Harmonies of the Pampas

In the mid-nineteenth century came to light a valuable compilation of poetic compositions written until then by Bartolomé Mitre, and published under the generic heading of Rhymes (1854). This interesting volume (whose success among critics and readers led to a corrected and enlarged reissue in 1876) was divided into several sections such as: Armonías de la pampa, El caballo del gaucho, El pato, El ombú, En medio de la pampa, A Santos Vega, etc.), all of them composed of poems fused in one of the strophic molds that had the greatest reach in the Spanish-American lyric of the nineteenth century: the octosyllabic tenth.
This book, Armonías de la Pampa, is a hymn to the man of the pampas, his traditions, his courage and his games, and includes five poems entitled:

I. “To an ombú in the middle of the Pampas”
II. “To Santos Vega. Argentine Payador»
III. “The duck, picture of customs”
IV. “The gaucho’s horse”
V. “The Revolution of the South”

In the gaucho production of Bartolomé Mitre, the pampas and their topics as environmental references are humanized from a clearly romantic approach that, rather than attributing vital qualities to the rest of things, ends up wrapping them in an idyllic halo endowed with as much beauty as unreality. Along with this, the priceless recovery of types, uses and picturesque landscapes such as those portrayed by the Argentine author in his verses give rise to compositions enriched by the charm of popular echoes and legendary traditions, although, yes, testimonials of the rigorous reconstruction work carried out by a cultured author.

I. To an ombú in the middle of the pampas

Here you are, giant ombú
by the roadside,
indicating the pilgrim
Do not follow later
on the endless plain.
You point out the barriers
that divide the desert,
and you hear the vague concert
that raise light auras
of La Pampa in the border.

You are the green garland
of the straw hut,
that you are marching in a hurry
with the past behind you
and in front of you the future.
Where the Wild Indian Flees
and the Christian comes forward,
your head lifts
whispering your branch:
“The ranch got here.”

You’re the last thing to die
of the abode of man,
and without registering a name
You are telling the traveler
Memories of today and yesterday.
Continuing your career
by the spreading plain,
About your Florida summit
Today Rises on the Border
the banner of our faith.