Chapter VI (3)

[Footnote U: The author of that very delightful old work, half romance, half history, Las Guerras Civiles de Granada, whence Bishop Percy translated the ballad, "Gentle river, gentle river," has introduced amongst others a _Romance_ which perpetuates this action; only that he attributes it to the father of Garcilasso the poet, saying that it was performed by that personage in his youth, during the siege of Granada by Ferdinand and Isabella. But this is evidently a great mistake, as the surname De la Vega is ascribed to the family in chronicles of a far earlier time. This contradiction could not escape Lord Holland's perspicacity; he makes mention of it in his life of Lope de Vega, but seems somewhat disposed to doubt the truth of the story altogether, as it is related, he observes, of another knight, with little variation, in the Chronicle of Alonzo the Eleventh. But I would say, with great deference to the judgment that dictated this remark, that the popular ballads of a nation generally take their rise from some event of commanding interest, universally recognised at the time as true, and like our own beautiful ballad of Chevy Chase, perpetuate the memory thereof to long posterity, with the authority and assuredness of history. The language of this ballad, it is true, precludes us from giving it a date of greater antiquity than the author of the above imaginative work; and it may be rational to suppose that finding a Garcilasso at the siege of Granada, he chose to embellish his book as well as his hero, by ascribing to him the deed, known either from its mention in the chronicle or from current tradition. But a full confirmation of the truth of the story is, I think, to be found in the family arms; they bear, _or_, the words AVE MARIA, GRACIA PLENA, per pale in letters _azure_; and the house of Mendoza show the same words in their scutcheon, only per pale a bend dexter, assumed, I am inclined to think, on the marriage of D. Diego Hurtado de Mendoza with Leonora de la Vega. I at one time thought that the incident specified in the Chronicle of Alonzo the Eleventh, might refer to the Garcilasso so favoured by that monarch, more particularly as Mariana gives him the surname; but subsequent research satisfies me in ascribing it to his son, which I do on the authority of Sandoval. Appended to the Chronicle of Alonzo the Wise in the British Museum, is a work by this historian with MS. notes of his own, under this title: Genealogies de algunos grandes Cavalleros que florecieron en tiempo de Don Alonzo VII. Emperador de España. Cuyos descendientes ay oy dia A. D. 1600, por Fr. Prudencio de Sandoval, predicador de la orden de San Benito. His words I have translated in the text, and there is a MS. note in the margin to much the same effect. I should have been glad to give the incident alluded to by Lord Holland, but the chronicle I consulted was printed so villanously in Gothic type, that it is little wonder I missed finding it: the reader may not however be displeased to see a translation of the Romance.[3]]

[Footnote V: Don Nicolas Antonio: Bibliotheca Hispana. Art. Garcias Lassus.]

[Footnote W: Don T. Tamaio de Vargas. Anotaciones, p. 45.]

[Footnote X: Pelegrin. Hispania Bibliotheca, p. 579.]

[Footnote Y: Sandoval: Historia de Carlos V. vol. i. fol. 428.]

[Footnote Z: Sandoval, l. v. fol. 211.]

[Footnote AA: Sandoval, lib. v. fol. 214, 274.]

[Footnote AB: Sismondi, Histoire des Républiques Italiennes, t. xv. p. 47.]

[Footnote AC: June 11th, 1525.]

[Footnote AD: Naugerii Opera; Viaggio in Ispagna, p. 352.]

[Footnote AE: Las Obras de Boscán y algunas de Garcilasso de la Vega, 1547.]

[Footnote AF: Herrera. Anotaciones, fol. 15.]

[Footnote AG: Jovii Fragmentum, p. 119, 120. Brit. Mus.]

[Footnote AH: Lettere di M. Pietro Bembo, vol. i.]

[Footnote AI: Petri Bembi Epistolæ, lib. vi.]

[Footnote AJ: Bellaii Comment. lib. vi. p. 277.]

[Footnote AK: Imhof. Histoire de Trente Fam. d'Espagne, p. 131.]

[Footnote AL: There is a copy of this first edition in the British Museum, printed in old English characters.]

[Footnote AM: It was supposed originally that Nemoroso was intended to represent Boscán, and that the word was formed from an allusion to his name, Bosque--_nemus_, as that of Salicio is an anagram of Garcilasso. Herrera was the first that combated this opinion, applying the name to Don Antonio de Fonseca, the husband of Donna Isabel Freyre, who died in childbed. [Anotaciones, p. 409, 410.] From that time this became the prevailing supposition, till D. Luis Zapata in his Miscellanea affirmed, in contradiction of it, that Antonio de Fonseca was at no time intimate with Garcilasso, whilst Boscán had been the suitor, or servidor of Donna Isabel before her marriage, to whom it is highly probable the verses in the first book of his poems were addressed, beginning--

"Señora Doña Isabel,
Tan cruel
Es la vida que consiento,
Que no mata mi tormento," &c.

For my own part, setting aside the circumstance that Nemoroso, in the second eclogue, in describing the urn of Tormes passes a handsome eulogy on Boscán, a circumstance which does not necessarily enter into the consideration, I am inclined to believe that it was Boscán who was signified, and moreover, that the eclogue was designed to commemorate the sadness they both felt in the memory of their first loves.]

[Footnote AN: To obviate as much as possible the effect of this error, I have divided it into three _silvas_, a term quite common in Spanish, and which in a scholar's ear may, as applied to the divisions of an eclogue, have a better grace than any other that could be adopted.]

[Footnote AO: "Questa battaglia sensibile tra la Ragione e il Senso, mi fa pur sovvenire d' alcuni bellissimi versi di Garcilasso de la Vega, uno de piu riguardevoli poeti della Spagna. Racconta egli in una sua Canzone, come senza avvedersene s' innamorò:

Estava yo a mirar, i peleando
En mi defensa mi Razon estaba," &c.
_Della Perfetta Poesia Italiana._]

[Footnote AP: Scelta di Poesie Castigliane tradotte in verso Toscano, e illustrate dal Conte Giovambatista Conti. 3 Tomi. Madrid, 1782.]

[Footnote AQ: Vol. i. p. cclxv.]

VERSES ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASSO.

BOSCÁN, ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASSO.

_Garcilasso, que al bien siempre aspiraste._

1.
Tell me, dear Garcilasso, thou
Who ever aim'dst at Good,
And in the spirit of thy vow
So swift her course pursued,
That thy few steps sufficed to place
The angel in thy loved embrace,
Won instant, soon as wooed,--
Why took'st thou not, when winged to flee
From this dark world, Boscán with thee?

2.
Why, when ascending to the star
Where now thou sitt'st enshrined,
Left'st thou thy weeping friend afar,
Alas, so far behind!
Oh, I do think, had it remained
With thee to alter aught ordained
By the Eternal Mind,
Thou wouldst not on this desert spot
Have left thy other self forgot.

3.
For if through life thy love was such,
As still to take a pride
In having me so oft and much
Close to thy envied side--
I cannot doubt, I must believe
Thou wouldst at least have taken leave
Of me, or if denied,
Have come back afterwards, unblest
Till I too shared thy heavenly rest.

VILLEGAS, IN PRAISE OF GARCILASSO.

_Si al apacible viento._

1.
To the soft wind, the' eternal guest
Of these delicious skies,
Thou yet, sweet lute, hast been but prest
In beauty's cause, at love's behest,
To sing of bright blue eyes.

2.
But leave these idle themes, and sound
His glory to the stars,
Whose footsteps ranged on classic ground,
Till Garonne saw him deal around
The battle-bolts of Mars.

3.
Woe to the heart of Aquitaine!
Woe to the men she bred!
When, sheathed in steel, with fierce disdain,
He loosed a stream in every vein,
And dyed her ramparts red.

4.
But, freed from war, he bound his brow
With myrtle leaves again,
To Venus paid a votary's vow,
And hymned her birth, assuming now
The falchion, now the pen.

5.
Sweet as the swan, when death was nigh,
On Danube's willowed banks,
He held the waters roaring by,
With magic of his melody,
Congealed in crystal ranks.

6.
Long, long that tune the stream shall keep,
And whisper as it flows;
Let Love too tell in murmurs deep
The noble words she heard him weep,
For well those words she knows.

7.
Well as his song, grave, tender, sweet,
Beneath the beechen shade,
The wild brook babbling at his feet,
When he bewailed the chaste deceit
Of his beloved maid.

8.
But hush the chords, for there, ah there,
Salicio too grew mute,
And broken-hearted with despair
For the too false, forsaking fair,
Hung up his useless lute!

FLORENCIO ROMANO, ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASSO.

_Chi audace osera mai tue lodi sparte?_

1.
What daring hand may hope to raise
To thee the double trophy due,
Whom not alone the poet's bays
Distinguished, but the warrior's too?
What tributary voice in one
Collect thy various praises? None.

2.
In thy melodious verse, where yet
Thy spirit breathes, thy glory glows,
Immortal shalt thou live, till set
The stars in darkness whence they rose.
Shower, virgins, shower with sad concern,
Wild thyme and rose-leaves round his urn!

3.
Whilst I his glories, dumb with grief,
Point to the frequent passer-by,
Worthy the blazoning bas-relief,
The sculptured bust, the speaking die:
'Lo! 'midst green ivies, flowers, and palms,
Lasso's hushed lyre and rusting arms!'

HERRERA, ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASSO.

_Musa, esparze purpureas frescas flores._

1.
With purple flowers, oh Muse, each morn,
The freshest flowers in bloom,
Scattered with pious hands, adorn
Thy Lasso's holy tomb;
In grief for the lamented dead,
Thy golden tresses, Venus, spread
Dishevelled;--mourn his doom,
His timeless doom, ye little Loves,
In concord with your Mother's doves!

2.
As burns the bird whose perished frame
Arabian herbs inter,
Your broken bows give to the flame
With rosemary and myrrh;
And oh, for his lamented sake,
Apollo, to thy temples take
The wreath of funeral fir,
And sadly to the solemn string
His glory and thy sorrows sing!

3.
His name, Parnassus, whose proud song,
Pure, sweet, and tender, gave
Fame to thy rosy peaks, prolong
Through each revering cave;
Lasso, through whose harmonious shell
Tagus rich Tiber does excel,
And Arno's purer wave,--
For whose hushed voice a nation grieves,
Lies dead amidst green amaranth leaves!

THE WORKS OF GARCILASSO.

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 ætheris
Nos triste vulgus despicis, aureâ
Seu 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 strains
Their flocks, of food forgetful, crowding round,
Were most attentive: Pride of Spanish peers!
Who, by thy splendid deeds, hast gained a name
And rank on earth unrivalled,--whether crowned
With cares, ALVANO, wielding now the rod
Of empire, now the dreadful bolts that tame
Strong kings, in motion to the trumpet's sound,
Express vicegerent of the Thracian God;
Or whether, from the cumbrous burden freed
Of state affairs, thou seek'st the echoing plain,
Chasing, upon thy spirited fleet steed,
The trembling stag that bounds abroad, in vain
Lengthening out life,--though deeply now engrossed
By cares, I hope, so soon as I regain
The 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 chill
My poesy's warm pulse, and I become
Nothing 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 dues
Owed to thy glory and renown--a claim
Not only upon me, but which belongs
To all fine spirits that transmit to fame
Ennobling deeds in monumental songs,--
Let the green laurel whose victorious boughs
Clasp 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 degrees
To 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 rayed
With gold the mountain tops, when at the foot
Of a tall beech romantic, whose green shade
Fell 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 sound
Of all the many winds, and waters round,
As o'er the mossy stones they swiftly stole,
Poured forth in melancholy song his soul
Of sorrow with a fall
So sweet, and aye so mildly musical,
None could have thought that she whose seeming guile
Had caused his anguish, absent was the while,
But that in very deed the unhappy youth
Did, 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, alienate
From thee, life sinks into a weary weight,
To be shook off with pleasure; from all eyes
I 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 be
Of one whose cherished guest thou ever art;
Not being able for an hour to free
Thine image from my heart?
This dost thou scorn? in gentleness of woe
Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
The sun shoots forth the arrows of his light
O'er hills and valleys, wakening to fresh birth
The birds, and animals, and tribes of earth,
That through the crystal air pursue their flight,
That o'er the verdant vale and craggy height
In perfect liberty and safety feed,
That with the present sun afresh proceed
To the due toils of life,
As their own wants or inclinations lead;
This wretched spirit is alone at strife
With peace, in tears at eve, in tears when bright
The morning breaks; in gentleness of woe,
Flow forth my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
And thou, without one pensive memory
Of this my life, without the slightest sign
Of pity for my pangs, dost thou consign
To the stray winds, ungrateful, every tie
Of love and faith, which thou didst vow should be
Locked in thy soul eternally for me?
Oh righteous Gods! if from on high ye view
This false, this perjured maid
Work 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 return
She 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 mountain
Pleased 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 this
Myself deceiving! oh the different part
That thou wert acting, covering with a kiss
Of seeming love, the traitor in thy heart!
This my severe misfortune, long ago,
Did the soothsaying raven, sailing by
On the black storm, with hoarse sinister cry,
Clearly presage; in gentleness of woe,
Flow forth, my tears, '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 heat
I 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 youth
Sounds thy sweet voice? on whom revolvest thou
Thy beautiful blue eyes? on whose proved truth
Anchors thy broken faith? who presses now
Thy laughing lip, and hopes thy heaven of charms,
Locked in the' embraces of thy two white arms?
Say thou, for whom hast thou so rudely left
My love, or stolen, who triumphs in the theft?
I have not yet a bosom so untrue
To feeling, nor a heart of stone, to view
My darling ivy, torn from me, take root
Against another wall or prosperous pine,
To see my virgin vine
Around another elm in marriage hang
Its curling tendrils and empurpled fruit,
Without the torture of a jealous pang,
Ev'n to the loss of life; in gentle woe,
Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
What may not now be looked for to take place
In any certain or uncertain case?
What are too adverse now to join, too wild
For 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, present
To all loved youths and maids
Whom heaven in its blue beauty overshades,
That ev'n the most secure have cause to fear
The loss of that which they as sweet or dear
Cherish 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 mind
May work impossibilities most strange,
And jarring natures in concordance bind;
Transferring thus from me to him thy hand
And fickle heart in such swift interchange,
As ever must be voiced from land to land.
Now let mild lambs in nuptial fondness range
With savage wolves from forest brake to brake;
Now let the subtle snake
In curled caresses nest with simple doves,
Harming them not, for in your ghastly loves
Difference 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'er
With richest creams, and my superfluous store
Of cheese and butter is afar renowned;
With as sweet songs have I amused thine ear
As 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 below
My image I can see--a shape and face
I surely never would exchange with him
Who 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 grown
So suddenly detested, or in what
Attentions have I failed thee? wert thou not
Under 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 smites
These plains with heat and drouth,
What countless flocks to Cuenca's thymy heights
Yearly 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 away
My years of youth! in gentleness of woe,
Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
Over my griefs the mossy stones relent
Their natural durity, and break; the trees
Bend down their weeping boughs without a breeze,
And full of tenderness, the listening birds,
Warbling in different notes, with me lament,
And warbling prophesy my death; the herds
That in the green meads hang their heads at eve,
Wearied, and worn, and faint,
The necessary sweets of slumber leave,
And low, and listen to my wild complaint.
Thou only steel'st thy bosom to my cries,
Not ev'n once rolling thine angelic eyes
On him thy harshness kills; in gentle woe,
Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!
But though thou wilt not come for my sad sake,
Leave not the landscape thou hast held so dear;
Thou may'st come freely now, without the fear
Of meeting me, for though my heart should break,
Where late forsaken I will now forsake.
Come then, if this alone detains thee, here
Are meadows full of verdure, myrtles, bays,
Woodlands, and lawns, and running waters clear,
Beloved in other days,
To which, bedewed with many a bitter tear,
I sing my last of lays.
These scenes perhaps, when I am far removed,
At ease thou wilt frequent
With him who rifled me of all I loved;
Enough! my strength is spent;
And leaving thee in his desired embrace,
It is not much to leave him this sweet place.
Here ceased the youth his Doric madrigal,
And sighing, with his last laments let fall
A shower of tears; the solemn mountains round,
Indulgent of his sorrow, tossed the sound
Melodious 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 trill
Less than Jove's nectar from her mournful bill.
What Nemoroso sang in sequel, tell
Ye, 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 content
Your peace I wooed, your solitudes I ranged,
Enchanted and refreshed where'er I went!
How many blissful noons I here have spent
In luxury of slumber, couched on flowers,
And with my own fond fancies, from a boy,
Discoursed away the hours,
Discovering nought in your delightful bowers,
But golden dreams, and memories fraught with joy!
And in this very valley where I now
Grow sad, and droop, and languish, have I lain
At 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 soon
By 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 stroke
Been to the strong thread of my weary life!
Stronger than steel, since in the parting strife
From thee, it has not broke.
Where are the eloquent mild eyes that drew
My 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 hair
That paled the shining gold, that did contemn
The glorious opal as a meaner gem,
The bosom's ivory apples, where, ah where?
Where now the neck, to whiteness overwrought,
That like a column with genteelest scorn
Sustained the golden dome of virtuous thought?
Gone! ah, for ever gone
To the chill, desolate, and dreary pall,
And mine the grief--the wormwood and the gall!
Who would have said, my love, when late through this
Romantic valley, we from bower to bower
Went gathering violets and primroses,
That I should see the melancholy hour
So 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 tears
The joyless remnant of my future years;
But that which most I feel,
Is to behold myself obliged to bear
This 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 peace
Have failed the starveling flocks; the field supplies
To the toiled hind but pitiful increase;
All blessings change to ills; the clinging weed
Chokes the thin corn, and in its stead arise
Pernicious darnel, and the fruitless reed.
The enamelled earth, that from her verdant breast
Lavished spontaneously ambrosial flowers,
The very sight of which can soothe to rest
A 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 obscure
Rises to shroud the world, on which attend
The images that set our hair on end,
Silence, and shapes mysterious as the grave;
Till the broad sun sheds once more from the wave
His lively lustre, beautiful and pure:
Such shapes were in the night, and such ill gloom
At thy departure; still tormenting fear
Haunts, and must haunt me, until death shall doom
The so much wished-for sun to re-appear
Of thine angelic face, my soul to cheer,
Resurgent from the tomb.
As the sad nightingale in some green wood,
Closely embowered, the cruel hind arraigns
Who from their pleasant nest her plumeless brood
Has stolen, whilst she with pains
Winged the wide forest for their food, and now
Fluttering with joy, returns to the loved bough,
The bough, where nought remains:
Dying with passion and desire, she flings
A thousand concords from her various bill,
Till the whole melancholy woodland rings
With gurglings sweet, or with philippics shrill.
Throughout the silent night she not refrains
Her 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 breast
Each pledge of happiness and joy, that there
Had its beloved home and nuptial nest.
Swift-seizing death! through thy despite I fill
The whole world with my passionate lament,
Impórtuning the skies and valleys shrill
My 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 keep
For ever at my heart, which, when unrolled,
Fresh grief and pity o'er my spirit creep;
And my insatiate eyes, for hours untold,
O'er the dear pledge will, like an infant's, weep:
With sighs more warm than fire anon I dry
The tears from off it, number one by one
The radiant hairs, and with a love-knot tie;
Mine eyes, this duty done,
Give over weeping, and with slight relief
I taste a short forgetfulness of grief.
But soon, with all its first-felt horrors fraught,
That gloomy night returns upon my brain,
Which ever wrings my spirit with the thought
Of my deep loss, and thine unaided pain;
Ev'n now, I seem to see thee pale recline
In thy most trying crisis, and to hear
The plaintive murmurs of that voice divine,
Whose tones might touch the ear
Of 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 aught
Palliate thy rigorous cruelty, to turn
Away thy scornful, cold, indifferent ear
From my moist prayers, by no affliction moved,
And sentence one, so beauteous and beloved,
To the funereal urn!
Oh, not to mark the throes
Thy Nemoroso suffered, whose concern
It 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 sky
Thou measurest now on angel-wings, and feet
Sandalled with immortality, oh why
Of me forgetful? Wherefore not entreat
To hurry on the time when I shall see
The 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 view
Keep thee, without the terror and surprise
Of being sundered more!
Ne'er had the shepherds ceased these songs, to which
The hills alone gave ear, had they not seen
The sun in clouds of gold and crimson rich
Descend, and twilight sadden o'er the green;
But noting now, how rapidly the night
Rushed from the hills, admonishing to rest,
The sad musicians, by the blushful light
Of lingering Hesperus, themselves addressed
To 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 flowers
In 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 pine
To 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 rise
To change a life so blest to tears and sighs,
Such glittering treasures into dust! I range
From place to place, and think, perhaps the change,
The change may partly temper and control
The ceaseless flame that thus consumes my soul.
Deceitful thought! as though so sharp a smart
By my departure must itself depart:
Poor languid limbs, the grief is but too deep
That tires you out! Oh that I could but sleep
Here for awhile! the heart awake to pain,
Perchance in slumbers and calm dreams might gain
Glimpse 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 rate
His 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 sport
In 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 laid
Supine 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 maintain
His independent ease, and shuns the shining bane.
Him to soft slumbers call
The babbling brooks, the fall
Of silver fountains, and the unstudied hymns
Of cageless birds, whose throats
Pour forth the sweetest notes;
Shrill through the crystal air the music swims;
To which the humming bee
Keeps ceaseless company,
Flying solicitous from flower to flower,
Tasting each sweet that dwells
Within 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! neglect
Left 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 find
More 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 see
If I the shepherd know, and if he be
Of the unhappy or contented class:
Is it Albanio slumbering there? Alas
The 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 led
Safe 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 ago
Told me a part, but much remains to know.

ALBANIO.

Is it a dream? or do I surely clasp
Her gentle hand, that answers grasp for grasp?
'Tis mockery all! how madly I believed
The 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 bear
This 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.

He
Who by partaking will assuage the smart.

ALBANIO.

Thou, my Salicio? Ah, thy gentle heart
And company in every strait could bring
Sweet 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 surmised
The evil such, that it were best disguised.
I, as thou know'st, was in the city, bent
On travelling then, and only heard the' event
On 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 win
My 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 away
From 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 ray
Of life celestial lights this coil of clay,
The maid for whom I die! No free-will choice,
No thoughtless chase at Folly's calling voice
Led 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 infancy
Vowed 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 morn
Till night, to challenge of the sprightly horn,
Followed the inspiring chase without fatigue,
Came by degrees in such familiar league
With 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 untraced
By our swift feet? What heath, or leafy waste
Of 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'er
Past risks, now offering of the grisly boar
The grim and tusked head, and nailing now
The stag's proud antlers on the sacred bough
Of some tall pine; and thus when evening burned,
With grateful, happy hearts, we home returned;
And when we shared the quarry, never went
From us one word or look of discontent.
Hunting of all kinds charmed, but that the most
Of simple birds, snared ever with least cost
Of toil; and when desired Aurora showed
Her 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 degrees
We 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 speak
Their griefs with doleful cry and piercing shriek;
Some--for the swarms were countless--you might see
Fluttering 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 prey
Borne at our backs, we took our homeward way.
But when moist autumn came, and yellow fell
The 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 snare
These 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 mixed
Amongst 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 croak
Of the black rook in the umbrageous oak;
When one of them alive, as oft occurred,
Fell in our hands, we made the captive bird
Decoy to many a captive; to a plain
Spacious, 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 stood
With eyes turned upward, in the attitude
Of one that contemplates the stars; from sight
Meanwhile 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 grown
Than cautious or considerate of its own,
Drew close--and on the first exertion made,
With death or sad captivity it paid
For its simplicity; the pinioned rook
So fast clung to it with the grappling-hook
Of its strong claws, that without special leave
It could not part: now you may well conceive
What our amusement was to see the twain,
That to break loose and this fresh aid to gain,
Wrestling engage; the quarrel did not cool
Till finished by our hand, and the poor fool
Was left at mournful leisure to repent
Of the vain help its thoughtless pity lent.
What would'st thou say, if, standing centinel
With upraised leg when midnight shadows fell,
The crane was snared betwixt us? Of no use
Was its sagacious caution to the goose,
Or its perpetual fame for second-sight
Against the snares and stratagems of night.
Nought could its strength or sleight at swimming save
The 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 flee
Straight from the copse secures thy life to thee?
Thy fall is in the stubble! On no bird,
No beast, had nature for defence conferred
Such cunning, but that by the net or shaft
It fell, subdued by our superior craft.
But were I each particular to tell
Of this delightful life, the vesper bell
Would sound ere it was done: enough to know
That 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 knew
Myself, but doubted if the change were true.
Then first I felt to mingle with the stir
Of sweet sensations in beholding her,
Fearful desires that on their ardent wings
Raised 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 smart
Of fire close raging in the naked heart.
To this sad pass I gradually was brought
By my ill star, and ne'er could I have thought
Its baneful power reached farther, were it not
Proved but too surely by my present lot,
That, when compared with these, my former woes
Might be considered as a sweet repose.
But here 'tis fit the hated tale that swells
My soul with grief, and thrills the tongue that tells,
Should find a close, nor sadden, though it sears
Albanio'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'er
Had 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 prove
This living death, this agony of love?
If skilled experience should not wholly end
Thy 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 share
In such concerns (and even yet I bear
Marks of the arrow), it is quite unkind
To be so shy: whilst thou hast life, thy mind
Should 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 ear
To the kind counsels of a friend sincere.

ALBANIO.

Thou would'st that I should fruitlessly contend
With one who must o'ercome me in the end.
Love wills my silence, nor can I commence
The 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 reveal
This ill to one who surely hopes to heal
In part the wound?

ALBANIO.

Love, love that doth deny
All comfort,--Love desires that I should die;
Knowing too well that for a little while
The mere relation would my grief beguile,
More swiftly to destroy, the God unjust
Has now deprived my bosom of the gust
Which late it had, to candidly avow,
And thus conclude its sorrows; so that now
It neither does become thy truth to seek
For 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'er
To' entrust his person to a murderer's care,
His treasures to the spoiler! Can it be,
That without discomposure thou canst see
Love 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 commit
To thee this pomp of philosophic wit,
A shepherd of the hills? with what light cheer
The careless lip can learn to be severe,
And oh, how easily a heart at ease
Can counsel sickness to throw off disease!

SALICIO.

I counselled nothing that deserved to call
An answer from thee of such scorn and gall:
Merely I asked thee--ask thee to relate
What it is makes thee so disconsolate.
I shared thy joy, and can I fail to be
Touched 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.