“Llanto de Delio y Profecía de Manzanares”

“Llanto de Delio y Profecía de Manzanares” by M.F. Diego Gonzalez, written around 1792 in Spain.

The sun was setting,

hiding amongst the dark clouds,

for not seeing the disorders of the ground,

the wind was calm,

the song of the birds fell on deaf ears,

the clear sky not being admired by a soul,

everything created more grief

for the ill-fated Delius,

that, while his cattle 

grazed next to the late Manzanares,

He wept without any decrease in his sorrow.

Raising his tearful face to the sky

(Ah! how different it was 

when the harsh fates allowed!)

He let out a pathetic “ouch!”

that could move the eternally stationary 

the mountains, which were seemingly in pain,

but they didn’t correspond

as they had other times; prays

the nymph that inhabited it

from the forests, she covered her ears,

Tired of repeating her same complaints,

He took the lyre from beside him

the lyre, a gift of Apollo, which triumphs

loves, and the crops of the field,

one day he sang,

(Oh, sad, persisting memories!)

but now its sweetness has changed

in bitter tenderness,

brings her close to the soft chest,

and its strings resonating

in a melancholic tone, and gloomy harmony,

talking to the river, so he said.

DELIO

Flee, oh Manzanares, quick

from the ground, which until then was your friend,

And withdraw your career from the Tagus,

of the Tagus, who, after witnessing

inhumane in the painful case,

the horror spread along its banks,

the newly pitiful

he is cruel in publishing

wherever it goes,

from the burning of Lusitania,

saying in his stream:

Already from Hesperia the resplendent light

was missing in Carpentaria.

Oh, sad hour! Oh, dark day!

In the center of the lush

Jungle, where the most sacred homes are,

The sorrowful and pitiful voice came out:

Carlos died, and along with him, our joy.

The hills trembled when they heard it,

shepherds and cattle 

wept in unity.

Oh, unwelcome failure!

Oh, tender flower! Oh, delicate fabric,

whose precious thread,

barely tangled, with a sharp edge

the angry Grim Reaper cut it!

Oh unjust death! How you robbed us!

in one fell swoop, all the beauty,

and hope of our beloved people?

Didn’t tender age inspire you with tenderness?

Could you see his eyes? You weren’t blind.

seeing the majesty, which was already on his forehead

Was it scratching?

Or perhaps the name august

It scared you so much,

that the same fear gave you boldness

for such a fierce feat,

thinking that your scythe will achieve it

couldn’t another day?

Is it possible that, to your detriment, beautiful child,

Aesculapius kept the secrets, 

that gave him a name and a divine being?

Perhaps his harsh decrees

You did not obey them religiously?

For your flesh (alas!), the evil iron did not open

a painful path?

Did you perhaps refuse?

take the bitterness

of the Peruvian rose bark?

And after this, the crude god

He had such hardness, that he could see

even in your early light?

It was not enough to stop you, precious soul,

the beauty of the delicate body,

To your corresponding celestial being?

Not even from the father and grandfather, the forced

pain? Not even seeing the mournful mob,

that religiously

In one congregation.

for your beloved health.

a thousand votes ferociously, and tears towards

heaven? Note even the early one

and rich sacrifice, by my hand

raised every day?

You flew to heaven; in short, you left the ground

fear in the heart, tears in the eyes,

From your eternal absence, worthy legacies,
The cold earth covers your remains.
Joy turned into sad grief.
The mother, worthy of better fates,
Through fields and hills
Runs without ornament,
Filling with regret
The horrible loneliness and tender complaints.

And I, one of the shepherds.
Scandal, for giving me over to my pains,
Forget my sheep.
In the most remote, most gloomy,
Mansion of that intertwined shady forest,
Where the burning ray will never penetrate
(Without you, even the light was annoying to me,
And I hated all companies),
There I hide, and cry for a long time.

There is no one who, attentive,
Looking at such sadness,
Would judge it madness;
But I, instead of denying it, confess it—
Well, I imagine it is necessary:
Who loses you, divine Carlos,
Loses their mind too.

If ever the body is tired,
Morpheus gives his balm,
Interdicting my complaints,
At that moment, it seems I see you—
With your tender sisters through the meadow
Walking, picking its beautiful flowers,
Decorating with them
Your golden hair.

And seeing you so beautiful,
A thousand hugs from sweet Luisa,
The kind father kisses you,
Looking on, the venerable grandfather
With a gentle laugh.

But then, having come to his senses from the sweet deception,
The mean spirit, like a torrent
With a serious impediment detained,
That grows, breaks, and comes back strongly.
From the quiet azudas, the size,
On the dry axles with a groan,
Making useful noise
The watermill, which lay
Asleep on its banks;
Thus, the insane pain increases.
From the past stillness,
And how much it afflicts the careless soul
Sets it in motion.

A thousand fearful portents, not believed,
Then, so much evil was announced to us;
My sheep looked sadly.
Where the sun dies: they suddenly expired—
Two lambs were offered to Charles.
War, oh God! The flower of our people
Devoured mercilessly,
And Mars, burning in anger,
Trampled and broke the lyre
Of Dalmiro. Oh pain! The worthy one only
To celebrate glory
Of Carlos, extending his memory
From one pole to the other.

Oh Tagus! Flee, and make long turns,
Avoid the cruel enclosure and its greenery.
Turns into a barren and terrifying wasteland.
Let the hard thorn grow instead of the flower,
Nor let the dawn shed its soft tears there,
And of loves, the delicious one sang—
Nightingale—the fearful one
Owl sings a thousand complaints,
So that the walker
Say when they see such a change: “Has the greenness of this soil gone?”
And they tell him: “Punishment was from heaven.
For what was consented.”

Since the sun covered the world with its light,
Here I begin, singing the sad song,
That does not face the fearful night.
I see the skies returning in the meantime,
And the circular step is revealed to me,
Pointed out by suspicious Juno
To loving Calisto.
Here, the beautiful Aurora
Finds me in my complaint;
Here I am as I begin my day—
Resplendent Apollo.

Everything passes and changes, only.
My sorrow remains.

And you, precious river, if you learned
To be pious to the royal homes,
You bathe Ledo, listen to my moan,
And approve the reason for my sorrows,
The chorus of nymphs that assists you.
Alas! That in your sands I amused,
You deny me your hearing,
Nor cure my complaints,
And without sorrow, you walk away,
And you leave me in miserable regret!

Well, carry your crystals.
As a sweet witness to my ills
The weak instrument.

POET:
Here, the shepherd left his sad song,
The sweet lyre has already been cast into the waters,
Without knowing the virtue it had in itself.
The river felt the charm.
And while Delio admires the new case,
Made the whole shore shake.

Oh yes, if only I were given
To refer as is worthy.
The peregrine case!
You say it, wise muse, or encourage me.
So that I can say this wonder.

The River Manzanares

The river, which lay confused
With the fine sand, suddenly
Rose in a superhuman figure,
And appeared dressed
In a subtle and transparent tunic.
Venerable her face, and sovereign,
The long, gray beard,
And curly hair,
Surrounded by belfries,
Showed in stature and gentleness
That such greatness was proper for a god.

On the sinister elbow leaning,
Three times he shook his curly hair—
The sands, which seemed like rain
Of silver on the meadow.
He raised his mighty right hand to heaven,
The choirs of nymphs listened,
And in silence they lay,
The fauns, who to the noise
Had come out of the forest.

And the god, looking at Delio, who was
Surprised, spoke to him in this way:

MANZANARES
Why torment yourself,
discordant shepherd,
and fill my shores with cries?
Let your lament cease now—
the lyre’s tune, once sweet and clear,
already climbs
the celestial sphere.
On this day, rise
sacred blessings
and sovereign gifts
sent by merciful heaven,
a strange fortune
that secures our fields’ well-being.
Carlos, for whom we mourn,
now dwells in eternal light,
seated among immortal gods,
crowned with roses
that time cannot wither,
abundant in heavenly grace.
With liberal hands
he has bestowed so much
on our beloved land,
it seems he rose
to rob heaven's riches
and poured them on our soil.

Hear now my prophecy—
attend with open ears,
and time shall make it plain.
Only when Guadarrama
and Fonfría trade
their ancient seats
will what I say
lose truth.
Let no doubt frustrate
the promised gifts—
it is right to recount them,
and their meaning is timely.
Now listen. The gentle Luisa...

POET
Scarcely had the nymphs heard
that august name
when fauns, with joyful noise,
raised such cheers to heaven
that even the god was interrupted.
The choirs divided:
fauns sang sweet hymns,
while nymphs danced,
graceful and composed,
upon the blooming ground.
“Long live, long live!” some cried,
others answered, “Luisa, Luisa!”
The joy endured long,
and as the feast began,
the pleased numen, knowing
it would never end
unless silence fell,
raised his finger to his lips,
saying:
“Listen to the rest.”
His face aflame,
the joyful clamor calmed,
and he continued:

MANZANARES
The gentle and noble Luisa,
most beautiful of shepherdesses
seen by royal Eridanus
now walks our land.
In her face dwells
the graces, human and divine.
Wherever she moves
along my shores,
the villages gather to see her,
praising without rest,
never tiring of her light.
That beloved bride
of the finest foreman—
he who governs our valleys with care—
gifted by Venus,
now bears in her womb
Heaven’s generous weight:
a double fruit of love
that shall forever bless our people,
erase Hesperia’s mourning,
and consign our grief
for the lost princes to oblivion.

When nine pure moons
have passed,
Luisa will leave her forest,
and Lucina from on high
will awaken Endymion.
The foreman, joyfully,
will present to the council
these heavenly gifts:
“Behold,” he’ll say,
“O precious nation!
Your lineage is secured.”
With Carlos and Felipe
the sorrow for the two lost kings
will give way to joy.
The faithful people
will raise praises
to holy Heaven.
Joy will sweep
through this blessed land.
And everywhere
will rise sweet songs
in noble verse
to the high sphere,
from my river’s shores,
home of the muses,
to distant seaside flocks.

Cradled in fragrant flowers,
the graces will gently rock
the children,
singing melodies
that banishes sorrow
and call goodness forth.
With a soft murmur,
the bees will hush
their complaints,
while the Fates silently
spin golden thread.

But as the years pass,
the children, grown,
will know their noble parents—
the light of reason
will show heroic virtue.
They will learn
of a grandfather’s mercy,
a mother’s gentleness,
a father’s courage,
and Heaven’s other gifts.
They will hear the stories:
how Philip the Brave
brought from the Seine
illustrious blood
to our Tagus—
a gift from Heaven
that enriched Hesperia
and refined its customs.
He polished our ways,
shaped our tongue,
and raised the song of shepherds—
memories that live in us still.

So from our soil
new flowers will bloom.
Justice, long lost,
will return to reign
among our shepherds.
The golden age of Saturn
will revive;
Amalthea’s horn
will spill boundless wealth.
Our cattle will graze
on blessed pastures,
and shepherdesses will sing
with joy in idle hours.

Ease will guide the plow,
and fruits will surpass
all rustic hope.
Mercury, pleased,
will receive rich cargo,
and Minerva shall be praised
when her three sacred arts
flourish in our land.
All good begun
will, through double talent,
reach its perfect end.

But hear the signs
that prove this prophecy:
A day will come
when immortal pacts
secure a peace
most fair and favorable
for all my shores.
After proud lions
have trembled on your banners—
Castile victorious—
from the Balearics
to Mexico’s heartland.

And the city
on Africa’s coast—
once home to slavery—
will fall,
its shameful emblem
struck down.
Iberian valor
will be feared anew
by those people,
and to ensure
their downfall is complete,
the sovereign Lord
of Africa and Asia
will join our hands.

Oh, Delio, if only
by Heaven’s grace,
your years matched mine!
You would sing
this land’s fulfilled joys
as a poet.
But death will still your song,
and in sweeter verse,
Lyseno shall continue—
Compluto hears him with awe,
and Henares perhaps
rises to meet his song.

With lofty style
another voice will join—
Batilo, the noble Batilo—
to whom Dalmiro
gave his lyre, saying:
“You alone, boy,
can restore this lyre
which Mars once shattered in rage.
Sing the age of fortune—
and your song will be worthy
if Jovino’s judgment approves.”

POET

 So spoke the river,
and returned to its natural state.
The vision faded.
Delio awoke—
was it a dream,
or divine joy?
He could not tell.
But seeing
the day was gone,
he summoned his flock