Last Poem of Rizal

-His friend Mariano Ponce gave it the title of MI ULTIMO ADIOS, as it originally had none

          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 showAnd 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 planeWithout 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 vaporizeAnd 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 you own redemption.

         And when the dark night wraps the cemet'ryAnd 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 cithern 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 scatteredAnd my ashes ere to nothingness are restored,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, harkenThere I leave all: my parents, loves of mine,I'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmenWhere 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

-Rizal wrote the original sonnet in Spanish

Aglowing and fair like a houri on high,Full of grace and pure like the Morn that peepsWhen 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 smileAnd the frosty Pole her flow'red attire.

With tenderness, stammering, my MuseTo her 'midst undines and naiads does sing;I offer her my fortune and bliss:Oh, artists! her brow chaste ringWith myrtle green and roses redAnd lilies, and extol the Philippines!

A Poem that has no title

To my Creator I singWho did soothe me in my great loss;To the Merciful and KindWho in my troubles gave me repose.

Thou with that pow'r of thineSaid: Live! And with life myself I found;And shelter gave me thouAnd a soul impelled to the goodLike a compass whose point to the North is bound.

Thou did make me descendFrom honorable home and respectable stock,And a homeland thou gavest meWithout limit, fair and richThough fortune and prudence it does lack.

Memories Of My Town

When I recall the daysThat saw my childhood of yoreBeside the verdant shoreOf a murmuring lagoon;When I remember the sighsOf the breeze that on my browSweet and caressing did blowWith coolness full of delight;

When I look at the lily whiteFills up with air violentAnd the stormy elementOn the sand doth meekly sleep;When sweet 'toxicating scentFrom the flowers I inhaleWhich at the dawn they exhaleWhen at us it begins to peep;

I sadly recall your face,Oh precious infancy,That a mother lovinglyDid succeed to embellish.I remember a simple town;My cradle, joy and boon,Beside the cool lagoonThe seat of all my wish.

Oh, yes! With uncertain paceI trod your forest lands,And on your river banks

A pleasant fun I found;At your rustic temple I prayedWith a little boy's simple faithAnd your aura's flawless breathFilled my heart with joy profound.

Saw I God in the grandeurOf your woods which for centuries stand;Never did I understandIn your bosom what sorrows were;While I gazed on your azure skyNeither love nor tendernessFailed me, 'cause my hapinessIn the heart of nature rests there.

Tender childhood, beautiful town,Rich fountain of hapiness,Of harmonious melodies,That drive away my sorrow!Return thee to my heart,Bring back my gentle hoursAs do the birds when the flow'rsWould again begin to blow !

But, alas, adieu! E'er watchFor your peace, joy and repose,Genius of good who kindly disposeOf his blessings with amour;It's for thee my fervent pray'rs,It's for thee my constant desireKnowledge ever to acquireAnd may God keep your candour!

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 sustainsFam'ly, home and Motherland.Hard the land may turn to be,Scorching the rays of the sun above...For the country, wife and childrenAll will be easy to our love.

(Chorus)

WIVES :

Go to work with spirits high,For the wife keeps home faithfully,Inculcates love in her childrenFor 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 loveLabor his faith will sustain :Only a man who struggles and worksWill his offspring know to maintain.

(Chorus)

CHILDREN :

Teach, us ye the laborious workTo pursue your footsteps we wish,For tomorrow when country calls usWe 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 deadAs does a son with glory and valor.

Our Mother Tongue -A poem originally in Tagalog written by Rizal when he was only eight years old

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 in years bygone.

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!

Kundiman

Truly hushed todayAre my tongue and heartHarm is discerned by loveAnd joy flies away,'Cause the Country wasVanquished and did yieldThrough the negligenceOf the one who led.

But the sun will return to dawn;In spite of everythingSubdued peopleWill be liberated;The Filipino nameWill return perhapsAnd again becomeIn vogue in the world.

We shall shedBlood and it shall floodOnly to emancipateThe native land;While the designated timeDoes not come,Love will restAnd anxiety will sleep.

To Josephine

-Rizal dedicated this poem to Josephine Bracken, an Irish woman who went to Dapitan accompanying a man seeking Rizal's services as an ophthamologist.

Josephine, JosephineWho to these shores have comeLooking for a nest, a home,Like a wandering swallow;If your fate is taking youTo Japan, China or Shanghai,

Don't forget that on these shoresA heart for you beats high.

Song Of Maria Clara

-A poem, found in Rizal's book Noli me tangere, sung by Maria Clara, which accounts for the title

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.

To The Virgin Mary

Mary, sweet peace, solace dearOf pained mortal ! You're the fountWhence emanates the stream of succour,That without cease our soil fructifies.

From thy throne, from heaven high,Kindly hear my sorrowful cry !And may thy shining veil protectMy 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 !

To The Philippine Youth

 Hold high the brow serene,O youth, where now you stand;Let the bright sheenOf your grace be seen,Fair hope of my fatherland!  Come now, thou genius grand,And bring down inspiration;With thy mighty hand, Swifter than the wind's violation,Raise the eager mind to higher station.  Come down with pleasing lightOf art and science to the fight,O youth, and there untieThe chains that heavy lie,Your spirit free to blight.See how in flaming zoneAmid the shadows thrown,The Spaniard'a holy handA crown's resplendent bandProffers to this Indian land.  Thou, who now wouldst riseOn wings of rich emprise,Seeking from Olympian skies Songs of sweetest strain,

Softer than ambrosial rain;Thou, whose voice divineRivals Philomel's refrainAnd with varied lineThrough the night benignFrees mortality from pain;  Thou, who by sharp strifeWakest thy mind to life ;And the memory brightOf thy genius' lightMakest immortal in its strength ;  And thou, in accents clearOf Phoebus, to Apelles dear ;Or by the brush's magic artTakest from nature's store a part,To fig it on the simple canvas' length ;  Go forth, and then the sacred fireOf thy genius to the laurel may aspire ;To spread around the fame,And in victory acclaim, Through wider spheres the human name.  Day, O happy day,Fair Filipinas, for thy land!So bless the Power to-dayThat places in thy wayThis favor and this fortune grand !

Education Gives Luster To The Motherland

Wise education, vital breathInspires an enchanting virtue;She puts the Country in the lofty seatOf endless glory, of dazzling glow,And just as the gentle aura's puffDo 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 lifeTo education he dedicatesBecause of her, art and science are bornMan; and as from the high mount aboveThe pure rivulet flows, undulates,So education beyond measureGives the Country tranquility secure.

Where wise education raises a throneSprightly youth are invigorated,Who with firm stand error they subdueAnd with noble ideas are exalted;It breaks immortality's neck,Contemptible crime before it is halted:It humbles barbarous nationsAnd it makes of savages champions.

And like the spring that nourishesThe 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 wiseUntil 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 wavesThat lash upon the motionless shoreline:And to climb the heavenly ways the peopleDo learn with her noble example.

In the wretched human beings' breastThe living flame of good she lightsThe hands of criminal fierce she ties,And fill the faithful hearts with delights,Which seeks her secrets beneficientAnd in the love for the good her breast she incites,And it's th' education noble and pureOf human life the balsam sure.

And like a rock that rises with prideIn the middle of the turbulent wavesWhen hurricane and fierce Notus roarShe disregards their fury and raves,That weary of the horror greatSo frightened calmly off they stave;Such is one by wise education steeredHe 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 sonsVirtue transplanted luxuriant flow'rs;And in the love of good e'er disposedWill see the lords and governorsThe noble people with loyal ventureChristian education always procure.

And like the golden sun of the mornWhose rays resplendent shedding gold,And like fair aurora of gold and redShe overspreads her colors bold;

Such true education proudly givesThe pleasue of virtue to young and old

And she enlightens out Motherland dearAs she offers endless glow and luster.

A Fragment

-A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin

To my Creator I sing,

to my All-Merciful Lord, the Omnipotent,

who hushed my suffering

and his sweet solace sent

to ease me while in tribulation I went.

You, with authority,

said: Live; and I myself to life came forth;

free will you gave to me

and a soul that must find worth

in goodness, like a compass needle set north.

You willed my birth to be

of honorable parents, a house of honor;

and a country you granted me:

rich, fair to all who won her,

though fortune and prudence may be scarce upon her.

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?

A Tribute to My Town

-A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin

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!

Felicitation

-A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin-Rizal was fourteen years old when he wrote this poem in 1875. Rizal congratulates Antonio Lopez, his bother-in-law (husband of his sister, Narcisa), on his saint’s day.

“The sisters of your wifeGreet you on your feast day.”

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.

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!

My First Inspiration  - This poem was written by José Rizal at age nine or by his nephew, Antonio Lopez-Rizal (Narcisa's son) whose handwriting was similar to his uncle's.

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!

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 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 the Flowers of Heidelberg 

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.