t bent and shed about its
soft, wan leaves, as if to protect and to caress my mortal spoils. The
river, too, which in flood tide might almost come and kiss the border
of the slab o'ergrown with reeds, should lull my sleep with pleasant
music. And when some time had passed, and patches of moss had begun to
spread over the stone, a dense growth of wild morning-glories, of
those blue morning-glories with a disk of carmine in the center, which
I loved so much, should grow up by its side, twining through its
crevices and clothing it with their broad transparent leaves, which,
by I know not what mystery, have the form of hearts. Golden insects
with wings of light, whose buzzing lulls to sleep on heated
afternoons, should come and hover round their chalices, and one would
be obliged to draw aside the leafy curtain to read my name, now
blurred by time and moisture. But why should my name be read? Who
would not know that I was sleeping there?"[1]

[Footnote 1: _Obras de Gustavo A. Becquer_, Madrid, 1898, vol. II,
pp. 242-245. This edition will be understood hereafter in all
references to the works of Becquer.]

So mused the poet Becquer[1] in the golden days of his youth, when his
veins were swelling with health, when his heart was fired with
ambition, and in his ears was ringing the joyous invitation of his
muse.

[Footnote 1: The name is spelled indifferently with or without
accent--_Becquer_ or _Becquer_. In the choice of the latter
spelling, the authority of his principal biographer, Ramon Rodriguez
Correa, has been followed.]

His knowledge of the world was confined to the enchanting city of his
birth. Her gems of art and architecture had wrought themselves into
the fabric of his dreams; he had mused in her palm-gardens, worshiped
in her temples, and dreamed long afternoons on the shores of her
historic river. He knew nothing of the cold, prosaic world of selfish
interests. The time had not yet come when, in bitterness of spirit,
and wrapping his mantle about him against the chill wind of
indifference, he should say: "To-day my sole ambition is to be a
supernumerary in the vast human comedy, and when my silent role is
ended, to withdraw behind the scenes, neither hissed nor applauded,
making my exit unnoticed."[1]

[Footnote 1: _Obras_, vol. II, p. 251.]

Indeed, in those later days of trial and hardship, he would often look
out wearily upon Madrid, the city of his adoption, the scene of his
crushin