1503-1536.
A poet of higher merit, a more interesting man, a hero, both in love and
war, whose name seems to embody the perfect idea of Spanish chivalry,
was Boscan's friend, Garcilaso de la Vega. We possess a translation of
his poetry by Mr. Wiffen, who has appended an elaborate life, as
elaborate at least as the scanty materials that remain could afford; for
these are slight, and rather to be guessed at from slight allusions made
by historians, and expressions in his poems, than from certain
knowledge; as all that we really learn concerning him is, that he was a
gallant soldier and a poet, devoting the leisure he could snatch from
the hurry and alarm of war, to the study and composition of poetry, in
which art he attained the name of prince, and is, indeed, superior to
all the writers of his age in elegance, sweetness, and pathos.
Garcilaso de la Vega was sprung from one of the noblest families of
Toledo. His ancestry is illustrious in Spanish chronicles. They were
originally natives of the Asturias, and, possessing great wealth,
arrived at high honours under various sovereigns. One of them, by name
also Garcilaso, received the name of De la Vega, in commemoration of his
having slain a gigantic Moor on the Vega or plain of Granada.[14] The
miscreant having attached the Ave Maria to his horse's tail, all the
knights of Spain were eager to avenge the injury done to our lady.
Although a mere youth, Garcilaso triumphed, and was surnamed in
consequence De la Vega, and adopted for his device the Ave Maria in a
field d'or. The father of the poet, named also Garcilaso, was fourth
lord of Los Anos, grand commendary of Leon, a knight of the order of St.
James, one of the most distinguished gentlemen of the court of Ferdinand
and Isabella. His mother was donna Sancha de Toral, an heiress of a
large estate in Leon,--a demesne, it would seem, where the poet passed
his earlier days; for the fountain which ornaments it still goes by his
name, and is supposed to be described in his second eclogue.[15] These
eclogues were written at Naples; it may, therefore, be a piece of fond
patriotism in the Spaniard, that attributes this description to a
fountain in his native woods; but there is a pleasure in figuring the
boy-poet loitering beside its pure waters, and so filling his
imagination with images presented by its limpid waves and the
surrounding scenery, that, in after years and in a foreign country, he
could fondly dwell upon and reproduce them in his verse.
Garcilaso was born at Toledo in 1503, being a few years younger than the
emperor Charles V. When, on his accession to the throne, that prince
visited the Spain he was called by right of birth to reign over,
Garcilaso was only fifteen. We are told, however, that his skill in
martial and gymnastic exercises made him early a favourite with his
sovereign, and he soon entered on that warlike career destined to prove
fatal to him. His poetic tastes, also, were developed while still a
youth. He was passionately fond of music, and played with extreme
sweetness on the harp and guitar.
The accession of Charles V. was signalised in Spain by disaster. The
death of cardinal Ximenes deprived the youthful sovereign of his most
illustrious counsellor, though perhaps of one he would have neglected.
His Flemish courtiers attained undue influence, and a nefarious system
of peculation was carried on,--the treasures of Spain being exported to
Flanders, which the Spaniards regarded with alarm and indignation. The
election of Charles to the imperial crown and his intended departure for
Germany was the signal of resistance. This is the more deserving of
commemoration in these pages, as the elder brother of Garcilaso took a
distinguished part on the popular side.[16] He was candidate for the
distinction of captain-general of the Germanada or Brotherhood (an
association, at first sanctioned by Charles, for the purpose of
maintaining the privileges of the people), and even elected such, till a
popular revolt reversed his nomination in favour of the heroic Padilla.
Not less heroic, however, was don Pedro, and in the cortes he boldly
confronted the king, and declared that he would sooner be cut in pieces,
sooner lose his head, than yield the good of his country to the
sovereign's arbitrary will. Of such gallant stuff was the Spanish
courtier made, till Charles's wars drained the country of her most
valiant spirits, and the cruel share of the Inquisition ploughed up, and
as it were sowed with salt, the soil, originally so fertile in genius
and heroism. Don Pedro remained true to his cause to the last, though he
did not carry his views so far as Padilla; and thus escaped the
martyrdom of this generous patriot. The conduct of Charles in publishing
a general pardon, on his return to Spain, is among the few instances he
has given of magnanimity. His reply to a courtier who offered to inform
him where one of the rebels lay concealed, deserves repetition from the
grandeur of soul it expressed. "I have now no reason," he said, "to be
afraid of that man, but he has cause to shun me; you would do better,
therefore, in telling him that I am here, than in informing me of the
place of his retreat."
War being soon after declared against France, Italy became the seat of
the struggle. Garcilaso, though little more than eighteen, commenced his
career of arms in this campaign. He was present at the battle of Pavia,
and so distinguished himself, that he shortly after received the cross
of St. Jago from the emperor in reward of his valour.
It would appear, that after this battle Garcilaso returned for a time to
his native country. Since it was soon after, that Boscan, falling in
with Andrea Navagero, ambassador from Venice to the Spanish court, in
1525, resolved on imitating the Italian poetry--as is recorded in his
life,--and Garcilaso was his adviser and supporter. At the age of
four-and-twenty, in the year 1528, he married Doña Elena de Zuniga, a
lady of Arragon, maid of honour to Leonora, queen of France,--a happy
marriage--from which sprung three sons.
On the invasion of Hungary by Solyman, in 1532, the emperor repaired to
Vienna to undertake the war in person. The campaign was carried on
without any action of moment; but Garcilaso was engaged in various
skirmishes, and saw enough of war to fill him with horror at its
results.
At this time, however, he fell into disgrace at court. One of his
cousins, a son of don Pedro Lasso, aspired clandestinely to the hand of
donna Isabel, daughter of don Luis de la Cueva, maid of honour to the
empress. We are ignorant of the reason wherefore Charles was opposed to
this marriage, and the consequent necessity of carrying on the amour
secretly. Garcilaso befriended the lovers. The intrigue being
discovered, the emperor was highly incensed; he banished the cousin, and
exiled Garcilaso to an island of the Danube, an imprisonment which he
commemorates in an ode, of which we may quote some stanzas from Mr.
Wiffen's translation, which characterise the disposition of the man; no
courtier or man of the world he, repining at disgrace and
disappointment; but a poet, ready to find joy in solitude, and to adorn
adversity with the rainbow hues of the imagination.
"TO THE DANUBE.
With the mild sound of clear swift waves, the Danube's arms of foam
Circle a verdant isle which peace has made her chosen home;
Where the fond poet might repair from weariness and strife,
And in the sunshine of sweet song consume his happy life.
Here evermore the smiling spring goes scattering odorous flowers,
And nightingales and turtle doves, in depth of myrtle bowers,
Turn disappointment into hope, turn sadness to delight,
With magic of their fond laments, which cease not day nor night.
Here am I placed, or sooth to say, alone, 'neath foreign skies,
Forced in arrest, and easy 'tis in such a paradise
To force a meditative man, whose own desires would doom
Himself with pleasure to a world all redolence and bloom.
One thought alone distresses me, if I whilst banished sink
'Midst such misfortunes to the grave, lest haply they should think
It was my complicated ills that caused my death, while I
Know well that if I die 'twill be because I wish to die.
* * * * *
River divine, rich Danube! thou the bountiful and strong,
That through fierce nations roll'st thy waves rejoicingly along,
Since only but by rushing through thy drowning billows deep,
These scrolls can hence escape to tell the noble words I weep.
If wrecked in undeciphered loss on some far foreign land,
They should by any chance be found upon the desert sand,
Since they upon thy willowed shore must drift, where'er they are,
Their relics let the kind blue waves with murmured hymns inter.
Ode of my melancholy hours! last infant of my lyre!
Although in booming waves it be thy fortune to expire,
Grieve not, since I, howe'er from holy rites debarred,
Have seen to all that touches thee with catholic regard.
Less, less had been thy life, if thou hadst been but ranked among
Those without record, that have risen and died upon my tongue;
Whose utter want of sympathy, and haughtiness austere.
Has been the cause of this--from me thou very soon shalt hear."
It is not known how long his exile endured, but certainly not long; he
was recalled, and attended the emperor in his expedition against Tunis.
The son of a potter of Lesbos, turning corsair, raised himself to notice
and power under the name of Barbarossa. He possessed himself of Algiers
by treachery, and then, protected by the grand signor, he attacked
Tunis, and drove out the king Muley Hassan. Muley solicited the aid of
the emperor, and Charles, animated by a desire to punish a pirate whose
cruelties had desolated many a Christian family, put himself at the head
of an armament to invade Tunis. Barbarossa exerted himself to defend the
city, and, in particular, fortified the citadel, named Goletta, and
garrisoned it with 6000 Turks. Immediately on landing, the emperor
invested the city; sallies and skirmishes became frequent, in one of
which Garcilaso was wounded in the face and hand. Goletta fell, despite
the vigorous defence; but Barbarossa did not despair: he assembled an
army of 150,000 men, and, confiding in numbers, resolved to offer battle
to the Christians. Garcilaso served on this occasion in a division of
the imperial army, commanded by the marquis de Mondejar, a division at
first left as a rear guard, but ordered afterwards to advance to support
some newly raised Spanish regiments commanded by the duke of Alva. The
marquis de Mondejar was badly wounded and carried from the field;
Garcilaso, seeing the danger to which the troops were exposed in the
absence of the general, rushed forward to support them by the example of
his valour. His gallantry had nearly proved fatal: he was wounded and
surrounded, and must have been slain, but for a Neapolitan noble,
Federigo Carafa, who rescued him at the peril of his life. By great
efforts he succeeded in dispersing the multitude, and bore him back in
safety, half spent with toil, thirst, and loss of blood.[17] The day
ended in the defeat of Barbarossa; Muley Hassan was restored to his
throne; and Charles returned to Italy in triumph.
After this expedition, Garcilaso spent some time at Naples and Sicily.
During his residence there, he is said to have written his eclogues and
elegies, which are the most beautiful of his poems. There is something
so truly poetic in the site, the clime, the atmosphere of Naples, that
the most prosaic spirit must feel its influence. There Petrarch was
examined by king Robert, and declared worthy of the laurel crown; there
he delivered that oration on poetry that won the king to admire the
heretofore neglected art, and inspired the young Boccaccio with that
enthusiastic love for the Muses, which lasted to his dying day. There
(and Garcilaso seems to have felt deeply the influence of these poets)
Virgil and Sannazar wrote. The Spanish poet particularly loved and
admired Virgil. Imbued by his spirit, he emulated his elegance and
harmony, while he surpassed him in tender pathos.
One of his elegies to Boscan is dated from the foot of Etna. It does not
rank among the best of his poems; but it is agreeable to preserve proofs
of friendship between these gifted men. It a little jars, however, with
our feelings, that he in it alludes to some lady of his love, though he
was now married; however, there is a sort of poetic imaginative hue
thrown over this elegy, which permits us to attribute his love
complaints rather to the memory of past times and the poetic
temperament, than to inconstancy of disposition. Garcilaso's poetry is
refined and pure in all its sentiments, though full, at the same time,
of tenderness. I subjoin a few stanzas from the elegy in question, such
as give individuality and interest to the character of the poet:--
"Boscan! here where the Mantuan has inurned
Anchises' ashes to eternal fame,
We, Cæsar's hosts, from conquests are returned;
Some of their toils the promised fruit to claim--
Some to make virtue both the end and aim
Of action,--or would have the world suppose
And say so, loud in public to declaim
Against such selfishness; whilst yet heaven knows
They act in secret all the meanness they oppose.
For me, a happy medium I observe,
For never has it entered in my scheme,
To strive for much more silver than may serve
To lift me gracefully from each extreme
Of thrifty meanness, thriftless pride; I deem
The men contemptible that stoop to use
The one or other, that delight to seem
Too close, or inconsiderate in their views:
In error's moonlight maze their way both worthies find.
* * * *
Yet leave I not the Muses, but the more
For this perplexity with them commune,
And with the charm of their delicious love
Vary my life, and waste the summer noon;
Thus pass my hours beguiled; but out of tune
The lyre will sometimes be, when trials prove
The anxious lyrist: to the country soon
Of the sweet Siren shall I hence remove,
Yet, as of yore, the land of idlesse, ease, and love.
* * * *
But how, O how shall I be sure, that here
My evil genius, in the change I seek,
Is not still sworn against me? this strong fear
It is that chills my heart, and renders weak
The wish I feel to visit that antique
Italian city, whence my eyes derive
Such exquisite delight, with tears they speak
Of the contrasting griefs my heart that rive;
And with them up in arms against me here I strive.
O fierce--O rigorous--O remorseless Mars!
In diamond tunic garmented, and so
Steeled always in the harshness that debars
The soul from feeling! wherefore as a foe
Force the fond lover evermore to go
Onward from strife to strife, o'er land and sea?
Exerting all thy power to work me woe,
I am so far reduced, that death would be
At length a blessed boon, my refuge, fiend, from thee!
But my hard fate this blessing does deny;
I meet it not in battle; the strong spear,
Sharp sword, and piercing arrow pass me by,
Yet strike down others in their young career,
That I might pine away to see my dear
Sweet fruit engrossed by aliens, who deride
My vain distress; but whither does my fear
And grief transport me, without shame or pride?
Whither I dread to think, and grieve to have descried.
* * * *
But thou who in thy villa, blest with all
That heart can wish, look'st on the sweet sea-shore;
And, undistracted, listening to the fall
And swell of the loud waves that round thee roar,
Gatherest to thy already rich scrutoire
Fresh living verses for perpetual fame,
Rejoice! for fires more beauteous than of yore
Were kindled by the Dardan prince, inflame
Thy philosophic heart, and light thy laurelled name."
It may be supposed, that the learned Italians of those days welcomed a
spirit congenial to their own, and were proud of a poet who transferred
to another language that elegance of style and elevated purity of
thought, the original growth of their native land. Cardinal Bembo thus
writes of him to a friend, in a letter dated 15th of August,
1535:--"Signor Garcilaso is indeed a graceful poet, and his odes are all
in the highest degree pleasing to me, and merit peculiar admiration and
praise. In fine spirit he has far excelled all the writers of his
nation; and if he be not wanting to himself in diligent study, he will
no less excel other nations who are considered masters of poetry. I am
not surprised that the marquis del Vasto has wished to have him with
him, and that he holds him in great affection."
Among cardinal Bembo's Latin letters, there is one to Garcilaso, full of
compliments, which show the high esteem in which he was held. "From the
verses which you have sent me, I am happy to perceive, first, how much
you love me, since you are not one who would else flatter with
encomiums, nor call one dear to you whom you have never seen; and,
secondly, how much you excel in lyric compositions, in splendour of
genius, and sweetness of expression.--You have not only surpassed all
your fellow Spaniards, who have devoted themselves to Parnassus and the
Muses, but you supply incentives even to the Italians, and again and
again invite them to endeavour to be overcome in this contest and in
these studies by no one but yourself; which judgment of mine some other
of your writings sent to me from Naples have confirmed. For it is
impossible to meet in this age with compositions more classically pure,
more dignified in sentiment, or more elegant in style. In that you love
me, therefore, I most justly and sincerely rejoice; and that you are a
great and good man, I congratulate in the first place yourself, but most
of all, your country, in that she is thus about to receive so great an
increase of honour and glory.
"There is, however, another circumstance which greatly increases the
honour I have received; for lately, when the monk Onorato, whom I
perceive you know by reputation, entered into conversation with me, and,
amongst other topics, asked me what I thought of your poems, the opinion
I gave happened to coincide exactly with his own; and he is a man of
very acute perception, and extremely well versed in poetical pursuits.
He told me that his friends had written to him of your very many and
great virtues, of the urbanity of your manners, the integrity of your
life, and accomplishments of your mind; adding that it was a fact
confirmed by all Neapolitans that knew you, that no one had come from
Spain to their city in these times, wherein the greatest resort has been
made by your nation to Italy, whom they loved more affectionately than
yourself, or one on whom they would confer superior benefits."
Garcilaso did not, however, long enjoy the leisure that he so well
employed. Charles V., whose great ambition was to crush the power of
France, and to possess himself of a portion of that kingdom, was
resolved to take advantage of the disastrous issue of Francis I.'s
attempt upon the duchy of Milan, and rashly determined to invade a
country whose armies, however he might meet victoriously in other
fields, he could not hope to vanquish in their own. He entered France
from the south; and recalling Garcilaso, conferred on him an honourable
command over eleven companies of infantry. Leaving Naples to join this
expedition, he traversed Italy, and from Vaucluse wrote an epistle to
Boscan in a fighter and gayer style than is usual with him; while he
dwells with affectionate pleasure on the the of friendship that united
them, saying, among other things,--
"Whilst much reflecting on the sacred tie
Of our affection, which I hold so high,
The exchange of talent, taste, intelligence,
Shared gifts and multiplied delights which thence
Refresh our souls in their perpetual flow--
There nothing is that makes me value so
The sweetness of this compact of the heart,
Than the affection on my own warm part.
* * * *
Such were my thoughts. But oh! how shall I set
Fully to view my shame and my regret,
For having praised so at a single glance,
The roads, the dealings, and hotels of France.
Shame, that with reason thou may'st now pronounce
Myself a fabler, and my praise a bounce;
Regret, my time so much to have misused,
In rashly lauding what were best abused;
For here, all fibs apart, you find but jades
Of hacks, sour wines, and pilfering chambermaids,
Long ways, long bills, no silver, fleecing hosts.
And all the luxury of lumbering posts.
Arriving too from Naples by the way--
Naples--the choice, the brilliant, and the gay!
Embrace Dural for me--nor rate my muse;
October twelfth, given forth from sweet Vaucluse,
Where the fine flame of Petrarch had its birth,
And where its ashes yet irradiate earth."
To the period of this campaign Wiffen is inclined to attribute the
composition of his third eclogue which, in point of merit, is the
second, and which was avowedly written during a war--for, as he says,--
"'Midst arms--with scarce one pause from bloody toil,
When war's hoarse trumpet breaks the poet's dream,
Have I there moments stolen, oft claimed."
This expedition was disastrous in itself and fatal to the poet. An
invading army is necessarily abhorred by all; and while it inflicts,
also suffers the utmost horrors of war. The French general wisely acted
on the defensive, and, having laid the country waste, left famine and
disease to win the game. The emperor, unsuccessful in his attempts upon
Marseilles and Arles, was obliged to retreat through a country roused to
exasperation by the ills it had endured. His army, in consequence, was
exposed to a thousand disasters, while the very peasants, hanging on its
rear, or lying in ambush, cut off the stragglers, and disputed the
passage of every defile. On one occasion, at Muy near Frejus, the
imperialists were held in check by a party of fifty rustics, who, armed
with muskets, had thrown themselves into a tower, and harassed them on
their passage. The emperor ordered Garcilaso to attack and carry it with
his battalion. Eager in his obedience, Garcilaso led the way to scale
the tower. The peasants observing that he wore a gaily embroidered dress
over his armour, fancied that it was the emperor himself, and marked him
out for destruction. He was the first to mount the ladder; a block of
stone rolled from the battlements, struck him on the head and beat him
to the ground. He was carried to Nice; but no care could avail to save
him: he lingered for twenty days, and then died, November, 1536, at the
age only of thirty-three. He showed, we are told, no less the spirit of
a Christian in his death, than of a soldier in the hour of peril. His
death was universally lamented; and the emperor displayed his sense of
the loss he had sustained, by causing all the peasants who survived the
taking of the tower, twenty-eight in number, to be hanged. Such a token
of respect would scarcely soothe the ghost of the gentle poet; but it
was in accordance with the spirit of the times. The body was interred at
first in the church of Saint Dominique at Nice; but two years afterwards
was removed to the tomb of his ancestors in a chapel of the church of
San Pedro Martyr de Toledo.
Garcilaso is always represented as the model of a young and gallant
soldier, adorning his knightly accomplishments with the softer graces of
a poet; as an imaginative enthusiast, joining sentiment to passion, and
softening both by the elegancies of refinement. His tall figure was
symmetrical in its proportions, and his mien was dignified. There was a
mingled seriousness and mildness in the expression of his face,
enlivened by sparkling eyes, and dignified by an expansive forehead. He
was a favourite with the ladies, while he enjoyed the friendship and
esteem of many excellent men. Wiffen takes pleasure in adopting the idea
of doctor Nott, and likening him to our noble poet, lord Surrey. He
left, orphaned by his death, three sons and a daughter. His eldest son
incurred a similar fate with himself. He enjoyed the favour of the
emperor, but fell at the battle of Ulpiano, at the early age of
twenty-four. His second son, Francisco de Guzman, became a monk, and
enjoyed a reputation as a great theologian. The youngest Lorenzo de
Guzman, inherited a portion of his father's genius, and was esteemed for
his talent. He scarcely made a good use of it, since he was banished to
Oran for a lampoon, and died on the passage. The only daughter of the
poet, donna Sancha de Guzman, married D. Antonio Portocarrero de Vega.
We turn, however, to Garcilaso's poetry as his best memorial and highest
merit, at least that merit which gives him a place in these pages. When
we remember that he died at thirty-three, we must regard his productions
rather in the light of promise, than of performance. His muse might have
soared higher, and taken some new path: as it is, he ranks high as an
elegiac poet, and the first that Spain has produced. The most perfect of
his poems is his second eclogue. Mr. Wiffen has succeeded admirably in
transfusing, in some of the stanzas, a portion of the pathos and
softness of the original. Emulating Virgil in his refinement and
dignity, Garcilaso surpassed him in tenderness; and certainly the
expression of regret and grief was never more affectingly and sweetly
expressed than in the laments that compose this eclogue.
The poem commences with the poet speaking in his own person. He
introduces the personages of the eclogue: Salicio, who laments the
infidelity of his lady; and Nemeroso, who mourns the death of his. It is
supposed that, under the name of Salicio, Garcilaso personifies himself,
and commemorates the feelings which he experienced, when suffering from
the inconstancy of a lady whom he loved in his youth.
Nothing can exceed the living tenderness of the deserted shepherd's
complaints; and we feel as if the tone of fond grief could go no
further, till the interest becomes heightened by the more touching
nature of Nemoroso's laments: under this name it is said that Garcilaso
introduced Boscan. Boscan was a happy husband and father. In his epistle
to Mendoza, he mentions his former passions as a troubled dream, where
all seemed love, but was really hate; and he does not allude to the
death of any object of his affections. Mr. Wiffen, with the natural
fondness of a translator and an antiquarian, delights in putting
together the scattered and half lost fragments of his poet's life, and
to eke out the history of his mind by probable conjecture, and is
inclined to believe that Boscan was intended, and that being dear
friends, Garcilaso pleased his imagination and heart, in making them
brother shepherds in his verses. It is an agreeable idea, and not
improbable: the reader may believe according as his inclinations leads
him.
But not to linger longer on preliminary matter, we select the most
beautiful stanzas of the eclogue, which will confirm to the Spanish
reader the opinion that Garcilaso is the most harmonious, easy, elegant,
and tender poet Spain ever produced: soft and melancholy, he never errs,
except in sometimes following the fashion of his country in reasoning on
his feelings, instead of simply declaring them. Such fault, however, is
not to be found in the following verses, wherein Salicio complains of
his Galatea's inconstancy, recalling the while the dear images of her
former tenderness.
"Through thee the silence of the shaded glen,[18]
Through thee the horror of the lonely mountain,
Pleased me no less than the resort of men:
The breeze, the summer wood, the lucid fountain,
The purple rose, white lily of the lake,
Were sweet for thy sweet sake;
For thee, the fragrant primrose, dropt with dew,
Was wished when first it blew.
O how completely was I in all this
Myself deceiving! O the different part
That thou wert acting, covering with a kiss
Of seeming love, the traitor in thy heart!
This my severe misfortune, long ago,
Did the soothsaying raven, sailing by
On the black-storm, with hoarse sinister cry,
Clearly presage: in gentleness of woe
Flow forth, my tears! 't is meet that ye should flow.
How oft when slumbering in the forest brown,
(Deeming it fancy's mystical deceit)
Have I beheld my fate in dreams foreshown!
One day, methought that from the noontide heat
I drove my flocks to drink of Tagus' flood,
And, under the curtain of its bordering wood
Take my cool siesta; but, arrived, the stream,
I know not by what magic, changed its track,
And in new channels, by an unused way,
Rolled its warped waters back;
Whilst I, scorched, melting with the heat extreme,
Went ever following in their flight astray,
The wizard waves: in gentleness of woe,
Flow forth, my tears!'t is meet that ye should flow.
In the charmed ear of what beloved youth,
Sounds thy sweet voice? On whom revolvest thou
Thy beautiful blue eyes? On whose proved truth
Anchors thy broken faith? Who presses now
Thy laughing lip, and takes thy heaven of charms
Locked in the embraces of thy two white arms?
Say thou, for whom hast thou so rudely left
My love, or stolen, who triumphs in the theft?
I have not got a bosom so untrue
To feeling, nor a heart of stone, to view
My darling ivy, torn from me, take root
Against another wall, or prosperous pine,--
To see my virgin vine
Around another elm in marriage hang
Its curling tendrils and empurpled fruit,
Without the torture of a jealous pang,
Ev'n to the loss of life: in gentle woe,
Flow forth, my tears; 't is meet that ye should flow.
* * * *
Over my griefs the mossy stones relent
Their natural durity, and break; the trees
Bend down their weeping boughs without a breeze;
And full of tenderness the listening birds,
Warbling in different notes, with me lament.
And warbling prophesy my death; the herds
That in the green meads hang their heads at eve,
Wearied, and worn, and faint,
The necessary sweets of slumber leave,
And low, and listen to my wild complaint.
Thou only steel'st thy bosom to my cries,
Not even once turning thy angelic eyes
On him thy harshness kills: in gentle woe
Flow forth, my tears! 'tis meet that ye should flow.
But though thou wilt not come for my sad sake,
Leave not the landscape thou hast held so dear,
Thou may'st come freely now, without the fear
Of meeting me, for though my heart should break,
Where late forsaken, I will now forsake.
Come then, if this alone detain thee, here
Are meadows full of verdure, myrtles, bays,
Woodlands and lawns, and running waters clear,
Beloved in other days,
To which, bedewed with many a bitter tear,
I sing my last of lays.
These scenes, perhaps, when I am far removed,
At ease thou wilt frequent
With him who rifled me of all I loved:
Enough, my strength is spent;
And leaving thee in his desired embrace,
It is not much to leave him this sweet place."
The impatience natural to the resentment of inconstancy ruffles though
it does not distort these sweet stanzas. But there is more of soft
melancholy in Nemoroso, more of the entire melting of the heart in sad
unavailing regret.
"Smooth, sliding waters, pure and crystalline,[19]
Trees that reflect your image in their breast
Green pastures, full of fountains and fresh shades,
Birds, that here scatter your sweet serenades;
Mosses and reverend ivies serpentine,
That wreath your verdurous arms round beech and pine,
And, climbing, crown their crest!
Can I forget, ere grief my spirit changed,
With what delicious ease and pure content,
Your peace I wooed, your solitudes I ranged,
Enchanted and refreshed where'er I went!
How many blissful noons here I have spent
In luxury of slumber, couched on flowers,
And with my own fond fancies, from a boy,
Discoursed away the hours,
Discovering nought in your delightful bowers,
But golden dreams, and memories fraught with joy.
* * *
Where are those eloquent mild eyes, which drew
My heart where'er it wandered? where the hand,
White, delicate, and pure as melting dew,
Filled with the spoils, that proud of thy command,
My feelings paid in tribute? the bright hair
That paled the shining gold, that did contemn
The glorious opal as a meaner gem,
The bosom's ivory apples, where, ah! where?
Where now the neck to whiteness overwrought,
That like a column with genteelest scorn
Sustained the golden dome of virtuous thought?
Gone! ah, for ever gone,
To the chill desolate and dreary pall,
And mine the grief--the wormwood and the gall!
* * *
Poor, lost Eliza! of thy locks of gold,
One treasured ringlet in white silk I keep
For ever at my heart, which, when unrolled,
Fresh grief and pity o'er my spirit creep;
And my insatiate eyes, for hours untold.
O'er the dear pledge, will like an infant's, weep.
With sighs more warm than fire anon I dry
The tears from off it, number one by one
The radiant hairs, and with a love-knot tie;
Mine eyes, this duty done,
Give over weeping, and with slight relief
I taste a short forgetfulness of grief."
Although this quotation has run to a great lengthy I cannot refrain from
adding the ode to the Flower of Gnido. It is more fanciful and airy,
more original, yet more classic. Mr. Wiffen's translation also is very
correct and beautiful, failing only in not preserving all the exquisite
simplicity of the original; but that is a charm difficult indeed to
transfer from one language to another. Of the subject of the ode we
receive the following account from the commentators. "The title of this
ode is derived from a quarter of a city of Naples called Il Seggio di
Gnido, or the seat of Gnido, the favourite abode then of the people of
fashion, in which also the lady lived, to whom the ode was addressed.
This lady. Violante San Severino, a daughter of the duke of Soma, was
courted by Fabio Galeota, a friend of Garcilaso in whose behalf the poem
was written."
"TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO.[20]