POEMS

To My Fellow Children

By Dr. José Rizal

(English version of “Sa Aking mga Kababata”)

Whenever people of a country truly love

The language which by heav’n they were taught to use
That country also surely liberty pursue
As does the bird which soars to freer space above.

For language is the final judge and referee

Upon the people in the land where it holds sway;
In truth our human race resembles in this way
The other living beings born in liberty.

Whoever knows not how to love his native tongue

Is worse than any best or evil smelling fish.
To make our language richer ought to be our wish
The same as any mother loves to feed her young.

Tagalog and the Latin language are the same

And English and Castilian and the angels’ tongue;
And God, whose watchful care o’er all is flung,
Has given us His blessing in the speech we calim,

Our mother tongue, like all the highest tht we know

Had alphabet and letters of its very own;
But these were lost – by furious waves were overthrown
Like bancas in the stormy sea, long years ago.

MY FIRST INSPIRATION (Mi Primera Inspiracion, 1874)

Why falls so rich a spray

Of fragrance from the bowers
 Of the balmy flowers
Upon this festive day?

Why from woods and vales

Do we hear sweet measures ringing
That seem to be the singing
Of a choir of nightingales?

Why in the grass below

Do birds start at the wind’s noises,
Unleashing their honeyed voices
As they hop from bough to bough?

Why should the spring that glows

Its crystalline murmur be tuning
To the zephyr’s mellow crooning
As among the flowers it flows?

Why seems to me more endearing,

More fair than on other days,
The dawn’s enchanting face
Among red clouds appearing?

The reason, dear mother, is

They feast your day of bloom:
The rose with its perfume,
The bird with its harmonies.

And the spring that rings with laughter

Upon this joyful day
With its murmur seems to say:
“Live happily ever after!”

And from that spring in the grove

Now turn to hear the first note
That from my lute I emote
To the impulse of my love.
 FELICITATION (Felicitacion, 1875)

I
If Philomela with harmonious tongue
To blond Apollo, who manifests his face
Behind high hill or overhanging mountain,
Canticles sends.
II
So we as well, full of a sweet contentment,
Salute you and your very noble saint
With tender music and fraternal measures,
Dear Antonino.
III
From all your sisters and your other kin
Receive most lovingly the loving accent
That the suave warmth of love dictates to them
Placid and tender.
IV
From amorous wife and amiable Emilio
Sweetly receive an unsurpassed affection;
And may its sweetness in disaster soften
The ruder torments.
V
As the sea pilot, who so bravely fought
Tempestuous waters in the dark of night,
Gazes upon his darling vessel safe
And come to port.
VI
So, setting aside all [worldly] predilections,
Now let your eyes be lifted heavenward
To him who is the solace of all men
And loving Father.
VII
And from ourselves that in such loving accents
Salute you everywhere you celebrate,
These clamorous vivas that from the heart resound
 Be pleased to accept.
THE EMBARKATION, a hymn to Ferdinand Magellan’s fleet (El Embarque: Himno a la
Flota de Magallanes, 1875)

On fair day
When radiant
Phoebus in the East
Happily shone,
In Barrameda
With great contentment
Movement
Reigned everywhere.

‘Tis because on the shores

The caravels
Swell their sails
And shall depart;
Andan unknown world
Noble warriors
With their steel
Shall conquer.

And all is jubilation,

All happiness
And gallantry
In the city;
Everywhere reverberate
Hoarse sounds
Of the drums
With majesty.

Thousands and thousands of salvos

Greet the vessels
With echoes grave,
Of hoarse cannon,
And to the soldiers
 The Spanish people
Render proud salute
With affection.

Adieu, she tells them,

Beloved sons,
Brave soldiers
Of the native home;
With glories crown
Our Spain,
In the campaign
On sea unknown.

As they sail away

To the gentle breath
Of the fresh wind
With emotion,
All bless
With pious voice
So glorious
Heroic action.

The people salute

For the last time,
The flag
Of Magellan,
That is enroute
To the ocean
Where rages insane
The hurricane.

AND HE IS SPANISH: ELCANO, THE FIRST TO CIRCUMNAVIGATE THE WORLD

(Y Es Espanol Elcano, el Primero en dar la Vuelta al Mundo, December 1875)

Where does that frail ship go

 That proudly cruises on
And ploughs the distant seas
To seek the lands unknown?
Who’s the brave and invincible,
That from far down the West
Sails on the expansive world
To yonder roseate East?

Of Spain he’s a heroic son

A Titan new of Pirene,
Who with fury fights against,
If it holds him, the hurricane.

He’s Elcano who undertakes

A task that enchants the world;
To accomplish it he vows
And its vastness him doesn’t hold.

And to Red-tailed eagle akin

That soars high in the wind
With an unequalled flight
And with a movement swift,

Of the blowing storm that roars,

He scorns the horrible hiss;
And mocks with kingly air
The lighting’s shattering noise.

And like a craggy rock

No impetuous ocean in range
Or the Fury of hurricanes
Him can Change or disengage;

Such is the invincible Elcano,

When cruising through
The waves, with his Spanish ships,
 Their rage they might’ly subdue.

Triumphant crosses he
The vast roundness of the globe
With exceptional bravery
He measured the extensive orb.

A thousand laurels crown

Defender of Spain, your brow;
And a brilliant diadem
Now proudly decorates you.

The Battle: Urbiztondo, Terror of Jolo

(El Combate: Urbiztondo, Terror de Jolo, December 1875)

A hundred war-tried ships

At the mercy of the gentle wind,
Leave behind Manila bay
-The ruffled sea they plough.
A short while they descry
The Moros of Jolo
Who with pride they raise
A thousand waving flags.

And when the soldiers strong

Had alighted on the shores
And pointed all their guns
Against the enemy’s wall,
With manly accent spoke
The general : “Soldiers of mine,
Upon your valor depends
The rich glory of victory.

“I would prefer to die

Rather than desist from attack ;
 To thee the country entrusts
Her noble, sacred seals.”
Said he ; and like Notus fierce
By horrid lightning hedged in
In furious tempests it sows
Sad weeping and mourning around ;
So Urbiztondo unsubdued
His soldiers following him,
He spreads death everywhere
With cold steel in his hand.

And like a lion in the woods

He roars, engendering fear,
As he looks upon the prey
That with havoc he devours;
So the noted fighting men
With fury and frenzied fright,
Approach the barricades
As they give a headlong assault.

And the Castiles’ lion shakes

His forelock wrathfully
And readies his pointed claws
To spread tears everywhere.

Eight bastions, do surrender

Of the Moros of Jolo
To the furious rattle of Mars
And Urbiztondo’s assault.

Ah ! They’re the ones, noble Spain,

Like Lepanto’s heroes they are,
At Pavia they’re the ones
Who’re the thunderbolt of war.

The fire consumes and devours

 The castles and palaces
And all the Joloans own
At our soldiers fierce attack.
Perfidious Mahumat flees,
Tyrannical and godless Sultan,
And the warriors valorous
March into Jolo as they sing.

IN MEMORY OF MY TOWN (Un Recuerdo A Mi Pueblo, 1876)

When I remember the days

That saw my early childhood
Spent on the green shores
Of a murmurous lagoon;
When I remember the coolness,
Delicious and refreshing,
That on my face I felt
As I heard Favonius croon;

When I behold the white lily

Swell to the wind’s impulsion,
And that tempestuous element
Meekly asleep on the sand;
When I inhale the dear
Intoxicating essence
The flowers exude when dawn
Is smiling on the land;

Sadly, sadly I recall

Your visage, precious childhood,
Which an affectionate mother
Made 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 foot

Explored your sombre woodlands,
And on the banks of your rivers
In frolic I took part.
I prayed in your rustic temple,
A child, with a child’s devotion;
And your unsullied breeze
Exhilarated my heart.

The Creator I saw in the grandeur

Of your age-old forests;
Upon your bosom, sorrows
Were ever unknown to me;
While at your azure skies
I gazed, neither love nor tenderness
Failed me, for in nature
Lay my felicity.

Tender childhood, beautiful town,

Rich fountain of rejoicing
And of harmonious music
That drove away all pain:
Return to this heart of mine,
Return my gracious hours,
Return as the birds return
When flowers spring again!

But O goodbye! May the Spirit

Of Good, a loving gift-giver,
Keep watch eternally over
Your peace, your joy, your sleep!
For you, my fervent pryers;
For you, my constant desire
To learn; and I pray heaven
 Your innocence to keep!

INTIMATE ALLIANCE BETWEEN RELIGION AND GOOD EDUCATION (Alianza

Intima Entre la Religion y la Buena Educacion, 1876)

As the climbing ivy over lefty elm

Creeps tortuously, together the adornment
Of the verdant plain, embellishing
Each other and together growing,
But should the kindly elm refuse its aid
The ivy would impotent and friendless wither
So is Education to Religion
By spiritual alliance bound.
Through Religion, Education gains renown, and
Woe to the impious mind that blindly spurning
The sapient teachings of Religion, this
Unpolluted fountain-head forsakes.

As the sprout, growing from the pompous vine,

Proudly offers us its honeyed clusters
While the generous and loving garment
Feeds its roots; so the fresh’ning waters
Of celestial virtue give new life
To Education true, shedding
On it warmth and light; because of them
The vine smells sweet and gives delicious fruit.

Without Religion, Human Education

Is like unto a vessel struck by winds
Which, sore beset, is of its helm deprived
By the roaring blows and buffets of the dread
Tempestuous Boreas, who fiercely wields
His power until he proudly sends her down
Into the deep abysses of the angered sea.
 As the heaven’s dew the meadow feeds and strengthens
So that blooming flowers all the earth
Embroider in the days of spring; so also
If Religion holy nourishes
Education with its doctrines, she
Shall walk in joy and generosity
Toward the Good, and everywhere bestrew
The fragrant and luxuriant fruits of Virtue.

EDUCATION GIVES LUSTER TO THE MOTHERLAND

(Por la Educacion Recibe Lustre la Patria, 1876)

Wise education, vital breath

Inspires an enchanting virtue;
She puts the Country in the lofty seat
Of endless glory, of dazzling glow,
And just as the gentle aura’s puff
Do 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 life

To education he dedicates
Because of her, art and science are born
Man; and as from the high mount above
The pure rivulet flows, undulates,
So education beyond measure
Gives the Country tranquility secure.

Where wise education raises a throne

Sprightly youth are invigorated,
Who with firm stand error they subdue
And with noble ideas are exalted;
It breaks immortality’s neck,
Contemptible crime before it is halted:
It humbles barbarous nations
 And it makes of savages champions.
And like the spring that nourishes
The 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 wise
Until the height of honor may rise.

From her lips the waters crystalline

Gush forth without end, of divine virtue,
And prudent doctrines of her faith
The forces weak of evil subdue,
That break apart like the whitish waves
That lash upon the motionless shoreline:
And to climb the heavenly ways the people
Do learn with her noble example.

In the wretched human beings’ breast

The living flame of good she lights
The hands of criminal fierce she ties,
And fill the faithful hearts with delights,
Which seeks her secrets beneficent
And in the love for the good her breast she incites,
And it’s th’ education noble and pure
Of human life the balsam sure.

And like a rock that rises with pride

In the middle of the turbulent waves
When hurricane and fierce Notus roar
She disregards their fury and raves,
That weary of the horror great
So frightened calmly off they stave;
Such is one by wise education steered
He 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 sons
Virtue transplanted luxuriant flow’rs;
And in the love of good e’er disposed
Will see the lords and governors
The noble people with loyal venture
Christian education always procure.

And like the golden sun of the morn

Whose rays resplendent shedding gold,
And like fair aurora of gold and red
She overspreads her colors bold;
Such true education proudly gives
The pleasure of virtue to young and old
And she enlightens out Motherland dear
As she offers endless glow and luster.

The Captivity and the Triumph: Battle of Lucena and the Imprisonment of Boabdil(El
Cautiverio y el Triunfo: Batalla de Lucena y Prision de Boabdil, December 1876)

The proud Abencérage provokes

The soldiers brave of Castilla
Ferociously to humble him
After he had destroyed Montilla.

The Count of Cabra soon arrives

In his strong arm he displays his saber,
Like Death that lugubriously unfolds
Her black wings of death and slaughter.

Toward the troops of an impious race

Like a lion he dashes eagerly ;
As the radiant sun to the new-born day
With him goes Don Diego anxiously.
 Thus like the fleeing fugitive stag
Evading the fleeting arrow
The haughty heart so filled with fright,
The Prophet’s armies away go.

But not so the ferocious cavalry,

As shield its breast it exposes,
With gallantry it awaits the fight
To attack with utter harshness.

Boabdil encourages his hordes

With wrath and savage fury :
His anguish on his face he shows
With grit to the fleeing men speaks he :
“To where art thou led, Oh, Trickless Moors,
By the fear thee blinds and chases?
From whom do thee flee? With whom, hapless men,
The stout heart to fight refuses?”

Said he ; and with menace the trumpet sounds ;

Ours arrive and start the fighting,
And everywhere is heard alone
Of flashing steel the rattling.

Don Alonso Aguilar attacks

Them on one flank furious battle.
He wounds, beheads, devastates, and assaults
As a wolf does, the timid cattle.

Alas! The Muslim, stubborn and cruel

Implores his Prophet vainly
While against the Christians noble and strong,
The spear and the rein tightens he.

Amidst the fiery tumult of war

 There did the commander brave die :
Into pieces broken: helmets, spears,
And horses on the ground lie.

His soldiers now terrified and tired

Flee before the Christian victors ;
Just as away the timorous dear
Run as the lion brave roars.

When the King, abandoned, finds himself

And seeing escape isn’t too soon,
He gets down his horses terrified,
And hides in the woods like a poltroon.
Two unconquered Christians found him ;
And by royal symbols detected,
Instantly to Don Diego him they took
Like a royal captive defeated.

There at Lucena the Christians’ God

Humbled down the arrogant’s power
Who wanted to tie with a heavy chain
The Spaniard as downcast pris’ner.

TRIUMPHANT ENTRY OF THE CATHOLIC MONARCHS INTO GRANADA(Entrada

triunfal de los Reyes Católicos en Granada, December 1876)

‘Twas a quiet and gloomy night

Whose mem’ry hurts the heart,
A night ago in which the Muslim King
Treads the Alhambra’s beautiful floor.
The face pale, loose his hair,
Tired eyes of frigid gaze,
Head low, recumbent his face,
The sad Muslim looks at his palaces.
The Muslim looks at them and abundant tears
 Bathe his eyes, a-flowing down his cheeks,
And to the ceiling gilt and arabesque
He turns again his weary gaze.
Sand and tearful he remembers then
The Muslim exploits and the glorious jousts ;
And comparing the present ills
With the combats of past days,
“Goodbye, Alhambra,” he says; “Alhambra, goodbye,
Abode of joy and abundant happiness ;
Goodbye, palace full of pleasures,
Inexhaustible fountain of delight.
Sad I leave you and now I’m going
To cruel exile, of hardships full,
In order not to see your towers high,
Your fountains clear and rich abodes.”
He said ; and moaning the costly habiliments
Of the gilded apartments he removes ;
And of its beautiful decorations stripped
The huge halls, sad he withdraws,
And in the silence of the night

When the luckless Arabs were asleep,

When only the hissing of the winds
Through the peaceful city could be heard
And crossing the streets
Of that now forsaken realm,
Pale and petrified
Bathed in mortal sweat;
Only lamentations deep
Were heard everywhere,
And some doleful voice
Thrown in its wild complaint.

The king stopped; the towers he saw

He contemplated those walls;
The bottles remembered he
 That he waged in happy times;
But he could not control himself
And he lowered his gazed to the ground
And mournfully said
As he bends his head:
“Alas! Granada what happened to you?
What became of your nights?
Alas! Where do your warriors sleep
That your anguish they don’t see?
Indeed! I your unhappy King,
To the Libyan desert lands
Hurled and with chains
By fate I also go.
“Today I lose everything, everything,
Kingdom, palace, treasure
And so alone I sadly weep
What cruel grief prepares for me;
There was a time when your tow’rs
Preponderantly ruled
And they were the havoc and dread
Of squadrons in front.”
He said and the squadrons he sees
Commanded by Talavera,
As he waves the flag
Of Christian religion;

That by royal order the forts

They were going to occupy
And to take possession of
The Alhambra and its rooms.

And to Fernando Talavera

Who rules the knights
With respect addresses himself
The unfortunate Boabdil ;
And in manner like this speaks to him
 With mournful stress,
Into cruel anguish plunged
In a thousand anxieties submerged:

“Go my lord, go immediately

To take hold of those abodes
By the great Almighty reserved
For your powerful King;
Allah chastises the Moors;
Strip them of their property;
From their country he throws them out
For they did not keep his law.”

He said no more ; on his way

The Mohammedan proceeds
And behind goes his faithful band
In silence and with grief.
Aback they didn’t turn their gaze
To contemplate their ground,
For affliction perhaps would strike
Them with greater vehemence.

And in the distance they see

The Christians’ camp did show
Signs of contentment and joy
Upon seeing the celestial Cross
That on the Alhambra is displayed
When the city was overrun ;
And ‘twas the primary sign
Of the race that was subdued.

And th’ unhappy Monarch hears

The voice of “Long live Castille !”
And he sees on their knees

The Spanish Combatants;

And from the trumpets he hears
Triumphal harmonies.
And the brilliant helmets he sees
The bright sun shining on them.
His footsteps then he turns

Toward King Fernando

Who advances ordering
His troops with majesty;
And as he nears the King,
The Moor gives to him the keys,
The only treasure and sign
Of the Mohammedan pow’r.

“See there,” Boabdil says to him,

What I can offer you,
And the only thing left to me,
Of the Arabic domain
My kingdom, trophies, men,
Fields, houses, victories,
Exalted honors, tow’rs
And gardens all, now are yours.”

Boabdil thus did speak

And having paid his respect
From that place he withdraws
A thousand ills he saw
Continuing his slow pace
His warriors sending forth
A thousand doleful groans
As they leave the fair Genil.

Now, the warlike clarion

Of Fernando sounds th’ entry
In Granada lovely and fair,
Now Christian with no infidel;
The captives of the defeated Moor,
Who sadly were dragging chains
And suff’ring torments and pains
With joy came to Isabel.

Like long-suff’ring warriors brave

The clement King greets them,
His gladness showing on his face
‘Cause from evil he saw them freed;
And the Queen abundant alms
Distributes with benevolent hand
That Queen who’s always of God
Ought to wear immortal crown.

And as the Muslims hear

The cries of festivity,
Sonorous beating of drums,
And the singing of delight,
They lamented their fate,
The glory they have lost,
Their race that was subdued,
Their country without peer.

Their mournful groans

They carefully hide,
Their tearful pray’rs,
To be heard they fear
Would augment the pride
Of that victory
That causes their woe.

Now the flag of Spain

Proudly waves o’er the walls
Of noble Granada now secure !
Now the Catholic Kings
From their seat opulent
 Will decree wise laws
For the children of Genil.

Now delightful Granada, proud

Is Christians’ dwelling place
And Granada belongs
To the faithful populace.

Now from Heaven God looks down

With joy the beautiful tow’rs
And merlons all full
Of Trophies and laurel.

THE HEROISM OF COLUMBUS (El Heroismo de Colon, 1877)

Oh tell me, celestial Muse, who in the mind

Of Columbus infused a breath sublime,
Invested with noble courage and faith,
To plough the seas of the West?
Who gave him brav’ry whem imposing
The sea was angered. The wind roared,
That in his rage the bad angel called
Against the son of faithful Spain?

In the midst of solemn tranquility

When languid earth was asleep,
And the moon its trembling disc
Through the diaphanous sky did steer,
A man contemplates the wavy sea…
Seen painted on his smiling face
So magnificent clemency’s pow’r
Exuding kindness and intelligence.

The curly whitish waves of the sea

That bathe the spreading shore,
 Like silver reflect the white light
To the soft breath of perfumed breeze;
And while from the shadows strange
Around danced winged multitude,
An old man, furious, fierce and grave
Fantastic rose from the sea profound.

He hold firm in his strong right hand

A heavy trident aflame…

“And your audacious heart hopes to subdue

The fierce sea’s terrible rage
That when the fiery tempest roars
In mass it rises gloomy and grave?
Oh! Who could calmly contemplate
The iron cold of bloody fate,
That the roar of the wind which resounds
In the abyss a sad tomb opes?

“What lies beyond? Only death,

The dark sea that dreadfully terrifies
And infuses fear in the stoutest heart,
Where at each instant darkly appears
The tempest, with the mariner in doubt
How to guide his ship in such calamity;
And the waters bury him in the depth
Where a thousand horrible monsters hide.

“But, alas, poor you! Alas, unhappy Spain

If you run in search of land remote!
I will excite the north wind’s rage
And the hatred cruel of all that the ocean holds. . .
And ere you step on the foreign shores,
War and discord I’ll put within your ship;
And I’ll not rest until I see your ruin,
If divine protection saves you not…
“Hush, deceitful monster, with son’rous voice
Christopher answers him, ignorance….”

Columbus and John II (Colon y Juan II)

“Christopher, to you, fame,
And immortal crown and great renown
Homage history pays !
Your august name reaches
Posterity and is amazed.

“Blesses you the world

In canticles of love and contentment
All that Lusitania
Holds proclaim instantly
Your faith’s noble valor.

“Who, like you, is gentle,

Constant, resigned, and gen’rous?
Conquered thou the dreadful
Fury of the wavy sea
And the cowardly, treach’rous mariner.

“Hail, illustrious Adm’ral,

Firm of heart, fiery in the fight ;
To your constant valor
Kindly today I offer
Castles and honors together.
“I, your voice I shall be
To proclaim before my standards
Viceroy of good graces
And above the towers
I shall put your name in royal flags.”

Thus did speak the sov’reign,

Portugal’s Juan the enlightened.
 Glory great beforehand
And the highest post in his palace
Offers he the veteran.

But . . . hurriedly he flees

Columbusfrom the treach’rous deceiver
Of the palace ambitious;
Runs he, flies to where dwells
Isabel the Christian, his benefactress.

A FAREWELL DIALOGUE OF THE STUDENTS (Un Dialogo Alusive a la Despedida de

los Colegiales)

This was the last poem written by Rizal in Ateneo which again amazed his teachers. It is
a poignant poem of farewell to his classmates, written just before he graduated from the Ateneo
Muncipal de Manila.

CHILD JESUS (Al Nino Jesus, November 1875)

Why have you come to earth,

Child-God, in a poor manger?
Does Fortune find you a stranger
From the moment of your birth?
Alas, of heavenly stock
Now turned an earthly resident!
Do you not wish to be president
But the shepherd of your flock?

VIRGIN MARY (A La Virgen Maria, to Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage)

Mary, sweet peace and dearest consolation

Of suffering mortal: you are the fount whence springs
The current of solicitude that brings
Unto our soil unceasing fecundation.
From your abode, enthroned on heaven’s height,
 In mercy deign to hear my cry of woe
And to the radiance of your mantle draw
My voice that rises with so swift a flight.

You are my mother, Mary, and shall be

My 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!

TO THE PHILIPPINE YOUTH (A la Juventud Filipina, November 1879)

Hold high the brow serene,

O youth, where now you stand;
Let the bright sheen
Of 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 light

Of art and science to the fight,
O youth, and there untie
The chains that heavy lie,
Your spirit free to blight.

See how in flaming zone

Amid the shadows thrown,
The Spaniard’a holy hand
 A crown’s resplendent band
Proffers to this Indian land.

Thou, who now wouldst rise

On wings of rich emprise,
Seeking from Olympian skies
Songs of sweetest strain,
Softer than ambrosial rain;

Thou, whose voice divine

Rivals Philomel’s refrain
And with varied line
Through the night benign
Frees mortality from pain;

Thou, who by sharp strife

Wakest thy mind to life ;
And the memory bright
Of thy genius’ light
Makest immortal in its strength ;

And thou, in accents clear

Of Phoebus, to Apelles dear ;
Or by the brush’s magic art
Takest from nature’s store a part,
To fig it on the simple canvas’ length ;

Go forth, and then the sacred fire

Of 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-day
 That places in thy way
This favor and this fortune grand !

To the Philippine Youth

Unfold, oh timid flower!

Lift up your radiant brow,

This day, Youth of my native strand!
Your abounding talents show
Resplendently and grand,
Fair hope of my Motherland!

Soar high, oh genius great,

And with noble thoughts fill their mind;
The honor’s glorious seat,
May their virgin mind fly and find
More rapidly than the wind.

Descend with the pleasing light

Of the arts and sciences to the plain,
Oh Youth, and break forthright
The links of the heavy chain
That your poetic genius enchain.

See that in the ardent zone,

The Spaniard, where shadows stand,
Doth offer a shining crown,
With wise and merciful hand
To the son of this Indian land.

You, who heavenward rise

On wings of your rich fantasy,
Seek in the Olympian skies
The tenderest poesy,
More sweet than divine honey;
 You of heavenly harmony,
On a calm unperturbed night,
Philomel’s match in melody,
That in varied symphony
Dissipate man’s sorrow’s blight;

You at th’ impulse of your mind

The hard rock animate
And your mind with great pow’r consigned
Transformed into immortal state
The pure mem’ry of genius great;

And you, who with magic brush

On canvas plain capture
The varied charm of Phoebus,
Loved by the divine Apelles,
And the mantle of Nature;

Run ! For genius’ sacred flame

Awaits the artist’s crowning
Spreading far and wide the fame
Throughout the sphere proclaiming
With trumpet the mortal’s name
Oh, joyful, joyful day,
The Almighty blessed be
Who, with loving eagerness
Sends you luck and happiness.

ABD-EL-AZIS AND MOHAMMED (ABD-EL-AZIS Y MAHOMA, December 1879)

It was night: the moaning wind

Sighs as it kisses the towers tall
And on its wings carries mournfully
Thousands of confused noises agitating the space.
 Aweful clouds bedim the peace
Of the dark night’s beautiful star,
And a soft tint like a mantle of snow
Covers the fields that the Spaniard treads.

There, from the tall Moorish tow’r

Sings the owl on th’ imposing peak,
Numberless evils and bloody fights
With fatidical accent foretells.

In the meanwhile on the soft bed

That the luxurious Moor makes of ivory,
Rest doth seek the weary, brave Abd-El-Azis,
Pleasant relief from the bygone” day.

Th’ incense mild in silver tripods

That th’ Arabian bark distills,
Burns and spreads intoxicating scent,
Of the sumptuous chamber soft delight.

Everything is silent : everyone sleeps ;

Only the sorrowful Moor keeps guard,
Contemplates the light that sadly
Penetrates through th’ elegant arch.

But so sudden he beholds outlined

Dubious shadow that in the gentle light
Agitates him for a time, and his sullen face
Masculine contour acquires.

With a white turban covered in his head,

Animates his countenance a lengthy beard,
From his belt a curved cutlass hangs
Horribly dripping with ardent blood.

Like the mournful sound of hollow bronze

 That deplores the agony of man,
Thus the sepulchral silence his voice
Ruffles, and the fatidical vision the Moor.

“Alas ! Alas ! It tells him, and resounded profound

Th’ echo of his voice calm and cold,
Terrible echo that touches the soul,
Like the remembrance of a friendly voice.

“Alas, poor me ! Pity the nation brave

That the sandy Lybia saw on her breast !
Alas, poor Koran, sacred patrimony
That to the Muslim Allah once bequeathed !

Vainly did you conquer the flags

Of the Pow’rful Christian of Guadalete
On the green banks, for again
Raises he rebellious his captive head.

Pelayo, the great Pelayo, the noble Goth,

The illustrious son of fierce Favila,
On the hard rocks of Covadonga
Fights the forces of the Moor.

The Cross, the Cross, insignia idolized,

Follows its army that to conquer aspires:
Mary goes with them with her cloak
Shelters she with love the bodies weak.
But don’t fear, for triumphant ever be
Will the Muslim in the combat crude,
And of no avail her protection would be
For only God helps the faithful with his arm.

But alas! If you sleep in the arms of delight

And my heavenly precepts you ignore
The throne that sustained Tarif will fall
 To the rough blow of the sword profane

Like the overflowing river your blood

Will inundate the vales and fields
And the flourishing Iberia’s ground
Th’ Arab’s cold tomb will become ;

And in numberless battles in eternal war,

Into your breasts will plunge
The proud Spaniard’s knife, and the vile dust
Like the accursed .serpent you’ll bite ;

And you’ll yield the ground inch by inch

Fertilized by your blessed blood ;
The weak women and children slaves will be
In their sad affliction ;

Hurled again to the desert cruel,

Bitter tears for peace that was lost
You will shed, and in shameful torment
You will count the days of your return.

And rejoicing proudly at your distress

In their perfidy A thousand ships will arm,
And the beautiful ground where I rest in peace
They will threaten with fury never seen.

Arm yourself ! Run ! Quickly fly !

Cast your veteran army with the fight
And to the wind let the son’rous trumpet release
Warlike accent, to glory a toast.

Trembles the ground beneath the saddle light

Of the fiery steed that Arabia breeds
And like showy murex in burning red
Infidel blood tints your scimitar.
 Before the Moon that my insignia displays
Make the Cross its fortress yield,
And forever victorious may they shine
The beneficent doctrines of the Koran.”

Said he ; and like a lightly rising smoke

That a strong wind rapidly dissipates,
Thus disappeared the terrible fright
That the vision divine caused the Moor.

To The Philippines, February 1880

A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin

Warm and beautiful like a houri of yore,

As gracious and as pure as the break of dawn
When darling clouds take on a sapphire tone,
Sleeps a goddess on the Indian shore.
The small waves of the sonorous sea assail
Her feet with ardent, amorous kisses, while
The 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 greens

And lilies, crown her brow immaculate,
O artists, and exalt the Philippines!

Al M.R.P. PABLO RAMON, 1881

Sweet is the breeze that at the break of dawn

 The calyx of fragrant flowers shakes,
Alluring odors soft they spread
O’er the countryside ;

The placid murmur is sweet and soft

Of the gentle rivulet that with joy
Throws silv’ry foam on sands of gold
And drops of water white ;

Sweet are the trills of musical birds

Soft is th’ aroma of motley flow’rs
And the perfumes of th’ aurora white
Mellow and sweet;

But your name, oh, Father idolized,

Instills the purest joy in our breast,
Whence it diffuses most mellow rays
Of eternal glow.

The Almighty’s hand affectionate

You show us, Father, whose love sincere
Throughout the bitter road of life
Does guide us with love.

Alas! What will become of youthful toil

That restlessly burns in our breast,
Without the guidance or your kind hand,
Your love, your zeal?

We’re, Father, your sons; you do guide us

To the homes of eternal happiness.
The mind will not be disturbed by fright
With a pilot like you.

The great Apostle whose name you bear,

Whose footsteps with enthusiasm you trail,
 With heavenly favor shower you,
A sacred treasure.

GOODBYE TO LEONOR, 1882 (A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin)

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!

They Ask Me for Verses (Me Piden Versos, October 1882)

I
They bid me strike the lyre
So long now mute and broken,
But not a note can I waken
Nor will my muse inspire!
She stammers coldly and babbles
When tortured by my mind;
She lies when she laughs and thrills
As she lies in her lamentation,
For in my sad isolation
My soul nor frolics nor feels.

II
There was a time, ‘tis true,
But now that time has vanished
When indulgent love or friendship
Called me a poet too.
 Now of that time there lingers
Hardly a memory,
As from a celebration
Some mysterious refrain
That haunts the ears will remain
Of the orchestra’s actuation.

III
A scarce-grown plant I seem,
Uprooted from the Orient,
Where perfume is the atmosphere
And 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 force
And, on the swollen shores,
The murmuring of the sea.

IV
While in my childhood days
I could smile upon her sunshine,
I felt in my bosom, seething,
A fierce volcano ablaze.
A poet was I, for I wanted
With my verses, with my breath,
To say to the swift wind: “Fly
And 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 echo
Of 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 wrought
The spectre of death and sadness.

VI
The dreams of younger hours,
Love, enthusiasm, desire,
Have been left there under the skies
Of that fair land of flowers.
Oh, do not ask of my heart
That languishes, songs of love!
For, as without peace I tread
This desert of no surprises,
I feel that my soul agonizes
And that my spirit is dead.

To Miss C.O. y R., 1883

Why ask for those unintellectual verses

That once, insane with grief, I sang aghast?
Or are you maybe throwing in my face
My rank ingratitude, my bitter past?

Why resurrect unhappy memories

Now 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 dejection

Delirium 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 reason
Brings melancholy but may set you laughing.
Down with my corpse into the grave shall go
Another corpse that’s buried in my stuffing!

Something impossible, ambition, madness,

Dreams of the soul, a passion and its throes
Oh, drink the nectar that life has to offer
And let the bitter dregs in peace repose!

Again I feel the impenetrable shadows

Shrouding 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 brood

And sorrow suckled each and every brat!
Oh, they know well to what they owe their being,
And maybe they themselves will tell you what.

THE FLOWERS OF HEIDELBERG (A los Flores de Heidelberg , April 1886)

Go to my country, go, O foreign flowers,

Sown by the traveler along the road,
And under that blue heaven
That watches over my loved ones,
Recount the devotion
The pilgrim nurses for his native sod!
Go and say say that when dawn
Opened your chalices for the first time
Beside the icy Neckar,
You saw him silent beside you,
Thinking of her constant vernal clime.

Say that when dawn

 Which steals your aroma
Was whispering playful love songs to your young
Sweet petals, he, too, murmured
Canticles of love in his native tongue;
That in the morning when the sun first traces
The topmost peak of Koenigssthul in gold
And with a mild warmth raises
To 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 day

When he collected you along the way
Among the ruins of a feudal castle,
On the banks of the Neckar, or in a forest nook.
Recount the words he said
As, with great care,
Between the pages of a worn-out book
He 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 beings
That dwell within the sacred paternal home.

When you reach that shore,

Deposit the kiss I gave you
On the wings of the wind above
That with the wind it may rove
And 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 earth
 To which you owe your life and worth,
Your fragrances you will lose!
For fragrance is a spirit that never can forsake
And never forgets the sky that saw its birth.

THE SONG OF MARIA CLARA, 1887 (A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin)

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 playing

As 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 has
No country, no mother, and no love!

Hymn to Labor, 1888(A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin)

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 sustains
Fam’ly, home and Motherland.
Hard the land may turn to be,
 Scorching the rays of the sun above…
For the country, wife and children
All will be easy to our love.

(Chorus)
WIVES:
Go to work with spirits high,
For the wife keeps home faithfully,
Inculcates love in her children
For 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:
Hail! 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 love
Labor his faith will sustain :
Only a man who struggles and works
Will his offspring know to maintain.

(Chorus)
CHILDREN:
Teach, us ye the laborious work
To pursue your footsteps we wish,
For tomorrow when country calls us
We 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 dead
As does a son with glory and valor.
TO MY MUSE (A Mi, 1890, incl. in La Solidaridad)(A Translation from the Spanish by
Nick Joaquin)

No more is the muse invoked;

The lyre is out of fashion;
No poet cares to use it;
By other things are the dreamy
Young inspired to passion.

Now if imagination
Demands some poesies,
No Helicon is invoked;
One simply asks the garçon
For a cup of coffee please.

Instead of tender stanzas

That move the heart’s sympathy,
One now writes a poem
With a pen of steel,
A joke and an irony.

Muse that in the past

Inspired me to sing of the throes
Of 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 offer
Combat, sometimes to weep;
For he who would love much
Has also much to suffer.

Gone are the days of peace,

The days of love’s gay chorus,
 When the flowers were enough
To alleviate the soul
Of its sufferings and sorrows.

One by one from my side

Go those I loved so much:
This one dead, that one married;
For fate seals with disaster
Everything that I touch.

Flee also, muse! Go forth

And seek a region more fine,
For my country vows to give you
Fetters for your laurels,
A dark jail for your shrine.

If to suppress the truth

Be a shame, an impiety,
Would it not then be madness
To keep you by my side
Deprived of liberty?

Why sing when destiny calls

To serious meditation,
When a hurricane is roaring,
When to her sons complains
The Filipino nation?

And why sing if my song

Will merely resound with a moaning
That will arouse no one,
The world being sick and tired
Of someone else’s groaning?

For what, when among the people

Who criticize and maltreat me,
 Arid the soul, the lips frigid,
There’s not a heart that beats
With mine, no heart to meet me?
Let sleep in the depths of oblivion
All that I feel, for there
It well should be, where the breath
Cannot mix it with a rhyme
That evaporates in the air.

As sleep in the deep abyss

The monsters of the sea,
So let my tribulations,
My fancies and my lyrics
Slumber, buried in me.

I know well that your favors

You lavish without measure
Only during that time
Of flowers and first loves
Unclouded by displeasure.

Many years have passed

Since with the ardent heat
Of a kiss you burned my brow
That kiss has now turned cold,
I have even forgotten it!
But, before departing, say
That to your sublime address
Ever responded in me
A song for those who grieve
And a challenge for those who oppress.

But, sacred imagination, once again

To warm my fantasy you will come nigh
When, faith being faded, broken the sword,
I cannot for my country die.
 You’ll give me the mourning zither whose
Chords vibrate with elegiac strains
To sweeten the sorrows of my nation
And muffle the clanking of her chains.

But if with laurel triumph crowns

Our efforts, and my country, united,
Like a queen of the East arises,
A white pearl rescued from the sty:
Return then and intone with vigor
The sacred hymn of a new existence,
And we shall sing that strain in chorus “
Though in the sepulcher we lie.

KUNDIMAN, 1891 Translation from Zaide

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 praise
Shall sound the name of the Tagalog race.
We shall pour out our blood in a great flood
To liberate the parent sod;
But till that day arrives for which we weep,
Love shall be mute, desire shall sleep.

WATER AND FIRE (EL AGUA Y EL FUEGO, 1891)

Water are we, you say, and yourselves fire,

So let us be what we are
 And co-exist without ire,
And may no conflagration ever find us at war.

But, rather, fused together by cunning science

Within the cauldrons of the ardent breast,
Without rage, without defiance,
Do we form steam, fifth element indeed:
Progress, life, enlightenment, and speed!

SONG OF THE WANDERER/TRAVELER(EL CANTO DEL VIAJERO, 1895)

Dry leaf that flies at random

Till 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 everywhere

And joy eludes him and flees,
A vain shadow that mocks his yearning
And for which he sails the seas.

Impelled by a hand invisible,

He shall wander from place to place;
Memories shall keep him company
Of loved ones, of happy days.

A tomb perhaps in the desert,

A sweet refuge, he shall discover,
By his country and the world forgotten
Rest quiet: the torment is over.

And they envy the hapless wanderer

As across the earth he persists!
Ah, they know not of the emptiness
In 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 gravesnothing more.

Begone, wanderer! In your own country,

A stranger now and alone!
Let the others sing of loving,
Who are happybut you, begone!

Begone, wanderer! Look not behind you

Nor grieve as you leave again.
Begone, wanderer: stifle your sorrows!
The world laughs at another’s pain.

TO JOSEPHINE, 1895

Josephine, Josephine
Who to these shores have come
Looking for a nest, a home,
Like a wandering swallow;
If your fate is taking you
To Japan, China or Shanghai,
Don’t forget that on these shores
A heart for you beats high.

HYMN TO TALISAY, October 1895

Hail, Talisay,
Firm and faithful,
Ever forward
March elate!
 You, victorious,
The elements
Land, sea and air
Shall dominate!

The sandy beach of Dapitan

And the rocks of its lofty mountain
Are your throne. O sacred asylum
Where I passed my childhood days!

In your valley covered with flowers

And 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 tomorrow
That 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 region
Talisay has no match!

Our reservoir is unequalled;

Our precipice is a deep chasm;
And when we go rowing, our bancas
No banca in the world can catch!
We study the problems of science
And the history of the nation.
We speak some three or four languages;
Faith and reason we span.

Our hands can wield at the same time

The knife, the pen and the spade,
The picket, the rifle, the sword
Companions 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;

MY RETREAT (Mi Retiro, 1895)(A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin)

Beside a spacious beach of fine and delicate sand

And 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 woods
Repose 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 slumbers
And night and day is lulled by the crooning of the sea.

The overflowing brook, that from the shadowy jungle

Descends between huge bowlders, washes it with its spray,
Donating a current of water through makeshift bamboo pipes
That in the silent night is melody and music
And 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 torrent
Spills over rocks and chasms hoarse, foaming and aboil
To 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 neighbor
To 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 mass

Brings 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 element

Is 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 wind
Histories 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 nothing
To populate the abyss and the overhanging summits
And all the places where that quickening kiss was pressed.

But when the winds rage in the darkness of the night

And the unquiet waves commence their agony,
Across the air move cries that terrify the spirit,
A chorus of voices praying, a lamentation that seems
to 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 dawning
and forthwith an intrepid little fishing vessel
begins 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 rare
good fortune; and Providence be praised for my condition:
a disregarded pebble that craves nothing but moss
to hide from all the treasure that in myself I bear.

I live with the remembrance of those that I have loved

and hear their names still spoken, who haunt my memory;
some already are dead, others have long forgotten
but what does it matter? I live remembering the past
and 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 spirit’s a lonesome wraith,
 that in my sleepless nights keeps watch with me and prays
with 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 shine

when the Idea shall defeat brute force as well;
and after the struggle and the lingering agony
a voice more eloquent and happier than my own
will then know how to utter victory’s canticle.

I see the heavens shining, as flawless and refulgent

as 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 enthusiasm
and turned the blood ebullient within my youthful heart.

Across the fields and rivers of my native town

perhaps has travelled 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 idolized
and 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 eveywhere, 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 hurricane
and 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 you
that in good hour suspended by uncertain flight
to bring me down to the bosom of my native earth.

Beside a spacious beach of fine and delicate sand

and 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.

MY LAST FAREWELL (Mi Ultimo Adios, December 1896)

Farewell, beloved Country, treasured region of the sun,

Pearl of the sea of the Orient, our vanquished Eden!
To you I gladly surrender this melancholy life;
And were it brighter, fresher, gaudier,
Even then I’d give it to you, to you alone would then I give.
 In fields of battle, deliriously fighting,
Others give you their lives, without doubt, without regret;
Where there’s cypress, laurel or lily,
On a plank or open field, in combat or cruel martyrdom,
If the home or country asks, it's all the same--it matters not.

I die when I see the sky unfurls its colors

And at last after a cloak of darkness announces the day;
If you need scarlet to tint your dawn,
Paint with my blood, pour it as the moment comes,
And may it be gilded by a reflection of the heaven’s new-born light.
My dreams, even as a child,
My dreams, when a young man in the prime of life,
Were to see you one day, jewel of the eastern seas,
Dry those dark eyes, raise that forehead high,
Without frown, without wrinkle, without stain of shame.

My lifelong dream, my deep burning desire,

Is for this soul that will soon depart to cry out: Salud!
To your health! Oh how beautiful to fall to give you flight,
To die to give you life, to rest under your sky,
And in your enchanted land forever sleep.

If upon my grave one day you may behold,

Amidst the dense grass, a simple lowly flower,
Place it upon your lips, and my soul you’ll kiss,
And on my brow may I feel, under the cold tomb,
The tenderness of your touch, the warmth of your breath.
Let the moon see me in soft and tranquil light,
Let the dawn burst forth its fleeting radiance,
Let the wind moan with its gentle murmur,
And should a bird descend and rest on my cross,
Let it sing its canticle of peace.

Let the burning sun evaporate the rain,

And with the struggle behind, towards the sky may they turn pure;
Let a friend mourn my early demise,
And in the serene afternoon, when someone prays for me,
O Country, pray that God will also grant me rest!

Pray for all the unfortunate ones who died,

For all who suffered torment unequaled,
For grieving mothers who in bitterness cry,
For orphans and widows, for prisoners in torture,
And for yourself to see your redemption at last.

And when the burial ground is shrouded in dark night,

And there alone, only the departed remain in vigil,
Disturb not their rest, nor their secrets,
And should you hear chords from a zither or harp,
'Tis I, O land beloved, 'tis I, to you I sing !

And when my grave, then by all forgotten,

has not a cross nor stone to mark its place,
Let men plow and with a spade disperse it,
And before my ashes return to nothing,
May they be the dust that carpets your fields.

Then nothing matters, cast me in oblivion.

Your air, your space, your valleys I will cross.
I will be vibrant music to your ears,
Aroma, light, colors, murmur, moan, and song,
Ever echoing the essence of my faith.

Land that I love, sorrow of my sorrows,

Adored Filipinas, hear my last good-bye.
There I leave you all, my parents, my beloved.
I go where there are no slaves, hangmen nor oppressors,
Where faith does not kill, where the one who reigns is God.

Goodbye, dear parents, brother and sisters, fragments of my soul,

 Childhood friends in the home now gone,
Give thanks that I rest from this wearisome day;
Goodbye, sweet stranger, my friend, my joy;
Farewell, loved ones. To die is to rest.

WORKS OF JOSE RIZAL

Novels and Essays

Noli Me Tángere, novel, 1887
El Filibusterismo, (novel, 1891), sequel to Noli Me Tángere
Alin Mang Lahi (“Whate’er the Race”), a Kundiman attributed to Dr. Jose Rizal
The Friars and the Filipinos (Unfinished)
Toast to Juan Luna and Felix Hidalgo (Speech, 1884), given at Restaurante Ingles, Madrid
The Diaries of José Rizal
Rizal’s Letters is a compendium of Dr. Jose Rizal’s letters to his family members, Blumentritt,
Fr. Pablo Pastells and other reformers
“Come se gobiernan las Filipinas” (Governing the Philippine islands)
Filipinas dentro de cien años essay, 1889–90 (The Philippines a Century Hence)
La Indolencia de los Filipinos, essay, 1890 (The indolence of Filipinos)[51]
Makamisa unfinished novel
Sa Mga Kababaihang Taga Malolos, essay, 1889, To the Young Women of Malolos
Annotations to Antonio de Moragas, Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas (essay, 1889, Events in the
Philippine Islands)

Poetry
A La Juventud Filipina (English translation: To The Philippine Youth)
El Canto Del Viajero (English translation: Song of the Wanderer)
Briayle Crismarl
Canto de María Clara (English translation: Song of Maria Clara)
Himno Al Trabajo (Dalit sa Paggawa)
Felicitación [Felicitation (English Translation)]
Kundiman (Tagalog) [Kundiman (English Translation)]
Me Piden Versos (English translation: They Ask Me for Verses!)
Mi Primera Inspiracion
Mi Retiro (English translation: My Retreat)
Mi Ultimo Adiós (English translation: My Last Farewell)
Por La Educación (Recibe Lustre La Patria) (English translation: Education Gives Luster to
Motherland
Sa Sanggol na si Jesus (English translation: Child Jesus)
A Mi Musa (English translation: To My Muse)
Un Recuerdo A Mi Pueblo (English translation: Memories of My Town)
A Man in Dapitan

Plays
El Consejo de los Dioses (The Council of Gods)
Junto Al Pasig (Along the Pasig)
San Euistaquio, Mártyr (Saint Eustache, the Martyr)

Sculptures
The Triumph of Science over Death

Paintings
Saturnina Rizal in oil now being displayed in Rizal Shrine in Fort Santiago
Dapitan church curtains in oil made in Dapitan in 1984.
An oil painting on a pair of mother-of-pearl shells painted in Dapitan and given as a token to
Doña Leonor Valenzuela and later passed on to Doña Margarita Valenzuela
Water color painting of the Spanish coat of arms done during San Rafael fiesta in Calamba in
1867
Allegory on a pair of porcelain bases of the new year celebration in oil painted in Berlin in 1886
Crayon painting of Christ crucified done in 1875
Crayon painting of Immaculate Conception made in Manila, 1974
Crayon painting of Portrait of Morayta made in Barcelona, 1885
 SYNOPSIS OF TWO NOVEL

“NOLI ME TANGERE”

Noli Me Tangere, by Dr. Jose Rizal, starts off at the house of the wealthy man Capitan Tiago.
Here we find Padre Damaso speaking ill-y of Filipinos. A few moments later, the story‟s
protagonist makes his first appearance. He is Crisostomo Ibarra, a rich young man who has just
returned from Europe after 7 years of studying there. He is the son of the late Don Rafael Ibarra,
whose death is later revealed to be because of him protecting a young Filipino boy from a
Spanish tax collector. Padre Damaso, being an adversary of Don Ibarra, starts to both indirectly
and directly insult Crisostomo. Ibarra, instead of retorting, excuses himself and says that he has
business matters to attend to. In the following days, Ibarra talks to his sweetheart Maria Clara–
daughter of Capitan Tiago, and tries to visit his father‟s grave. And to Ibarra‟s shock, the place
where his father‟s body should be seems to have been recently dug up.

He talks to a gravedigger to find out that a fat friar asked that the body be transferred to a
Chinese cemetery. Who could this friar be? Yes, you‟ve got it right, Padre Damaso. But only to
add insult to the injury, Ibarra finds out the corpse was thrown in to the lake because there was a
storm on the supposed day of transfer. On the other hand, a whole other story was taking place
the story of Sisa, Basilio and Crispin. The two were accused of being thieves. Basilio was locked
up in the church by the Sacristan-Mayor for his “crimes”. Basilio escapes from the church and
runs away. Sisa, not knowing this, goes to church to get him only to find out that he is gone. She
runs home to be arrested and Crispin nowhere to be found. After being released from jail, she
tries to find her children only to find a bloody garment of Basilio. Due to the horrifying sight, she
loses her mind.’Going back to Senor Ibarra, he tried to put up a school wherein he was almost
killed when during the laying of the cornerstone.

It was a planned attempt. At a party, Padre Damaso insults Ibarra’s father who causes Crisostomo
to leap to his feet and pose a knife at the priest’s neck. He did not go on with act because of
Maria Clara’s persuasion. Due to the event, Ibarra was excommunicated. Because of this, he
cannot be with Maria Clara and she is set up with another man. Ibarra finds out about this and is
deeply saddened. Elias, Ibarra’s supporter/friend, breaks Ibarra out of jail, gets him on a banca,
and they plan to go abroad first. Before this, Ibarra talks to Maria Clara to find that she do not
want to marry her new suitor and that her true father is not Capitan Tiago but Padre Damaso. He
leaves her with a hug. While rowing in the river, Ibarra and Elias realize that a few Spaniards
saw them from a far. Elias tells Ibarra to hide under the, zacate and Elias jumps off the banca,
pretending to be Ibarra, and gets shot. On the other side of the river, Basilio is grieving the death
of his mother, Elias comes to him, shot and bloody, and tells him that he is going to die and that
the young Basilio should burn the bodies. He tells the boy that there is gold under the land that
they are standing on. Young Basilio does so. Ibarra is left alone to escape.

“EL FILIBUSTERISMO”
Crisostomo Ibarra is back and as Simoun. During the period in between the story line of Noli Me
Tangere and El Filibusterismo which is 13 years, Ibarra left the Philippines and became a
wealthy jeweler. He came back to the Philippines as Senor Simoun, disguised with a beard. He
seems to have long abandoned his once vision of ending the despotism of Spain with words and
peace. He becomes hungry for vengeance for all the misfortune our country has suffered under
the tyranny of the Spaniards. And near the end of the novel, when he discovers that his lover,
Maria Clara, died in the convent, he becomes all the more furious. Simoun is a confidant of the
Captain-General. He encourages the government to make bad decisions and to abuse their power
so that it would spark a revolution among the masses.

Basilio, now all grown up, is at first reluctant to join in on Simoun’s idea but ends up being part
of the plan. Simoun started planning uprisings and stashed guns in the shop of an ally. At the
wedding reception of newlyweds (the bride being the ex-girlfriend of one of the friends of
Basillo—Isagani), Simoun tells Basilio that his plan was to conceal an explosive which contains
nitroglycerin inside a pomegranate-styled Kerosene lamp that Simoun will give to the
newlyweds as a gift during the wedding reception. The reception will take place at the former
home of the late Captain Tiago, which was now filled with explosives planted by Simoun.
According to Simoun, the lamp will stay lighted for only 20 minutes before it flickers; if
someone attempts to turn the wick, it will explode and kill everyone—important members of
civil society and the Church hierarchy—inside the house. Simoun leaves the reception early and
leaves a note with the words: “Mene Thecel Phares” which means “the future is predetermined”
and is generally implied that a bad event is going to happen.

Simoun signed it with his real name “Juan Crisostomo Ibarra”. The people at the reception were
shocked because Ibarra is supposedly dead. One of the priests who knew Ibarra before the ending
of Noli Me Tangere confirmed to the people that it was the writing of Ibarra. The lamp started to
dim… Outside the house, Basilio was about to walk away because he knew the lamp was going
to explode anytime soon when he saw Isagani, the still heart-broken ex-boyfriend of the bride
whose reception was still going on in the house of Capitan Tiago. Isagani said that he just wanted
to congratulate the newly-weds. Basilio who then feared for the safety of his friend told him
about the plan of Simoun. Isagani ran to the house.

A priest was about to fix the lamp but once Isagani got in, he found the lamp and threw it out the
window into the river outside the residence. Since the guards were chasing Isagani, he himself
jumped out of the window into the river as well. There was an uprising planned by Simoun
during the time of the reception. The band got caught and confessed that Simoun lead them.
Ibarra was now wanted both as himself and as Simoun. Days passed and a good priest found
Simoun walking along the shore, wounded and weak. The noble priest tended to Simoun while
the latter explained that he is Ibarra and that he was greatly saddened and angry due to the failure
of the revolution and that he was questioning God as to why he was the one who is suffering and
not the ones who have forsaken the people of the Philippines.

The priest explains that all punishments will come In due time. Ibarra died as he weakly held the
hand of the priest. The latter blessed the former and threw away all the remaining jewels of
Ibarra in the hopes that they may always be used for good.