No. 43.
Sweet native soil, farewell! dear country of my birth!
Fair chamber of the loves! glad home of joy and mirth!
To-morrow or to-day I leave you, o'er the earth
To wander struck with love, to pine with rage and dearth
In exile!
Farewell, sweet land, and ye, my comrades dear, adieu!
To whom with kindly heart I have been ever true;
The studies that we loved I may no more pursue;
Weep then for me, who part as though I died to you,
Love-laden!
As many as the flowers that Hybla's valley cover,
As many as the leaves that on Dodona hover,
As many as the fish that sail the wide seas over,
So many are the pangs that pain a faithful lover,
For ever!
With the new fire of love my wounded bosom burns;
Love knows not any ruth, all tender pity spurns;
How true the proverb speaks that saith to him that yearns,
"Where love is there is pain; thy pleasure love returns
With anguish!"
Ah, sorrow! ah, how sad the wages of our bliss!
In lovers' hearts the flame's too hot for happiness;
For Venus still doth send new sighs and new distress
When once the enamoured soul is taken with excess
Of sweetness!
The third introduces us to a little episode of medieval private life
which must have been frequent enough. It consists of a debate between
a father and his son upon the question whether the young man should
enter into a monastic brotherhood. The youth is lying on a sickbed,
and thinks that he is already at the point of death. It will be
noticed that he is only diverted from his project by the mention of a
student friend (indicated, as usual, by an N), whom he would never be
able to see again if he assumed the cowl. I suspect, however, that the
poem has not been transmitted to us entire.