Now then, Salicio, hear what I disclose;

And you, the Dryads of this leafy grove,

Where'er you be, attend my tale of love!

I have already told the prosperous part,

And if in peace I could have fixed my heart,

How happy had I been; but the desire,

The constant striving to conceal my fire

From her, alas! whose sweet and gentle breath

But fanned it, brought me to the gates of death.

A thousand times she begged, implored to know

What secret something vexed my spirit so;

In my pale aspect she too plainly read

Grief of some sort, and gaiety was fled;

Thus would she say, thus sue to me, but sighs

And tears of anguish were my sole replies.

One afternoon, returning from the chase

Fatigued and fevered, in the sweetest place

Of this wide forest, even where now we sit,

We both resolved our toil to intermit.

Under the branches of this beech we flung

Our limbs at ease, and our bent bows unstrung.

Thus idly lying, we inspired with zest

The sweet, fresh spirit breathing from the west.

The flowers with which the mosses were inlaid,

A rich diversity of hues displayed,

And yielded scents as various; in the sun,

Lucid as glass, this clear, shrill fountain shone,

Revealing in its depth the sands like gold,

And smooth, white pebbles whence its waters rolled;

Nor goat, nor stag, nor hermit, nor the sound

Of distant sheepbells, broke the stillness round.

When with the water of the shaded pool

We had assuaged our thirst, and grew more cool,

She, who with kind solicitude still kept

The' intent to know why I so often wept,

With solemn prayers adjured me to confess

The cause or object of my sore distress;

And if 'twas love, not to be swayed by shame,

But own it such, and write the lady's name;

Vowing that as she always from her youth

Had shown me an affection full of truth,

So in this instance she with pure good-will

Would aid my views, and prove a sister still.

I, who no longer could my soul contain,

Yet dared not openly the truth explain,

Told her that in the fountain she might read

Her name whose beauty made my bosom bleed.

Her eager mind was instant on the wing,

She rose, she ran, and looked into the spring,

But seeing only her own face there, blushed

With maiden shame, and from the water rushed,

Swift as if touched with madness, not a look

She deigned me, but her way disdainful took,

And left me murmuring here, till life shall fail,

My rash resolve for ever to bewail.

My folly I accused--all, all engrossed

In vain reflections on the' advantage lost.

Thus grew my grief; thus fatally misled,

What sighs did I not breathe, what tears not shed;

For countless hours stretched here I lay, with eyes

Rigidly fixed upon the vacant skies;

And as one grief in hand another brought,

The ceaseless tear, the phantasies of thought,

The frequent swoon, remorse for felt offence,

Regret, despair, the senselessness of sense,

And a benumbing consciousness of pain

Perpetual, almost, almost whirled my brain.

I know not how I found my friends, nor what

Led my stray footsteps homeward to my cot;

I only know four suns had risen and past,

Since fasting, sleepless, motionless, aghast,

I had lain here; my herds too had been left

All this long time, of wonted grass bereft;

The calves that lately frisked it o'er the field,

Finding their udders no refreshment yield,

Lowing complained to the unheeding skies;

The woods, alone considerate of their cries,

Rebellowing loudly, gave back the lament,

As though condoling with their discontent.

These things yet moved me not; the many--all

In fact, that now upon me came to call,

Were frightened with my weeping; rumour led,

And curious wonder, numbers to my shed;

The shepherds, herdsmen, pruners of the vines,

Anxious to serve me, with sincerest signs

Of pity, pleaded, prayed me to declare

The cause of my mad grief and deep despair;

Stretched on the earth, to them my sole replies

Were broken groans, fast tears, and fiery sighs;

Or if at times I spoke, one answer came

From my wild lips--the same, and still the same:

"Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore,

Soon will you sing, 'Albanio is no more!'

This little comfort I at least shall have,

Though I be laid within the wormy grave,

Sad you will sing, 'Albanio is no more,'

Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore!"

The fifth night came: my ill star then inspired

My brain to dare what had been long desired--

The shuffling off life's load, and out I rushed

With wild resolve--creation all was hushed;

Through the dusk night I hurried to descry

Some lonely spot where I might fitly die.

As chance would have it, my faint footsteps drew

To a high cliff which yet far off I knew,

As pendant o'er the flood, scooped into caves

By constant sapping of the restless waves.

There, as I sate beneath an elm, o'erspent,

A sudden ray returning memory lent:

I once, with her, had to the neighbouring trees

Come at midnoon to take the cooling breeze.

On this my fancy fixed; the thought like balm

Assuaged my frenzy, and I grew more calm.

And now the dawn with roses had begun

To pave the path of the resplendent sun,

To which the green trees bowed, and, woke from rest,

The smiling Ocean bared her heaving breast;

When, as the melancholy swan, that feeling

Life's latest anguish o'er her spirit stealing,

Sings with her quivering bill and melting breath,

Sad, but most sweet, the lullaby to death;

So I, in equal pain and sickness lying,

The immortal passing, and the mortal dying,

Took my last farewell of the skies and sun,

In passionate laments that thus might run:

"Oh! fierce as Scythian bears in thy disdain,

And as the howling of the stormy main

Deaf to my plaints, come, conqueress, take thy prey,

A wretched frame fast hastening to decay!

I faint--I die, and thus will put an end

To thy dislike; no longer shall offend

The' enamoured breast where thy dear beauty lies,

My mournful face, rash lips, or weeping eyes.

Then thou, who in my lifetime scorned to move

One step to comfort me, or even reprove,

Stern to the last,--then thou wilt come, perchance,

And as thine eyes on my cold relics glance,

Repent thy rigour, and bewail my fate;

But the slow succour will have come too late.

Canst thou so soon my long, long love forget,

And in a moment break without regret

The bond of years? hast thou forgotten too

Childhood's sweet sports, whence first my passion grew,

When from the bowery ilex I shook down

Its autumn fruit, which on the crag's high crown

We tasted, sitting, chattering side by side?

Who climbed trees swinging o'er the hoarse deep tide,

And poured into thy lap, or at thy feet,

Their kernelled nuts, the sweetest of the sweet?

When did I ever place my foot within

The flowery vale, brown wood, or dingle green,

And culled not thousand odorous flowers to crest

Thy golden curls, or breathe upon thy breast?

You used to swear, when I was absent far,

There was no brightness in the morning star,

For you no sweetness in the noon's repose,

Taste in the wave, nor fragrance in the rose.

Whom do I wail to? Not a single word

Is heard by her by whom it should be heard.

Echo alone in pity deigns to hear me,

And with her mimic answers strives to cheer me,

Remembering sweet Narcissus, and the pain

Which she herself endured from shy disdain;

But ev'n kind Echo pity deems a fault,

Nor stands revealed within her hollow vault.

Spirits! if such there be, that take the care

Of dying lovers, and attend their prayer,

Or personal genius of my life! receive

The words I utter, ere my soul takes leave

Of its frail tenement! oh Dryades!

Peculiar guardians of these verdant trees,

And you, swift-swimming Naiads who reside

In this my native river! from the tide

Upraise your rosy heads, if there be one

That sighs, and weeps, and loves as I have done;

That I, white Goddesses, may have to say--

Though my weak plaints and unmelodious lay

Moved not one human eye to pitying tears,

The mournful dirge could touch diviner ears.

Oh fleet-foot Oreads of the hills! who go

Chasing through chestnut groves the hart and roe,

Leave wounding animals, draw near, and scan

The last convulsions of a wounded man!

And you, most gracious Maidens, that amid

The night of woods till summer noons lie hid,

Then, crowned with roses, issue from your oaks,

Your white breasts covered with your golden locks;

Sweet Hamadryads! hear my plaints forlorn,

And if with angry Fate ye are not sworn

Against me, to the causes of my death

Give celebration and perpetual breath.

Oh wolves! oh bears! that in the deep descents

Of these o'ershaded caves to my laments

Are listening now, as oft my flute could move

Your shaggy ears, and lull you into love,

Repose in peace! farewell each high-browed mountain!

Green crofts, farewell! Adieu thou fatal fountain!

Still waters, foaming streams, and you, ye strong

Sonorous cataracts, farewell! live long,

Long ages after me, and as ye sweep

To pay rich tribute to the hoary deep,

Oft sound my sad voice through the stony vales;

Oft to the traveller tell autumnal tales

Of him whose tuneful ditties charmed of old

Your living waves, rejoicing as ye rolled;

Who watered here his heifers, day by day,

And crowned with wreaths of laurel and of bay,

The brows of his strong bulls:"--and saying this,

I rose, from that tremendous precipice

To fling myself, and clambered up the hill

With hasty strides, and a determined will;

When lo! a blast sufficient to displace

The huge sierra from its stable base,

Arose and smote me to the earth, where long

I lay astonished from a stroke so strong.

But when at length I came to recollect,

And on the marvel seriously reflect,

I blamed my impious rashness, and the crime

That sought to end before the destined time,

By means so terrible, my life of grief,

Though harsh, determinate, though bitter, brief.

I have since then been steadily resigned

To wait for death, when mercilessly kind

It comes to free me from my pangs; and now,

See how it comes! Though heav'n did not allow

Me to find death, the assassin is left free

To find, and shake his fatal dart o'er me.--

I have now told thee the true cause, the cross

Occurrence, pain, and process of my loss;

Fulfil thy promise now, and if thou art

Indeed my friend, as I believe, depart;

Nor give disturbance to a grief so deep--

Its only solace is the wish to weep.

SALICIO.

On one point only now

Would I remark, if thou

Would'st not imagine it was meant to' advise;

I'd ask thee, what can blind

So utterly thy mind,

And warp thy judgment in so strange a wise,

As not at once to see

Instinctively, that she

Who so long charmed thee with her grateful smile,

With, or without regret,

Can never all forget

Your past fond friendship in so short a while;

How dost thou know but that she feels no less

Grief for her own coy flight, than pain for thy distress?

ALBANIO.

Cease, flattering sophist, cease

This artificial peace,

Nor with false comfort make my sufferings more;

Or I, far, far exiled,

Must seek some hideous wild

Where human footstep never stamped the shore.

She is entirely changed

From what she was, estranged

From all kind feelings; this too deemest thou,

Howe'er thy lips unwise

With rhetoric would disguise

The fatal truth, or seem to disallow;

But thy dear sophistry indulge alone,

Or for more credulous ears reserve it; I am gone!

SALICIO.

All hope of cure is vain,

Till less he dreads the pain

Of the physician's probe;--here then alone,

Indulging his caprice,

I'll leave him, till disease

Has passed its raging crisis, and is grown

More tractable, until

The storm of a self-will

So passing strong, has raved itself to rest:

And to yon bower of birch

I'll meanwhile pass, in search

Of the sweet nightingale's secreted nest;

And, beautiful Gravina, it shall be

Thine for one rosy kiss: I know the ivied tree.

[Illustration]

ECLOGUE II.

SILVA II.

CAMILLA. ALBANIO. SALICIO. NEMOROSO.

CAMILLA.

Echo the sound did much misrepresent,

If this is not the way the roebuck went

After 'twas struck; how swift it must have fled,

And with what strength, considering how it bled!

So deep the bearded shaft transfixed its side,

That the white feather was alone descried;

And now the search of what eludes my sight

Tires me to death. It can't have stretched its flight

Beyond this valley; it must surely be

Here, and perhaps expiring! oh that she,

My Lady of the Groves, would of her pack

Lend me a hound to follow up the track,

The whilst I sleep away the hours of heat

Within these woods!--Oh visitants most sweet!

Fresh, amorous, gentle, flavourous breezes, blow

In deeper gusts, and break this burning glow

Of the meridian sun! at length, I pass

My naked soles upon the cold green grass;

Thy sylvan toils this raging noon commit

To men, Diana, whom they best befit!

For once I dare thy horn to disobey;

Thy favourite chase has cost me dear to-day.

Ah my sweet fountain! from what paradise

Hast thou too cast me by a mere surprise?

Know'st thou, clear mirror, what thy glass has done?

Driven from me the delightful face of one,

Whose kind society and faith approved

I now no less desire than then I loved,

But not as he supposed; God grant that first

Her heart may break, ere vowed Camilla burst

The virgin band that binds her with the maids

Of dear Diana, and her sacred shades!

With what reluctance thought renews the sense

Of this sad history, but the youth's offence

Exculpates me; if of his absence I

Were the prime cause, I would most willingly

Myself condemn, but he, I recollect,

Both wilful was, and wanting in respect.

But why afflict myself for this? I yet

Would live contented, and the boy forget.--

These clear cool springs a lulling murmur make,

Here will I lie, and my sweet siesta take;

And when the sultry noon is over, go

Again in search of my rebellious roe:

Still 'tis a mystery and surprise to me

With such a wound how it so far could flee!

ALBANIO.

Methought, or frolic fancy must delight

With false presentments to deceive my sight,

I saw a wood-nymph, gliding through the groves,

Reach the near fountain; haply, if she loves,

She may advise me of some charm, may name

Some dear deceit to ease this painful flame:

No given advice but aggravates my grief,

If 'tis in discord with my own belief,

And to the hopeless harm can none accrue:

Oh holy Gods! what is it that I view?

Is it a phantom changed into the form

Of her whose beauty makes my blood run warm?

No, 'tis herself, Camilla, sleeping here;

It must be she--her beauty makes it clear!

But one such wonder Nature wished to make,

Then broke the die for admiration's sake.

How could I then suppose her not the same,

When Nature's self no second such can frame!

But now, though certain is the bliss displayed,

How shall I venture to awake the maid,

Dreading the light that lures me to her side?

And yet--if only for the pleasing pride

Of touching her, methinks that I might shake

This fear away; but what if she should wake?

To seize and not to loose her--soft! I fear

That daring act might make her more austere;

Yet, what is to be done? I wish to reach

My former seat beneath the shady beech,

And hers is slumber deep as death; she lies,

How beautifully blind! the bee that flies

Near her, the quarrelling birds, that old sweet tune

Hummed by the spring, all voices of the noon

Tease, but disturb her not; her face is free--

A charming book--to be perused by me,

And I will seize the' occasion; if the boughs

In being parted should from slumber rouse,

Strong to detain her I am still, though not

As when we last were seated on this spot:

Oh hands, once vigorously disposed to end me!

See you how much your power can now befriend me?

Why not exert it for my welfare!--small

The risk--one effort will suffice for all.

CAMILLA.

Aid me Diana!

ALBANIO.

Stir not! from my hold

Thou canst not break; but hear what I unfold.

CAMILLA.

Who would have told me of so rude a stroke?

Nymphs of the wood, your succour I invoke!

Save me, oh save! Albanio, this from thee?

Say, art thou frenzied?

ALBANIO.

Frenzy should it be,

That makes me love--oh more than life,--the cause

Of all my grief, who scorns me and abhors.

CAMILLA.

I ought, methinks, to be abhorred by thee,

To make thy speeches with thy deeds agree;

To seek to treat me so, at such a time!

Outrage on outrage heaping, crime on crime.

ALBANIO.

I commit outrage against thee! May I

In thy disgrace, my dear Camilla, die,

CAMILLA.

Hast thou not

Infringed our friendship on this very spot,

Seeking to turn it by a course amiss

From placid thoughts?

ALBANIO.

Oh holy Artemis!

Must the distraction of a single hour

Whole years of fond attention overpower,

When, too, repentance mourns the fault, and when--

CAMILLA.

Ah, this is always the sly way with men!

They dare the crime, and if the' event goes wrong,

Cry your forgiveness with the meekest tongue.

ALBANIO.

What have I dared, Camilla?

CAMILLA.

It is well;

Ask these dumb woods, this fountain, it shall tell;

There it remains in face of the pure skies,

The living witness of thy wrong device.

ALBANIO.

If death, disgrace, or pain can expiate

My fault, behold me here prepared to sate

Thy anger to the full.

CAMILLA.

Let go my wrist!

Scarce can I breathe; let go, I do insist!

ALBANIO.

Much, much I fear that thou wilt take the wing

Of the wild winds, and flee.

CAMILLA.

Fear no such thing!

With pure fatigue I am quite overcome;

Unhand me! Oh, my dislocated thumb!

ALBANIO.

Wilt thou sit still, if I my grasp forego,

Whilst by clear reasons I proceed to show

That without any reason thou with me

Wert wroth?

CAMILLA.

A pretty reasoner thou wilt be!

Well, free me that I may.

ALBANIO.

Swear first in sooth,

By our past friendship and our bygone youth.

CAMILLA.

Soothly I swear by the pure law sincere

Of our past friendship, to sit down and hear--

Thy chidings, sure enough; to what a state

Hast thou reduced my hand in this debate

By thy fierce grasp!

ALBANIO.

To what a state hast thou

Reduced my soul by leaving me till now!

CAMILLA.

My golden clasp, if that be lost--woe's me!

Unlucky that I am! 'tis gone, I see,

Fallen in this fatal vale! what mischief more?

ALBANIO.

I should not wonder if it dropped before,

In the deep Vale of Nettles.

CAMILLA.

I desire,

Where'er it dropped, to seek it.

ALBANIO.

That will tire

Still more my dear Camilla; leave that toil!

I'll find the clasp; I cannot bear the soil

Should scorch my enemy's white feet;--

CAMILLA.

Well, well,

Since you're so good--behold that beechen dell

In sunshine, look straight forward, there, below;

A full round hour I've there been spending:

ALBANIO.

So!

I see it now; but meanwhile pray don't go.

CAMILLA.

Swain, rest assured that I will die before

Thy apprehending hands affright me more.

ALBANIO.

Ah, faithless nymph! and is it in this mode

Thou keep'st thy plighted oath? Oh heavy load

Of curst existence! oh false love, to cheer

My drooping soul with hopes so insincere!

Oh painful mode of martyrdom! oh death,

Cool torturer, slow to claim my hated breath!

You give me cause to call high Heaven unjust;

Gape, empty earth, and repossess the dust

Of this rebellious body, which debars

The swift-winged soul from soaring to the stars!

I, I will let it loose; let them that dare

Resist--resist me?--of themselves take care,

It much concerns them! Can I not fulfil

My threats? die, go--here--there--where'er I will,

Spirit or flesh?

CAMILLA.

Hark! he desires to do

Himself some mischief; my worst fears were true,

And his mind wanders.

ALBANIO.

Oh that here I had

The man whose malice seems to drive me mad!

I feel discharged of a vast weight! it seems

I fly, disdaining mountains, woods, and streams,

My farm, flock, field, and dairy! Are not these

Feet? yes, with them I fly where'er I please.

And now I come to think, my body's gone;

It is the spirit I command alone.

Some one has stolen and hid it as I gazed

On the clear sky, somewhat too much amazed;

Or has it stayed behind asleep? I swear

A figure coloured like the rose was there,

Slumbering most sweetly; now, if that should be

My shape--no, that was far too fair for me.

NEMOROSO.

Poor head! I would not give a coin of brass

For thy discretion now.

ALBANIO.

To whom, alas,

Shall I give notice of the theft?

SALICIO.

'Tis strange,

And passing sad, to see the utter change

In this once sprightly youth, with whom we two,

My Nemoroso, have had much to do;

Mild, pleasant, good, wise, sociable, and kind,

The sweetest temper and sincerest mind.

ALBANIO.

I will find witness, or small power is left

Me 'gainst the man that did commit the theft,

And though my body's absent, as a foe

Will drive him on to death; ah, dost thou know

Aught of the thief, my gentle fountain fair?

Speak, if thou dost! so may the swart star ne'er

Sear thy fresh shades, or scorch thy silver spring,

But still green fairies round thee dance and sing.

There stands a man at bottom of the brook,

With laurel crowned, and in his hand a crook

Shaped like mine own, of oak: ho! who goes there?

Answer, my friend! Heaven help me! I declare

Thou' art deaf or dumb, some mortal foe I fear

To life's humanities; holla! give ear;

I am a disembodied soul; I seek

My body, which, in a malicious freak,

Some cruel thief has stol'n, it much has stirred me;

Deaf or not deaf I care not--have you heard me?

O gracious God! either my wayward brain

Wanders, or I behold my shape again;

Ha, my loved body! I no longer doubt thee,

I clearly see thy image; whilst without thee

I have been most unhappy--come, draw nigher,

End both thy exile and my lorn desire.

NEMOROSO.

I much suspect that his continual thought

And dreams of death, have in his fancy wrought

This pictured separation.

SALICIO.

As in sleep,

Ills which awake perpetually we weep,

Fraught with the grief that haunts the soul, remain,

And print their shadowy species on the brain.

ALBANIO.

If thou art not in chains, come forth to' endow

Me with the true form of a man, who now

Have but the title left; but if thou' art bound

By magic art, and rooted to the ground,

I pray thee speak! for if my piteous pleading

Should fail to touch the ear of Heaven unheeding,

I to the bowers of Tartarus will depart,

And storm fierce Pluto's adamantine heart,

As for his absent consort, unalarmed,

Did the fond lover, who with music charmed

Hell's grisly maids, and hushed, sweet harmonist,

The raging snakes that round their temples hissed!

NEMOROSO.

With what good arguments does he enforce

His mad opinions!

SALICIO.

The accustomed course

Of ingenuity awhile holds on,

When genius fails, and apprehension's gone;

Thus, though now frenzied, still a lucid vein

Runs through the dark ideas of his brain,

Having been what we knew him once.

NEMOROSO.

No more,

Praise him not to me, for my heart runs o'er

With grief to see him in so lost a strait.

ALBANIO.

I was considering what a painful state

This strange, sad exile is; for, to my mind,

Nor woods, nor oceans warred on by the wind,

Nor moated towers, nor mountains, pathless proved,

Nor others' sweet society beloved,

Cuts us asunder, but a slender wall

Of water, lucid, but preventing all

The blissful union we desire so much;

For from that surface where we all but touch

Thou never dost depart, and seemest never

Satiate with gazing, by each fond endeavour

Of becks, and smiles, and gestures, signifying

Desire of junction, duteous, but denying;

Brother, reach out thy arm, that we may shake

Hands like good friends, and for past friendship's sake,

Once more embrace! ha! mock'st thou me? dost thou

Fly from me thus? 'tis acting not, I vow,

As a friend should; I from the fountain's froth

Am dripping wet, and thou, too, art thou wroth--

Poor Sir Unfortunate? ha! ha! how swift

Thy--what is it? thy figure thou dost shift;

Ruffled, disturbed, and with a writhen face!

That this unlucky thing now should take place!

I was consoled in seeing so serene

Thy amorous image and thy smiling mien.

No happy thing with me will now endure!

NEMOROSO.

Nothing at least that will thy frenzy cure.

SALICIO.

Let us depart; fresh furies now begin

To storm his soul.

ALBANIO.

Oh heav'n! why not leap in,

And reach the centre of the fountain cold?

SALICIO.

What foolish fancy's this, Albanio? hold!

ALBANIO.

Oh the clear thief! but how? what? is it well

To' invest thyself with my secreted shell

Of flesh, before my face? oh insolence!

As if I were a block devoid of sense

And common feeling; but this hand shall slay,

And pluck thy daring spirit out.

SALICIO.

Away!

Come thou; I am not equal to the task

Of mastering him.

NEMOROSO.

What would'st thou?

SALICIO.

Canst thou ask,

Kinsman unkind, what would I? disengage

My hand and throat, if his malicious rage

Give me but power.

NEMOROSO.

Act no such petty part;

Thou canst but do thy duty where thou art.

SALICIO.

Is this a time for pleasantry and play?

Sport'st thou with life? come instantly, I pray!

NEMOROSO.

Anon: I'll stand awhile aloof, and see

How from a madcap thou thyself canst free.

SALICIO.

Alas! I strike for self-defence.

ALBANIO.

Although

You die--

NEMOROSO.

It is too true; madman, let go!

ALBANIO.

I'll end him; but one moment let me be.

NEMOROSO.

Off, off this instant!

ALBANIO.

Why, how harm I thee?

NEMOROSO.

Me? not in any wise.

ALBANIO.

Then homeward turn,

And meddle not in what you've no concern.

SALICIO.

Ha, madman! pinion him and hold him tight,

For mercy's sake; I'll do for thee, sir knight!

Hold fast his elbows whilst the cord I tie;

Sound of the switch perchance may terrify

His proud soul to submission.

ALBANIO.

Noble lords,

If I be still, will you put up your swords?

SALICIO.

No.

ALBANIO.

Would you kill me?

SALICIO.

Yes.

ALBANIO.

A harmless gnat!

Look how much higher this rock is than that.

NEMOROSO.

'Tis well; he shortly will forget his vaunt.

SALICIO.

Soft; for 'tis thus they use such minds to daunt.

ALBANIO.

What! lashed and pinioned?

SALICIO.

Hush, give ear.

ALBANIO.

Woe's me!

Dark was the hour when first I strove with thee,

So harsh thou smitest; were we not before

As brothers fond; shall we be such no more?

NEMOROSO.

Albanio, friend beloved, be silent now;

Sleep here awhile, and move not.

ALBANIO.

Knowest thou

Any news of me?

SALICIO.

Mad, poor fool!

ALBANIO.

Agreed.

Soft, for I sleep.

SALICIO.

Indeed dost thou?

ALBANIO.

Indeed!

Sound as the dead! what motion do I make?

Only observe me.

SALICIO.

Hush! the wand I shake

Shall pay the price of thy rebellious will,

If thou unclose an eye.

NEMOROSO.

He is more still

And tranquil than he was: Salicio,

What are thy thoughts; can he be cured, or no?

SALICIO.

To use all gentle methods that may tend

Or to the life or health of such a friend,

Is our just duty.

NEMOROSO.

Hark then for a space

To what I say; a singular strange case

Will I relate, of which--but let that pass--

I both the witness and the subject was.

On Tormes' banks, the sweetest stream of Spain,

Mild, sacred, clear, extends a spacious plain,

Green in mid-winter, green in autumn, green

In sultry summer as in spring serene;

At the far end of which, the eye's delight,

Charming in form, and of a pleasing height,

A hill o'erlooks the scene, whose wood-crowned crest

Fair towers surmount, whereon heaven seems to rest:

Towers of strange beauty, not so much admired

For their fine structure, although Toil has tired

Thereon his curious chisel, as renowned

For their grand Lords by glory haloed round.

All that is deemed desirable and great

May there be found, rank, wisdom, virtue, state,

The gifts of Nature, and the stores of Art,

Whatever Taste can wish, or Power impart.

There, dwells a man of genius, whose rare touch

Of the melodious lyre and pipe is such

As ne'er to satiate with its notes of grace

And flavourous tones, the Spirit of the place.

On Trebia's field stood his paternal home,

Trebia the red, the' Aceldama of Rome,

And still, though numerous years have intervened,

The favourite refuge of the same fierce fiend--

Of war, whose crimson sword its turf has stained,

Its green bowers ravaged, its pure waves profaned.

He, seeing this, abandoned it to find

Some scene more suited to his gentle mind:

Good fortune led his footsteps to the hall

Of ALBA, so that splendid seat they call,

SEVERO him; the God of wit and light

Pours all his rays on his sciential sight.

He, when he wills, by signs and murmured spells,

Can curb the swiftest, mightiest stream that swells;

Change storms to golden calms, change night to noon,

Bid thunders bellow, and pluck down the moon,

If to his signals she will not reply,

And check the car that whirls her through the sky.

I fear, should I presume to speak in praise

Of all his power and wisdom, I should raise

His wrath, but this I must declare, above

All other things, the pangs of slighted love

He in an instant cures, removes the pain,

Converts impassioned frenzy to disdain,

Sadness to smiles, and on the soul's tuned keys

Rewakes its old familiar melodies.

I shall not know, Salicio, I am sure,

To tell the means and method of my cure,

But this I know, I came away quite sound,

Pure from desire, and vigorous from my wound.

I well remember that by Tormes' stream

I found him rapt in some pathetic theme,

Singing in strains whose sweetness might imprint

The soul of feeling in a heart of flint:

When me he saw, divining my desire,

He changed the mode, and rectified his lyre;

The praise of liberty from love he sings,

And with a sprightlier spirit smites the strings;

Reflected in his song, I stand confest

The slave of sense, and alien from all rest,

Shamed and surprised, till--how shall I explain

That strange effect?--the fascinating strain

The tincture takes of medicine, which, in brief,

Flows through my veins, and, grappling with my grief,

Roots out the venom: then was I as one

Who all night long o'er break-neck crags has run,

Not seeing where the path leads, till at last

Light dawns, and looking back, the perils passed

Rush on his sight, now so distinctly kenned,

The mere idea sets his hair on end:

So thunderstruck stood I, nor to this day

Can I, without a shudder of dismay,

Eye my past danger; my new scope of sight

Presented all things in their proper light,

And showed what I before with such a gust

Had grasped for gold, to be but worthless dust.

Such was the talisman, and such the skill

With which that ancient sage uncharmed my will;

My mind its native liveliness regained,

And my heart bounded as from bonds unchained.

SALICIO.

Oh fine old age! ev'n fruitful in thy snows,

That to the soul thus bring'st its lost repose,

Weaning the heart from love, the ungentle gust

That blasts our hopes, or weds them with the dust.

Merely from that with which thou hast amazed

My ear, I feel strong wishes in me raised,

To see and know him.

NEMOROSO.

Does thy wonder mount

So high, Salicio, at this poor account?

More could I say, if I were not afraid

To tire thy patience.

SALICIO.

What is this thou' hast said,

Unthinking Nemoroso? Can there be

Aught half so charming, half so sweet to me,

As listening to thy stories? Tell me more

Of sage Severo; tell me, I implore.

Nought interrupts the tale; our flocks at rest,

The fresh soft wind comes whispering from the west;

Sweet weeps the nightingale in song that moves

In amorous hearts the sadnesses she proves;

The turtle murmurs from her elm; the bee

Hums; the shy cuckoo shouts from tree to tree;

The wood a thousand flowers presents; the flowers

A thousand hues; and, hung with nodding bowers,

This babbling fountain with its voice invites

To social ease and interchanged delights.

ECLOGUE II.

SILVA III.

NEMOROSO. SALICIO.

NEMOROSO.

Hark then awhile, and I will tell of things

Strange and amazing: Spirits of these springs,

Nymphs, I invoke you! Silvans, Satyrs, Fauns,

That haunt the glens, the greenwoods, and the lawns!

Sweet from my lips let each clear accent part,

All point or grace, all harmony or art,

Since neither pastoral pipe, Arcadian quill,

Nor syrinx sounds in concord with my will.

To such rare heights Severo's powers aspire,

His chanted verse and smooth harmonious lyre

Can stay fleet whirlwinds in their mid career,

His golden words and messages to hear,

And make them from austere, rebellious lords,

Obsequious slaves to dance around his chords

In voluntary song; old Tormes knows

His incantation, and, commanded, shows

The Senior all his secrets: once he led

The mighty master to his fountain-head,

And showed him where mid river-flowers and fern

He lies, incumbent o'er a crystal urn;

On this he saw a thousand things embossed,

Foreseen, and sculptured with surprising cost;

With so divine a wit the sage has wrought

This vase, each object seems instinct with thought.

On every side the figured bas-reliefs

Depict the deeds and virtues of the chiefs,

Who by illustrious titles dignified,

And ruled the tract through which his waters glide.

There the brave youth, DON GARCIA, stood confessed

By his disdainful mien, dilated chest;

He 'gainst a wise and potent king that held

His sire in bondage, gallantly rebelled,[7]

Each bold retainer summoning, to aid

His pious aims; with him the God pourtrayed

His son, who showed, whilst earth enjoyed his light,

At court a Phoebus, and a Mars in fight:

Young though he seemed, he promised in his look

Supreme success in all he undertook;

Ev'n in his youth, upon the Moors he dealt

Severe rebukes, and made his puissance felt;

And as the chieftain of the Christian band,

Confirmed his heart and exercised his hand.

Elsewhere, with more assured renown, and now

With more of manhood on his martial brow,

He harassed the fierce Franks: sublime he stood

To sight, his armours red with hostile blood.

Long in the straitened siege had he sustained

The woes of want; no measure now remained,

But through the breaches of the rending wall

In furious sally on the foe to fall.

What numbers died that day beneath his spear!

What other numbers fled like hunted deer!

No pictured tale, no sculptured argument,

No poet's flame could fitly represent

How fierce FADRIQUE smote them as they fled,

The chaser's rage, and the pursued one's dread.

Near him is seen in bold relief his son,

DON GARCIA, equalled upon earth by none,

Unless by his Fernando! who could view

The ardent light of his dear beauty, who

The expression of his frank fair countenance,

Nor own his grandeur in that single glance?

Alas! in cruelty the Furies hurled

War's fires abroad, and snatched him from the world,

The world so happy in his light! sad Spain,

Thy weeping eyes how oft didst thou in vain

Roll toward Gelves! Acting his sad part,

The youth is sculptured with such lively art,

That should you see it, you would say each stroke

Was fraught with life, and that the crystal spoke.

The broad sands burned, the sun of bloody red,

His soldiers round him fell down faint or dead;

With earnest vigilance he only cursed

That dull delay, and reckless as at first,

Praised glorious death; when suddenly the sound

Of Illa Allah shook the skies, the ground

Rang with strong trampling, and a dusty host

Of fierce barbarians the young chief enclosed;

But he, nought daunted, cast to them his gage,

In generous frenzy of audacious rage,

And bore up bravely, making many pay

The price of their temerity; these lay

In deep disorder, some whose vital threads

He had already slit, with cloven heads,

Wallowing in blood; some silent dying; some

Yet breathing free, not wholly overcome,

Showed palpitating bowels, strangely gored

By the deep gashes given by his sharp sword.

But Fate was in the conflict, and at last,

Deaf with the din, his spirits failing fast,

Pierced through with thousand swords, and craving grace

For all his sins, he laid his pallid face

On the burnt soil, and sighed away, forlorn,

His soul of beauty like the rose of morn,

That smit by the hot season, sickening grieves,

Hangs its gay head, and pales its crimson leaves;

Or as a lily which the passing share

Leaves cruelly cut down, whereby its fair

Transparent hue, though not all perished, now

That its maternal earth neglects to throw

Juice through its veins, fades soon as noontide tells

Her wonted rosary on its dewy bells;

So on the mimic sands, in miniature,

Shows thy fair face, fresh rose, white lily pure!

Next a strange sculpture draws and so detains

The' observer's notice, that he entertains

No curiosity aught else to view,

How wild soe'er, or beautiful, or new.

The three sweet Graces there are seen pourtrayed

With Phidian skill, transparently arrayed;

One only garment of celestial white

Veils their soft limbs, but shuts not out the sight.

Drawn are they cheering, strengthening for the throe,

A noble lady in her hour of woe.

Soon the dear infant is seen born; ne'er smiled

The ripening moon upon a lovelier child;

Upon his little cradle, overspread

With flowers, the name of DON FERNANDO'S read.

From sweetly singing on the shady crown

Of Pindus, the Nine Lights of life come down;

And with them Phoebus, rosy and unshorn,

Goes, like the moon amidst the stars of morn,

With graceful step; arriving, they confess

His charms, and long and tenderly caress.

Elsewhere winged Mercury is drawn beholding

Mars, the plumed warrior, cautiously enfolding

The new-born infant in his rude embrace,

Soon giving courteous and respectful place

To Venus, smiling at his side; in turn

She kissed his cheek, and from a golden urn

Sprinkled Elysian nectar o'er the boy

With lavish hand, and fond familiar joy:

But Phoebus from her arms the child displaced,

And gave the office to his sisters chaste.

They were delighted with the sweet employ;

Time waves his wings, the babe becomes a boy,

Rising and flourishing in youthful grace,

Like a tall poplar in a shady place.

Talents he showed untaught, and undisguised

Gave now such proofs of genius, as surprised

The associate nymphs, and they the boy consigned

To one of blameless life and cultured mind,

Who to the world might make more manifest

The rich endowments which the child possessed;

An ancient man, whose face, ungiven to guile,

Expressed severeness sweetening to a smile,

Received the youth; Severo, when his gaze

Fell on this form, stood spell-bound with amaze;

For as within a looking-glass he viewed

Himself depicted, air, age, attitude,

All were conformable, just so he trod,

So looked, so greeted; turning to the god,

He saw him smiling at his frank surprise;

"And why this so great wonder?" Tormes cries;

"Seem I so ignorant as not to' have known,

Ere to thy yearning mother thou wert shown,

That thou wouldst be, when future suns should shine,

The wise Director of his soul divine?"

The Ancient, with deep joy of wonder bred,

His eager eyes upon the picture fed.

Next, as his looks along the sculptures glanced,

A youth with Phoebus hand in hand advanced;

Courteous his air, from his ingenuous face,

Informed with wisdom, modesty, and grace,

And every mild affection, at a scan

The passer-by would mark him for a man,

Perfect in all gentilities of mind,

That sweeten life and harmonize mankind.

The form which lively thus the sculptor drew,

Assur'd Severo in an instant knew,

For him who had by careful culture shown

Fernando's spirit lovely as his own;

Had given him grace, sincerity, and ease,

The pure politeness that aspires to please,

The candid virtues that disdain pretence,

And martial manliness, and sprightly sense,

With all the generous courtesies enshrined

In the fair temple of Fernando's mind.

When well surveyed, his name Severo read,

"BOSCÁN!!" whose genius o'er the world is spread:

In whose illumined aspect shines the fire

That, streamed from Delphos, lights him to the lyre,

And warms those songs which with mankind shall stay,

Whilst endless ages roll unfelt away!

More ripeness marked the youth, as to his rules

Listening, he culled the learning of the schools;

These left at length, he in gymnastic games,

War's mimic symbols, strives with youths, whose names

Had never else been known to after years

In the wide world; the tilt of canes and spears,

Wrestling, the course, the circus, toil and dust,

Gave his arm skill, and made his limbs robust.

Next, amorous Venus shows her rosy face,

Seizing his hand, she leads him for a space

From the severe gymnasium, and aside

Points out his fault with all a lecturer's pride;

Tells him how ill he acts; that some few hours

The roughest soldier wreathes his sword with flowers,

And that in endless turmoil so to waste

The May of life was treason to good taste.

Entering a myrtle bower, she shows him, laid

Midst leaves and violets blue, a slumbering maid:

Flushed was her cheek, and as she slept she smiled,

As some delightful dream her brain beguiled:

He saw, the crimsoning cheek his passion spoke;

The bowers they rustled, and the nymph awoke.

Smit with her beauty, he desired to wed

The enchanting shape--the Goddess shook her head--

As if she feared the parties to unite;

He gazed--he gazed, insatiate with the sight!

From her dear side he could not, could not move,

Wept on her neck, and vowed eternal love.

Next, angry Mars, imperious to behold,

Advancing, gave the youth a crown of gold:

Threatening the illustrious youth, a knight was seen,

Of a fierce spirit and insulting mien.[8]

In cautious wise beneath the setting moon

They timed their steps, and met on a pontoon;

Well had the sculptor shadowed out the fight,

His clouding crystal spoke the noon of night.

Mars was their umpire; he condemned the foe,

And placed his crown upon the conqueror's brow;

Graced with the gold, the hero shone from far,

As in blue heaven the beautiful bright star

That ushers in Aurora: thence his name

Spreads to all parts, and gathers greater fame.

Soon other happier arts he meditates

To steal from death, elusive of the Fates,

Much of himself, and live admired, unfled,

When the blind vulgar might lament him dead.

Hymen came moving to the crotal's clash,

His right foot sandalled with a golden sash;

A choir of virgins sing; on dancing feet

They part alternate, and alternate meet;

Then softly lay upon the bridal couch

A blushing girl, whom Venus did avouch

To be the same that, bowered in myrtles deep,

Erst smiled so sweetly in her dreaming sleep--

A dream as sweetly realized! she showed

Worthy the youth on whom she was bestowed;

Her pillow bore the words, impaled in flame,

DONNA MARIA ENRÍQUEZ, her name;

Anxious to be admitted, scarce the choir

Of nymphs could check Fernando's forward fire:

At length he was received, and left beside

His virtuous, pure, and beautiful young bride.

Elsewhere, on one foot standing, never stable,

Capricious Fortune did the sculptor fable,

Calling to Don Fernando that he led

A life of idleness, and now must tread

A toilsome path, but she would be his guide,

And venture first: he with her wish complied,

Made her his boon companion, and pursued

Her who, unveiled, as beautiful is wooed,

But, veiled from sight, deemed fearful, nothing worth,

Virtue her name, the rarity of earth!

Whom does she guide along with equal pace,

But him whom thus her beauty leads to face

Each fresh fatigue, for glory to aspire,

And scorn the chains of delicate desire.

The mighty Pyrenees, which seem to shoot

To heaven their summit as to hell their root,

They traversed in mid-winter; white the snow

Colours the clime, and mute the torrents flow

Under cold crystal bridges that confine

Their tides, smooth sliding through the frozen mine;

Whilst, if a blast but stirs the pines, they bend,

And with the weight of ices crashing rend.

Through all they strive, nor will be held at bay

Or by the length or wildness of the way.

By constant toil the hero makes advance,

Till the gained summit shifts the scene to France;

His swiftness Fame renewed--his spirits cheered,

On flying wings beside him she appeared,

And signified, in act and attitude,

That the hill-tracks would soon become less rude.

Of various guides the Duke selected one,

And on they rode beneath the mounting sun;

Faint wax their horses, but they reached at last

The walls of Paris, and its portals passed.

There the gaunt form of Sickness stands to sight,

The healthy duke assisting to alight;

Touched by her hand, his colour seems to fade,

He droops, he faints, and sickens to a shade.

Soon, crossing from a shady thicket green,

The form of Esculapius might be seen

With balms and herbs, nor did he slack his tread

Till he arrived beside Fernando's bed:

With his right foot he entered, and at length

Restored the patient to his usual strength.

His way he took where white-wall'd convents shine,

And reached the passage of the lucid Rhine.

The rich romantic river on its breast

Received him, glorying in so great a guest,

And called to mind the hour when to the same

Embarking point the Latin Cæsar came.

He seemed not scanty of his waves, but swelled

Floods like a sea, and the light bark impelled,

Which flying left behind green viny bowers,

High castled crags, and old romantic towers.

Blythely his impulse the swift bark obeyed,

And passed the spot where erst a ravished maid,

And thousand virgins with her, stained the sod

With blood, recorded in the book of God.

The espoused pure virgin, Ursula, was seen

Casting her dying eyes to heaven serene,

The tyrant looking on, who, at a word,

From breast to beauteous breast the sword transferred.

Thence through wide Germany he shaped his way

To where in doubt the Christian army lay,

Till to his sight the rapid Danube gave

His affluent floods; he launched upon the wave.

From the spurned shore the refluent currents strong

Winged through cleft crags his bounding boat along,

Whilst the strained oars with forcible descent

Raised showers of silver wheresoe'er it went:

On--on like lightning was it seen to fly,

Its very motion sculptured to the eye.

The heroic duke, a little farther on,

Was pictured disembarked at Ratisbon,

Where for the Imperial crown on every hand

War had convoked the magnates of the land.

Amidst his peers and princes Charles was placed,

Our Spanish Cæsar, and the duke embraced,

Charmed with his coming; all in pleased surprise

Fixed on Fernando their saluting eyes,

And the same instant they perceived him, grew

Sure of the victory when the trumpet blew.

With much vain-glory, haughtiness of mien,

And barbarous boasting, the Grand Turk was seen,

Armed, and in rich costume; pitched far and wide

Near weeping Hungary was his camp descried.

So strange a multitude o'erspread the plain,

That scarce the region could the host contain,--

A host so vast, the country, you would think,

Would fail for pasture, and the stream for drink.

Cæsar, with pious zeal and valiant soul,

These hosts despised, and bade his flags unrol;

His tribes convoked, and shortly you might see

An army form--bold, resolute, and free;

See various nations in one camp combined,

Various in speech, but influenced by one mind.

They swarmed not o'er the land in such parade

Of numbers as the Moslem, but displayed

That which these failed to show--a brave freewill,

Faith, courage, firmness, discipline, and skill.

Them with a generous zeal, by apt applause,

Fernando heartens in the common cause,

That numbers of them in his views took part,

Won to his flag with admirable art.

The fierce yet docile German he addressed

In his own style, and so to all the rest

Conformed in custom, humour, mood, and tongue,

Grave with the age'd and sprightly with the young,

That the phlegmatic Fleming would have said,

In Lisle or Antwerp he was born and bred,

In Spain the excelling Spaniard; the astute

Italian marks him, with amazement mute,

His nation's ease so well he seems to hit,

Her past proud valour, and her modern wit.

He seems in him to see arise again

Rome's last, sole hope, the youth who passed to Spain,

And closed her long, long warfare in the fall

Of rival Carthage and grim Hannibal,

Whose crimson sword, to Nemesis devote,

So oft was pointed at her naked throat.

Next sickening Envy on the crystal stood,

Severely sculptured, adverse to his good,

Gathering against Fernando, face to face,

The unfavoured faction, loud for his disgrace.

With them she armed, but in all points, with pain,

Found her arts baffled and her influence wane.

He with mild tongue and with extended hands

The tumult hushed of the censorious bands,

And by degrees soared with so high a flight,

The eyes of Envy could not reach his height,

So that successless, blinded by the blaze

Of his clear virtue, she her passion sways,

And forces her proud self, in suppliant weed,

On earth to kneel, and for forgiveness plead.

The monster's spoils he carelessly received,

And, from these rude anxieties relieved,

Walked in the cool serene of eve beside

The lonely stream, and near its tossing tide

Encountered Cæsar, full of doubt and care

For the success of the approaching war;

Since, though he banished sadness, still the thought

Of the vast stake he ventured, with it brought

Wish for wise counsel; this the duke bestowed;

They there agreed on a convenient mode

To' obstruct the plans of Solyman, destroy

His high-raised hopes, and blast his promised joy.

Their counsels ended, weary they repose

On the green turf, and as their eyelids close,

Hear the dim Danube's voice, so it might seem,

Murmur approval of their golden scheme.

Then to the pausing eye the chisel gave

The clear stream's Genius issuing from the wave,

Aged, on tiptoe moving mute, with reeds

And willows crowned, and robed in sea-green weeds;

He in that sleep uncertain showed them clear

All that concerned their ends; it would appear

That this sweet idlesse crossed their good, for swift

(As though some precious gem or cherished gift

Was burning in the flames) they start, they rise,

With terror touched and a divine surprise;

Divine surprise, that ceasing leaves behind

Hope to the heart, and gladness to the mind.

The stream without delay appeared to urge

The chiefs aboard, and smoothed its eddying surge,

That the Armada which it had to guide

O'er its broad waters might more gently glide.

What favour to the fleets its Genius bore,

Was seen in the calm wave and feathering oar.

With admirable speed you next might mark

A well-ranged army instantly embark;

The sturdy movement of dipt oars, combined

With little hindrance from the wave or wind,

Swift through the deep sonorous waters works

That fleet, obnoxious to the tyrant Turks.

No human artist could, though born to' excel,

Have framed a picture which expressed so well

The fleet, the host, the speed, the waves' rich fret;

Scarce in the forge at which the Cyclops sweat,

And, tired, change arms at every hammering blow,

Could their grand Master have expressed it so.

Through the clear current who had seen them bear,

Would on that missal have been apt to swear

That the sharp prows provoked the blue profound,

And clove the billows with a silver sound;

Grey foam before, bright bubbles danced behind;

Anon the banners, trembling in the wind,

Mimicked the moving waters; on the coast

Like living things appeared the adverse host,

Shy and incredulous, which, filled of late

With barbarous scorn and haughtiness sedate,

Thought not to meet with men that would prevent

Their march; ours, piqued by such injustice, went

Measuring their way so furiously and wroth,

That the whole stream fermented into froth.

The other host, affrighted at the view,

From tent to tent in wild distraction flew,

Eager to gather from the public breath

The' unknown intelligence of life or death;

Like a vast stream by wintry breezes crost,

Through bones and marrow ran an icy frost,

Till, the whole camp in uproar, each one placed

His hopes of safety in immediate haste.

The camp is raised in tumult; on their way

They march, they speed in shameful disarray;

Leaving behind in terror, unconcealed,

Their gold and jewels strewed o'er all the field.

The tents wherein sloth, murder, revelling,

And rape, found place with each unholy thing,

They part without; armed steeds run masterless;

On their scared lords the scared dependants press;

Whilst the fierce Spaniard, hovering round their rear,

Strains the red sword, and shakes the lifted spear.

Cæsar is seen attempting to restrain

Fernando, ardent above all to stain

His sword in unbelieving blood; with bold

And eager action, not to be controlled,

He struggles with the king; as the fierce hound

Of generous Erin, on the spring to bound

After the bristly boar, restricted, whines,

And quarrels with the leash that scarce confines

His passionate desire and fleet-foot flight,

Which makes his master draw the string more tight--

So, imaged to the life, contending stand

The fixt to fly, the settled to withstand;

So Cæsar curbs, just so Fernando grieves,

As whoso views them at a glance perceives.

Next on the clear pictorial urn is feigned

Victory, contented with the laurels gained;

Cæsar embraced--unthinking, without check,

She throws her arm around Fernando's neck;

He turns away with spleen but ill concealed,

And mourns the easy triumphs of the field.

A foreign car does next the crystal grace,

Filled with the spoils of the barbaric race,

And in accompaniment the sculptured seals

Of conquest, captives fettered to the wheels,--

Mantles, and purple silks of various realms,

Brast lances, crescents, gonfalons, and helms,

Light vant-braces, cleft shields, turbans emblazed

With gems, and swords, into a trophy raised,

Shine forth, round which, as with one heart and voice,

Cities and nations gather and rejoice.

The Tyrrhene next was whitening with the sails

Of the vast ships blown home by willing gales;

Glorious, renowned, with foamy prows they sweep,

And like majestic fishes swim the deep.

Till greenly crowned with laurel, they at last

In Barcelona Bay glad anchor cast.

Thence, promised vows fulfilled, with offered prayers

And consecrated spoils, the duke prepares

To hurry instant, glowing with the fire

Of amorous hope and long-chastised desire.

He passes Catalonia, leaves behind

The towns of Arragon, and swift as wind,

Without alighting, ever with his heel

Striking his courser, treads in sweet Castile.

To home's near joys--his lady's wished embrace,

He yields his heart--he reserenes his face,

And from his eyes and from his thought drives far

Death, dangers, doubts, vexations, wounds, and war.

Then, held alone by ecstasy in thrall,

The crystal shows him in his happy hall.

On tiptoe meeting him, with many a kiss,

His wife, half dubious of so great a bliss,

Flings round his neck with all the wife's delight

Her well-shaped arms, so delicately white,

And smiling strains him to her heart, whilst rise

Unconscious tears to her rejoicing eyes;

Those lucid eyes that the clear sun outshine,--

Glittering they gush, and make them yet more fine.

With her beloved Fernando, earth again,

The field, the stream, the mountain, and the plain,

Were deeply,--in her view, divinely blessed,

And under various modes their bliss expressed;

More lofty rise the walls; the breathing bowers

Of lovelier colours pour forth sweeter flowers;

Tormes himself is pictured in the tale,

With all his Naiads, pouring through the vale

In greater affluence his abundant streams;

With stags the face of the green mountain teems,

Roebucks and fallow deer, that sportive browze

The savoury herb, or crop the leafy boughs;

More verdant spreads the plain, extending even

Till her charmed eye beholds it blend with heaven;

And heaven is hers, deep joy, and deeper peace,

A joy whose sense exaggerates all it sees,

Full of his presence of whose praise earth sings,

And glorying Valour tells immortal things.

This saw Severo palpably and clear,

They were no dreams, no fictions; should'st thou hear

His tale, thou would'st religiously believe

The truth of it, as though thou didst perceive

Thyself the sculptures; as the urn he eyed,

He vows he in the forms such force descried--

That had even life been given to what were wrought,

They could not look more animate with thought.

What to the mind or eye obscure remained,

The courteous River lucidly explained.

"He, the young chieftain of that army," said

The God, "from pole to pole his rule shall spread;

And that his glorious deeds, when by thy lyre

Divinely hymned, mankind may more admire,

Know that these many acts, these perils sought,

And victories won by him, shall all be wrought,

With every deed with which the vase is rife,

Within the first five lustres of his life;

Now thou hast all foreseen, go forth--the Urn

To its accustomed place I must return."

"Yet first," Severo said, "to me unfold

What that may be which blinds me to behold,

Which glitters on the shaded crystal bright

As a red comet in the noon of night?"

"More knowledge, friend, than Heav'n metes out to man,"

Said he, "can ne'er be conquered by his scan;

If I not clearly picture that which draws

Thy notice thus, thou art thyself the cause;

For whilst a veil of flesh your spirit shrouds,

A thousand things are circumfused with clouds,

Which mock the curious eyes that would inquire

Into their secrets; with inferior fire

I could not work them: know then (to thy ear

I well may trust it) that what glitters here

With an excess so radiant, hue so warm,

That the dazed vision fails to fix its form,

Is what Fernando's hand and soul sublime

Shall gloriously perform in after-time;

Deeds which, compared with what he yet has done,

Are as a sparkling star or summer sun

To an obscure low vapour; thy weak view

Is not sufficient for such warmth of hue,

Till grown accustomed to the gaze; to him

Who long has languished in a dungeon dim,

Sunshine is agony--so thou, who caged

In depths of gross obstruction wert engaged

In contemplating one that might appear,

The differing native of a lovelier sphere,

Must not much wonder that thy shrinking sight

Was dazzled by such luxury of light.

But see, within my waves the sun's bright eye

Closes--is closed--ere thou canst make reply!"

Thus saying--with a pleasant parting look,

The Senior by the hand Severo shook.

Oh wonderful! the waves where the sun sank

Were on each side restricted in a rank,

And, deep albeit before, did now disclose

The bed between them, and as high they rose,

Deepening the part near which the prophet stood,

He gave a spring, and leaped into the flood;

White flew the foam to heaven, and loud to land

Roared the stirred waters mixed with golden sand.

In a new science versed, Severo grey

Was for collecting without vain delay

Its fruits for future hope, and unbesought

Wrote down the' events exact as Tormes taught;

And though he well might judge my mind would fail

To apprehend aright the' impressive tale,

Yet not for this did he refuse to' unrol

For my survey the strange prophetic scroll;

Insatiably I read, yet thou, sweet friend,

Art wondering when the tale will have an end.

SALICIO.

No! ravishment is mine

At this strange tale divine,

So well set forth by thy enchanting tongue;

Within my breast I felt,

Long as thine accents dwelt

On the rare virtues of a prince so young,

My throbbing heart beat higher,

And glow with the desire

To contemplate him present--the foretold

Of Fame, whose visnomy,

Though absent from mine eye,

By thy divine account I now behold:

Who but must wish to see the storied scrolls,

Since o'er the lively urn the silent billow rolls!

After what thou hast told,

Religiously I hold

The opinion that Severo's powers can shed

Light on the clouded brain,

Albanio's frenzy chain,

Health to the sick, and almost to the dead

Give being; it is just

We put our perfect trust

In him to whom such secrets were revealed,

As one whose skilful hand

Disorders can withstand,

Bid ev'n disease itself fresh vigour yield,

And by his subtle wisdom quickly raise

To bloom whatever droops, or sickens, or decays.

NEMOROSO.

To this result since thine opinions tend,

Salicio, what with our distracted friend?

SALICIO.

Act a friend's part; take presently our course

From hence, and ere his frenzy gathers force

Or from indulgence or delay, present

Our patient to Severe:

NEMOROSO.

I consent.

We on the morrow, ere the clear warm ray

Of the arising sun is seen to play

Upon the purple hills, will go; and sure

I feel, his skill will work an easy cure.

SALICIO.

Fold now the flock, for from the mountain's head

Cool airs descend, and longer shadows spread.

Look round, and see how from the farms whereto

Those labourers trudge, the calm smoke, rising blue,

Curls in a column to the rosy sky!

Seek with our flocks the usual vale, whilst I

Attend the youth--since he has lain so long

In quiet swoon, his fit cannot be strong.

NEMOROSO.

If thou should'st first reach home, go not to bed,

But speed the supper, and see Lyca spread

The cloth--'tis much if yet her fire's alight:

SALICIO.

I will; I will; unless in my despite

Albanio hurl me down some breakneck dell:

Farewell, dear friend!

NEMOROSO.

Salicio, friend, farewell!

[Illustration]

ECLOGUE III. TO THE LADY MARIA DE LA CUEVA, COUNTESS OF UREÑA.

TYRRENO. ALCINO.

The pure ambition and sincere desire,

Most beautiful Señora, that whilere

Was wont my soul in secret to inspire,

To sing thy beauty, wit, and virtue rare,

Spite of strong Fortune, that unstrings my lyre,

And turns to other paths my steps of care,

Glows, and shall glow within me, whilst the flame

Of soul lights up this perishable frame.

I fancy even, that after life this flow

Of song shall live; that when my heart grows chill,

And my lips cease to call, in joy or woe,

Eolian murmurs to my pastoral quill,

Freed from its narrow cell my ghost shall go

O'er the dark river, celebrating still

Thy glorious name, and curbing with the sound

Oblivion's waters, slowly stealing round.

But Fate, not satisfied with crossing, rives me

From every good; grief but to grief gives place;

Now from my country, from my love she drives me,

Now proves my patience in a thousand ways;

But what I feel more, is that she deprives me

Of these fond papers where my pen thy praise

Inscribes, and in their room nought, nought supp'ies

But fruitless cares and mournful memories.

Yet, let her try her utmost force, my heart

She shall not change; the world shall never say

She moves me to forsake so sweet an art;

In poesy's still walks, embowered with bay,

Apollo and the Nine shall yet impart

Leisure, and life, and language, to display

The least of thine accomplishments, the most

My feeble powers can ever hope to boast.

Let it not irk thee if I sing meanwhile

The scenes and sylvans thou hast loved, nor deem

Ill of this untrimmed portion of my style,

Which once thy goodness held in kind esteem;

Midst arms--with scarce one pause from bloody toil,

Where war's hoarse trumpet breaks the poet's dream,

Have I these moments stolen, oft claimed again,

Now taking up the sword, and now the pen.

To the wild music of my oaten reed

Listen thou then, though, naked and ungraced

With ornamental touches, it indeed

Is all unmeet to strike thine ear of taste;

But oft pure thoughts from artless lips succeed,

Chaste witnesses of sentiments as chaste,

To win the will, and pleasure more impart

Than all the' elaborate eloquence of art.

I, for this cause, though others failed my theme,

Merit thine ear; the gift which at thy feet

I cast, receive with favour; I shall deem

Myself, sweet friend, enriched by the receipt.

Of four choice Nymphs that from loved Tagus' stream

Proceed, I sing; Phyllodoce the sweet,

Dynamene, fair Clymene, and last,

Nyse, in loveliness by none surpassed.

In a sweet solitude beside the flood,

Is a green grove of willows, trunk-entwined

With ivies climbing to the top, whose hood

Of glossy leaves, with all its boughs combined,

So interchains and canopies the wood,

That the hot sunbeams can no access find;

The water bathes the mead, the flowers around

It glads, and charms the ear with its sweet sound.

The glassy river here so smoothly slid

With pace so gentle on its winding road,

The eye, in sweet perplexity misled,

Could scarcely tell which way the current flowed.

Combing her locks of gold, a Nymph her head

Raised from the water where she made abode,

And as the various landscape she surveyed,

Saw this green meadow, full of flowers and shade.

That wood, the flowery turf, the winds that wide

Diffused its fragrance, filled her with delight;

Birds of all hues in the fresh bowers she spied,

Retired, and resting from their weary flight.

It was the hour when hot the sunbeams dried

Earth's spirit up--'twas noontide still as night;

Alone, at times, as of o'erbrooding bees

Mellifluous murmurs sounded from the trees.

Having a long time lingered to behold

The shady place, in meditative mood,

She waved aside her flowing locks of gold,

Dived to the bottom of the crystal flood,

And when to her sweet sisters she had told

The charming coolness of this vernal wood,

Prayed and advised them, to its green retreat

To take their tasks, and pass the hours of heat.

She had not long to sue,--the lovely three

Took up their work, and looking forth descried,

Peopled with violets, the sequestered lea,

And toward it hastened: swimming, they divide

The clear glass, wantoning in sportful glee

Through the smooth wave; till, issuing from the tide,

Their white feet dripping to the sands they yield,

And touch the border of that verdant field.

Pressing the' elastic moss with graceful tread,

They wrung the moisture from their shining hair,

Which, shaken loose, entirely overspread

Their beauteous shoulders and white bosoms bare;

Then, drawing forth rich webs whose spangled thread

Might in fine beauty with themselves compare,

They sought the shadiest covert of the grove,

And sat them down, conversing as they wove.

Their woof was of the gold which Tagus brings

From the proud mountains in his flow divine,

Well sifted from the sands wherewith it springs,

Of all admixture purified and fine;

And of the green flax fashioned into strings,

Subtile and lithe to follow and combine

With the bright vein of gold, by force of fire

Already drawn into resplendent wire.

The subtile yarn their skill before had stained

With dyes pellucid as the brightest found

On the smooth shells of the blue sea, engrained

By sunbeams in their warm and radiant round:

Each nymph for skill in what her fingers feigned,

Equalled the works of painters most renowned,--

Apelles' Venus, or the famous piece

Wherein Timanthes veils the grief of Greece.

Phyllodoce, who of that beauteous band

Was for her majesty considered queen,

Had figured with a bold and dexterous hand

The river Strymon: on one side were seen

Green plains, on the reverse, a mountain grand

And savage, where no human foot had been,

Until the sweet, sad melodist of Thrace

Charmed with his lyre the' inhospitable place.

Beauteous Eurydice was pictured, stung

In her white foot by the small snake that lay

Collecting venom, closely coiled among

The herbs and flowers that blossomed in her way;

She was discoloured as the rose, yet young,

Plucked out of season, waning to decay:

And in her rolling eyes the soul divine

Seemed on the wing to quit its charming shrine.

Broidered at length the history was told

Of her fond lord; how, daring to descend

To the pale king of ghosts, by love made bold,

He the lost lady by his lyre regained;

How, mad once more her aspect to behold,

He turned, again to lose her, and arraigned--

Ever arraigned to mountain, cave, and spring,

The cruel terms, and unrelenting king.

Dynamene with no less skill and grace

Adorned the tale her fancy had designed;

She drew robust Apollo, to the chase

In echoing woods exclusively resigned;

But soon revengeful Love, reproached as base,

Changed the blythe scene; with grief Apollo pined;

The God had pierced him with his gold-tipt shaft,

And clapped his wings, and at his victim laughed.

Daphne with long dishevelled hair was hieing

So without pity to her tender feet,

O'er briers and rocks, that fond Apollo, sighing,

Seemed in the chase to move with steps less fleet,

For her sweet sake; he following, she still flying,

Thus the race held; he, flushed with amorous heat;

She, cold as though she froze beneath the dart

Of hatred lodged in her disdainful heart.

But at the last her arms increase and shoot

Into stiff boughs; those tresses turn to leaves,

That wont the palm of splendour to dispute

With the fine gold, whilst to the mountain cleaves

In thousand tortuous roots each lily foot;

Her frantic lover the swift change perceives;

Looks her late features in the tree to find,

And clasps and kisses the yet panting rind.

Blending the radiant threads and sparkling wire

With the most exquisite address and skill,

Of beeches, oaks, and caverns hung with brier,

Rapt Clymene pourtrayed a mighty hill,

Where ran a boar whose red eye darted fire,

With gnashing teeth--all eagerness to kill

A youth who in his hand a boar-spear shook,

Handsome in form, and spirited in look.

Anon the boar was dying of a wound

From the too valiant and adventurous youth,

And he himself lay stretched upon the ground,

Gored by the outrageous brute's avenging tooth;

His sunbeam-tinted tresses drooped unbound,

Sweeping the earth in negligence uncouth;

The white anemonies that near him blew

Felt his red blood, and red for ever grew.

This spoke the youth Adonis, and close by

Venus accordingly was seen to grieve;

Viewing the deep wound in his snowy thigh,

She o'er him hung, half dying, to receive,

Lip fondly pressed to lip, the last faint sigh

Of that sweet spirit that was wont to give

Life to the form for which, in blest accord,

She walked the world, and held high heaven abhorred.

White-bosomed Nyse took not for her theme

Memory of past catastrophes, nor twined

In her fine tissue aught that poets dream

In antique fable, for her heart inclined

To the renown of her dear native stream;

The glorious Tagus therefore she designed,

There where he blesses with his sinuous train

The happiest of all lands, delightful Spain!

Deep in a rocky valley was compressed

The wealthy river, winding almost round

A mountain, rushing with impetuous haste,

And roaring like a lion as it wound;

Mad for its prey, high flew its foaming crest;

But it was labour lost, and this it found;

For soon, contented with its wrack, the wave

Lost its resentment, and forgot to rave.

On the high mountain's airy head was placed

Of ancient towers a grand and glorious weight;

Here its bare bosom white-walled convents graced,

There castles frowned in old Arabian state;[9]

In windings grateful to the eye of taste,

Thence the smooth river, smilingly sedate,

Slid, comforting the gardens, woods, and flowers,

With the cool spray of artificial showers.

Elsewhere, the web, so richly figured o'er,

Showed the fair Dryads issuing from a wood,

With anxious haste all tending to the shore,

The grassy margin of the shaded flood;

In sable stoles, with aspect sad, they bore

Baskets of purple roses in the bud,

Lilies and violets, which they scattering poured

On a dead nymph whom deeply they deplored.

All with dishevelled hair were seen to shower

Tears o'er the nymph, whose beauty did bespeak

That death had cropt her in her sweetest flower,

Whilst youth bloomed rosiest in her charming cheek:

Near the still water, in a myrtle bower,

She lay amongst the green herbs, pale and meek,

Like a white swan that, sickening where it feeds,

Sighs its sweet life away amidst the reeds.

One of the Goddesses whose charms outshined

Her sisters, charming though they were, whose vest

Disordered, whose pale face, and eyes declined,

The deep affliction of her soul expressed,

Was duteously engraving on the rind

Of a fair poplar, separate from the rest,

The lovely nymph's memorial epitaph,

Which thus, deciphered, spoke on her behalf.

"ELIZA I, whose name the vocal grove,

Whose name the mountain murmurs through its caves,

In faithful record of the grief and love

Of Nemoroso, as for me he raves,

Calling ELIZA in loud shrieks that move

Responding Tagus, whose sonorous waves

Bear my name with them toward the Lusian sea,

Where heard, I trust, and reverenced it will be."

Last on this web, which we divine might deem,

Figured the history at full was found,

That on the banks of this romantic stream

Of Nemoroso was so far renowned;

For all sweet Nyse knew, and in his theme

Of sorrow took an interest so profound,

That as his exclamations reached her ears,

A thousand times she melted into tears.

And that the mournful theme might not avail

To be resounded in the woods alone,

But with o'ermastering tenderness prevail

Where'er in Tethys the blue wave is blown,

Therefore it was fond Nyse wished the tale

Of the lost nymph should in her web be shown,

And publish thus her beauty and his love

Through the moist kingdoms of Neptunian Jove.

With these fair scenes and classic histories

The webs of the four sisters were inlaid,

Which sweetly flushed with variegated dyes,

In clear obscure of sunshine and of shade,

Each figured object to observant eyes

In rich relief so naturally displayed,

That, like the birds deceived by Zeuxis' grapes,

It seemed the hand might grasp their swelling shapes.

But now the setting sun with farewell rays

Played on the purple mountains of the west,

And in the darkening skies gave vacant place

For Dian to display her silver crest;

The little fishes in her loving face

Leaped up, gay lashing with their tails the breast

Of the clear stream, when from their tasks the four

Arose, and arm in arm resought the shore.

Each in the tempered wave had dipt her foot,

And toward the water bowed her swanlike breast,

Down to their crystal hermitage to shoot,--

When suddenly sweet sounds their ears arrest,

Mellowed by distance, of the pipe or flute,

So that to listen they perforce were prest;

To the mild sounds wherewith the valleys ring,

Two shepherd youths alternate ditties sing.

Piping through that green willow wood they roam

Amidst their flocks, which, now that day is spent,

They to the distant folds drive slowly home,

Across the verdurous meadows, dew-besprent;

Whitening the dun shades, onward as they come,

Clear and more clear the fingered instrument

Sounds in accord with the melodious voice,

And cheers their task, and makes the woods rejoice.

These shepherd youths were wealthy of estate,

And skilled in singing above all that feed

Their flocks along the stream,--Tyrreno that,

Alcino this was named; their years agreed;

One was their taste; prepared now to debate

The palm of pastoral music they proceed;

In turn the voice, in turn the pipe they try,

One sings, and one makes apposite reply.

TYRRENO.

Oh gentle Flerida! more sweet to me

And flavourous than the grape, than milk more white,

And far more charming than a flower-filled lea,

When April paints the landscape with delight;

If the true love Tyrreno bears to thee

Thou dost with equal tenderness requite,

Thou to my fold wilt surely come, before

The reddening orient tells that night is o'er.

ALCINO.

Beautiful Phyllis, who so stern as thou!

May I to thee be bitterer than the broom,

And severed from thee, sorrow like the bough

Stript of its leaves before the tree's in bloom,

If the grey bat that flits around me now

More hates the light, and more desires the gloom,

Than I to see this day of anguish o'er,

To me much longer than a year before!

TYRRENO.

As Spring, attended by the laughing Hours,

After long storm is wont to reappear,

When the mild Zephyr, breathing through the bowers,

Brings back its former beauty to the year,

And goes enamelling the banks with flowers,

Blue, white, and red, all eyes and hearts to cheer;

So when returning Flerida is seen,

My heart too gladdens, and my hope grows green.

ALCINO.

Have ye the fury of the wind beheld,

When down the rough Sierra's crags it shoots,

How it hurls down the reverend rocks of eld,

And tears the quivering pines up by the roots,

Nor thus content, how with its pride upswelled,

It loudly with the frightful sea disputes?

Less fierce this rage is of the wind-borne Jove,

Than Phyllis angry at Alcino's love.

TYRRENO.

The vine and olive flourish; the green lea

Yields plenteous pasture for the flocks at morn;

Mountains the goats, the blossom feeds the bee,

And Ceres joys amidst the growing corn:

Where'er my Flerid looks, it seems to me

That generous Plenty pours forth all her horn;

But if she take away her smiling eyes,

The landscape weeps, and nought but briers arise.

ALCINO.

The field, the flock, with barrenness oppressed,

Pines fast away, each living thing conceives

Corruption, mildew--Ceres' fatal pest--

Poisons the grass and taints the wheaten sheaves;

The bird abandons its dismantled nest,

That was hedged in before with lively leaves;

But if sweet Phyllis chance to pass that way,

The flock revives, and all again looks gay.

TYRRENO.

For Daphne's laurel Phoebus gave his voice,

The towering poplar charmed stern Hercules,

The myrtle sweet, whose gifted flowers rejoice

Young hearts in love, did most warm Venus please;

The lithe green willow is my Flerid's choice,

She gathers it amidst a thousand trees:

Thus laurel, poplar, and sweet myrtle now,

Where'er it grows, shall to the willow bow.

ALCINO.

All know that in the woods the ash reigns queen,

In graceful beauty soaring to the sky,

And that in grandeur and thick shade the green

And lofty beech all sylvans does outvie;

But whoso sees the beauty of thy mien,

Thy comely shape and austere dignity,

Will own, fair Phyllis, that thy charms impeach

The ash's grace and grandeur of the beech.

Thus sang the youths in challenge and reply,

And having finished now their rural hymn,

With blythe attention to their charge apply,

Pacing with faster steps the pastures dim;

The Sisters, hearing now the rumour nigh,

Threw themselves forth into the stream to swim;

The shaded waves with froth were whitened o'er,

And murmurs spread along the silent shore.

[Illustration]

ELEGIES AND EPISTLES.

[Illustration]

ELEGY I. TO THE DUKE OF ALVA,

ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER, DON BERNARDINO DE TOLEDO.

Although this heavy stroke has touched my soul

With such regret, that I myself require

Some friend my deep depression to console,

That my spent fancy may afresh respire;

Yet would I try, if chance the' Aonian choir

Give me the requisite assistance, just

To strike a little comfort from the lyre,

Thy frenzy to assuage, revive thy trust,

And raise once more thy head and honours from the dust.

At thy distress the pitying Muses weep;

For neither, as I hear, when suns arise,

Nor when they set, giv'st thou thy sorrows sleep,

Rather by brooding o'er them as one dies,

Creat'st another, with disordered eyes

Still weeping, that I fear to see thy mind

And spirit melt away in tears and sighs,

Like snows on hill-tops, which the rainy wind

Moaning dissolves away, and leaves no trace behind.

Or if by chance thy wearied thought finds rest

For a few moments in desired repose,

'Tis to return to grief with added zest;

In that short slumber thy poor brother shows

Pallid as when he swooned away in throes

From his sweet life, and thou, intent to lift

His dear delusive corse, dost but enclose

The vacant air; then Sleep revokes her gift,

And from thy waking eye the mimic form flies swift.

Yet cherishing the dream, with sense at strife,

Thyself no more, thou anxiously look'st round

For that beloved brother, who through life

The better portion of thy soul was found,

Which, dying, could not leave it wholly sound;

And thus, forlorn, distracted, dost thou go,

Invoking him in shrieks and groans profound,

How changed in aspect! hurrying to and fro,

As mad Lampecia erst beside the fatal Po.

With the like earnest exclamations, she

Her Phaëton bewailed; "wild waves, restore

My poor lost brother, if you would not see

Me too die, watering with my tears your shore!"

Oft, oh how oft, did she the stream implore!

How oft, revived by grief, her shrieks renew!

And oh, as oft, that active frenzy o'er,

Whispering, 'twas all she could, green earth adieu,

Pale on the poplar shore her faded foliage strew.

Yet, I confess, if any accident

In this for-ever shifting state should bend

The noble soul so loudly to lament,

It were the present, since a mournful end

Has thus deprived thee of so dear a friend,

(Not a mere brother) one who not alone

Shared thy deep counsels, taught thee to unbend,

And knew each secret that to thee was known;

But every shade of thought peculiarly thine own.

In him reposed thy honourable, discreet,

And wise opinions, used but as the case

Chimed with his own; in him were seen to meet

Thy every virtue, excellence, and grace,

With lovely light, as in a crystal vase

Or glassy column, whose transparence shows

All things reflected in its lucid face,--

Sunlight, gem, flower, the rainbow, and the rose,

Clear in its vivid depth plays, sparkles, smiles, or glows.

Oh the dark doom, the miserable lot

Of human life, that through such trouble flies!

One storm comes threatening ere the last's forgot,

Fast as one ill departs, severer rise;

Whom has not war snatched from our weeping eyes!

Whom has not toil worn out! who has not laved

In blood his foeman's sword! who not seen rise

A thousand times the phantom he has braved,

But by hair-breadth escapes miraculously saved!

To many, oh how many, will be lost

Home, son, wife, memory, undistracted brain,

And fortune unincumbered! of this cost,

What rich returns, what vestiges remain?

Fortune? 'tis nought; fame? glory? victory? gain?

Distinction? would'st thou know, our history read;

Thou wilt there find that our fatigue and pain,

Like dust upon the wind is driven with speed,

Long ere our bright designs successfully proceed.

Invidious Death oft from the unripe ear

Gathers the grain; but in this cruel turn,

Not satisfied with being but so severe,

Has neither spared his youth, nor our concern;

Who could have prophesied a stroke so stern!

Whom had not hope deceived, alas, to vow

That one so virtuous from the dreary urn

Was surely charmed by that ingenuous brow,

O'er which the furrowing years had not yet driven their plough!

Yet is it not his losses, but our own

That we should weep; remorseless Death has made

A thousand clear discoveries, he has shown

Long life a torment, joy a posting shade,

And youth, grace, beauty, gems but to be paid,

Poor Nature's tax, at his tyrannic shrine;

Yet could not Death so far thy form degrade,

But that, when life itself was past, each line

Should yet of beauty speak, and workmanship divine.

'Tis true, it was a beauty unattended

By the rose-hues which Nature with such skill

Had with the virgin lily's whiteness blended

During thy life; the Spoiler had turned chill

The flame that tempered its chaste snows, but still

'Twas beauty most emphatic! thou didst rest

Calm and composed, as though 'twas but thy will

To sleep; a smile upon thy lips impressed

Told of the life to come, and spoke thy spirit blest.

What will the mother of thy love do now,

Who loved thee as her soul? ah me, I hear

The sound of her laments! what shrieks avow

Her agony! shrieks ringing far and near,

Which thy four sisters echo back, whose drear

Distress augments her grief; I see them go,

Forlorn, distracted, scattering o'er thy bier

Of their long ravished locks the golden flow,

Outraging every charm in concord with her woe.

I see old Tormes, full of sad concern,

With his white choir of nymphs forsake the waves,

And water earth with tears; not o'er his urn

Couched in the sweet cool of moist shady caves,

But on hot summer sands outstretched, he braves

The flaring sunbeams; flung abandoned down,

He with hoarse groans for Bernardino raves;

The yellow daffodils his locks that crown,

Tears with his tangled beard, and rends his sea-green gown.

His weeping Nymphs stand round him, unadorned,

Uncombed their yellow tresses; weep no more,

Your radiant eyes sufficiently have mourned,

Beauteous frequenters of the reedy shore!

With more availing sympathy restore

The mother, standing on distraction's verge;

Soon shall the dear chaste relics you deplore,

Inurned in marble, sleep beside your surge,

And your melodious waves prolong my funeral dirge.

And you, Nymphs, Satyrs, Fauns, that in green bowers

Live free from care, search each Sicilian steep

For salutary herbs and virtuous flowers,

To cure Fernando of a grief so deep;

Search every secret shade, as when you peep

After the lightfoot nymphs, and bounding go

O'er vales and rocks, so may they when asleep

You in their solitudes surprise them, show

Kind as yourselves can wish, and with like fervour glow.

But thou, Fernando, thou whose deeds both past

And recent, deeds which to a loftier aim

Oblige thee to aspire, such splendour cast,

Consider where thou art! for if the name

Which thou, the great and glorified of Fame,

Hast gained among the nations, find its date,

Thy virtue somewhat must relax, and blame

Be thine; and not to brave the storms of fate

With a serene resolve consists not with the Great.

Not thus the shaft, shot by some fatal star

In its due course, should pierce the noble soul;

Ev'n if the heavens should in the dreadful jar

Of maddening elements together roll,

And fall in fragments like a shrivelled scroll,

It should be crushed rather than entertain

Dejection; crags conduct to the high goal

Of immortality, and he whom pain

Leads to decline the' ascent, can ne'er the crown attain.

Call it not stern: for nature's due relief,

To human weakness freely I concede

The natural tears of overflowing grief,

But the excess which would delight to feed

On its own vitals, and indulged proceed

To all eternity, I must assail;

And Time at least, who lessens in his speed

All mortal things beside, if reason fail,

Should o'er thy grief at length be suffered to prevail.

Hector was not for ever so lamented

By his sad mother, or his more sad sire,

But when the fierce Achilles had relented

To his submissive tears, at his desire

Yielding the corse, and when funereal fire

Those dear devoted relics had possessed,

The shrieks they silenced of the Phrygian choir,

Their own acute soliloquies suppressed,

Stifled the rising groan, and soothed their sighs to rest.

Venus, in this point human, what did she

Not feel, perceiving forest, field, and flower,

Flushed with her darling's blood! but taught to see

That clouding her bright eyes with shower on shower

Of tears, might harm herself, but had no power

To purchase her beloved boy's return

From ruthless Proserpine's Cimmerian bower,

She dried her eyes, subdued her vain concern,

And with calm hand entwined her myrtles round his urn.

And soon with light and graceful steps once more

Idalia's verdurous paradise she pressed,

Her usual ornaments and garlands wore,

And round her clasped her beauty-breathing cest;

The winds in wanton flights her locks caressed,

And with fresh joy her looks and rosy bloom

All ocean, earth, and sky divinely blessed:

So look I forward to see thee resume

Wisely thy firmness past, and banish fruitless gloom.

Let thy desire to reach the skies, where care,

And death, and sorrow lose their dues, suffice

Without fresh instance; thou wilt notice there

How little Death has hurt the memories

Of his illustrious victims; cast thine eyes

Whither Faith calls thee, where the ransomed soul

Rests purified by fire, not otherwise

Than was Alcides, to its heavenly goal

When his purged spirit flew from Oeta's topmost knowl.

Thus he for whom such thousand tears are shed,

Who by a difficult and arduous way

Was from his mortal stains refined, is fled

To realms of glory, whence in broad survey

He sees blind mortals in the dark, astray,

And pitying, musing on these pangs of ours,

Joys to have spread his wings abroad, where day,

Day without night, leads on immortal hours,

And Bliss his sapphire crown wreathes round with amaranth flowers.

He Heaven's pure crystalline walks hand in hand

With his brave grandsire and his sire renowned,

The image of their virtues; to the band

Of angels, pleased they point each radiant wound;

This high reward his heroism has found,

The only vengeance granted in the skies

To earthly foes; the ocean flowing round

This globe of ours--the globe itself he eyes,

And learns its petty toys and trifles to despise.

He there beholds the mystic glass which shows

The past, the present, and the future joined;

He sees the period when thy life shall close;

He sees the place to thee in heaven assigned;

Thrice happy soul, freed from the affections blind

With which on earth so fruitlessly we yearn!

Who liv'st in peace and blessedness enshrined,

And shalt live long as, lit at love's bright urn,

With fire of joy divine celestial spirits burn.

And if kind heaven the wished duration lend

To this my sorrowing Elegy, I vow

Whilst shade and sunlight o'er the world extend

Their robes of gloom or glory, whilst winds bow

The woods, whilst lions haunt the mountain's brow,

Or fish the ocean, long as oceans roll,

The world shall sing of thee; since all allow

That one so young, enriched with such a soul,

Will ne'er again be seen from Pole to sparkling Pole.

ELEGY II. TO BOSCÁN, WRITTEN AT THE FOOT OF MOUNT ETNA.

Boscán! here, where the Mantuan has inurned

Anchises' ashes to eternal fame,

We, Cæsar's hosts, from conquest are returned,

Some of their toils the promised fruits to claim--

Some who 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 lose.

But whither rove I? I stand pledged to send

An elegy, and find my language fast

Sliding toward satire; I correct, sweet friend,

My wandering course; and prosecute at last

My purpose, whither thou must know the past

Has ever led, and where the present still

Leads Garcilasso: on the green turf cast,

Here, midst the woods of this stupendous hill,

On various things I brood, not unperplexed by ill.

Yet leave I not the Muses, but the more

For this perplexity with them commune,

And with the charm of their delicious lore

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.

There once before my troubled heart found rest

With the sad turtle; but it is not now

So much by sadness as chill fear possessed,

Which, shooting through my veins, I know not how

To' endure and still exist; did sadness bow

My spirit but as then, 'twere a mere name;

Short absence from one's love, I even allow,

Enlivens life; slight water poured on flame

Brightens its blaze--in love short absence does the same.

But if much water on the flame is shed,

It fumes, it hisses, and the splendid fire

Decays into dark ashes; absence spread

Into great length, so deals with the desire

Kindled by love, and o'er the smouldering pyre

Of passion coldness creeps: I only wrong

This one result; the love that would expire

With all else lives in me, and, short or long,

Absence augments my ills, and makes desire more strong.

And reason, it might almost be presumed,

Confirms the paradox thus made of me,

And me alone; for doomed, as I was doomed

By heaven to love's sweet fires eternally,

Absence to quench the flame should also be

Infinite without end, unlimited

In its duration--a most startling plea,

True though it is, for absence can but spread

Through life, which finite is--it not disturbs the dead.

But how, oh 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.

Oh fierce--oh rigorous--oh 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?

Where the seen evil (from despair's revealings

Being already lost) can ne'er augment

My pain a tittle; such are now my feelings--

Yet if, when come, it should unveiled present

Its face of horror, what I now lament

Would gain in brightness; I should always feel

Grateful to Fortune, if she would consent

Merely on what my anxious fears reveal

Of pictured ills in store, to' affix her final seal.

It is, I know, the way to soothe the heart

With self-deceit, and dwell alone thereon,

As the sick man to whom true friends impart

His hopeless state, and warn him that anon

His failing, fluttering spirit must be gone,

Soothed by his wife's fond clamours that his case

Is not so bad, to fresh assurance won,

Casts at the word his eyes on her dear face,

And glad at heart expires, endeavouring her embrace.

'Tis wise--'tis well; thus Garcilasso too

Will leave each dark reflection, and rely

On Hope's gay dreams, no matter false or true,

And in his dear deceit contented die.

Since the clear knowledge that my end is nigh

Can never cure the ill, I too will play

With death, and as lost patients when they try

Warm baths, and perish in unfelt decay,

From love and life alike most sweetly faint away.

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 breast, and light thy laurelled name.

Fear not that Fortune with thwart blast will e'er

Vex thee--these lucid fires will calmness shed

On her wild winds; for me, I well see where

She forces me along, not to the dead,

For that is my desire; my hope is fed

By a deceit most slight, which does but just

Endure, whilst if I weave not the thin thread

Day after day, it breaking leaves my trust

Past fresh revival fallen, and darkening into dust.

This sole return my servitude obtains

From stepdame Fortune, that she should deny

Her common changes in the griefs and pains

That vex my being; whither shall I fly,

A moment to shake off the misery

That loads my heart? alas, it is decreed

That distance to my anguish should supply

No rest, no ease, but that where'er I speed,

My arm from cankering chains should never more be freed!

If where the burning sun his splendour flings

On the scorched sands of Africa the wild,

Nurse of all venomous and savage things,

Or where his fire is quenched by ices piled

On ices to the clouds, where flower ne'er smiled,

Nor save the hoarse blast aught endured the clime,

I by imperious Fortune were exiled,

There to consume my melancholy time,

Smit by the' unshadowed blaze, or rained on by the rime;--

There, with his icy hand Fear still would seize

On my sad heart, and here, mid silent snows,

Where the sharp wind seems ev'n the stars to freeze,

Curdling to ice the flood that swiftest flows;

Ev'n here, I know that I could interpose

No screen to shield me from the vivid fire

Wherein chastised my ardent spirit glows,

Wasting away I trust by slow desire,

And thus 'twixt clashing ills distractedly expire.

EPISTLE TO BOSCÁN.

Who loves like me for his friend's eye to frame

Thoughts even on things that have no Spanish name,

Can never want materials for his sheet,

Clothed in a style brief, simple, easy, neat,

And chaste in ornament, as best befits

The chitchat writing of familiar wits.

Amidst the' advantage which with other things

To minds like ours perfected friendship brings,

Is this same careless freedom which one gains

From the nice pomp of ceremonial chains.

Thus free, thus easy, I proceed to tell

In the first place, that I'm arrived--and well

As one can be, who in a time so brief

Has rid the distance noted over-leaf.

A looser rein I give, as I proceed,

To my winged fancy than my trotting steed;

At times it bears me onward by a way

So smooth and pleasant, with a step so gay,

As makes me quite forget my past fatigues;

At times o'er ruts so rough, by such long leagues,

That in the present pain I lose no less

The vexing thought of undergone distress;

But times there are again, when I create

A middle course, both temperate and sedate,

When taste and temper, scene and season suit

With the ingenious thought and nice dispute.

Thus as I musing rode one day, and thought

On his endowments who so well has taught

The paths to friendship,[AR] almost instantly

My thoughts, beloved Boscán, recurred to thee,

And feelings rose, which singular appear,

At least to me, which therefore thou shalt hear.

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 force it has, that (not disparaging

The other pleasures that from friendship spring)

The aid--the advantage each to each has dealt,

With this alone my soul has seemed to melt,

And I well know that I am otherwise

Influenced in this than by the joys that rise

From things as useful; seeing then the' effect

So strong within me, led me to reflect

And search into the cause; I have thus traced

The pleasure, profit, ornament, and taste

Which the blest chain of love to me imparts,

(The chain some Angel tangled round our hearts)

To their true source, as things that do not mount

From me, but tell alone to my account;

But love itself (whence all things may have birth)

When it is seen to furnish aught of worth

To thee, dear friend, joy, taste, or benefit,

Is the grand reason of my valuing it

Above all selfish interests, as it is

More godlike to bestow imparted bliss,

Than to receive it; thus the loving makes

My good--a good that of no ill partakes.

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 now thou may'st 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!

I left no treasure buried there, except

You say that's buried which I might have kept;

Embrace Durál[10] 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.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote AR: ARISTOTLE: Ethici, lib. viii. c. 3.]

ODES AND SONGS.

[Illustration]

I. TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO[11].

1.

Had I the sweet resounding lyre,

Whose voice could in a moment chain

The howling wind's ungoverned ire,

And movement of the raging main,

On savage hills the leopard rein,

The lion's fiery soul entrance,

And lead along with golden tones

The fascinated trees and stones

In voluntary dance;

2.

Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gnide,

It e'er should celebrate the scars,

Dust raised, blood shed, or laurels dyed

Beneath the gonfalon of Mars;

Or, borne sublime on festal cars,

The chiefs who to submission sank

The rebel German's soul of soul,

And forged the chains that now control

The frenzy of the Frank.

3.

No, no! its harmonies should ring

In vaunt of glories all thine own,

A discord sometimes from the string

Struck forth to make thy harshness known

The fingered chords should speak alone

Of Beauty's triumphs, Love's alarms,

And one who, made by thy disdain

Pale as a lily clipt in twain,

Bewails thy fatal charms.

4.

Of that poor captive, too contemned,

I speak,--his doom you might deplore--

In Venus' galliot-shell condemned

To strain for life the heavy oar.

Through thee no longer as of yore

He tames the unmanageable steed,

With curb of gold his pride restrains,

Or with pressed spurs and shaken reins

Torments him into speed.

5.

Not now he wields for thy sweet sake

The sword in his accomplished hand,

Nor grapples like a poisonous snake,

The wrestler on the yellow sand:

The old heroic harp his hand

Consults not now, it can but kiss

The amorous lute's dissolving strings,

Which murmur forth a thousand things

Of banishment from bliss.

6.

Through thee, my dearest friend and best

Grows harsh, importunate, and grave;

Myself have been his port of rest

From shipwreck on the yawning wave;

Yet now so high his passions rave

Above lost reason's conquered laws,

That not the traveller ere he slays

The asp, its sting, as he my face

So dreads, or so abhors.

7.

In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide,

Thou wert not cradled, wert not born,

She who has not a fault beside

Should ne'er be signalized for scorn;

Else, tremble at the fate forlorn

Of Anaxárete, who spurned

The weeping Iphis from her gate,

Who, scoffing long, relenting late,

Was to a Statue turned.

8.

Whilst yet soft pity she repelled,

Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride,

From her friezed window she beheld,

Aghast, the lifeless suicide;

Around his lily neck was tied

What freed his spirit from her chains,

And purchased with a few short sighs

For her immortal agonies,

Imperishable pains.

9.

Then first she felt her bosom bleed

With love and pity; vain distress!

Oh what deep rigours must succeed

This first sole touch of tenderness!

Her eyes grow glazed and motionless,

Nailed on his wavering corse, each bone

Hardening in growth, invades her flesh,

Which, late so rosy, warm, and fresh,

Now stagnates into stone.

10.

From limb to limb the frosts aspire,

Her vitals curdle with the cold;

The blood forgets its crimson fire,

The veins that e'er its motion rolled;

Till now the virgin's glorious mould

Was wholly into marble changed,

On which the Salaminians gazed,

Less at the prodigy amazed,

Than of the crime avenged.

11.

Then tempt not thou Fate's angry arms,

By cruel frown or icy taunt;

But let thy perfect deeds and charms

To poets' harps, Divinest, grant

Themes worthy their immortal vaunt;

Else must our weeping strings presume

To celebrate in strains of woe,

The justice of some signal blow

That strikes thee to the tomb.

II. TO HIS LADY.

1.

If e'er in howling deserts wide, unhabitable lands,

Distressed by equatorial suns and solitary sands;

Or heaped with pathless snows untrod but by the hoarse bleak

blast,

By any accident or change of fortune I were cast,

And knew that in that wilderness, that world of fire or frost,

Thy cruel frowns awaited me at every tract I crossed,

Still would I on in search of thee, through simoom, sand, and

sleet,

Till by unintermitted toil stretched dead before thy feet.