Delphi Complete Works of Garcilaso de la Vega Illustrated E-Book

Garcilaso de la Vega

• Herausgeber: Delphi Publishing Ltd
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 597

Beschreibung

The soldier Garcilaso de la Vega was the most influential poet to introduce Italian Renaissance verse forms, poetic techniques and themes to Spain. Inspired by the metres of Petrarch, Boccaccio and Sannazzaro, Garcilaso was a consummate craftsman, who elevated the lyrical quality of Spanish verse. His works were quickly accepted as classics and largely determined the course of poetry throughout Spain’s Golden Age. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature’s finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents Garcilaso’s complete works in English and Spanish, with illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Garcilaso’s life and works
* Concise introduction to Garcilaso’s life and poetry
* Features J. H. Wiffen’s 1823 verse translation
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Includes the original Spanish text
* Special Dual Spanish and English text of the sonnets — ideal for students
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Features two resources, including a biography— discover Garcilaso’s literary life

CONTENTS:

The Life and Poetry of Garcilaso de la Vega
Brief Introduction: Garcilaso de la Vega
The Works of Garcilasso de la Vega, Surnamed the Prince of Castilian Poets

Original Spanish Text
Contents of the Spanish Text
Dual Spanish and English Text: The Sonnets

The Resources
Life of Garcilasso (1823) by J. H. Wiffen
Essay on Spanish Poetry (1823) by J. H. Wiffen

Leseprobe

Garcilaso de la Vega

(c. 1500-1536)

Contents

The Life and Poetry of Garcilaso de la Vega

Brief Introduction: Garcilaso de la Vega

The Works of Garcilasso de la Vega, Surnamed the Prince of Castilian Poets

Original Spanish Text

Contents of the Spanish Text

Dual Spanish and English Text: The Sonnets

The Resources

Life of Garcilasso (1823) by J. H. Wiffen

Essay on Spanish Poetry (1823) by J. H. Wiffen

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

© Delphi Classics 2024

Version 1

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Garcilaso de la Vega

By Delphi Classics, 2024

COPYRIGHT

Garcilaso de la Vega - Delphi Poets Series

First published in the United Kingdom in 2024 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2024.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 978 1 80170 160 0

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

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NOTE

When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size and landscape mode, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

The Life and Poetry of Garcilaso de la Vega

Toledo, central Spain — Garcilaso’s birthplace

Toledo as depicted in the ‘Civitates orbis terrarium’, 1572

Brief Introduction: Garcilaso de la Vega

The soldier Garcilaso de la Vega was the most influential poet to introduce Italian Renaissance verse forms, poetic techniques and themes to Spain. Born in Toledo in c. 1500, he was the son of father Garcilaso de la Vega, a nobleman and ambassador in the royal court of the Catholic Monarchs. As Garcilaso was the second son, he did not receive an entitlement to his father’s estate. Still, he spent his younger years receiving an extensive education, mastering five languages (Spanish, Greek, Latin, Italian and French) and learning how to play the zither, lute and harp. When his father died in 1509, Garcilaso received a sizeable inheritance. After his schooling, he joined the military in hopes of attaining a position on the royal guard. In time, he served on the imperial guard of Charles V and he was made a member of the Order of Santiago in 1523.

His first lover was Guiomar Carrillo, with whom he had a child. He reportedly had another lover named Isabel Freire, who was a lady-in-waiting of Isabel of Portugal, but this is today regarded as spurious. In 1525 Garcilaso married Elena de Zúñiga, who served as a lady-in-waiting for the King’s favorite sister, Leonor. Their marriage took place in the poet’s hometown of Toledo in one of the family’s estates. Garcilaso went on to have six children: Lorenzo, an illegitimate child with Guiomar Carrillo, Garcilaso, Íñigo de Zúñiga, Pedro de Guzmán, Sancha and Francisco.

Garcilaso’s military career meant that he took part in the numerous battles and campaigns conducted by Charles V across Europe. His duties took him to Italy, Germany, Tunisia and France. In 1532 for a short period he was exiled to a Danube island where he was the guest of the Count György Cseszneky, royal court judge of Győr. In France he would fight his last battle. The King wished to take control of Marseille and eventually the whole of the Mediterranean, but this goal was never realised. Garcilaso died on 14 October 1536 in Nice, after suffering 25 days from an injury sustained in a battle at Le Muy. His body was first buried in the Church of St. Dominic in Nice, but two years later his wife had his body moved to the Church of San Pedro Martir in Toledo.

After writing poetry in conventional Spanish metres for a short period, Garcilaso became acquainted with the poet Juan Boscán Almogáver, who introduced him to Italianate metres of Petrarch, Giovanni Boccaccio, and Jacopo Sannazzaro. Garcilaso was a consummate craftsman and he transformed the Italian metres into Spanish verse of high lyric quality. His most important innovations in this regard were the verse stanzas of the silva and liva, both using combinations of 7 and 11 syllable lines, while making use of an analytical expression of thought and emotion. His major theme is the melancholy laments and misfortunes of romantic love, as traditionally conveyed in pastoral poetry. He repeatedly rewrote and polished his poetry, elevating his work above the more rudimentary and comic verses of his contemporaries.

His extant works reveal that he passed through three distinct episodes in his life. During his Spanish period, he wrote the majority of his eight-syllable poems; during his Italian or Petrarchan period, he wrote mostly sonnets and songs; and during his Neapolitan or classicist period, he composed more classical poems, including elegies, letters, eclogues and odes. Garcilaso adapted the eleven-syllable line to the Spanish language in his sonnets, mostly written in the 1520’s, during his Petrarchan period. Increasing the number of syllables in the verse from eight to eleven enabled him to compose verses with greater flexibility.

Key characteristics of his poetry include allusions to classical myths and Greco-Latin figures, great musicality, alliteration, rhythm and an absence of religion. His works influenced the majority of subsequent Spanish poets, as well as major authors of his own period, including Jorge de Montemor, Luis de León, John of the Cross, Miguel de Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Luis de Góngora and Francisco Quevedo. Spanish poetry was never the same after Garcilaso de la Vega. His small body of works were quickly accepted as classics and they largely determined the course of lyric poetry throughout Spain’s Golden Age.

Portrait of Charles V by Titian, 1548. Charles V was Holy Roman Emperor and Archduke of Austria from 1519 to 1556, King of Spain from 1516 to 1556, and Lord of the Netherlands as titular Duke of Burgundy from 1506 to 1555.

Portrait of Garcilaso, New Gallery, Kassel, 1550

Fifteenth century painting of Ausiàs March by Jacomart in the Church of Santa Maria in Xàtiva. March (1400-1459) was a medieval Valencian poet and knight from Gandia, Valencia. He is considered one of the most important poets of the “Golden Century” of Catalan/Valencian literature. His work was of great influence to Garcilaso.

Monument to Garcilaso in Toledo

Cover of ‘The Works of Boscán and Garcilaso de la Vega’ in four books, 1543

The Works of Garcilasso de la Vega, Surnamed the Prince of Castilian Poets

Translated by J. H. Wiffen, 1823

CONTENTS

PREFACE.

ECLOGUES.

ECLOGUE I. TO DON PEDRO DE TOLEDO, VICEROY OF NAPLES.

ECLOGUE II.

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

ELEGIES AND EPISTLES.

ELEGY I. TO THE DUKE OF ALVA, ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER, DON BERNARDINO DE TOLEDO.

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

EPISTLE TO BOSCÁN.

ODES AND SONGS.

I. TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO.

TO HIS LADY.

TO HIS LADY.

WRITTEN IN EXILE.

THE PROGRESS OF PASSION FOR HIS LADY.

SONNETS, ETC.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV. EPITAPH ON HIS BROTHER, D. FERNANDO DE GUZMAN,

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII. TO JULIO CÆSAR CARACCIOLA.

XIX.

XX. TO D. ALONSO DE AVALO, MARQUIS DEL VASTO.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV. FROM AUSIAS MARCH.[AS]

XXV. TO BOSCÁN.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX. TO BOSCÁN, FROM GOLETTA.

XXXI.

XXXII. TO MARIO GALEOTA.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI. TO THE LADY DONNA MARIA DE CARDONA, MARCHIONESS OF PADULA.

XXXVII.

TO HIS LADY, HAVING MARRIED ANOTHER.

TO THE SAME.

ON A DEPARTURE.

TO A LADY,

FROM OVID.

COMMENT ON THIS TEXT:

TO FERNANDO DE ACUÑA.

APPENDIX.

THE

WORKS

OF

GARCILASSO DE LA VEGA,

SURNAMED

THE PRINCE OF CASTILIAN POETS,

Translated into English Verse;

WITH

A CRITICAL AND HISTORICAL ESSAY ON SPANISH POETRY,

AND

A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.

By J. H. WIFFEN.

“Sometimes he turned to gaze upon his book, Boscán or Garcilasso; by the wind Even as the page is rustled whilst we look, So by the poesy of his own mind Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook.”

LORD BYRON.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR HURST, ROBINSON, AND CO.

90, CHEAPSIDE, AND 8, PALL MALL.

1823.

TO

JOHN, DUKE OF BEDFORD,

IN PUBLIC LIFE

THE STEADY FRIEND AND ASSERTOR OF OUR LIBERTIES;

IN PRIVATE LIFE

ALL THAT IS GENEROUS, DIGNIFIED, AND GOOD;

This Translation,

IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE LITERARY EASE

THAT HAS LED TO ITS PRODUCTION,

IS, WITH DEEP RESPECT AND ADMIRATION,

Inscribed

BY THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

TILLWITHINTHElast few years but little attention appears to have been paid in England to Castilian verse. Our earliest poets of eminence, Chaucer and Lord Surrey, struck at once into the rich field of Italian song, and by their imitations of Petrarch and Boccaccio, most probably set the fashion to their successors, of the exclusive study which they gave to the same models, to the neglect of the cotemporary writers of other nations, to those at least of Spain. Nor is this partiality to the one and neglect of the other to be at all wondered at; for neither could they have gone to more suitable sources than the Tuscans for the harmony and grace which the language in its first aspirations after refinement wanted, nor did the Spanish poetry of that period offer more to recompense the researches of the student than dry legends, historical ballads, or rude imitations of the Vision of Dante. But it is a little singular that this inattention should have continued when the influence of the Emperor Charles the Fifth became great in the courts of Europe, and the Spanish language, chastised into purity and elegance by Boscán, Garcilasso, and their immediate successors, obtained a currency amongst the nations correspondent with the extent of his conquests. The hostile attitude in which England stood to Spain under Elizabeth, may be regarded as perhaps the principal cause why we meet in the constellation of writers that gave lustre to her reign, with so few traces of their acquaintance with the literature of that country; whilst the strong jealousy of the nation to Spanish influence, catholicism, and jesuitical intrigue, no less than the purely controversial spirit of the times, had, I doubt not, their full effect under the Stuarts, in deterring the scholars of that period from any close communion with her poets. Meanwhile the corruption of style which had so baneful an effect on her literature, was silently going forward under Gongora, Quevedo, and their numerous imitators. Before the reign of Philip the Fifth, this corruption had reached its height; his accession to the crown of Spain, and the encouragement he gave to letters, might have re-established the national literature in its first lustre, if the evil had not struck root so deeply, and if another cast of corrupters had not opposed themselves to the views of this monarch, viz. the numerous translators of French works, who disfigured the idiom by forming a French construction with native words. Thus the curiosity of the poets of Queen Anne’s time, if it was ever excited, must have been speedily laid asleep; and (though we may notice in Dryden, and perhaps in Donne, a study of Castilian,) it was scarcely before the middle of the last century that this study began permanently to tinge our literature. To Mr. Hayley, who first directed public attention to the great merits of Dante, must be ascribed the praise also of first calling our notice in any great degree to the Spanish poets. Southey followed, and by his “Chronicle of the Cid” and “Letters from Spain,” quickened the curiosity excited by Mr. Hayley’s analysis and translated specimens of the Araucana of Ercilla. Lord Holland’s admirable dissertation on the genius and writings of Lope de Vega, gave us a clearer insight into the literature of Spain, whilst the French invasion brought us into a more intimate connexion and acquaintance with her chivalrous people; nor could the many English visitants which this drew to her shores view the remains which she keeps of Arabian and Moorish magnificence, or even listen to her language, which preserves such striking vestiges of oriental majesty, without having their imagination led back to her days of literary illumination, and without deriving some taste for the productions of her poets. The struggle which she then made, and that which she is now making, first against the unhallowed grasp of foreign coercion, and next of that priestly tyranny which has so long cramped her political and intellectual energies, have excited in every British bosom the most cordial sympathy; and it is evident that from these causes, there is a growing attention amongst us to her language and literature. Since the present volume was begun, a translation has appeared of the excellent work of Bouterewek, on Spanish and Portuguese poetry; another is going through the press of Sismondi “Sur la Littérature du Midi de l’Europe;” and Mr. Lockhart has just given us a choice selection of those beautiful old Spanish ballads, which, as Mr. Rogers observes of the narratives of the old Spanish chroniclers, ‘have a spirit like the freshness of waters at the fountain head, and are so many moving pictures of the actions, manners, and thoughts of their cotemporaries;’ like rough gems redeemed from an oriental mine, they have assumed under his hand a polish and a price that must render them indispensable to the cabinets of our men of taste. Nor, in speaking of those whose labours have tended to spread a knowledge of Hesperian treasure, must we pass over without due praise the masterly notices on Spanish poetry, which Mr. Frere and Mr. Bowring are understood to have given forth in the Quarterly and Restrospective Reviews.

In this situation of things, it may not be wholly unacceptable to the public to receive, though from an inferior hand, a translation of Garcilasso de la Vega, the chastest and perhaps the most celebrated of the poets of Castile. A desire to vary the nature of my pursuits, with other reasons not necessary to mention, first led me to his pages; but the pleasure I derived at the outset from his pastoral pictures and harmony of language, soon settled into the more serious wish to make his merits more generally known, and thus to multiply his admirers amongst a people ever inclined, sooner or later, to do justice to foreign talent. I would, however, deprecate any undue expectations that may be raised by the high title bestowed on Garcilasso by his countrymen — a title conferred in their enthusiastic admiration of his success in giving suddenly so new and beautiful an aspect to the art, and in elevating their language to a point of perfection, truly surprising, if we consider all the circumstances connected with that revolution; but this peculiar merit, so far at least as relates to the language, must necessarily from its nature be wholly untranslateable, and he is thus compelled to lose much of the consideration with the merely English reader that is his real due. But it would be unjust in an English reader, who glances over the subjects of his fancy, to conclude that because Garcilasso has written little but Eclogues and Sonnets, compositions, he may say, at best but of inferior order, he is therefore worthy of but little regard in this age of poetical wonders. I will be bold to assert, that the poets, and readers of the poets of the day, will be no way degraded by coming in contact with his simplicity: our taste for the wilder flights of imagination has reached a height from which the sooner we descend to imitate the nature and unassuming ease of simpler lyrists — the Goldsmiths and Garcilassos of past ages, the better it may chance to be both for our poetry and language. Nor let the name of Eclogues affright the sensitive reader that has in his recollection the Colins and Pastoras that sickened his taste some thirty or forty years ago. The pastorals, as they were called, of that period, are no more to be compared with the rime boschereccie of Garcilasso, than the hideous distortion of the leaden Satyr that squirts water from its nostrils in some city tea-garden, and that is pelted at irresistibly by every boy that passes, — with the marble repose and inviolable beauty of the Piping Faun in a gallery of antique sculptures.

Whilst employed on this translation, I was struck with the lucid view which Quintana gives, in the Essay prefixed to his “Poesias selectas Castellanas,” of the History of Spanish Poetry, and I thought that it might be made yet more serviceable to the end which its author had in view, by a translation that would disclose to the English reader what he might expect from a cultivation of the Spanish language. The only fault perhaps of this Essay is, that Quintana has judged his native poets too strictly and exclusively by the rules of French criticism and French taste, which ought not I think to be applied as tests to a literature so wholly national as the Spanish is, so especially coloured by the revolutions that have taken place upon the Spanish soil, and so utterly unlike that of any other European nation. Still the Essay will be found, if I mistake not, as interesting and instructive to others as it has proved to me: from it a more compact and complete view of the art in Spain may be gathered, than from more extensive histories of the kind; nor was I uninfluenced in my purpose by the advantage which the judgment of a native, himself one of the most distinguished of the living poets and lettered men of Spain, would have over any original Essay derived from the writings of foreigners, who, whatever may be their critical sagacity and literary repute, can neither be supposed to be so intimately acquainted with the compositions of which they treat, nor such good judges of Castilian versification.

It is time to conclude these prefatory observations; yet I cannot forego the pleasure of first acknowledging the great advantage I have derived from the kind revision of my MSS. by the Rev. Blanco White. That gentleman’s desire to aid in any thing that might seem to serve the reputation of his country — the country, whose customs and institutions he has pourtrayed with such vivid interest, originality, and talent, joined to his native goodness of heart, could alone have led him to volunteer his services, in a season of sickness, to one nearly a stranger; and if I submit the following pages to the public with any degree of confidence in its favour, it is from the many improvements to which his friendly and judicious criticisms have led.

To Mr. Heber also, who, with the spirit of a nobleman, throws open so widely the vast stores of his invaluable library, I feel bound to express my obligations for the use of Herrera’s rare edition of the works of Garcilasso, which I had in vain sought for in other collections of Spanish books, both public and private: his voluntary offer of this, on a momentary acquaintance, enhances in my mind the value of the favour.

The astonishing number of authors which the Bibliotheca Hispanica of Don Nicolás Antonio displays, is a sufficient proof of the great intellect that Spain would be capable of putting forth, if her mind had a play proportioned to its activity. No nation has given to the light so many and such weighty volumes upon Aristotle, so many eminent writers in scholastic theology, so many and such subtle moral casuists, or so many profound commentators on the Codices and Pandects. And if she has produced these works in ages when the withering influence of political and religious despotism, like the plant which kills the sylvan it embraces, searched into every coigne of her literary fabric, what may not be expected from her, when the present distractions, fomented by the accursed gold of France, are composed into tranquillity, and the inquiries of her talented men embrace under free institutions a wider range of science than they have yet dared to follow, except by stealth! There is not one lettered Englishman but will rejoice with his whole heart when the winged Genius that is seen in Quintana’s poems, chained to the gloomy threshold of a Gothic building, looking up with despondency to the Temple of the Muses, may be represented soaring away for ever from the irons that have eaten into its soul. —

The present work will be shortly followed by a Spanish Anthology, containing translations of the choicest Specimens of the Castilian Poets, with short biographical notices, and a selection of the Morisco ballads.

Woburn Abbey,4th Month 8th, 1823.

ECLOGUES.

Dum sint volucres, Lasse, Cupidines,Dum cura dulcis, dum lachrymæ leves,   Blandæque amatorum querelæ,   Silvicolis amor et magistris;Vivent labores, et numeri tui,Dulcesque cantus; nec fuga temporis   Obliviosi, nec profani   Vis rapiet violenta Fati:Sive è supremis axibus ætherisNos triste vulgus despicis, aureâSeu fistulâ doces Elisam   Elysias resonare sylvas.

ECLOGUE I. TO DON PEDRO DE TOLEDO, VICEROY OF NAPLES.

SALICIO, NEMOROSO.

The sweet lament of two Castilian swains,Salicio’s love and Nemoroso’s tears,In sympathy I sing, to whose loved strainsTheir flocks, of food forgetful, crowding round,Were most attentive: Pride of Spanish peers!Who, by thy splendid deeds, hast gained a nameAnd rank on earth unrivalled, — whether crownedWith cares, Alvano, wielding now the rodOf empire, now the dreadful bolts that tameStrong kings, in motion to the trumpet’s sound,Express vicegerent of the Thracian God;Or whether, from the cumbrous burden freedOf state affairs, thou seek’st the echoing plain,Chasing, upon thy spirited fleet steed,The trembling stag that bounds abroad, in vainLengthening out life, — though deeply now engrossedBy cares, I hope, so soon as I regainThe leisure I have lost,To celebrate, with my recording quill,Thy virtues and brave deeds, a starry sum,Ere grief, or age, or silent death turn chillMy poesy’s warm pulse, and I becomeNothing to thee, whose worth the nations blaze,Failing thy sight, and songless in thy praise.But till that day, predestined by the Muse,Appears to cancel the memorial duesOwed to thy glory and renown — a claimNot only upon me, but which belongsTo all fine spirits that transmit to fameEnnobling deeds in monumental songs, — Let the green laurel whose victorious boughsClasp in endearment thine illustrious brows,To the weak ivy give permissive place,Which, rooted in thy shade, thou first of trees,May hope by slow degreesTo tower aloft, supported by thy praise;Since Time to thee sublimer strains shall bring,Hark to my shepherds, as they sit and sing.   The sun, from rosy billows risen, had rayedWith gold the mountain tops, when at the footOf a tall beech romantic, whose green shadeFell on a brook, that, sweet-voiced as a lute,Through lively pastures wound its sparkling way,Sad on the daisied turf Salicio lay;And with a voice in concord to the soundOf all the many winds, and waters round,As o’er the mossy stones they swiftly stole,Poured forth in melancholy song his soulOf sorrow with a fallSo sweet, and aye so mildly musical,None could have thought that she whose seeming guileHad caused his anguish, absent was the while,But that in very deed the unhappy youthDid, face to face, upbraid her questioned truth.

SALICIO.

More hard than marble to my mild complaints,And to the lively flame with which I glow,Cold, Galatea, cold as winter snow!I feel that I must die, my spirit faints,And dreads continuing life; for, alienateFrom thee, life sinks into a weary weight,To be shook off with pleasure; from all eyesI shrink, ev’n from myself despised I turn,And left by her for whom alone I yearn,My cheek is tinged with crimson; heart of ice!Dost thou the worshipped mistress scorn to beOf one whose cherished guest thou ever art;Not being able for an hour to freeThine image from my heart?This dost thou scorn? in gentleness of woeFlow forth, my tears, ’tis meet that ye should flow!   The sun shoots forth the arrows of his lightO’er hills and valleys, wakening to fresh birthThe birds, and animals, and tribes of earth,That through the crystal air pursue their flight,That o’er the verdant vale and craggy heightIn perfect liberty and safety feed,That with the present sun afresh proceedTo the due toils of life,As their own wants or inclinations lead;This wretched spirit is alone at strifeWith peace, in tears at eve, in tears when brightThe morning breaks; in gentleness of woe,Flow forth my tears, ’tis meet that ye should flow!   And thou, without one pensive memoryOf this my life, without the slightest signOf pity for my pangs, dost thou consignTo the stray winds, ungrateful, every tieOf love and faith, which thou didst vow should beLocked in thy soul eternally for me?Oh righteous Gods! if from on high ye viewThis false, this perjured maidWork the destruction of a friend so true,Why leave her crime of justice unrepaid?Dying I am with hopeless, sharp concern;If to tried friendship this is the returnShe makes, with what will she requite her foe?Flow forth, my tears, ’tis meet that ye should flow!   Through thee the silence of the shaded glen,Through thee the horror of the lonely mountainPleased me no less than the resort of men;The breeze, the summer wood, and lucid fountain,The purple rose, white lily of the lake,Were sweet for thy sweet sake;For thee the fragrant primrose, dropt with dew,Was wished when first it blew!Oh how completely was I in all thisMyself deceiving! oh the different partThat thou wert acting, covering with a kissOf seeming love, the traitor in thy heart!This my severe misfortune, long ago,Did the soothsaying raven, sailing byOn the black storm, with hoarse sinister cry,Clearly presage; in gentleness of woe,Flow forth, my tears, ’tis meet that ye should flow!   How oft, when slumbering in the forest brown,(Deeming it Fancy’s mystical deceit,)Have I beheld my fate in dreams foreshown!One day, methought that from the noontide heatI drove my flocks to drink of Tagus’ flood,And, under curtain of its bordering wood,Take my cool siesta; but, arrived, the stream,I know not by what magic, changed its track,And in new channels, by an unused way,Rolled its warped waters back;Whilst I, scorched, melting with the heat extreme,Went ever following in their flight, astray,The wizard waves; in gentleness of woe,Flow forth, my tears, ’tis meet that ye should flow!   In the charmed ear of what beloved youthSounds thy sweet voice? on whom revolvest thouThy beautiful blue eyes? on whose proved truthAnchors thy broken faith? who presses nowThy laughing lip, and hopes thy heaven of charms,Locked in the’ embraces of thy two white arms?Say thou, for whom hast thou so rudely leftMy love, or stolen, who triumphs in the theft?I have not yet a bosom so untrueTo feeling, nor a heart of stone, to viewMy darling ivy, torn from me, take rootAgainst another wall or prosperous pine,To see my virgin vineAround another elm in marriage hangIts curling tendrils and empurpled fruit,Without the torture of a jealous pang,Ev’n to the loss of life; in gentle woe,Flow forth, my tears, ’tis meet that ye should flow!   What may not now be looked for to take placeIn any certain or uncertain case?What are too adverse now to join, too wildFor love to fear, too dissonant to agree?What faith is too secure to be beguiled?Matter for all thus being given by thee.A signal proof didst thou, when, rude and cold,Thou left’st my bleeding heart to break, presentTo all loved youths and maidsWhom heaven in its blue beauty overshades,That ev’n the most secure have cause to fearThe loss of that which they as sweet or dearCherish the most; in gentleness of woe,Flow forth, my tears, ’tis meet that ye should flow!   Thou hast giv’n room for hope that now the mindMay work impossibilities most strange,And jarring natures in concordance bind;Transferring thus from me to him thy handAnd fickle heart in such swift interchange,As ever must be voiced from land to land.Now let mild lambs in nuptial fondness rangeWith savage wolves from forest brake to brake;Now let the subtle snakeIn curled caresses nest with simple doves,Harming them not, for in your ghastly lovesDifference is yet more great; in gentle woe,Flow forth, my tears, ’tis meet that ye should flow!   My dairies always with new milk abound,Summer and winter, all my vats run o’erWith richest creams, and my superfluous storeOf cheese and butter is afar renowned;With as sweet songs have I amused thine earAs could the Mantuan Tityrus of yore,And more to be admired; nor am I, dear,If well observed, or so uncouth or grim,For in the watery looking-glass belowMy image I can see — a shape and faceI surely never would exchange with himWho joys in my disgrace;My fate I might exchange; in gentle woe,Flow forth, my tears, ’tis meet that ye should flow!   How have I fallen in such contempt, how grownSo suddenly detested, or in whatAttentions have I failed thee? wert thou notUnder the power of some malignant spell,My worth and consequence were known too well;I should be held in pleasurable esteem,Nor left thus in divorce, alone — alone!Hast thou not heard, when fierce the Dogstar smitesThese plains with heat and drouth,What countless flocks to Cuenca’s thymy heightsYearly I drive, and in the winter breme,To the warm valleys of the sheltering south?But what avails my wealth if I decay,And in perpetual sorrow weep awayMy years of youth! in gentleness of woe,Flow forth, my tears, ’tis meet that ye should flow!   Over my griefs the mossy stones relentTheir natural durity, and break; the treesBend down their weeping boughs without a breeze,And full of tenderness, the listening birds,Warbling in different notes, with me lament,And warbling prophesy my death; the herdsThat in the green meads hang their heads at eve,Wearied, and worn, and faint,The necessary sweets of slumber leave,And low, and listen to my wild complaint.Thou only steel’st thy bosom to my cries,Not ev’n once rolling thine angelic eyesOn him thy harshness kills; in gentle woe,Flow forth, my tears, ’tis meet that ye should flow!   But though thou wilt not come for my sad sake,Leave not the landscape thou hast held so dear;Thou may’st come freely now, without the fearOf meeting me, for though my heart should break,Where late forsaken I will now forsake.Come then, if this alone detains thee, hereAre meadows full of verdure, myrtles, bays,Woodlands, and lawns, and running waters clear,Beloved in other days,To which, bedewed with many a bitter tear,I sing my last of lays.These scenes perhaps, when I am far removed,At ease thou wilt frequentWith him who rifled me of all I loved;Enough! my strength is spent;And leaving thee in his desired embrace,It is not much to leave him this sweet place.   Here ceased the youth his Doric madrigal,And sighing, with his last laments let fallA shower of tears; the solemn mountains round,Indulgent of his sorrow, tossed the soundMelodious from romantic steep to steep,In mild responses deep;Sweet Echo, starting from her couch of moss,Lengthened the dirge, and tenderest Philomel,As pierced with grief and pity at his loss,Warbled divine reply, nor seemed to trillLess than Jove’s nectar from her mournful bill.What Nemoroso sang in sequel, tellYe, sweet-voiced Sirens of the sacred hill!Too high the strain, too weak my groveling reed,For me to dare proceed.

NEMOROSO.

Smooth-sliding waters, pure and crystalline!Trees, that reflect your image in their breast!Green pastures, full of fountains and fresh shades!Birds, that here scatter your sweet serenades!Mosses, and reverend ivies serpentine,That wreathe your verdurous arms round beech and pine,And, climbing, crown their crest!Can I forget, ere grief my spirit changed,With what delicious ease and pure contentYour peace I wooed, your solitudes I ranged,Enchanted and refreshed where’er I went!How many blissful noons I here have spentIn luxury of slumber, couched on flowers,And with my own fond fancies, from a boy,Discoursed away the hours,Discovering nought in your delightful bowers,But golden dreams, and memories fraught with joy!   And in this very valley where I nowGrow sad, and droop, and languish, have I lainAt ease, with happy heart and placid brow;Oh pleasure fragile, fugitive, and vain!Here, I remember, waking once at noon,I saw Eliza standing at my side;Oh cruel fate! oh finespun web, too soonBy Death’s sharp scissors clipt! sweet, suffering bride,In womanhood’s most interesting prime,Cut off, before thy time!How much more suited had his surly strokeBeen to the strong thread of my weary life!Stronger than steel, since in the parting strifeFrom thee, it has not broke.   Where are the eloquent mild eyes that drewMy heart where’er they wandered? where the hand,White, delicate, and pure as melting dew,Filled with the spoils that, proud of thy command,My feelings paid in tribute? the bright hairThat paled the shining gold, that did contemnThe glorious opal as a meaner gem,The bosom’s ivory apples, where, ah where?Where now the neck, to whiteness overwrought,That like a column with genteelest scornSustained the golden dome of virtuous thought?Gone! ah, for ever goneTo the chill, desolate, and dreary pall,And mine the grief — the wormwood and the gall!   Who would have said, my love, when late through thisRomantic valley, we from bower to bowerWent gathering violets and primroses,That I should see the melancholy hourSo soon arrive that was to end my bliss,And of my love destroy both fruit and flower?Heaven on my head has laid a heavy hand;Sentencing, without hope, without appeal,To loneliness and ever-during tearsThe joyless remnant of my future years;But that which most I feel,Is to behold myself obliged to bearThis condemnation to a life of care;Lone, blind, forsaken, under sorrow’s spell,A gloomy captive in a gloomy cell.   Since thou hast left us, fulness, rest, and peaceHave failed the starveling flocks; the field suppliesTo the toiled hind but pitiful increase;All blessings change to ills; the clinging weedChokes the thin corn, and in its stead arisePernicious darnel, and the fruitless reed.The enamelled earth, that from her verdant breastLavished spontaneously ambrosial flowers,The very sight of which can soothe to restA thousand cares, and charm our sweetest hours,That late indulgence of her bounty scorns,And in exchange shoots forth but tangled bowers,But brambles rough with thorns;Whilst with the tears that falling steep their root,My swollen eyes increase the bitter fruit.   As at the set of sun the shades extend,And when its circle sinks, that dark obscureRises to shroud the world, on which attendThe images that set our hair on end,Silence, and shapes mysterious as the grave;Till the broad sun sheds once more from the waveHis lively lustre, beautiful and pure:Such shapes were in the night, and such ill gloomAt thy departure; still tormenting fearHaunts, and must haunt me, until death shall doomThe so much wished-for sun to re-appearOf thine angelic face, my soul to cheer,Resurgent from the tomb.   As the sad nightingale in some green wood,Closely embowered, the cruel hind arraignsWho from their pleasant nest her plumeless broodHas stolen, whilst she with painsWinged the wide forest for their food, and nowFluttering with joy, returns to the loved bough,The bough, where nought remains:Dying with passion and desire, she flingsA thousand concords from her various bill,Till the whole melancholy woodland ringsWith gurglings sweet, or with philippics shrill.Throughout the silent night she not refrainsHer piercing note, and her pathetic cry,But calls, as witness to her wrongs and pains,The listening stars and the responding sky.   So I in mournful song pour forth my pain;So I lament, — lament, alas, in vain — The cruelty of death! untaught to spare,The ruthless spoiler ravished from my breastEach pledge of happiness and joy, that thereHad its beloved home and nuptial nest.Swift-seizing death! through thy despite I fillThe whole world with my passionate lament,Impórtuning the skies and valleys shrillMy tale of wrongs to echo and resent.A grief so vast no consolation knows,Ne’er can the agony my brain forsake,Till suffering consciousness in frenzy close,Or till the shattered chords of being break.   Poor, lost Eliza! of thy locks of gold,One treasured ringlet in white silk I keepFor ever at my heart, which, when unrolled,Fresh grief and pity o’er my spirit creep;And my insatiate eyes, for hours untold,O’er the dear pledge will, like an infant’s, weep:With sighs more warm than fire anon I dryThe tears from off it, number one by oneThe radiant hairs, and with a love-knot tie;Mine eyes, this duty done,Give over weeping, and with slight reliefI taste a short forgetfulness of grief.   But soon, with all its first-felt horrors fraught,That gloomy night returns upon my brain,Which ever wrings my spirit with the thoughtOf my deep loss, and thine unaided pain;Ev’n now, I seem to see thee pale reclineIn thy most trying crisis, and to hearThe plaintive murmurs of that voice divine,Whose tones might touch the earOf blustering winds, and silence their dispute;That gentle voice (now mute)Which to the merciless Lucina prayed,In utter agony, for aid — for aid!Alas, for thine appeal! Discourteous power,Where wert thou gone in that momentous hour?   Or wert thou in the grey woods hunting deer?Or with thy shepherd boy entranced? Could aughtPalliate thy rigorous cruelty, to turnAway thy scornful, cold, indifferent earFrom my moist prayers, by no affliction moved,And sentence one, so beauteous and beloved,To the funereal urn!Oh, not to mark the throesThy Nemoroso suffered, whose concernIt ever was, when pale the morning rose,To drive the mountain beasts into his toils,And on thy holy altars heap the spoils;And thou, ungrateful! smiling with delight,Could’st leave my nymph to die before my sight.   Divine Eliza! since the sapphire skyThou measurest now on angel-wings, and feetSandalled with immortality, oh whyOf me forgetful? Wherefore not entreatTo hurry on the time when I shall seeThe veil of mortal being rent in twain,And smile that I am free?In the third circle of that happy land,Shall we not seek together, hand in hand,Another lovelier landscape, a new plain,Other romantic streams and mountains blue,Fresh flowery vales, and a new shady shore,Where I may rest, and ever in my viewKeep thee, without the terror and surpriseOf being sundered more!   Ne’er had the shepherds ceased these songs, to whichThe hills alone gave ear, had they not seenThe sun in clouds of gold and crimson richDescend, and twilight sadden o’er the green;But noting now, how rapidly the nightRushed from the hills, admonishing to rest,The sad musicians, by the blushful lightOf lingering Hesperus, themselves addressedTo fold their flocks, and step by step withdrew,Through bowery lawns and pastures wet with dew.

ECLOGUE II.

SILVA I.

ALBANIO. SALICIO.

ALBANIO.

Temperate, when winter waves its snowy wing,Is the sweet water of this sylvan spring;And when the heats of summer scorch the grass,More cold than snow: in your clear looking-glass,Fair waves! the memory of that day returns,With which my soul still shivers, melts, and burns;Gazing on your clear depth and lustre pure,My peace grows troubled, and my joy obscure;Recovering you, I lose all self-content:To whom, alas, could equal pains be sent!Scenes that would soothe another’s pangs to peace,Add force to mine, or soothe but to increase.This lucid fount, whose murmurs fill the mind,The verdant forests waving with the wind,The odours wafted from the mead, the flowersIn which the wild bee sits and sings for hours,These might the moodiest misanthrope employ,Make sound the sick, and turn distress to joy;I only in this waste of sweetness pineTo death! oh beauty, rising to divine!Oh curls of gold! oh eyes that laughed with light!Oh swanlike neck! oh hand as ivory white!How could an hour so mournful ever riseTo change a life so blest to tears and sighs,Such glittering treasures into dust! I rangeFrom place to place, and think, perhaps the change,The change may partly temper and controlThe ceaseless flame that thus consumes my soul.Deceitful thought! as though so sharp a smartBy my departure must itself depart:Poor languid limbs, the grief is but too deepThat tires you out! Oh that I could but sleepHere for awhile! the heart awake to pain,Perchance in slumbers and calm dreams might gainGlimpse of the peace with which it pants to meet,Though false as fair, and fugitive as sweet.Then, amiable kind Sleep, descend, descend!To thee my wearied spirit I commend.

SALICIO.

How highly he may rateHis fortunate estate,   Who, to the sweets of solitude resigned,Lives lightly loose from care,At distance from the snare   Of what encumbers and disturbs the mind!He sees no thronged parade,No pompous colonnade   Of proud grandees, nor greedy flatterers vile,Ambitious each to sportIn sunshine of a court;   He is not forced to fawn, to sue, to smile,   To feign, to watch of power each veering sign,Noticed to dread neglect, neglected to repine.But, in calm idlesse laidSupine in the cool shade   Of oak or ilex, beech or pendant pine,Sees his flocks feeding stray,Whitening a length of way,   Or numbers up his homeward-tending kine:Store of rich silks unrolled,Fine silver, glittering gold,   To him seem dross, base, worthless, and impure;He holds them in such hate,That with their cumbrous weight   He would not fancy he could live secure;   And thinking this, does wisely still maintainHis independent ease, and shuns the shining bane.Him to soft slumbers callThe babbling brooks, the fall   Of silver fountains, and the unstudied hymnsOf cageless birds, whose throatsPour forth the sweetest notes;   Shrill through the crystal air the music swims;To which the humming beeKeeps ceaseless company,   Flying solicitous from flower to flower,Tasting each sweet that dwellsWithin their scented bells;   Whilst the wind sways the forest, bower on bower,   That evermore, in drowsy murmurs deep,Sings in the silent ear, and aids descending sleep.   Who breathes so loud? ’Tis strange I see him not;Oh, there he lies, in that sequestered spot!Thrice happy you, who thus, when troubles tire,Relax the chords of thought, or of desire!How finished, Nature, are thy works! neglectLeft nought in them to add to, or perfect.Heightening our joy, diminishing our grief,Sleep is thy gift, and given for our relief;That at our joyous waking we might findMore health of body and repose of mind:Refreshed we rise from that still pause of strife,And with new relish taste the sweets of life.When wearied out with care, sleep, settling calm,Drops on our dewless lids her soothing balm,Stilling the torn heart’s agonizing throes,From that brief quiet, that serene repose,Fresh spirit we inspire, fresh comfort share,And with new vigour run the race of care.I on his dreams will gently steal, and seeIf I the shepherd know, and if he beOf the unhappy or contented class:Is it Albanio slumbering there? AlasThe unhappy boy! Albanio, of a truth;Sleep on, poor wearied, and afflicted youth!How much more free do I esteem the dead,Who, from all mortal storms escaped, is ledSafe into port, than he who living here,So noble once, and lively in his cheer,Cast by stern fortune from his glorious height,Has bid a long, long farewell to delight!He, though now stript of peace, and most distressed,Was once, they say, most blissful of the blest,In amorous pledges rich; the change how great!I know not well the secret of his fate;Lycid, who knew the tale, sometime agoTold me a part, but much remains to know.

ALBANIO.

Is it a dream? or do I surely claspHer gentle hand, that answers grasp for grasp?’Tis mockery all! how madly I believedThe flatterer sleep, and how am I deceived!On swift wings rustling through the ivory door,The vision flies, and leaves me as before,Stretched lonely here; is’t not enough, I bearThis grievous weight, the living soul’s despair;Or, to say truly, this uncertain strife,And daily death of oft-renewing life!

SALICIO.

Albanio, cease thy weeping, which to see,Grieves me.

ALBANIO.

Who witnesses my weeping?

SALICIO.

HeWho by partaking will assuage the smart.

ALBANIO.

Thou, my Salicio? Ah, thy gentle heartAnd company in every strait could bringSweet solace, once; now, ’tis a different thing.

SALICIO.

Part of thy woes from Lycid I have heard,Who here was present when the’ event occurred;Its actual cause he knew not, but surmisedThe evil such, that it were best disguised.I, as thou know’st, was in the city, bentOn travelling then, and only heard the’ eventOn my return; but now, I pray relate,If not too painful, specially, the date,The author, cause, and process of thy grief,Which thus divided will find some relief.

ALBANIO.

Relief is certain with a friend so sure,When such the sickness as admits of cure;But this, this pierces to my marrow! Still,Our shared pursuits by fountain, grove, and hill,And our vowed friendship to thy wishes winMy else-sealed lips; — yet, how shall I begin?My soul, my brain, with clouds is overcast,At but the mere remembrance of the past — The alarm, the mortal wound, the sudden pain,Then every earlier feeling felt again,Linked with the blighted present, all prevail,And, like a spectre, scare me from the tale.But yet, methinks, ‘twere wisdom to obey,Lay bare the wound, and sorrowing bleed awayFrom anguish and from life; and thus, dear friend,From the commencement to the fatal end,My woes will I relate, without disguise,Though the sad tale my soul reluctant flies.Well have I loved, well shall love, whilst the rayOf life celestial lights this coil of clay,The maid for whom I die! No free-will choice,No thoughtless chase at Folly’s calling voiceLed me to love, nor, oft as others aim,With flattering fancies did I feed the flame;But from my tenderest infancy, perforce,Some fatal star inclined me to its course.Thou know’st a maiden, beautiful and young,From my own ancestors remotely sprung,Lovelier than Love himself; in infancyVowed to Diana of the woods, with glee,Amidst them, skilled the sylvan war to wage,She passed the rosy April of her age:I, who from night till morning, and from mornTill night, to challenge of the sprightly horn,Followed the inspiring chase without fatigue,Came by degrees in such familiar leagueWith her, by like pursuits and tastes allied,I could not stir an instant from her side.Hour after hour this union stricter grew,Joined with emotions precious, pure, and new:What tangled mountain has been left untracedBy our swift feet? What heath, or leafy wasteOf forests, has not heard our hunting cry?What babbling echo not been tired thereby?Ever with liberal hands, when ceased our toils,To the chaste patron who decreed our spoils,We heaped the holy altars, talking o’erPast risks, now offering of the grisly boarThe grim and tusked head, and nailing nowThe stag’s proud antlers on the sacred boughOf some tall pine; and thus when evening burned,With grateful, happy hearts, we home returned;And when we shared the quarry, never wentFrom us one word or look of discontent.Hunting of all kinds charmed, but that the mostOf simple birds, snared ever with least costOf toil; and when desired Aurora showedHer rosy cheeks, and locks like gold that glowed,With dew impearling all the forest flowers,Away we passed to unfrequented bowers,In the most secret valley we could find,Shut from the tread and talk of humankind;Then, binding to two lofty trees, unseen,Our tinctured webs of very perfect green,Our voices hushed, our steps as midnight still,We netted off the vale from hill to hill;Then, fetching a small compass, by degreesWe turned toward the snares, and shook the trees,And stormed the shadiest nooks with shout and sling,Till the whole wood was rustling on the wing:Blackbirds, larks, goldfinches, before us flew,Distracted, scared, not knowing what to do.Who shunned the less, the greater evil met,Confusedly taken in the painted net;And curious then it was to hear them speakTheir griefs with doleful cry and piercing shriek;Some — for the swarms were countless — you might seeFluttering their wings and striving to get free,Whilst others, far from showing signs of rage,In dumb affliction drooped about the cage;Till, drawing tight the cords, proud of the preyBorne at our backs, we took our homeward way.But when moist autumn came, and yellow fellThe wild-wood leaves round bowerless Philomel;When August heats were past, a different sport,But no less idle, we were wont to court,To pass the day with joy; then, well you know,Black clouds of starlings circle to and fro:Mark now the craft that we employed to snareThese birds that go through unobstructed air.One straggler first from their vast companies,Alive we captured, which was done with ease;Next, to its foot a long limed thread we tied,And when the passing squadron we descried,Aloft we tossed it; instantly it mixedAmongst the rest, and our success was fixed;For soon, as many as the tangling string,Or by the head, or leg, or neck, or wing,In its aërial voyage twined around,Flagged in their strength, and fell towards the ground,Yet not without long strugglings in their flight,Much to their mischief, and to our delight.Useless to it was the prophetic croakOf the black rook in the umbrageous oak;When one of them alive, as oft occurred,Fell in our hands, we made the captive birdDecoy to many a captive; to a plainSpacious, and sowed perchance with winter grain,Where flocks of rooks in company resort,Our prize we took, and instant to the sport.By the extreme points of its wings, to ground,But without breaking them, the bird we bound;Then followed what you scarce conceive; it stoodWith eyes turned upward, in the attitudeOf one that contemplates the stars; from sightMeanwhile we drew, when, frantic with affright,It pierced the air with loud, distressful cries,And summoned down its brethren from the skies.Instant a swift swarm which no tongue could name,Flew to its aid, and round it stalking came.One, of its fellow’s doom more piteous grownThan cautious or considerate of its own,Drew close — and on the first exertion made,With death or sad captivity it paidFor its simplicity; the pinioned rookSo fast clung to it with the grappling-hookOf its strong claws, that without special leaveIt could not part: now you may well conceiveWhat our amusement was to see the twain,That to break loose and this fresh aid to gain,Wrestling engage; the quarrel did not coolTill finished by our hand, and the poor foolWas left at mournful leisure to repentOf the vain help its thoughtless pity lent.What would’st thou say, if, standing centinelWith upraised leg when midnight shadows fell,The crane was snared betwixt us? Of no useWas its sagacious caution to the goose,Or its perpetual fame for second-sightAgainst the snares and stratagems of night.Nought could its strength or sleight at swimming saveThe white swan, dwelling on the pathless wave,Lest it by fire, like Phaëton, should die,For whom its shrill voice yet upbraids the sky.And thou, sad partridge, think’st thou that to fleeStraight from the copse secures thy life to thee?Thy fall is in the stubble! On no bird,No beast, had nature for defence conferredSuch cunning, but that by the net or shaftIt fell, subdued by our superior craft.But were I each particular to tellOf this delightful life, the vesper bellWould sound ere it was done: enough to knowThat this fond friendship, this divine-faced foe,So pure from passion, undisturbed by fears,To different colour changed my rising years.My ill star shone; the spirit of unrest,And love, excessive love, my soul possessed;So deep, so absolute, I no more knewMyself, but doubted if the change were true.Then first I felt to mingle with the stirOf sweet sensations in beholding her,Fearful desires that on their ardent wingsRaised me to hope impracticable things.Pain for her absence was not now a pain,Nor even an anguish brooding in the brain,But torment keen as death — the ceaseless smartOf fire close raging in the naked heart.To this sad pass I gradually was broughtBy my ill star, and ne’er could I have thoughtIts baneful power reached farther, were it notProved but too surely by my present lot,That, when compared with these, my former woesMight be considered as a sweet repose.But here ’tis fit the hated tale that swellsMy soul with grief, and thrills the tongue that tells,Should find a close, nor sadden, though it searsAlbanio’s memory, kind Salicio’s ears.Few words will speak the rest; — one hour, but one — Wrecked my last joy, and left me quite undone.

SALICIO.

If, my dear friend, you spoke with one who ne’erHad felt the dangerous flame, the restless care,The bitter-sweets of love which thus you feel,Wisdom it were the sequel to conceal:But if I share the sorrows of thy breast,Why as a stranger hide from me the rest?Think’st thou that I on my part do not proveThis living death, this agony of love?If skilled experience should not wholly endThy heavy grief, the pity of a friend,Himself sore wounded by the marksman’s dart,Will fail not to at least assuage the smart.Since, then, I candidly disclose my shareIn such concerns (and even yet I bearMarks of the arrow), it is quite unkindTo be so shy: whilst thou hast life, thy mindShould cherish hope; I may, as Love’s high priest,Counsel some cure, or weep with thee at least.No harm can come from subjecting thine earTo the kind counsels of a friend sincere.

ALBANIO.

Thou would’st that I should fruitlessly contendWith one who must o’ercome me in the end.Love wills my silence, nor can I commenceThe tale requested without great offence:Love chains my tongue, and thus — indeed, indeed — Spare me, I feel that I must not proceed.

SALICIO.

What obstacle forbids thee to revealThis ill to one who surely hopes to healIn part the wound?

ALBANIO.

Love, love that doth denyAll comfort, — Love desires that I should die;Knowing too well that for a little whileThe mere relation would my grief beguile,More swiftly to destroy, the God unjustHas now deprived my bosom of the gustWhich late it had, to candidly avow,And thus conclude its sorrows; so that nowIt neither does become thy truth to seekFor farther knowledge, nor myself to speak, — Myself, whom fortune has alone distressed,And who alone in dying look for rest.

SALICIO.

Who is so barbarous to himself as e’erTo’ entrust his person to a murderer’s care,His treasures to the spoiler! Can it be,That without discomposure thou canst seeLove make in frolic, for a flight of skill,Thy very tongue the puppet of his will?

ALBANIO.

Salicio, cease this language; curb thy tongue;I feel the grief, the insult, and the wrong:Whence these fine words? what schoolman did commitTo thee this pomp of philosophic wit,A shepherd of the hills? with what light cheerThe careless lip can learn to be severe,And oh, how easily a heart at easeCan counsel sickness to throw off disease!

SALICIO.

I counselled nothing that deserved to callAn answer from thee of such scorn and gall:Merely I asked thee — ask thee to relateWhat it is makes thee so disconsolate.I shared thy joy, and can I fail to beTouched with thy grief? be free with me, be free.

ALBANIO.

Since I no longer can the point contest,Be satisfied — I will relate the rest;One promise given, that when the tale is done,Thou wilt depart, and leave me quite alone;Leave me alone, to weep, as eve declines,My fatal loss amid these oaks and pines.

SALICIO.

Well! though thy wisdom I cannot commend,I will prove more a fond than faithful friend;Will quit the place, and leave thee to thy woes:

ALBANIO.

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 fireFrom her, alas! whose sweet and gentle breathBut fanned it, brought me to the gates of death.A thousand times she begged, implored to knowWhat secret something vexed my spirit so;In my pale aspect she too plainly readGrief of some sort, and gaiety was fled;Thus would she say, thus sue to me, but sighsAnd tears of anguish were my sole replies.One afternoon, returning from the chaseFatigued and fevered, in the sweetest placeOf this wide forest, even where now we sit,We both resolved our toil to intermit.Under the branches of this beech we flungOur limbs at ease, and our bent bows unstrung.Thus idly lying, we inspired with zestThe 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,