Translated to English by Richard Gabela on April 20, 2024, from the original work “Noche de dolor en las montañas” by Numa Pompilio Llona (1832-1907) of Guayaquil, Ecuador. I have translated the title of the poem as “Night of Sorrow in the Mountains.”
Night of Sorrow in the Mountains
To Don Juan Valera
The tempest raged; and I, meanwhile,
from mountain crest to foothill, my face in my hand,
shed tears—bitter, unending tears.
Grief held me in its stupor,
my soul sunk in slumber;
but when the torpor of anguish at last broke,
the sky was clear, the wind was calm…
And with a mingling of wonder, bitterness, and pain,
I lifted my gaze to contemplate the heavens.
Sirius blazed without ceasing;
Saturn, fixed in the zenith,
watched over universal life.
The Milky Way, sparkling with taciturn light,
encircled the world in a vast belt
of glittering scales, like
the infinite symbolic serpent
that forever devours itself.
What silence! O God! What weariness!
What profound, fatal indifference!
How strange is this all-encompassing force
to the frailty of man’s existence!
To grasp it is to feel the sudden blow
that strikes and weighs upon the conscience,
revealing in its deepest abysses
a tremendous and relentless truth.
The world revolves in the vast firmament
with august pomp and supreme majesty,
setting in motion, in harmonious rhythm,
the great, endless system of the stars;
and man passes, bearing his lament,
grappling with the enigma of his own being.
He suffers and dies—yet his end does not disturb
the eternal feast of life.
An immense Being, enclosed in its own designs,
the universe reigns sovereign;
or else it is a colossal, blind mechanism,
turning without cease—
and man, who feels most keenly of all,
is but a fragile mote, a fleeting grain,
poised at the edge of being crushed,
powerless to halt the giant wheel’s eternal motion.
Perhaps he is but a spring in that vast,
marvelous, divine machine—
a suffering spring nonetheless,
aware of its own coming ruin;
a being whose sorrowful smallness
contrasts with the instinct to rise;
living each day in base captivity,
yet dreaming of eternal life and freedom.
He lives—bearing the tormenting drama
of his own thoughts;
a strange amalgam, wretched and discordant,
of opposing elements in constant strife;
a blend of shadow and celestial flame,
an antithesis at every instant;
a hybrid creature, and of all that exists,
the saddest victim of fate.
Like the ill-starred prince
of strange Eastern tales,
turned to stone from the waist down,
weeping motionless over his eternal woes;
fused to lifeless matter,
man too, bound by fatal ties,
from the depths of earth
lifts his anxious eyes and sighs to heaven.
Fortunate the pure, strong angel,
whose airy essence is not weighed down by clay;
the motionless plant, the inert mineral,
are insensible, mindless matter;
the brute creature feels the blows of fate,
yet does not give its pain and misery
a perpetual, hundredfold existence
through the refracting glass of consciousness.
Only he, proclaimed noble king
of all creation at the summit,
is granted the high privilege
of reason to light his night;
he bears thought, that royal seal
glowing inwardly upon his brow,
a mirror to the mysterious universe
and to his own being, its shadow and reflection.
The sun, robed in eternal majesty,
rises calmly over the ocean,
its cerulean breast heaving
as if trembling with love;
it seems a boiling sea of molten gold,
its face aflame, its bright vapor
floating in air, climbing the mountain,
blurring the horizon’s edge.
When golden rays strike jagged peaks,
and from valleys and slopes
smoke curls from the cabins;
the lowing of cattle drifts from afar;
the voices of mountains and plains
fill the world with light, life, and sound.
Foaming torrents,
tumbling from dark and rugged heights,
glitter on the steep hillsides,
and pour into the valleys;
resonant rivers wander playfully
through woods, villages, and fields,
vanishing into the distant haze
like a dream of love and hope.
The august, fervent, silent hour
of midday’s universal calm,
when Earth lies in rapture
beneath her white, fiery mantle;
the mysterious shadow of evening;
the urgent toll of the bell
as the sun retreats step by step
into the grandeur of the sunset;
The joyful song of the laborer,
happier than kings,
returning at ease with his slow oxen
after the day’s toil;
the sounds from farms and vineyards;
the trampling and bleating of flocks
gently led to the fold by the shepherd
in the fading light of day.
Venus gleams, pure and radiant,
beneath the uncertain veil of twilight;
a multitude of stars sparkle
in the deep concave of the sky,
while the earth is still shrouded in shadow;
and the soul feels a longing beyond words
beneath that vast, trembling canopy
of living, burning, radiant light.
The triumphant moon appears
in the bluest void,
its tranquil rays silvering lagoons,
mountains, forests, rivers;
while night perhaps gathers
its mysteries in its dark confines,
and from the shadowed sea
echoes the murmur and the tumult.
Those hazy nights when the heavens
are veiled in dim vapor,
and the moon trembles
over the troubled, dark sea,
its silvery, glittering path
following the gentle sway of the silent waves—
then in the soul stirs
the memory of some more august life.
The motionless, severe mountains
mirrored in the deep lake,
whose shining surface
only the lightest breeze disturbs;
its waves expiring on tranquil shores
with a vague murmur;
the distant snow peaks
lifting domes of gleaming crystal.
The pale blue dawn
breaking over uncertain valleys;
the tender whisper of flowers
bent by the breeze;
the murmuring of hidden brooks;
the bright smile of heaven;
the white cloud drifting in its depths;
the turtledove moaning in the grove.
Every varied, splendid aspect
of the world’s panorama;
every sound or plaintive note
of the august hymn diffused through creation,
fills the heart with a deep, unknown feeling;
and to the universe
he clasps his soul in a giant embrace,
longing to unite with it forever.
He longs to perpetually behold
the beauty of earth and sky;
to follow in its swift course
the glory and immortality of nature;
to turn with the celestial sphere,
in ecstasy of love and joy,
roaming the vast solitudes of ether,
travelling through the ages with it.
He would know the law that conquers death,
to enjoy a life inexhaustible,
without night, sunset, or dawn—
boundless, eternal, immeasurable;
and to quench the infinite thirst that devours him,
thus united with the universe,
his spirit mingling with its essence,
plunging into cosmic existence.
But creation, with its splendor
of eternal stars, its living chorus
of beings, songs, and sounds—
this immense festival in which humanity,
garlanded with flowers, marches to die—
recalls the innocent, resigned Iphigenia
offered before an unknown god.
And he sees that his hope is vain;
that he is but the mark
of fate’s tremendous wrath,
an offering upon its altar;
driven by an unseen hand, man moves on,
groaning along life’s road,
at whose end, silently,
awaits the universal and eternal grave.
O unspeakable pain! O eternal misfortune,
inevitable and infinite!
Fatal contradiction, law of bitterness
decreed for our unhappy race!
If everywhere the wretched being
is bound by his own sad condition,
why this inward thirst that devours us
for love, life, and eternal bliss?
Why this yearning of a giant spirit
placed in a fleeting, paltry frame?
Why this incessant desire
for the eternal, immortal, divine,
if life is but the irrevocable dream of a moment,
a mist in the blue that gathers
and is scattered by the wind?
No! Armed in the sevenfold cuirass
of steadfast will, the strong soul
will await the blow with which death,
unfailing, strikes the unarmed breast—
O unhappy race of Adam,
ill-starred child of fate!—
and will meet it with the calm and greatness
of an unvanquished heart.
Like the captive warrior
from the enemy’s tribe,
poised to face a cruel death,
the bound Indian counts the brief hours left;
motionless, silent, and proud,
he seeks no pity from his foes;
he accepts his fate,
and meets their fury with disdain.
His mind returns to the past—
the whispering wind in the thicket
telling of his jungle, his hut, his beloved;
he lifts his bowed head with pride;
his eyes flash as he confronts
the savage chorus of his executioners;
and at last he lifts his voice in song—
A chant of death and victory,
triumphant and mournful;
the bloody chronicle of his battles;
the apotheosis of his glory;
the solace for his torment.
On his parched lips he breathes his last,
surrendering his body
to the blaze of the pyre.
So you, O noble and steadfast soul,
quickened with manly vigor,
must accept from fate
its unjust and barbarous sentence;
you will face the imminent visage of death
with stoic indifference;
and in dying, without weakness or falter,
you will sing your funeral song.
In it you will tell of your fleeting years—
the struggles, cares, and pains;
the doubts and disappointments;
the blows of fickle fortune;
the slow decay of age;
the sudden, eternal farewells
to those we love, tearing half our life away.
You will tell of the siege of unseen foes
in life’s fierce battle;
the lethal, irremediable poison
lurking in our cup;
the mounting anguish, the deep weariness
of our sorrowful earthly journey;
and with a bitter, scornful tone,
you will cast it toward the heavens.
Like ancient Prometheus,
guilty and suffering on the high rock,
who before Zeus utters no vile plea for pity—
his giant form chained,
his lips sealed in disdain—
but, sublime, his head held high,
proclaims his protest
before eternal justice.
Yes—let it be that, in dying,
the cry of the wretched creature
rise at least to pierce the skies,
echoing through the heights;
let it resound forever in the silent void,
its tone of bitterness vibrating—
until at last it fades, succumbs,
and falls to dust in an unremembered grave.
Translator’s Notes: In translating this work by Numa Pompilio Llona, a celebrated poet of Ecuador’s Romantic period, I first produced a version that preserved the original ABAB rhyme scheme to echo the musicality inherent in his verse. While this approach retained the poem’s lyrical cadence, I ultimately chose a non-rhyming translation to better convey the nuances and precise meanings of Llona’s language. The poem explores themes of existential anguish, the fleeting nature of life, and humanity’s often futile struggle against fate. Through vivid imagery that moves from celestial grandeur to earthly landscapes, Llona contrasts the eternal with the ephemeral, offering a poignant meditation on despair and the quest for meaning.
Synopsis
The poem begins with the speaker in the mountains during a storm, overcome by grief and tears. When the tempest passes, he looks up at the serene night sky, filled with stars and cosmic order. This contrast between the vast, indifferent universe and the fragile, suffering human condition becomes the central meditation.
The speaker reflects on the insignificance of man in the grand scheme: the world turns, the stars shine, and nature continues its rhythms, while individual human lives—full of longing, suffering, and dreams—pass without altering this cosmic order. He questions why humanity is given reason and the yearning for eternity if our lives are destined to be brief and end in death.
From here, the poem alternates between rapturous descriptions of nature—dawn, rivers, sunsets, the moonlit night—and deep philosophical despair at the inevitability of death. The beauty of the natural world fills him with a desire for immortality, yet he knows it is impossible; man, like the sacrificial Iphigenia, is destined to perish for reasons beyond his understanding.
The latter part shifts to a defiant tone. The poet rejects fear and weakness, urging the strong soul to face death with dignity, like a warrior captive who meets execution without begging for mercy, or like Prometheus, who suffers but refuses to bow to Zeus. The “funeral song” of such a soul is not one of resignation but of protest—against fate, against the injustice of mortality—until even that voice fades into silence.
Thematic Analysis
1. Man vs. the Universe
The poem frames humanity as a fragile, conscious being in an immense, possibly indifferent universe. The stars and planets move in majestic harmony, untouched by human suffering. This cosmic scale emphasizes the tragic irony of our awareness—we can imagine eternity, but we cannot possess it.
2. Nature’s Dual Role
Nature is both a source of joy and pain. Its beauty inspires awe and a longing for immortality, but it is also a reminder that life continues without us. The landscapes described—sunrises, rivers, valleys, night skies—become symbols of life’s ongoing flow, in which man is only a brief presence.
3. The Desire for Eternity
A recurring question emerges: why would humans be given the capacity to dream of the eternal if their lives are so short? The poet treats this as a cruel contradiction—a “law of bitterness” for the human race. This longing for permanence is one of the poem’s emotional engines.
4. Defiance in the Face of Death
Rather than succumb to despair, the poem turns to stoic heroism. The strong soul is to meet death without fear, confronting fate as an equal adversary. The warrior and Prometheus serve as models: endurance, pride, and the refusal to plead for mercy.
5. The Funeral Song as Protest
Death is inevitable, but the poet insists the soul’s “song” should be one of rebellion—a testimony to its struggles, losses, and disappointments, hurled as a challenge to the heavens. This transforms personal grief into a universal statement about the injustice of mortality.
Overall Tone and Style
The tone is majestic, philosophical, and elegiac, with moments of romantic exaltation in the nature passages and epic defiance in the final sections. Stylistically, it blends:
- Romantic nature imagery (recalling Wordsworth and Lamartine)
- Philosophical meditation (in the spirit of Leopardi)
- Epic heroism (Prometheus, ancient warriors, mythic sacrifice)
The effect is a sweeping meditation on life, death, and humanity’s place in the universe, ending not in quiet resignation but in proud resistance.
Original Spanish Version
Noche de dolor en las montañas
A don Juan Valera
Rugió la tempestad; y yo, entretanto,
del monte al pie, la faz sobre la palma
vertiendo acerbo inextinguible llanto,
quedé en su pena, adormecida mi alma;
cuando cesó el sopor de mi quebranto,
limpio estaba el azul, el viento en calma…
¡Y con asombro y amargura y duelo,
alcé mi rostro a contemplar el cielo!…
Sirio radiante sin cesar lucía;
Saturno, inmóvil, del cenit miraba
la vida universal… La Láctea Vía,
que con luz taciturna centellaba
y al orbe en ancho círculo envolvía
de brillantes escamas, semejaba
la infinita, simbólica serpiente
que se está devorando eternamente…
¡Cuánto silencio! ¡Oh Dios! ¡Cuánto reposo!
¡Y cuán honda y fatal indiferencia!
¡Cuán extraño ese todo prodigioso
es del hombre a la mísera presencia!…
¡Al comprenderlo, un pasmo doloroso
penetra y acongoja la conciencia,
y en sus abismos íntimos clarea
una tremenda e implacable idea!
Gira el mundo en el vasto firmamento
con pompa augusta y majestad suprema,
y se agita, en acorde movimiento,
de los astros sin fin el gran sistema…
¡Y el hombre pasa, alzando su lamento,
y de su propio ser con el problema!
¡Sufre y muere!… ¡Y no turba su caída
el perpetuo banquete de la vida!
Ser inmenso encerrado en su egoísmo
parece el universo soberano,
o un colosal y ciego mecanismo
que gira sin cesar; ¡y el ser humano
-el que, entre todos, siéntese a sí mismo-,
la arista deleznable, el leve grano,
que va a saciar, sin que eludirlo pueda,
la actividad de la gigante rueda!
¡Un resorte es, tal vez, de aquella vasta
maravillosa máquina divina,
mas resorte que sufre! ¡Que se gasta,
y que siente su próxima ruina!
¡Ser cuya triste pequeñez contrasta
con su instinto que a lo alto se encamina!
¡Que vive un día en cautiverio infando,
eterna vida y libertad soñando!
¡Vive! ¡en su mente el doloroso drama
llevando de sus propios pensamientos;
conjunto extraño, mísera amalgama
de opuestos y encontrados elementos;
mezcla de sombra y de celeste llama;
antítesis de todos los momentos;
híbrido ser; en medio a cuanto existe,
de la fatalidad víctima triste!
Como el príncipe aquel infortunado
de los extraños cuentos orientales,
que, en su inferior mitad petrificado,
lloraba inmóvil sus eternos males;
a la inerte materia encadenado
el hombre, así, por vínculos fatales,
de las regiones ínfimas del suelo
¡ansioso mira y suspirando el cielo!
Más dichosos, del ángel puro y fuerte
no oprime el barro la sustancia aeria;
la inmóvil planta, el mineral inerte,
son insensible estúpida materia;
siente el bruto los males de su suerte,
¡pero no a su dolor y a su miseria
da una perpetua y céntuple existencia
el cristal refractor de la conciencia!
Sólo él, que se llama el rey egregio
de la vasta creación puesto en la cumbre,
sólo él recibe el alto privilegio
de la razón, con que su noche alumbre;
él tiene el pensamiento, signo regio
que en su frente refulge, interna lumbre,
del Universo misterioso espejo,
y de su propio ser sombra y reflejo.
El sol, de eterna majestad vestido,
que nace en calma allá en el océano,
cuando, como de amor estremecido,
palpita y se alza su cerúleo llano;
cuando bullente mar de oro fundido
su faz semeja; y su vapor liviano
flota en los aires, y escalando el monte,
desvanece el perfil del horizonte;
cuando, en las altas cúspides quebrados,
hieren los dardos de oro las montañas…
Y de los hondos valles y collados
el humo se alza ya de las cabañas;
y el distante mugir de los ganados
se oye, y la voz de montes y campañas;
¡y de la tierra la anchurosa escena
de luz, de vida y de rumor se llena!
Los espumosos rápidos torrentes
que, de los montes rudos y sombríos
relumbrando en las ásperas vertientes,
bajan al valle; los sonoros ríos
que, en caprichosos giros refulgentes,
por entre bosques, pueblos y plantíos,
se pierden en confusa lontananza…
¡Como un sueño de amor y de esperanza!
La hora augusta, callada y ardorosa
del meridiano universal sosiego,
cuando la Tierra extática reposa
bajo su blanca túnica de fuego…
Las sombras de la tarde misteriosa;
de la campana el clamoroso ruego,
mientras el sol se oculta paso a paso
en las pompas sublimes del ocaso;
Del labrador alegre los cantares,
que, más feliz que próceres y reyes,
de la diurna faena a sus hogares
al paso vuelve de sus tardos bueyes;
las voces de las granjas y lagares;
el tropel y balido de las greyes
que en silencio al redil el pastor guía,
a las vislumbres últimas del día;
Venus que asoma rutilante y pura
del dudoso crepúsculo entre el velo;
la muchedumbre de astros que fulgura
en el profundo cóncavo del cielo,
mientras cubre aún la tierra sombra oscura.
¡Y el alma siente indefinible anhelo
bajo esa inmensa y trémula techumbre
de viva, ardiente y fulgorosa lumbre!
¡La aparición de la triunfante luna
en el azul más claro del vacío,
que con serenos rayos la laguna
argenta y la montaña y selva y río…
La misteriosa oscuridad que aduna
tal vez la noche en su recinto umbrío,
mientras del mar en la tiniebla oculto
¡resuenan los gemidos y el tumulto!…
Las nebulosas noches en que vela
el firmamento sombra vaporosa,
cuando la luna trémula rïela
en la mar alterada y tenebrosa,
y su argentada rutilante estela
sigue el vaivén del onda silenciosa…
¡Y en el alma se eleva, conmovida,
como el recuerdo de otra augusta vida!
¡Las montañas inmobles y severas
que se reflejan en el hondo lago,
cuyo luciente espejo auras ligeras
tan sólo agitan, en amante halago;
sus ondas que en las plácidas riberas
lentas expiran con murmullo vago;
los nevados que elevan a lo lejos
sus cúpulas de fúlgidos reflejos!…
Los azulados pálidos albores
de la aurora en los valles indecisa;
el amante susurro de las flores
que el soplo inclina de la fresca brisa;
de la escondida frente los rumores;
de los cielos la fúlgida sonrisa;
la blanca nube que en su fondo rueda;
la tórtola que gime en la arboleda…
Del panorama espléndido del mundo
cada aspecto magnífico y diverso,
cada acento sonoro o gemebundo
del himno augusto en la creación disperso,
de un sentimiento incógnito y profundo
llenan su corazón; y al universo
estrecha su alma con gigante abrazo,
¡y unirse quiere en perdurable lazo!
¡Perpetuamente contemplar quisiera
de la tierra y los cielos la hermosura;
y, siguiendo en su rápida carrera
a la gloria e inmortal natura,
al revolver de la celeste esfera,
en éxtasis de amor y de ventura,
del éter por las vastas soledades
atravesar con ella las edades!
¡De la ley de la muerte vencedora,
gozar quisiera de inexhausta vida,
sin noche, sin ocaso y sin aurora,
sin término, ni valla, ni medida!
¡Y la infinita sed que la devora
así saciando, al universo unida,
su espíritu fundiéndose en su esencia,
abismarse en la cósmica existencia!…
¡Que es la vasta creación, con los fulgores
de sus eternos astros, con la orquesta
de sus seres, y cantos y rumores…
El coro inmenso, la perpetua fiesta
entre la cual, la humanidad, de flores
marcha ceñida, y a morir dispuesta!
¡Ifigenia inocente y resignada
ante ignota deidad sacrificada!
¡Comprende que es inútil su esperanza!
¡Que -blanco de la cólera tremenda
del destino implacable o la venganza,
o ante su altar propiciatorio ofrenda-,
por fuerza oculta arrebatado avanza
gimiendo el hombre en la terrestre senda,
a cuyo fin le espera silenciosa
la universal y sempiterna fosa!…
¡Oh indecible dolor!… ¡Oh desventura
eterna, inevitable e infinita!
¡Contradicción fatal! ¡Ley de amargura
a nuestra raza mísera prescrita!…
Si por doquier a la infeliz criatura
su propia y triste condición limita,
¿por qué esta sed que nos devora interna
de amor, de vida y venturanza eterna?
¿Por qué esta ansia de espíritu gigante
puesta en un ser efímero y mezquino?
¿Por qué este anhelo inmenso e incesante
de lo eterno, inmortal y lo divino,
si el sueño irrevocable de un instante
sólo es la vida que le dio el destino;
niebla que en el azul del firmamento
veloz agrupa y desvanece el viento?
¡No! Armada de la séptuple coraza
de firme voluntad el alma fuerte,
el golpe esperarás con que amenaza
tu inerme seno la infalible muerte,
¡oh, tú, de Adán desventurada raza,
hija desheredada de la suerte!
¡Y le opondrás la calma y la grandeza
de tu heroica invencible fortaleza!
De la enemiga tribu prisionero
y próximo a sufrir muerte cruenta,
atado al tronco el índico guerrero
las breves horas de su vida cuenta;
inmóvil, silencioso y altanero,
no a sus contrarios apiadar intenta;
su suerte acepta; y de la turba impía
desdeñoso la saña desafía;
en lo pasado engólfase su mente
largo tiempo, al rumor que en la enramada
forma el viento que le habla tristemente
de su selva, su choza y de su amada…
Levanta, alabo, la inclinada frente;
centellante recorre su mirada
de sus verdugos el salvaje coro…
¡Y al fin entona un cántico sonoro!
¡Un cántico de muerte y de victoria!
¡Himno a la vez triunfal y plañidero!
Que toda encierra la sangrienta historia
de sus luchas de guerra en el sendero.
¡Apoteosis de su propia gloria!
¡Consolación de su suplicio fiero!
En su labio crispado al fin expira…
¡Y el cuerpo entrega a la inflamada pira!
Así ¡oh tú, alma generosa y fuerte
que el soplo alienta de viril potencia!
aceptar debes de la adversa suerte
la injusta cuanto bárbara sentencia;
el aspecto cercano de la muerte
mirarás con estoica indiferencia;
¡y, al morir, sin flaqueza y sin quebranto,
entonarás tu funerario canto!
Y en él dirás: de tus fugaces años,
las luchas, los cuidados y dolores,
incertidumbres, dudas, desengaños…
De la instable fortuna los rigores;
de la callada edad los lentos daños;
de los seres más caros y mejores
la inesperada eterna despedida,
que extingue la mitad de nuestra vida.
De invisibles contrarios el asedio
en la terrestre encarnizada guerra;
la ponzoña letal y sin remedio
que allá en su fondo nuestra copa encierra;
la creciente congoja y hondo tedio
en nuestro triste viaje por la tierra…
¡Y aquel amargo y desdeñoso acento,
muriendo, arrojarás al firmamento!
¡Del propio crimen que nosotros, reo
sufriendo atroz suplicio en la alta roca,
no, de Jove, el antiguo Prometeo
con viles ruegos la piedad invoca;
encadenado el torso giganteo,
cerró el silencio del desdén su boca;
mas, sublime, lanzó, con frente enhiesta,
a la eterna justicia su protesta!
¡Sí! que, al morir, elévese a lo menos
el grito de la mísera criatura,
y traspasando los etéreos senos,
allá resuene en la celeste altura;
que en los espacios mudos y serenos
eterno vibre su eco de amargura…
¡Y que después deshágase y sucumba,
y en polvo caiga en ignorada tumba!