Jose Rizal's Poems

(A Martyrs hopes, dreams, aspirations and goodbyes) Last Poem of Rizal To The Philippines Our Mother Tongue Memories Of My Town Hymn To Labor Kundiman A Poem with no title Song Of Maria Clara To The Philippine Youth To Josephine Education Gives Luster To The Motherland To The Virgin Mary

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.

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.

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?

My Retreat
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 bolders, 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 chasmshoarse, 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 spirits 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 victorys 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 traveled 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 everywhere, 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.

The Song of Maria Clara

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!

Goodbye to Leonor
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!

A Tribute to My Town
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 winds 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 childs 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!

Flower Among Flowers

Flower among flowers, soft bud swooning, that the wind moves to a gentle crooning. Wind of heaven, wind of love, you who gladden all you espy; you who smile and will not sigh, candour and fragrance from above; you who perhaps came down to earth to bring the lonely solace and mirth, and to be a joy for the heart to capture.

They say that into your dawn you bear the immaculate soul a prisoner -- bound with the ties of passion and rapture? They say you spread good everywhere like the Spring which fills the air with joy and flowers in Apriltime. They say you brighten the soul that mourns when dark clouds gather, and that without thorns blossom the roses in your clime. If then, like a fairy, you enhance the joy of those on whom you glance with the magic charm God gave to you; oh, spare me an hour of your cheer, a single day of your career, that the breast may savor the bliss it knew.

Felicitation
I If Philomela with harmonious tongue To blond Apollo, who manifests his face Behind high hill or overhanging mountain, Canticles sends. II So we as well, full of a sweet contentment, Salute you and your very noble saint With tender music and fraternal measures, Dear Antonino. III

From all your sisters and your other kin Receive most lovingly the loving accent That the suave warmth of love dictates to them Placid and tender. IV From amorous wife and amiable Emilio Sweetly receive an unsurpassed affection; And may its sweetness in disaster soften The ruder torments. V As the sea pilot, who so bravely fought Tempestuous waters in the dark of night, Gazes upon his darling vessel safe And come to port. VI So, setting aside all [worldly] predilections, Now let your eyes be lifted heavenward To him who is the solace of all men And loving Father. VII And from ourselves that in such loving accents Salute you everywhere you celebrate, These clamorous vivas that from the heart resound Be pleased to accept.

Hymn To Labor
Chorus: For the Motherland in war, For the Motherland in peace, Will the Filipino keep watch, He will live until life will cease! MEN: Now the East is glowing with light, Go! To the field to till the land, For the labour of man sustains Fam'ly, home and Motherland. Hard the land may turn to be,

Scorching the rays of the sun above... For the country, wife and children All will be easy to our love. Chorus: WIVES: Go to work with spirits high, For the wife keeps home faithfully, Inculcates love in her children For virtue, knowledge and country. When the evening brings repose, On returning joy awaits you, And if fate is adverse, the wife, Shall know the task to continue. Chorus: MAIDENS: H ail! 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: Teac h, 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.

Miss C.O. y R.
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.

Hymn to Talisay
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

To The Philippines
Warm and beautiful like a houri of yore, as gracious and as pure as the break of dawn when darling clouds take on a sapphire tone, sleeps a goddess on the Indian shore. The small waves of the sonorous sea assail her feet with ardent, amorous kisses, while the intellectual West adores her smile; and the old hoary Pole, her flower veil. My Muse, most enthusiastic and elate, sings to her among naiads and undines; I offer her my fortune and my fate. With myrtle, purple roses, and flowering greens and lilies, crown her brow immaculate, O artists, and exalt the Philippines! 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; and your name, in the tomb, his peace.

Flower Among Flowers

Flower among flowers, soft bud swooning, that the wind moves to a gentle crooning. Wind of heaven, wind of love, you who gladden all you espy; you who smile and will not sigh, candour and fragrance from above; you who perhaps came down to earth to bring the lonely solace and mirth, and to be a joy for the heart to capture. They say that into your dawn you bear the immaculate soul a prisoner

-- bound with the ties of passion and rapture? They say you spread good everywhere like the Spring which fills the air with joy and flowers in Apriltime. They say you brighten the soul that mourns when dark clouds gather, and that without thorns blossom the roses in your clime. If then, like a fairy, you enhance the joy of those on whom you glance with the magic charm God gave to you; oh, spare me an hour of your cheer, a single day of your career, that the breast may savor the bliss it knew.

Kundiman (English Translation)

Now mute indeed are tongue and heart: love shies away, joy stands apart. Neglected by its leaders and defeated, the country was subdued and it submitted. But O the sun will shine again! Itself the land shall disenchain; and once more round the world with growing praise shall sound the name of the Tagalog race. We shall pour out our blood in a great flood to liberate the parent sod; but till that day arrives for which we weep, love shall be mute, desire shall sleep.

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.

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!

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!

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.

Song of the Wanderer

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 graves nothing more. Begone, wanderer! In your own country, a stranger now and alone!

Let the others sing of loving, who are happy but 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 The Philippines
Warm and beautiful like a houri of yore, as gracious and as pure as the break of dawn when darling clouds take on a sapphire tone, sleeps a goddess on the Indian shore. The small waves of the sonorous sea assail her feet with ardent, amorous kisses, while the intellectual West adores her smile; and the old hoary Pole, her flower veil. My Muse, most enthusiastic and elate, sings to her among naiads and undines; I offer her my fortune and my fate. With myrtle, purple roses, and flowering greens and lilies, crown her brow immaculate, O artists, and exalt the Philippines!