Memoria del bien pasado
This poem is a romance, which is a poetic form that has been part of Spanish literature for centuries, originating in the oral tradition of medieval Iberia. It is characterized by lines of eight syllables (with caveats), and rima asonante in the even-numbered lines, meaning that the final vowel sound in every other line will be the same throughout the poem. For example, the rhyming sound in this poem is ‘e’. Romances were performed by minstrels and the oldest among them originate from this oral tradition, a form in which some still survive today. They arose in an era when language was more fluid than today, and many of these romances viejos are attested in different forms across different languages.
Romances were very popular in their time, and from the Renaissance onward they would be composed by various authors, including some of the most prominent figures in Spanish literature, such as Lope de Vega. These poems differ from true romances viejos, however, in that they are not the product of an oral tradition and are instead penned by a single author. It is unclear to me exactly when this poem was written, but I would certainly hesitate to place it among the oldest romances.
More specifically, the poem is also a romance morisco in that it follows a Muslim or Moorish protagonist. This type of romance is written by Christian author(s) about Muslim subjects, and they are known for being far more charitable in their depiction than a modern reader might expect. For more on why I find these poems important, see Convivencia, Romances Moriscos, and Religious Conflict Today.
This poem follows the Moorish knight Zaide as he laments the loss of his lover Zaida, who has scorned him. Their relationship is the subject of many romances. I find this poem remarkable for the depth of the emotional conflict portrayed, and I would call particular attention to the beauty of the final stanza, the only part of the poem not spoken by Zaide himself.
“Memoria del bien pasado”
Anónimo
Traducido por Jasper Cunningham
“Memoria del bien pasado,
No me aflijas ni atormentes;
Que el hacer discursos tristes
No es para tiempos alegres.
“Yo ya perdí mi contento,
Si acaso pude tenelle,
Mezclado entre los temores
Del mal que tengo presente.
“¡Ingrata! con tus mudanzas
Tanto mis veras ofendes,
Que vuelves mi ardiente pecho
Mas helado que las nieves:
“Los males que le causabas,
Estimaba mas que bienes,
Y agora los bienes tuyos
Mas que males me parecen.
“Tu memoria era bastante
En mi pena á entretenerme,
Y agora con tu memoria
Mi pena se aumenta y crece.
“Tu hermosura me alegraba
Cuanto agora me entristece;
Que la memoria ofendida
Mi fé y agravio me ofrece.
“Jamas conocí otro cielo
Sino aquel donde estuvieses;
¡Ya conozco que fue engaño,
Y que me engañe en quererte!
“En estos afectos mios
Claro puede conocerse
Que al fin una sinrazon
Mas que mil razones puede.
“La mudable condicion
En el sugeto que tienes,
No puede ser cosa tuya
Sino solo de mi suerte.
“Ya no te acuerdas de mí
Sino para aborrecerme;
Que ya en esto te parezco,
Aunque siento el parecerte.
“¡Pluguiera al cielo, enemiga,
Que las partes que tu tienes,
No fueran tan de estimar,
Por no sentir el perderte!”
Esto dijo el Moro Zaide,
Y por un monte se mete,
Cuyos árboles copados
Del sol la entrada defienden.
“O memory of pleasures past”
Unknown
Translated by Jasper Cunningham
“O memory of pleasures past,
Don’t you bother or torment me;
For giving speeches of sorrow
Is not for times of joy.
“So I’ve lost my happiness,
If ever I possessed it,
Mixed up among the fears
Of woe that I now have.
“Ungrateful woman! With your shifts
So much have you shaken my certainties
That my fervent chest once more becomes
More lifeless than the snows.
“The cruelty of your causing this,
I still value above goodness,
And now the good you possess
Appears to me more as cruelty.
“My remembrance of you was enough
In my sorrow to arrest me,
And now with my rememb’ring
My sorrow increases and grows.
“Your beauty once gladdened me
As much as now it saddens me;
The damaged remembrance of you
Presents to me my faith and injury.
“I have never known another heaven
Than where you would have been;
Now I know that I was fooled,
And myself I fooled in loving you!
“In these affections of mine
Clearly it can be seen
That in the end one irrationality
is stronger than a thousand rationales.
“The fickle nature
Of your disposition,
Cannot be your own doing
But simply my fate.
“Now you don’t remember me
Other than to hate me
In this way we’re similar
Though I’m sorry for the similarity.
“Would to god, my enemy
That the beauty you possess
Were not so revered,
As to never feel your loss!”
Thus spoke the Moor Zaide
Coming upon a hill,
Whose lush, high-branched trees
Shielded from the sun.