame
the muses never did deny
to those who, with admiring eye,
revere Calderón’s great name.
To drama’s bold and vibrant frame
he lent a secret might,
and maxims wise and bright,
a model sage and true,
where Apollo’s shrine anew
bears Spain’s poetic light.
VI
What else but summon here
this master so sublime,
wherever poetic rhyme
resounds with Spanish cheer?
From peasant homes austere
to gilded halls of grace,
in foreign lands and space,
as on our native stage,
his songs still fiercely rage,
an echo time won’t erase.
VII
Of letters, poetry’s art,
of arms, and faith’s embrace,
his passion flows in torrents’ trace,
a harmony from the heart;
they hail him, near and far apart,
with fervor deep and wide,
as genius none can hide,
like saints in sacred lore,
like soldiers’ fame of yore,
a sage the world beside.
VIII
If fame today his name extols,
let every heart a song bestow,
each hand a crown to show,
upon his altar souls;
if every town his hymn enrolls,
a tribute to his past,
his story will so vastly cast,
Calderón’s soul might rise
from its abode in skies
to glimpse this glory vast.
IX
His writings brim with thought so wise,
reflections prudent and profound,
sublime depictions that astound,
and counsel blessed to advise;
infinite realms before his eyes
his pen brought into view,
with life and warmth he drew
the scenes of days gone by,
for in his soul they’d lie,
from his mind they grew.
X
And since to Spain he left behind
the finest fruit of his mind’s care,
let’s offer him this tribute rare,
gratitude’s bond enshrined;
in foreign lands or native rind,
they’ll say the brightest bloom
in History’s glorious plume
is the tale of glory’s height,
the brilliance shining bright
of Don Pedro Calderón’s plume.
Image: The famous Spanish writer and playwright,
Calderón de la Barca (Madrid, Spain, 1600 – 1681).
A journey through the history of the pharmaceutical industry and one of its great laboratories that had its origins in Alfred Nobel...
“From Alfred Nobel to AstraZeneca” (Vicente Fisac, Amazon) is available in e-Book and print editions: https://a.co/d/9svRTuI
I know not what strange emotion
seizes hold of my being,
a force I cannot restrain,
this impulse, this deep devotion.
What ails you, my heart so keen?
Why do you beat with such haste?
Something solemn, vast, and chaste
stirs within you to ignite,
rousing you from silent night
to a rhythm newly traced.
Calm your beating for a spell,
let me search my memory’s lore
for some tale I might restore
that stirs my senses to this swell;
lost loves from days of yore
rise within my mind’s embrace,
then fade with fleeting grace,
like landscapes swift and grand
that slip from the traveler’s hand
in their boundless, rushing pace.
No, it’s not the impressions
of love’s fleeting, fair delight,
so deceptive, yet so bright,
that fuel my poetic sessions;
for after wise reflections,
a sage made me understand
that pure love, at its command,
fell so low upon the earth,
it fled to a sky of worth,
where woman’s cloud gave it birth.
Another secret tale I feel
throbs within my restless mind,
another dream, a song entwined,
that sets my eager thoughts a-reel;
’tis a poet’s death, so real,
that moves my soul to weep,
for Spain mourns, in sorrow deep,
the day his final breath was spent,
when Spanish verse, in last lament,
fell silent in eternal sleep.
Yet no, inspiration’s flame
the muses never did deny
to those who, with admiring eye,
revere Calderón’s great name.
To drama’s bold and vibrant frame
he lent a secret might,
and maxims wise and bright,
a model sage and true,
where Apollo’s shrine anew
bears Spain’s poetic light.
What else but summon here
this master so sublime,
wherever poetic rhyme
resounds with Spanish cheer?
From peasant homes austere
to gilded halls of grace,
in foreign lands and space,
as on our native stage,
his songs still fiercely rage,
an echo time won’t erase.
Of letters, poetry’s art,
of arms, and faith’s embrace,
his passion flows in torrents’ trace,
a harmony from the heart;
they hail him, near and far apart,
with fervor deep and wide,
as genius none can hide,
like saints in sacred lore,
like soldiers’ fame of yore,
a sage the world beside.
If fame today his name extols,
let every heart a song bestow,
each hand a crown to show,
upon his altar souls;
if every town his hymn enrolls,
a tribute to his past,
his story will so vastly cast,
Calderón’s soul might rise
from its abode in skies
to glimpse this glory vast.
His writings brim with thought so wise,
reflections prudent and profound,
sublime depictions that astound,
and counsel blessed to advise;
infinite realms before his eyes
his pen brought into view,
with life and warmth he drew
the scenes of days gone by,
for in his soul they’d lie,
from his mind they grew.
And since to Spain he left behind
the finest fruit of his mind’s care,
let’s offer him this tribute rare,
gratitude’s bond enshrined;
in foreign lands or native rind,
they’ll say the brightest bloom
in History’s glorious plume
is the tale of glory’s height,
the brilliance shining bright
of Don Pedro Calderón’s plume.
A journey through the history of the pharmaceutical industry and one of its great laboratories that had its origins in Alfred Nobel...
“From Alfred Nobel to AstraZeneca” (Vicente Fisac, Amazon) is available in e-Book and print editions: https://a.co/d/9svRTuI
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