A Compilation of the Writings of Dr. Jose P.

Rizal

Submitted to:
GEMMA C. ALICAYA
INSTRUCTOR
Submitted by:

DYNA MAE ROSE R. DAVIN

BSBA-HRM
JOSE RIZAL’S POEMS:

Sa Aking mga Kabata

Kapagka ang baya’y sadyang umiibig

Sa langit salitang kaloob ng langit

Sanlang kalayaan nasa ring masapi

Katulad ng ibong nasa himpapawid

Pagka’t ang salita’y isang kahatulan

Sa bayan, sa nayo't mga kaharian

At ang isang tao’y katulad, kabagay

Ng alin mang likha noong kalayaan.

Ang hindi magmahal sa kanyang salita

Mahigit sa hayop at malansang isda

Kaya ang marapat pagyamanin kusa

Na tulad sa inang tunay na nagpala

Ang wikang Tagalog tulad din sa Latin,

Sa Ingles, Kastila, at salitang anghel,

Sapagkat ang Poong maalam tumingin

Ang siyang naggagawad, nagbibigay sa atin.

Ang salita nati’y tulad din sa iba

Na may alfabeto at sariling letra,

Na kaya nawala’y dinatnan ng sigwa

Ang lunday sa lawa noong dakong una.

 To Virgin Mary

Mary, sweet peace, solace dear

Of pained mortal! You're the fount
Whence emanates the stream of succor,
That without cease our soil fructifies.

From thy throne, from heaven high,

Kindly hear my sorrowful cry!
And may thy shining veil protect
My voice that rises with rapid flight.

Thou art my Mother, Mary, pure;

Thou'll be the fortress of my life;
Thou'll be my guide on this angry sea.
If ferociously vice pursues me,
If in my pains death harasses me,
Help me, and drive away my woes!
Education Gives Luster to Motherland

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.
 To Josephine
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.

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.

Song of Maria Clara

 Sweet are the hours in one's own Native Land,
All there is friendly o'er which the sun shines above;
Vivifying is the breeze that wafts over her fields;
Even death is gratifying and more tender is love.

Ardent kissed on a mother's lips are at play,

On her lap, upon the infant child's awakening,
The extended arms do seek her neck to entwine,
And the eyes at each other's glimpse are smiling.

It is sweet to die in one's own Native Land,

All there is friendly o'er which the sun shines above;
And deathly is the breeze for one without
A country, without a mother and without love.

A Poem That Has No Title

To my Creator I sing
Who did soothe me in my great loss;
To the Merciful and Kind
Who in my troubles gave me repose.

Thou with that pow'r of thine

Said: Live! And with life myself I found;
And shelter gave me thou
And a soul impelled to the good
Like a compass whose point to the North is bound.

Thou did make me descend

From honorable home and respectable stock,
And a homeland thou gavest me
Without limit, fair and rich
Though fortune and prudence it does lack.

Kundiman
Tunay ngayong umid yaring dila't puso

Sinta'y umiilag, tuwa'y lumalayo,

Bayan palibhasa'y lupig at sumuko

Sa kapabayaan ng nagturong puno.

Datapuwa't muling sisikat ang araw,

Pilit maliligtas ang inaping bayan,

Magbabalik mandin at muling iiral

Ang ngalang Tagalog sa sandaigdigan.

 Ibubuhos namin ang dugo't babaha

Matubos nga lamang ang sa amang lupa

Habang di ninilang panahong tadhana,

Sinta'y tatahimik, iidlip ang nasa.

Hymn to Labor

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.

Memories of My Town

When I recall the days

That saw my childhood of yore
Beside the verdant shore
Of a murmuring lagoon;
When I remember the sighs
Of the breeze that on my brow
Sweet and caressing did blow
With coolness full of delight;

When I look at the lily white

Fills up with air violent
And the stormy element
On the sand doth meekly sleep;
When sweet 'toxicating scent
From the flowers I inhale
Which at the dawn they exhale
When at us it begins to peep;

I sadly recall your face,

Oh precious infancy,
That a mother lovingly
Did succeed to embellish.
I remember a simple town;
My cradle, joy and boon,
Beside the cool lagoon
The seat of all my wish.

Oh, yes! With uncertain pace

I trod your forest lands,
And on your river banks
A pleasant fun I found;
At your rustic temple I prayed
With a little boy's simple faith
And your aura's flawless breath
Filled my heart with joy profound.
Saw I God in the grandeur
Of your woods which for centuries stand;
Never did I understand
In your bosom what sorrows were;
While I gazed on your azure sky
Neither love nor tenderness
Failed me, 'cause my happiness
In the heart of nature rests there.

Tender childhood, beautiful town,

Rich fountain of happiness,
Of harmonious melodies,
That drive away my sorrow!
Return thee to my heart,
Bring back my gentle hours
As do the birds when the flow'rs
Would again begin to blow!
But, alas, adieu! E'er watch
For your peace, joy and repose,
Genius of good who kindly dispose
Of his blessings with amour;
It's for thee my fervent pray'rs,
It's for thee my constant desire
Knowledge ever to acquire
And may God keep your candour!
 Our Mother Tongue
IF truly a people dearly love
The tongue to them by Heaven sent,
They'll surely yearn for liberty
Like a bird above in the firmament.

BECAUSE by its language one can judge

A town, a barrio, and kingdom;
And like any other created thing
Every human being loves his freedom.

ONE who doesn't love his native tongue,

Is worse than putrid fish and beast;
AND like a truly precious thing
It therefore deserves to be cherished.

THE Tagalog language's akin to Latin,

To English, Spanish, angelical tongue;
For God who knows how to look after us
This language He bestowed us upon. 

AS others, our language is the same

With alphabet and letters of its own,
It was lost because a storm did destroy
On the lake the bangka 1 in years bygone.

Mi último adiós
¡Adiós, Patria adorada, región del sol querida,
Perla del mar de oriente, nuestro perdido Edén!
A darte voy alegre la triste mustia vida,
Y fuera más brillante, más fresca, más florida,
También por ti la diera, la diera por tu bien.

En campos de batalla, luchando con delirio,

Otros te dan sus vidas sin dudas, sin pesar;
El sitio nada importa, ciprés, laurel o lirio,
Cadalso o campo abierto, combate o cruel martirio,
Lo mismo es si lo piden la patria y el hogar.

Yo muero cuando veo que el cielo se colora

Y al fin anuncia el día tras lóbrego capuz;
si grana necesitas para teñir tu aurora,
Vierte la sangre mía, derrámala en buen hora
Y dórela un reflejo de su naciente luz.

Mis sueños cuando apenas muchacho adolescente,

Mis sueños cuando joven ya lleno de vigor,
Fueron el verte un día, joya del mar de oriente,
Secos los negros ojos, alta la tersa frente,
Sin ceño, sin arrugas, sin manchas de rubor

Ensueño de mi vida, mi ardiente vivo anhelo,

¡Salud te grita el alma que pronto va a partir!
¡Salud! Ah, que es hermoso caer por darte vuelo,
Morir por darte vida, morir bajo tu cielo,
Y en tu encantada tierra la eternidad dormir.

Si sobre mi sepulcro vieres brotar un día

Entre la espesa yerba sencilla, humilde flor,
Acércala a tus labios y besa al alma mía,
 Y sienta yo en mi frente bajo la tumba fría,
De tu ternura el soplo, de tu hálito el calor.

Deja a la luna verme con luz tranquila y suave,

Deja que el alba envíe su resplandor fugaz,
Deja gemir al viento con su murmullo grave,
Y si desciende y posa sobre mi cruz un ave,
Deja que el ave entone su cántico de paz.

Deja que el sol, ardiendo, las lluvias evapore

Y al cielo tornen puras, con mi clamor en pos;
Deja que un ser amigo mi fin temprano llore
Y en las serenas tardes cuando por mí alguien ore,
¡Ora también, oh Patria, por mi descanso a Dios!

Ora por todos cuantos murieron sin ventura,

Por cuantos padecieron tormentos sin igual,
Por nuestras pobres madres que gimen su amargura;
Por huérfanos y viudas, por presos en tortura
Y ora por ti que veas tu redención final.

Y cuando en noche oscura se envuelva el cementerio

Y solos sólo muertos queden velando allí,
No turbes su reposo, no turbes el misterio,
Tal vez acordes oigas de cítara o salterio,
Soy yo, querida Patria, yo que te canto a ti.

Y cuando ya mi tumba de todos olvidada

No tenga cruz ni piedra que marquen su lugar,
Deja que la are el hombre, la esparza con la azada,
Y mis cenizas, antes que vuelvan a la nada,
El polvo de tu alfombra que vayan a formar.

Entonces nada importa me pongas en olvido.

Tu atmósfera, tu espacio, tus valles cruzaré.
Vibrante y limpia nota seré para tu oído,
Aroma, luz, colores, rumor, canto, gemido,
Constante repitiendo la esencia de mi fe.

Mi patria idolatrada, dolor de mis dolores,

Querida Filipinas, oye el postrer adiós.
Ahí te dejo todo, mis padres, mis amores.
Voy donde no hay esclavos, verdugos ni opresores,
Donde la fe no mata, donde el que reina es Dios.

Adiós, padres y hermanos, trozos del alma mía,

Amigos de la infancia en el perdido hogar,
Dad gracias que descanso del fatigoso día;
Adiós, dulce extranjera, mi amiga, mi alegría,
Adiós, queridos seres, morir es descansar.
 The Last Poem of Rizal
Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed, 
Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost,
With gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed;
And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best,
I would still give it to you for your welfare at most.

On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight,

Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy,
The place does not matter: cypress laurel, lily white,
Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom's site,
It is the same if asked by home and Country.

I die as I see tints on the sky b'gin to show

And at last announce the day, after a gloomy night;
If you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow,
Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so,
And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light! 

My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent,

My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain,
Were to see you, gem of the sea of the Orient,
Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane
Without frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain.

My life's fancy, my ardent, passionate desire,

Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee;
Hail! How sweet 'tis to fall that fullness you may acquire;
To die to give you life, 'neath your skies to expire,
And in your mystic land to sleep through eternity!

If over my tomb some day, you would see blow,

A simple humble flow'r amidst thick grasses,
Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so,
And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow,
Warmth of your breath, a whiff of your tenderness.

Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry,

Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light,
In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh,
And should a bird descend on my cross and alight,
Let the bird intone a song of peace o'er my site.

Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporize

And with my clamor behind return pure to the sky;
Let a friend shed tears over my early demise;
And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high,
Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I.

Pray thee for all the hapless who have died,

For all those who unequalled torments have undergone;
For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried;
For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied,
And pray too that you may see your own redemption.

And when the dark night wraps the cemet'ry

And only the dead to vigil there are left alone,
Don't disturb their repose, don't disturb the mystery:
If you hear the sounds of cittern or psaltery,
 It is I, dear Country, who, a song t'you intone.

And when my grave by all is no more remembered,

With neither cross nor stone to mark its place,
Let it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scattered
And my ashes ere to nothingness are restored,
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Let them turn to dust to cover your earthly space.

Then it doesn't matter that you should forget me:

Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I'll sweep;
Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be:
Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep,
Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep.

My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine,

Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken
There I leave all: my parents, loves of mine,
I'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen
Where faith does not kill and where God alone does reign.

Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me,

Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed;
Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day;
Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way;
Farewell, to all I love. To die is to rest.
 To the Philippines

Aglowing and fair like a houri on high,

Full of grace and pure like the Morn that peeps
When in the sky the clouds are tinted blue,
Of th' Indian land, a goddess sleeps.

The light foam of the son'rous sea 

Doth kiss her feet with loving desire;
The cultured West adores her smile
And the frosty Pole her flow'red attire.

With tenderness, stammering, my Muse

To her 'midst undines and naiads does sing;
I offer her my fortune and bliss:
Oh, artists! her brow chaste ring
With myrtle green and roses red
And lilies, and extol the Philippines!

My First Inspiration

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.

Alianza Íntima Entre La Religión Y La Educación

Cual hiedra trepadora

Tortuosa camina
Por el olmo empinado,
Siendo entrambos encanto al verde prado,
Y a la par se embelecen
Mientras unidos crecen;
Y si el olmo compasivo faltase,
La hiedraal carecer de su Consuelo
Vería tristemente marchitarse;
Tal la Educación estrecha alianza
Con alma Religión une sincera;
Por ella Educación renombre alcanza;
Y ¡ay! Del ser que ciegao desechando
De santa Religión sabias doctrinas,
De su puro raudal huye nefando.
Si de la vid pomposa
El tallo ufano crece
Y sus dulces racimos nos ofrece,
En tanto que al sarmiento generosa
Alimenta la planta cariñosa;
Tal límpidas Corrientes
De célica virtud dan nueva vida
A Educación cumplida,
Guiándola con sus luces refulgentes;
Por ella delicado olar exhale,
Y Sus frutos sabrosos nos regala.
Sin Religión, la Educación humana
Es cual nave del viento combatida
Que pierde su timón en lucha horrible
Al fragoroso impulse y sacudida
Del proceloso Bóreas terrible
Que la combate fiero
Hasta undirla altanero
En los abismos de la mar airada.

Si el rocío del cielo

Vigoriza y sustenta a la pradera,
Y por él, en Hermosa primavera,
Salen las flores a border el suelo;
Tal si a la Educación fecundizara
Con sus doctrinas Religión piadosa,
Hacia el bien lacentera caminara
Con planta generosa;
Y dando de virtud lozanas flores
Esparciera doquiera sus olores.
 To the Child Jesus
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?

Felicitation
If Philomela with harmonious tongue
To blond Apollo, who manifests his face
Behind high hill or overhanging mountain,
Canticles sends.

So we as well, full of a sweet contentment,

Salute you and your very noble saint
With tender music and fraternal measures,
Dear Antonino.

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.

From amorous wife and amiable Emilio

Sweetly receive an unsurpassed affection;
And may its sweetness in disaster soften
The ruder torments.

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.

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.

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)

One beautiful day when in East

The sun had gaily brightened,
At Barrameda with rejoicing great
Activities everywhere reigned.

‘Tis cause on the shores the caravels

Would part with their sails a-swelling;
And noble warriors with their swords
To conquer unknown world are going.

And all is glee and all is joy,

All is valor in the city.
Everywhere the husky sounds of drums
Are resounding with majesty.

With big echoes thousands of salvos

Makes at the ships a roaring cannon
And the Spanish people proudly greet
The soldiers with affection.

Farewell! They say to them, loved ones,

Brave soldiers of the homeland;
With glories gird our mother Spain,
In the campaign in the unknown land!

As they move away to the gentle breath

Of the cool wind with emotion,
They all bless with a pious voice
So glorious, heroic action.
And finally, the people salute
The standard of Magellan
That he carries on the way to the seas
Where madly roars 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 lightning's shattering noise.

And like a craggy rock

No impetuous ocean in rage
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.
 
THE TRAGEDY OF ST. EUSTACE (La Tragedia de San Eustaquio, June
1876)
 
            This poem recounts the tragic story of St. Eustace. However, it appears that the original
manuscript of this no longer exists and may have been destroyed in the bombardment of the Second
World War.  But it was said that it had been published in installments in a magazine,  Cultura Social  of
Ateneo University.

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!

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.

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.

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)  A Translation
from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin
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
A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin

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)  A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin

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!

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.

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.
Jose Rizal’s Novels:

The Social Cancer (original title: Noli Me Tangere (Touch Me Not)

Noli me Tangere is the first novel written by Filipino patriot and national hero Dr. José P.
Rizal in 1887 and published in Germany. The story line goes detailed with the society of the
Philippines during Spanish colonial period and features aristocracy behind poverty and
abuse of colonialists. In its publication, the novel caused an uproar among Filipino people
that also felt Spanish abuse. 
Written in Spanish and published in 1887, José Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere played a
crucial role in the political history of the Philippines. Drawing from experience, the
conventions of the nineteenth-century novel, and the ideals of European liberalism,
Rizal offered up a devastating critique of a society under Spanish colonial rule.

The plot revolves around Crisostomo Ibarra, mixed-race heir of a wealthy clan,
returning home after seven years in Europe and filled with ideas on how to better
the lot of his countrymen. Striving for reforms, he is confronted by an abusive
ecclesiastical hierarchy and a Spanish civil administration by turns indifferent and
cruel. The novel suggests, through plot developments, that meaningful change in
this context is exceedingly difficult, if not impossible.

The death of Ibarra’s father, Don Rafael, prior to his homecoming, and the refusal
of a Catholic burial by Padre Damaso, the parish priest, provokes Ibarra into hitting
the priest, for which Ibarra is excommunicated. The decree is rescinded, however,
when the governor general intervenes. The friar and his successor, Padre Salvi,
embody the rotten state of the clergy. Their tangled feelings—one paternal, the
other carnal—for Maria Clara, Ibarra’s sweetheart and rich Capitan Tiago’s beautiful
daughter, steel their determination to spoil Ibarra’s plans for a school. The town
philosopher Tasio wryly notes similar past attempts have failed, and his sage
commentary makes clear that all colonial masters fear that an enlightened people
will throw off the yoke of oppression.

Precisely how to accomplish this is the novel’s central question, and one which
Ibarra debates with the mysterious Elias, with whose life his is intertwined. The
privileged Ibarra favors peaceful means, while Elias, who has suffered injustice at
the hands of the authorities, believes violence is the only option.

Ibarra’s enemies, particularly Salvi, implicate him in a fake insurrection, though the
evidence against him is weak. Then Maria Clara betrays him to protect a dark
family secret, public exposure of which would be ruinous. Ibarra escapes from
prison with Elias’s help and confronts her. She explains why, Ibarra forgives her,
and he and Elias flee to the lake. But chased by the Guardia Civil, one dies while
the other survives. Convinced Ibarra’s dead, Maria Clara enters the nunnery,
refusing a marriage arranged by Padre Damaso. Her unhappy fate and that of the
more memorable Sisa, driven mad by the fate of her sons, symbolize the country’s
condition, at once beautiful and miserable.
Using satire brilliantly, Rizal creates other memorable characters whose lives
manifest the poisonous effects of religious and colonial oppression. Capitan Tiago;
the social climber Doña Victorina de Espadaña and her toothless Spanish husband;
the Guardia Civil head and his harridan of a wife; the sorority of devout women; the
disaffected peasants forced to become outlaws: in sum, a microcosm of Philippine
society. In the afflictions that plague them, Rizal paints a harrowing picture of his
beloved but suffering country in a work that speaks eloquently not just to Filipinos
but to all who have endured or witnessed oppression.

El Filibusterismo  (The Reign of Greed)

El filibusterismo (transl. The filibusterism; The Subversive or The Subversion, as in the

Locsín English translation, are also possible translations), also known by its alternative
English title The Reign of Greed, is the second novel written by Philippine national hero José
Rizal. It is the sequel to Noli Me Tángere and, like the first book, was written in Spanish. It
was first published in 1891 in Ghent. The novel centers on the Noli-El fili duology's main
character Crisóstomo Ibarra, now returning for vengeance as "Simoun". The novel's dark
theme departs dramatically from the previous novel's hopeful and romantic atmosphere,
signifying Ibarra's resort to solving his country's issues through violent means, after his
previous attempt in reforming the country's system made no effect and seemed impossible
with the corrupt attitude of the Spaniards toward the Filipinos. The novel, along with its
predecessor, was banned in some parts of the Philippines as a result of their portrayals of
the Spanish government's abuses and corruption. These novels, along with Rizal's
involvement in organizations that aimed to address and reform the Spanish system and its
issues, led to Rizal's exile to Dapitan and eventual execution. Both the novel and its
predecessor, along with Rizal's last poem, are now considered Rizal's literary masterpieces.
Both of Rizal's novels had a profound effect on Philippine society in terms of views about
national identity, the Catholic faith and its influence on the Filipino's choice, and the
government's issues in corruption, abuse of power, and discrimination, and on a larger
scale, the issues related to the effect of colonization on people's lives and the cause for
independence. These novels later on indirectly became the inspiration to start the Philippine
Revolution.

PLOT
In the events of the previous novel, Crisóstomo Ibarra, a reform-minded mestizo who tried
to establish a modern school in his hometown of San Diego and marry his
childhood sweetheart, was falsely accused of rebellion and presumed dead after a shootout
following his escape from prison. Elías, his friend who was also a reformer, sacrificed his life
to give Crisóstomo a chance to regain his treasure and flee the country, and hopefully
continue their crusade for reforms from abroad. After a thirteen-year absence from
the country, a more revolutionary Crisóstomo has returned, having taken the identity of
Simoun, a corrupt jeweler whose objective is to drive the government to commit as much
abuse as possible in order to drive people into revolution.
Simoun goes from town to town presumably to sell his jewels. In San Diego, he goes to the
Ibarra mausoleum to retrieve more of his treasure but accidentally runs into Basilio, who
was then also in the mausoleum visiting his mother's grave. In the years since the death of
his mother, Basilio had been serving as Kapitán Tiago's servant in exchange for being
allowed to study. He is now an aspiring doctor on his last year at university as well as heir
to Kapitán Tiago's wealth. When Basilio recognizes Simoun as Crisóstomo Ibarra, Simoun
reveals his motives to Basilio and offers him a place in his plans. Too secure of his place in
the world, Basilio declines.
At Barrio Sagpang in the town of Tiani, Simoun stays at the house of the village's cabeza de
barangay, Tales. Having suffered misfortune after misfortune in recent years, Kabesang
Tales is unable to resist the temptation to steal Simoun's revolver and join the bandits.
In Los Baños, Simoun joins his friend, the Captain-General, who is then taking a break from
a hunting excursion. In a friendly game of cards with him and his cronies, Simoun raises the
stakes higher and higher and half-jokingly secures blank orders for deportation,
imprisonment, and summary execution from the Captain-General.
In Manila, Simoun meets with Quiroga, a wealthy Chinese businessman and aspiring
consul-general for the Chinese empire. Quiroga is heavily in Simoun's debt, but Simoun
offers him a steep discount if Quiroga does him a favor—to store Simoun's massive arsenal
of rifles in Quiroga's warehouses, to be used presumably for extortion activities with
Manila's elite. Quiroga, who hated guns, reluctantly agrees.
During the Quiapo Fair, a talking heads[3] exhibit[4] ostensibly organized by a certain Mr.
Leeds but secretly commissioned by Simoun is drawing popular acclaim. Padre Bernardo
Salví, now chaplain of the Convent of the Poor Clares attends one of the performances. The
exhibit is set in Ptolemaic Egypt but features a tale that closely resembled that of
Crisóstomo Ibarra and María Clara, and their fate under Salví. The show ends with an
ominous vow of revenge. Deeply overcome with guilt and fear, Salví recommends the show
be banned, but not before Mr. Leeds sailed for Hong Kong.
Months pass and the night of Simoun's revolution comes. Simoun visits Basilio in Tiago's
house and tries to convince him again to join his revolution. Simoun's plan is for a cannon
volley to be fired, at which point Kabesang Tales, now a bandit who calls himself
Matanglawin, and Simoun who managed to deceive and recruit a sizable rogue force among
the government troops, will lead their forces into the city. The leaders of the Church, the
University, scores of bureaucrats, the Captain-General himself, as well as the bulk of
officers guarding them are all conveniently located in one location, the theater where a
controversial and much-hyped performance of Les Cloches de Corneville [6] is taking place.
While Simoun and Matanglawin direct their forces, Basilio and several others are to force
open the door of the Convent of the Poor Clares and rescue María Clara.
However, Basilio reports to Simoun that María Clara died just that afternoon, killed by the
travails of monastic life under Salví, who always lusted after her. Simoun, driven by grief,
aborts the attack and becomes crestfallen throughout the night. It will be reported later on
that he suffered an "accident" that night, leaving him confined to his bed.
The following day posters threatening violence to the leaders of the university and the
government are found at the university doors. A reform-oriented student group to which
Basilio belonged is named the primary suspects; the members are arrested. They are
eventually freed through the intercession of relatives, except for Basilio who is an orphan
and has no means to pay for his freedom. During his imprisonment, he learns that Capitan
Tiago has died, leaving him with nothing (but Tiago's will was actually forged by Padre
Írene, Tiago's spiritual advisor who also supplies him with opium); his childhood sweetheart
has committed suicide to avoid getting raped by the parish priest when she tried asking for
help on Basilio's behalf; and that he has missed his graduation and will be required to study
for another year, but now with no funds to go by. Released through the intercession of
Simoun, a darkened, disillusioned Basilio joins Simoun's cause wholeheartedly.
Simoun, meanwhile, has been organizing a new revolution, and he reveals his plans to a
now committed Basilio. The wedding of Juanito Peláez and Paulita Gomez will be used to
coordinate the attack upon the city. As the Peláez and Gomez families are prominent
members of the Manila elite, leaders of the church and civil government are invited to the
reception. The Captain-General, who declined to extend his tenure despite Simoun's urging,
is leaving in two days and is the guest of honor.
Simoun will personally deliver a pomegranate-shaped crystal lamp as a wedding gift. The
lamp is to be placed on a plinth at the reception venue and will be bright enough to
illuminate the entire hall, which was also walled with mirrors. After some time the light will
flicker as if to go out. When someone attempts to raise the wick, a mechanism hidden
within the lamp containing fulminated mercury will detonate, igniting the lamp which is
actually filled with nitroglycerin, killing everyone in an enormous blast.
At the sound of the explosion, Simoun's mercenaries will attack, reinforced by Matanglawin
and his bandits who will descend upon the city from the surrounding hills. Simoun
postulates that at the chaos, the masses, already worked to a panic by the government's
heavy-handed response to the poster incident, as well as rumors of German ships at
the bay to lend their firepower to any uprising against the Spanish government, will step out
in desperation to kill or be killed. Basilio and a few others are to put themselves at their
head and lead them to Quiroga's warehouses, where Simoun's guns are still being kept. The
plan thus finalized, Simoun gives Basilio a loaded revolver and sends him away to await
further instructions.
Basilio walks the streets for hours and passes by his old home, Kapitán Tiago's riverside
house on Anloague Street. He discovers that this was to be the reception venue – Juanito
Peláez's father bought Tiago's house as a gift for the newlywed couple. Sometime later, he
sees Simoun enter the house with the lamp, then hastily exit the house and board his
carriage. Basilio begins to move away but sees Isagani, his friend and Paulita Gomez's
former lover, sadly looking at Paulita through the window. Noting how close they were to
the condemned house, Basilio tries to head Isagani off, but Isagani was too dazed with grief
to listen to him. In desperation, Basilio reveals to Isagani how the house is set to explode at
any time then. But when Isagani still refuses to heed him, Basilio flees, leaving Isagani to
his fate.
Seeing Basilio's demeanor, Isagani is temporarily, rather belatedly unnerved by the
revelation. Isagani rushes into the house, seizes the lamp leaving the hall in darkness, and
throws it into the river. With this, Simoun's second revolution fails as well.
In the following days, as the trappings at the reception venue are torn down, sacks
containing gunpowder are discovered hidden under the boards all over the house. Simoun,
who had directed the renovations, is exposed. With his friend, the Captain-General, having
left for Spain, Simoun is left without his protector and is forced to flee. A manhunt ensues
and Simoun is chased as far away as the shores of the Pacific. He then spends the rest of
his days hiding in the ancestral mansion of Padre Florentino, Isagani's uncle.
One day, the lieutenant of the local Guardia Civil informs Florentino that he received an
order to arrest Simoun that night. In response, Simoun drinks the slow-acting poison which
he always kept in a compartment on his treasure chest. Simoun then makes his final
confession to Florentino, first revealing his true name, to Florentino's shock. He goes on to
narrate how thirteen years before, as Crisóstomo Ibarra, he lost everything in the
Philippines despite his good intentions. Crisóstomo swore vengeance. Retrieving some of his
family's treasure Elias buried in the Ibarra mausoleum in the forest, Crisóstomo fled to
foreign lands and engaged in trade. He took part in the war in Cuba, aiding first one side
and then another, but always profiting. There Crisóstomo met the Captain-General who was
then a major, whose goodwill he won first by loans of money, and afterwards by covering
for his criminal activity. Crisóstomo bribed his way to secure the major's promotion to
Captain-General and his assignment to the Philippines. Once in the country, Crisóstomo
then used him as a blind tool and incited him to all kinds of injustice, availing himself of the
Captain-General's insatiable lust for gold.
The confession is long and arduous, and night has fallen when Crisóstomo finished. In the
end, Florentino assures the dying man of God's mercy, but explains that his revolution failed
because he has chosen means that God cannot sanction. Crisóstomo bitterly accepts the
explanation and dies.
Realizing that the arresting officers will confiscate Crisóstomo's possessions, Florentino
divests him of his jewels and casts them into the Pacific, proclaiming that God will provide
means to draw them out if they should be needed for righteous causes, God will provide the
means to draw them out and that they will not be used to either distort justice or incite
greed.
 Unfinished: Makamisa (After Mass)

Makamisa (English: After Mass) is an unfinished novel written by Filipino patriot and

writer José Rizal. The original manuscript was found by historian Ambeth Ocampo in 1987
while going through a 245-page collection of papers. This draft is written in
pure, vernacular Lagueño Tagalog and has no written direct signature or date of inscription.
The novel has only one chapter. It runs for only ten pages and is hand-written in the
old orthographic ancillary glyphs. Although written in a different language, its style,
characterization and setting mirror those of Rizal's two previous works, Noli me
tangere and El filibusterismo which he wrote in Spanish. The chapter ends with a short
unfinished sentence:
Sapagkát nabalitang nasampál si aleng Anday ay wala mandin siláng
which in English is equivalent to:
Although it was rumored that aunt Anday received slaps on her face, they still do not [have]
which therefore satisfies the theory of it being unfinished. The novel explores the
mysterious ill-temperament of the town curate, Padre Agaton. Rizal later restarted work
on Makamisa, using Spanish. However, the novel remained unfinished. The draft in Spanish
was later translated to Filipino (under the name Etikang Tagalog: Ang Ikatlong Nobela ni
Rizal) by Nilo S. Ocampo, of the University of the Philippines Diliman College of Arts and
Letters.
In Hong Kong, in 1892, Jose Rizal began writing a sequel to El Filibusterismo. He began in
Tagalog, called the opening chapter "Makamisa," then started anew in Spanish, and
eventually left behind two texts comprising an unfinished third novel. In 1987, while
working in the National Library, Ambeth Ocampo stubled on the Spanish drafts of Makamisa
with a 245 - page manuscript labelled Borrador del Noli Me Tangere. He reconstructed the
unwieldy drafs into translation and a full narrative, which is the core of this book. He
provides context for this detailing for the non-specialist reader the scholarly chase that led
to the discovery of the manuscript, the process of research, and the task of authentication
that led to the conclusion that Makamisa is Rizal's third novel, and not, as previously
thought , the unfinished work knows as "Tagalog Nobility." Makamisa brings forward a new
Rizal work for students and their families, historians and scholars to enjoy -- one in which
Filipinos can see themselves and part of their history. Through it Ocampo proves that Rizal
is not a closed book, that there still is a matter for study on, research in, and enlightenment
from the enigma that is Jose Rizal

JOSE RIZAL’S PLAY:

El Consejo de los Dioses  (The Council of the Gods)

El Consejo de los Dioses (English Translation: The Council of the Gods) is a play written
in Spanish by Filipino writer and national hero José Rizal, first published in 1880 in Manila by
the Liceo Artistico Literario de Manila in 1880, and later by La Solidaridad in 1883.
El Consejo de los Dioses was written by Rizal when he was only nineteen years old, and
reveals the humanistic education of the Philippines at the time and his answer to
scholasticism.
Summary:
The play exposes how an Asian teenager look unto the cultural elements of the Western
humanistic tradition, overcoming not only its formalism, but at the same time laying the
foundations for an effort toward self-knowledge.
Depicting Olympian deities discussing Western literary standards, it becomes a reference
text of literary criticism in the Philippines. Rizal further explores the true meaning of human
desire for knowledge and designs the guidelines for a Filipino speculative thought.

Junta Al Pasig (Along the Pasig)

A one –act zarzuela in Spanish written by the Philippine national here, ‘Jose Rizal’, was staged
by the Academy of Spanish Literature members on December , 1880- Rizal wrote it to honor
“Nuestra Senora dela Paz y Buenviaje de Antipolo” (Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage)
Summary:
The play basically poses questions related with what Christians believe. Through Leonido, the
main character, a teenager, Rizal portrayed another prospective of Satan and the Virgin Mary. He
centers on thoughts such as: Who is the real redeemer of mankind? Who should really be
adored? Who should one believe? Does one have to believe?

San Euistaquio, Mártyr  (Saint Eustache, the martyr)

Saint Eustace, also known as Eustachius or Eustathius in Latin, is revered as a Christian
martyr. His hagiographical text Legend of St. Eustace was popular
throughout Christendom of the Middle Ages, especially in the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries of France and was written in different languages such
as Latin, Greek, French, English, and Anglo-Saxon. Major events occurring in the text were
also popular amongst different forms art such as sculptures illuminate manuscripts, stained
glass, enamel, ivory, and murals. Legend places him in the 2nd century AD. A martyr of
that name is venerated as a saint in the Anglican Church. He is commemorated by
the Catholic Church and the Orthodox Church on September 20. The Armenian Apostolic
Church commemorates St. Eustace on October 1.

Por Telefono  (By Phone)

Por Telepono or By Phone is a play written by Philippine national hero, Jose Rizal. It discusses
social issues and plans for the Philippines by two Friars. It was published in 1889 as a reply to
a friar named Fr. Salvador Font in connection to his discrimination about Noli Me Tangere and
for initiating the banning of Noli in the fall of 1889. The first pamphlet was printed in
Barcelona under the authorship of Dimas Alang. Por Telefono is a satirical comedy about
Father Font, who was at Madrid speaking with a provincial priest in San Agustin Monastery
using a telephone line that is spear-headed by The Trans-Oceanic Telephone Co. Por Telepono
is full of symbolism.
Jose Rizal’s Speeches and Petitions:

 In honor of two Filipino painters, Rizal's toast to Luna and Hidalgo

In rising to speak I have no fear that you will listen to me with superciliousness, for
you have come here to add to ours your enthusiasm, the stimulus of youth, and
you cannot but be indulgent. Sympathetic currents pervade the air, bonds of
fellowship radiate in all directions, generous souls listen, and so I do not fear for
my humble personality, nor do I doubt your kindness. Sincere men yourselves, you
seek only sincerity, and from that height, where noble sentiments prevail, you give
no heed to sordid trifles. You survey the whole field, you weigh the cause and
extend your hand to whomsoever like myself, desires to unite with you in a single
thought, in a sole aspiration: the glorification of genius, the grandeur of the
fatherland!

Such is, indeed, the reason for this gathering. In the history of mankind there are
names which in themselves signify an achievement-which call up reverence and
greatness; names which, like magic formulas, invoke agreeable and pleasant ideas;
names which come to form a compact, a token of peace, a bond of love among the
nations. To such belong the names of Luna and Hidalgo: their splendor illuminates
two extremes of the globe-the Orient and the Occident, Spain and the Philippines.
As I utter them, I seem to see two luminous arches that rise from either region to
blend there on high, impelled by the sympathy of a common origin, and from that
height to unite two peoples with eternal bonds; two peoples whom the seas and
space vainly separate; two peoples among whom do not germinate the seeds of
disunion blindly sown by men and their despotism. Luna and Hidalgo are the pride
of Spain as of the Philippines-though born in the Philippines, they might have been
born in Spain, for genius has no country; genius bursts forth everywhere; genius is
like light and air, the patrimony of all: cosmopolitan as space, as life and God.

The Philippines' patriarchal era is passing, the illustrious deeds of its sons are not
circumscribed by the home; the oriental chrysalis is quitting its cocoon; the dawn
of a broader day is heralded for those regions in brilliant tints and rosy dawn-hues;
and that race, lethargic during the night of history while the sun was illuminating
other continents, begins to wake, urged by the electric' shock produced by contact
with the occidental peoples, and begs for light, life, and the civilization that once
might have been its heritage, thus conforming to the eternal laws of constant
evolution, of transformation, of recurring phenomena, of progress.

This you know well and you glory in it. To you is due the beauty of the gems that
circle the Philippines' crown; she supplied the stones, Europe the polish. We all
contemplate proudly: you your work; we the inspiration, the encouragement, the
materials furnished. They imbibed there the poetry of nature-nature grand and
terrible in her cataclysms, in her transformations, in her conflict of forces; nature
sweet, peaceful and melancholy in her constant manifestation-unchanging; nature
that stamps her seal upon whatsoever she creates or produces. Her sons carry it
wherever they go. Analyze, if not her characteristics, then her works; and little as
you may know that people, you will see her in everything moulding its knowledge,
as the soul that everywhere presides, as the spring of the mechanism, as the
substantial form, as the raw material. It is impossible not to show what one feels;
it is impossible to be one thing and to do another. Contradictions are apparent
only; they are merely paradoxes. In El Spoliarium -on that canvas which is not
mute-is heard the tumult of the throng, the cry of slaves, the metallic rattle of the
armor on the corpses, the sobs of orphans, the hum of prayers, with as much force
and realism as is heard the crash of the thunder amid the roar of the cataracts, or
the fearful and frightful rumble of the earthquake. The same nature that conceives
such phenomena has also a share in those lines.

On the other hand, in Hidalgo's work there are revealed feelings of the purest kind;
ideal expression of melancholy, beauty, and weakness-victims of brute force. And
this is because Hidalgo was born beneath the dazzling azure of that sky, to the
murmur of the breezes of her seas, in the placidity of her lakes, the poetry of her
valleys and the majestic harmony of her hills and mountains. So in Luna we find
the shades, the contrasts, the fading lights, the mysterious and the terrible, like an
echo of the dark storms of the tropics, its thunderbolts, and the destructive
eruptions of its volcanoes. So in Hidalgo we find all is light, color, harmony, feeling,
clearness; like the Philippines on moonlit nights, with her horizons that invite to
meditation and suggest infinity. Yet both of them-although so different-in
appearance, at least, are fundamentally one; just as our hearts beat in unison in
spite of striking differences. Beth, by depicting from their palettes the dazzling rays
of the tropical sun, transform them into rays of unfading glory with which they
invest the fatherland. Both express the spirit of our social, moral and political life;
humanity subjected to hard trials, humanity unredeemed; reason and aspiration in
open fight with prejudice, fanaticism and injustice; because feeling and opinion
make their way through the thickest walls, because for them all bodies are porous,
all are transparent; and if the pen fails them and the printed word does not come
to their aid, then the palette and the brush not only delight the view but are also
eloquent advocates. If the mother teaches her child her language in order to
understand its joys, its needs, and its woes; so Spain, like that mother, also
teaches her language to Filipinos, in spite of the opposition of those purblind
pygmies who, sure of the present, are unable to extend their vision into the future,
who do not weigh the consequences.

Like sickly nurses, corrupted and corrupting, these opponents of progress pervert
the heart of the people. They sow among them the seeds of discord, to reap later
the harvest, a deadly nightshade of future generations.
But, away with these woes! Peace to the dead, because they are deadbreath and
soul are lacking them; the worms are eating them! Let us not invoke their sad
remembrance; let us not drag their ghastliness into the midst of our rejoicing!
Happily, brothers are more-generosity and nobility are innate under the sky of
Spain-of this you are all patent proof. You have unanimously responded, you have
cooperated, and you would have done more, had more been asked. Seated at our
festal board and honoring the illustrious sons of the Philippines, you also honor
Spain, because, as you are well aware, Spain's boundaries are not the Atlantic or
the Bay of Biscay or the Mediterranean-a shame would it be for water to place a
barrier to her greatness, her thought. (Spain is there-there where her beneficent
influence i"s exerted; and even though her flag should disappear, there would
remain her memory-eternal, imperishable. What matters a strip of red and yellow
cloth; what matter the guns and cannon; there where a feeling of love, of affection,
does not flourish-there where there is no fusion of ideas, harmony of opinion?
Luna and Hidalgo belong to you as much as to us. You love them, you see in them
noble hopes, valuable examples. The Filipino youth of Europe always enthusiastic-
and some other persons whose hearts remain ever young through the
disinterestedness and enthusiasm that characterize their actions, tender Luna a
 crown, a humble tribute-small indeed compared to our enthusiasm-but the most
spontaneous and freest of all the tributes yet paid to him.

But the Philippines' gratitude toward her illustrious sons was yet unsatisfied; and
desiring to give free rein to the thoughts that seethe her mind, to the feelings that
overflow her heart, and to the words that escape from her lips, we have all come
together here at this banquet to mingle our vows, to give shape to that mutual
understanding between two races which love and care for each other, united
morally, socially and politically for the space of four centuries, so that they may
form in the future a single nation in spirit, in duties, in aims, in rights. I drink,
then, to our artists Luna and Hidalgo, genuine and pure glories of two peoples. I
drink to the persons who have given them aid on the painful road of art!

I drink that the Filipino youth-sacred hope of my fatherland may imitate such
valuable examples; and that the mother Spain, solicitous and heedful of the
welfare of her provinces, may quickly put into practice the reforms she has so long
planned. The furrow is laid out and the land is not sterile! And finally, I drink to the
happiness of those parents who, deprived of their sons' affection, from those
distant regions follow them with moist gaze and throbbing hearts across the seas
and distance; sacrificing on the altar of the common good, the sweet consolations
that are so scarce in the decline of life — precious and solitary flowers that spring
up on the borders of the tomb.

 Rizal's speech delivered at Cafe Habanero

"The Filipino Colony in Madrid, that flower who is expected to rejuvenate the rotten
trunk, that handful of youth, who, three thousand miles away from their distant
homes, should have only one thought and only one aspiration, is now undergoing a
progressive transformation…Here, gentlemen, is the summary of the three years
activities that I saw in this Court. You can see how little by little union among the
younger Filipinos has been blossoming, thanks to the events that impressed their
hearts. During those rather ungrateful days the feeling for our country had never
abandoned us; if the mutual zeal for individual independence and the natural pride of
each and everyone seemed to becloud it, the mere invocation of the word "country"
has revived it and has presented itself powerful and ready as the geni of oriental
tales. The ground was always fertile, and on it, if for a long time nothing sprouted
but discord and confusion, that was because good seed was lacking. If the ground
hardened and the water got stagnant, that was because there was no movement.
The vices, those powerful children of idleness, escaped from us as soon as serious
problems occupied our minds, and we can say that even when at times we suffered
discouragement and seemed to retreat, finally we marched forward, and we
progressed. Our hearts are noble and our aim is holy . . . Now the Filipino Colony
understands the advantages of unity; now we all know that the iron is strong and the
air is compressible because the molecules of one have little cohesion, while those of
the other form a compact mass hardly leaving a vacuum between them. I
understand, gentlemen, that in this situation the individual freedom suffers in its
prerogatives, but destiny wills it that way; the molecules of the more solid and
compact body are the most compressed, and the most powerful army is the most
disciplined. What does it matter, gentlemen, if we sacrifice a portion of our freedom,
but we offer it in the altars of our country? What does it matter if we are deprived of
some particles, if these become grains that are kept to be planted and later
harvested abundantly? We, therefore, profess, gentlemen, once again unity and
solidarity among us. The good and welfare of our country is our motive. Let us prove
to the whole world that when a Filipino wills something he can always do it."
