13 Poems of Neoclassicism by Great Authors

Sherman Hoover
13 Poems of Neoclassicism by Great Authors

I leave you a list of neoclassic poems of great authors such as José Cadalso, Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos or Juan Meléndez Valdés. Neoclassicism was an aesthetic trend that emerged in France and Italy in the 18th century as a contrast to the ornate baroque ornament.

It quickly spread throughout Europe. This movement sought as reference the classical models of Ancient Greece and Rome and was nourished by the rational ideas of the Enlightenment.

This current mainly served the nascent bourgeois class of the time - with the support of Napoleon Bonaparte - who wanted to rescue the ideals of simplicity, sobriety and rationality..

At the end of the 18th century, neoclassicism lost strength and gave way to Romanticism, which exalted totally opposite ideals. The literature of this period is part of the so-called "Age of Enlightenment", which was characterized by the exaltation of reason, morality and knowledge..

The artistic production of this period was, by nature, atheistic and democratic, emphasizing the importance of science and education and taking it away from religious customs and dogmas..

Poetry did not have much preponderance in this period and gave place to the fables (with Tomás de Iriarte and Félix María Samaniego as main exponents), the anacreontics, the satires and the epistles, since they were more useful tools for their primary purpose. what was it to spread knowledge.

Poems of representative authors of neoclassicism

Here are some texts from the most famous authors of this period.

1- Epistle dedicated to Hortelio (Fragment)

From the center of these loneliness,                            

pleasing to the one who knows the truths,                        

pleasing to the one who knows the deceptions                           

of the world, and take advantage of disappointments,                 

I send you, beloved Hortelio, fine friend!,                             

a thousand tests of the rest that I conceive.

Ovid in sad meters complained                     

that luck did not tolerate him               

that the Tiber with his works approached,               

but that cruel Pontus destined him.                    

But what I have lacked as a poet                      

to get from Ovid to the heights,                         

I have plenty of philosopher, and I pretend                          

take things as they come.                      

Oh how you will miss when you see this             

and only trifles here you read,                         

than me, raised in serious faculties,                      

I applied myself to such ridiculous subjects!                      

You already arch, you already raise those eyebrows,                       

you leave the manuscript in your hand,                       

and you say: "For similar toys,                      

Why do you leave the important points?                            

I don't know why whim you forget                   

matters so sublime and chosen!                       

Why don't you dedicate yourself, as is fair,               

to matters of more value than taste?                      

Of the public law that you studied                   

when you visited such wise courtesies;                      

of state science and arcana                     

of the interest of various sovereigns;             

of moral science, which teaches man                        

what virtue pays for in its gift;                           

of the warrior arts that you learned               

when you went to a volunteer campaign;                  

of the provable science of Euclid, 

of delightful new physics,                    

Wouldn't it be more of the case that you think                  

in writing what you will notice?                            

But couplets? What about love? Oh sad!                             

You lost what little sense you had ".                      

Did you say, Hortelio, how much, angry,                       

you wanted this poor outcast?                         

Well look, and with fresh and still phlegm                 

I tell you that I continue with my topic.                           

Of all those sciences that you refer                      

(and add some others if you want)                       

I have not gotten more than the following.                

Listen to me, by God, attentively;                     

but no, what else seems what I say                    

relationship, not letter from a friend.                     

If you look at my sonnets to the goddess                 

of all the ancient most beautiful,                     

the first one will clearly say                  

why did I leave the higher faculties                            

and I only dedicate myself to hobby;                             

read them slowly, I beg you,                             

shut up, and don't judge that my work is so foolish.

Author: José Cadalso

2- First Satire: A Arnesto (Fragments)

               Quis tam patiens ut teneat se?
    [Who will be so patient to hold back?]

Leave me, Arnesto, let me cry 
the fierce evils of my country, leave 
that his ruin and perdition lament; 
and if you don't want that in the dark center 
from this prison the penalty consumes me, 
let me at least raise my cry 
against disorder; let the ink 
Mixing gall and bitter, stay unruly 
my pen the flight of the jester from Aquino. 

Oh how much face I see at my censure 
of paleness and covered blush! 
Courage, friends, no one fear, no one, 
its stinging sting, which I chase 
in my satire to vice, not to vicious. 
And what does it mean that in some verse, 
bile curled, pull a trait 
that the common people believe that it points to Alcinda, 
the one that forgetting her proud luck, 
come down dressed to the Prado, who could 
a maja, with thunder and scratch 
the clothes high, the damn straight, 
covered with a more transparent ridge 
that his intention, with glances and wiggles 
the mob of fools arousing? 
Can you feel that a malicious finger, 
pointing this verse, I pointed it out? 
Already the notoriety is the noblest 
attribute of vice, and our Julias, 
more than being bad, they want to look like it. 

There was a time when modesty walked 
gilding crimes; there was a time 
in which timid modesty covered 
the ugliness of vice; but he fled 
the modesty to live in the cabins. 
With him the happy days fled, 
that they will no longer return; fled that century 
in which even the foolish mockery of a husband 
the credulous Bascuñanas gulped; 
but today Alcinda has breakfast at hers 
with mill wheels; succeed, spend, 
skip the eternal nights 
From the raw January, and when the late sun 
break the east, admire it hitting, 
as if she were a stranger, to the rim. 
Enter sweeping with the undy skirt 
the carpet; here and there ribbons and feathers 
of the enormous headdress he sows, and continues 
with weak sleepy and withered step, 
Fabio still holding his hand, 
to the bedroom, where on the loose 
the cuckold snores and dreams that he is happy. 
Not the cold sweat, not the stench, not the stale 
burping upset him. At your time 
wake up the fool; silent leave 
the desecrated holland, and watch out 
to his murderer the dream badly safe. 

How many, oh Alcinda, to the coyunda yoked 
your luck they envy! How many of Hymenaeus 
seek the yoke to achieve your luck, 
and without invoking reason, or weigh 
her heart the merits of the groom, 
the yes they pronounce and the hand they extend 
to the first to arrive! What evil 
this damn blindness does not abort! 
I see the bridal teas off 
for discord with infamous blow 
at the foot of the same altar, and in the tumult, 
toast and cheers of the wedding, 
an indiscreet tear predicts 
wars and opprobriums to the badly united. 
I see by reckless hand broken 
the marital veil, and that running 
with the impudent forehead raised, 
adultery goes from one house to another. 
Zumba, party, laugh, and cheeky 
sings his triumphs, that maybe he celebrates 
a foolish husband, and such of an honest man 
they wound the chest with a penetrating dart, 
his life abbreviated, and in the black grave 
their mistake, their affront and their spite they hide. 

Oh vile souls! Oh virtue! Oh laws! 
O deadly pride! What cause 
made you trust such unfaithful guards 
such a precious treasure? Who, oh Themis, 
did your arm bribe? You move him raw 
against the sad victims, who drags 
nudity or helplessness to vice; 
against the weak orphan, of hunger 
and harassed gold, or flattery, 
seduction and tender love surrendered; 
expill her, dishonor her, condemn her 
to uncertain and harsh seclusion. And as long as 
You look indolent on the golden roofs 
sheltered the disorder, or you suffer 
go out in triumph through the wide squares, 
virtue and honor mocking! 

Oh infamy! Oh century! Oh corruption! Midwives 
Castilian, who could your clear 
pundonor eclipse? Who of Lucrecias 
in Lais did you come back? Nor the stormy 
ocean, nor full of dangers, 
the Lilibeo, nor the arduous peaks 
from Pirene they could shelter you 
of fatal contagion? Claw, pregnant 
of gold, the Cadiz nao, contributes 
to the Gallic shores, and returns 
full of futile and vain objects; 
and among the signs of foreign pomp 
poison hides and corruption, bought 
with the sweat of the Iberian foreheads. 
And you, miserable Spain, you wait for it 
on the beach, and eagerly pick up 
the stinking load and you distribute it 
joyful among your children. Vile feathers, 
gauze and ribbons, flowers and plumes, 
brings you instead of your blood, 
of your blood, oh waste! and maybe, maybe 
of your virtue and honesty. Repair 
which light youth seeks them. 

Author: Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos

3- Dorila

How the hours go,
and after them the days
and the flowery years
of our fragile life!

Old age then comes,
of enemy love,
and among funereal shadows
death is coming,

how scrawny and trembling,
ugly, shapeless, yellow,
terrifies us, and turns off
our fires and bliss.

The body becomes dull,
woes tire us,
pleasures flee us
and leave the joy.

If this, then, awaits us,
Why, my Dorila,
are the flowery years
of our fragile life?

For games and dances
and songs and laughter
the heavens gave them to us,
Thanks are destined.

Come ay! what's stopping you?
Come, come, my dove,
under these vines
the wind sucks lightly;

and between soft toasts
and cuddly delights
let's enjoy childhood,
well it flies so fast.

Author: Juan Meléndez Valdés

4- loving daring

Love, you who gave me the daring
tries and the hand you led
and in the candid bosom you put it
of Dorisa, in untouched places;

if you look at so many rays, struck down
of his divine eyes against a sad,
give me the relief, because the damage you did
or my life and my cares are over.

Have mercy on my good; tell him i die
of the intense pain that torments me;
that if it is timid love, it is not true;

that is not the audacity in the affection affront
nor does it deserve such severe punishment
unhappy, what to be happy tries.

Author: Nicolás Fernández de Moratín

5- Ode

Don't pretend to know (that it's impossible)
what an end heaven to you and my destiny,
Leucónoe, nor the Chaldean numbers
consult, no; that in sweet peace, anyone
luck you will suffer. Or already the thunder
many winters to your life grant,
or at the end it would be the one that breaks today
on the rocks the Tyrrhenian waves,
you, if you are prudent, do not shy away
the toasts and the pleasure. Reduce shortly
your hope is over. Our age
while we speak envious runs.
Oh! enjoy the present, and never trust,
Gullible, of the future uncertain day.

Author: Leandro Fernández de Moratín

6- Invocation to poetry

Tender and red nymph, oh young Poetry!
What forest on this day choose your retreat?
What flowers, after the wave in which your steps go,
under delicate feet, gently bow?
Where will we look for you? Look at the new station:
on his white face, what a purple flash!
The swallow sang; Zephyr is back:
he returns with his dances; love reborn ago.
Shade, meadows, flowers are his kind relatives,
and Jupiter enjoys contemplating his daughter,
this land in which sweet verses, hasty,
sprout, everywhere, from your funny fingers.
In the river that runs down the damp valleys
sweet, sonorous, liquid verses roll for you.
Verses, which are opened en masse by the sun discovered,
they are the fertile flowers of the red chalice.
And mountains, in torrents that whitewash their tops,
they throw brilliant verses to the bottom of the abyss.

From Bucolic (1785-1787)

Author: André Chénier.

7- The sweet illusion of my first age: A Albino.

The sweet illusion of my first age,
bitterness from raw disappointment,
sacred friendship, pure virtue
I sang with a voice already soft, already severe.

Not of Helicon the flattering branch
my humble genius to conquer seeks:
memories of my bad and my luck
steal from sad oblivion just wait.

Nobody but you, dear Albino,
owes my tender and loving chest
of his affections consecrate history.

You taught me to feel; you the divine
singing and generous thinking:
yours my verses are, and that is my glory.

From Poetry (1837).

Author: Alberto Lista.

8- A Lycian

Let, Lycian, that the cursing fool,
of inflamed envy,
with insolent language
discover your grudge: never the wicked
looked at the happiness of others
with serene countenance;
and slander is poison,
miserable fruit of his infamous sorrow.

Your blissful old age
he always loved virtue; you have sought
in your happy state
stifle from malicious envy
the poisonous tongue,
that the honest man wants to reduce.

Your noble endeavor is in vain:
they are perpetual companions of fools
envy and malice:
so insane pride
accompany the haughty souls,
and its virtues vicia:

serve as punishment for their crime
live abominated,
and even from his detested fellows:
if in the poor house, where I live,
their voices penetrated,
compassion and contempt only found.

Pure water comes out of the mountain,
and carries his stream through the meadow;
cattle drink from it;
and the unclean animal first tries,
what to drink, muddy it,
and soak her in her stinking bristles.

Then the passenger
in search of the crystal he arrives tired,
and although discouraged
looks cloudy its flattering course,
drinks, and is satisfied
looking for the stream where it is born.

So the sensible man
the wise rumor despises envy;
and although I feel the infamous contempt,
forgive foolish malice,
and compassionate says:

Oh how unhappy
the mortal, how busy
in the scathing censorship,
of himself forgotten,
look at the other's well with bitterness!

Well you know, Licio you, how much you farm
a kind and sensitive heart,
that his piety recreates
seeing his fellow happier:
and although without more wealth,
that this gift that nature gave him,
alone is loved,
happy in any class and respected.

For this garment, simple friendship,
the pleasure, the loves,
they brought their favors to your mansion;
and in your sight he humiliates himself
trembling the envious,
respecting your happy asylum.

With callous flight
the earth goes round the day;
and although the fog and ice
tarnish the sphere of joy,
we do not doubt,
that always shines the sun which we wish.

So pity the envious,
what looks jilted
its rays fertilize the mountain and meadow;
and always generous,
if you appreciate my friendship,
do not deserve your anger so foolish souls

Author: María Rosa Gálvez de Cabrera.

9- To Clori, declaiming in a tragic fable

What lurking pain did the soul come to hurt? What funeral ornament is this? What is there in the world that your lights cost the crying that makes them crystalline? Could he mortal effort, could fate thus offend his celestial spirit? ... Or is it all deception ?, and he wants Love to lend his lip and his action divine power. He wants that exempt from the sorrow he inspires, he imposes silence on the clamorous vulgar, and docile to his voice they become distressed and cry. May the tender lover who attends to her and looks, amidst the applause and doubtful fear, so high perfection absorbed adore. Author: Leandro Fernández de Moratín.

10- While my sweet garment lived

While the sweet garment of mine lived,
Love, sonorous verses you inspired me;
I obeyed the law that you dictated to me
and his forces gave me poetry.

But, alas, that since that fateful day
that deprived me of the good that you admired,
to the point without empire in me you found yourself
and I found lack of ardor in my Talía.

Well, the tough Grim Reaper does not erase his law
-whom Jove himself cannot resist-
I forget the Pindo and I leave the beauty.

And you also give up your ambition
and next to Phillies have a grave
your useless arrow and my sad lyre.

Author: José Cadalsa.

11- The gallant and the lady

A certain heartthrob whom Paris acclaims,

dude of the strangest taste,
that forty dumb dresses a year
and the gold and silver fearlessly spills,

celebrating his lady's days,
some buckles released of tin,
just to try this deception
how sure he was of his fame.

"Beautiful silver! What a beautiful shine!",
said the lady, "long live the taste and numen
of the fop in all the exquisite! "

And now I say: "Fill a volume
of nonsense a famous author,
and if they don't praise him, let them feather me ".

Author: Tomás de Iriarte.

12- Invocation to Christ

The sun dispels the dark darkness,
And penetrating the deep realm,
The veil tears that covered Nature,
And the colors and beauty return
To the world universe.

Oh, of the souls, Christ, only fire!
To you alone the honor and adoration!
Our humble prayer reaches your summit;
Surrender to your blissful bondage
All hearts.

If there are souls that waver, give them strength;
And make joining innocent hands,
Worthily your immortal glories
Let us sing, and the goods that in abundance
Dispensations to the people.

Author: Jean Racine.

13- Safer oh! licino

Safer oh! Licino
you will live not engulfing yourself in the height,
nor approaching the pine
to a badly safe beach,
to avoid the dark storm.
The one that medianía
precious loved, from the broken roof
and poor he deviates
as the envied
lodge in gold and carved porphyry.
Many times the wind
tall trees break; raised
towers with more violent
blow fall ruined;
lightning strikes the high peaks.
Not in bliss trust
the strong man; in his affliction he waits
most favorable day:
Jove the beast station
from the ice it returns in pleasant spring.
If bad happens now,
it will not always be bad. Maybe no excuse
with sonorous zither
Phoebus animate the muse;
maybe the bow through the woods uses.
In misfortune he knows
show the brave heart at risk
and if the wind your ship
blow serenely
the swollen candle you will take prudent.

Author: Leandro Fernández de Moratín.

Other poems of interest

Poems of Romanticism.

Avant-garde poems.

Renaissance poems.

Poems of Futurism.

Classicism Poems.

Baroque Poems.

Poems of Modernism.

Poems of Dadaism.

Cubist Poems.


  1. Justo Fernández López. Neoclassical poetry. The Fabulists. Recovered from hispanoteca.eu
  2. Literature in the 18th century. Recovered from Escribresneoclasicos.blogspot.com.ar
  3. Neoclassical poetry. Recovered from literatureiesalagon.wikispaces.com
  4. Juan Menéndez Valdés. Recovered from rinconcastellano.com
  5. Ode. Recovered from los-poetas.com
  6. Loving audacity. Recovered from amediavoz.com
  7. To Dorila. Recovered from poemas-del-alma.com
  8. To Arnesto. Recovered from wordvirtual.com
  9. Epistle dedicated to Hortelio. Recovered from cervantesvirtual.com
  10. Neoclassicism. Recovered from es.wikipedia.org.

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