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.

Now then, Salicio, hear what I disclose;
And you, the Dryads of this leafy grove,
Where'er you be, attend my tale of love!
I have already told the prosperous part,
And if in peace I could have fixed my heart,
How happy had I been; but the desire,
The constant striving to conceal my fire
From her, alas! whose sweet and gentle breath
But fanned it, brought me to the gates of death.
A thousand times she begged, implored to know
What secret something vexed my spirit so;
In my pale aspect she too plainly read
Grief of some sort, and gaiety was fled;
Thus would she say, thus sue to me, but sighs
And tears of anguish were my sole replies.
One afternoon, returning from the chase
Fatigued and fevered, in the sweetest place
Of this wide forest, even where now we sit,
We both resolved our toil to intermit.
Under the branches of this beech we flung
Our limbs at ease, and our bent bows unstrung.
Thus idly lying, we inspired with zest
The sweet, fresh spirit breathing from the west.
The flowers with which the mosses were inlaid,
A rich diversity of hues displayed,
And yielded scents as various; in the sun,
Lucid as glass, this clear, shrill fountain shone,
Revealing in its depth the sands like gold,
And smooth, white pebbles whence its waters rolled;
Nor goat, nor stag, nor hermit, nor the sound
Of distant sheepbells, broke the stillness round.
When with the water of the shaded pool
We had assuaged our thirst, and grew more cool,
She, who with kind solicitude still kept
The' intent to know why I so often wept,
With solemn prayers adjured me to confess
The cause or object of my sore distress;
And if 'twas love, not to be swayed by shame,
But own it such, and write the lady's name;
Vowing that as she always from her youth
Had shown me an affection full of truth,
So in this instance she with pure good-will
Would aid my views, and prove a sister still.
I, who no longer could my soul contain,
Yet dared not openly the truth explain,
Told her that in the fountain she might read
Her name whose beauty made my bosom bleed.
Her eager mind was instant on the wing,
She rose, she ran, and looked into the spring,
But seeing only her own face there, blushed
With maiden shame, and from the water rushed,
Swift as if touched with madness, not a look
She deigned me, but her way disdainful took,
And left me murmuring here, till life shall fail,
My rash resolve for ever to bewail.
My folly I accused--all, all engrossed
In vain reflections on the' advantage lost.
Thus grew my grief; thus fatally misled,
What sighs did I not breathe, what tears not shed;
For countless hours stretched here I lay, with eyes
Rigidly fixed upon the vacant skies;
And as one grief in hand another brought,
The ceaseless tear, the phantasies of thought,
The frequent swoon, remorse for felt offence,
Regret, despair, the senselessness of sense,
And a benumbing consciousness of pain
Perpetual, almost, almost whirled my brain.
I know not how I found my friends, nor what
Led my stray footsteps homeward to my cot;
I only know four suns had risen and past,
Since fasting, sleepless, motionless, aghast,
I had lain here; my herds too had been left
All this long time, of wonted grass bereft;
The calves that lately frisked it o'er the field,
Finding their udders no refreshment yield,
Lowing complained to the unheeding skies;
The woods, alone considerate of their cries,
Rebellowing loudly, gave back the lament,
As though condoling with their discontent.
These things yet moved me not; the many--all
In fact, that now upon me came to call,
Were frightened with my weeping; rumour led,
And curious wonder, numbers to my shed;
The shepherds, herdsmen, pruners of the vines,
Anxious to serve me, with sincerest signs
Of pity, pleaded, prayed me to declare
The cause of my mad grief and deep despair;
Stretched on the earth, to them my sole replies
Were broken groans, fast tears, and fiery sighs;
Or if at times I spoke, one answer came
From my wild lips--the same, and still the same:
"Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore,
Soon will you sing, 'Albanio is no more!'
This little comfort I at least shall have,
Though I be laid within the wormy grave,
Sad you will sing, 'Albanio is no more,'
Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore!"
The fifth night came: my ill star then inspired
My brain to dare what had been long desired--
The shuffling off life's load, and out I rushed
With wild resolve--creation all was hushed;
Through the dusk night I hurried to descry
Some lonely spot where I might fitly die.
As chance would have it, my faint footsteps drew
To a high cliff which yet far off I knew,
As pendant o'er the flood, scooped into caves
By constant sapping of the restless waves.
There, as I sate beneath an elm, o'erspent,
A sudden ray returning memory lent:
I once, with her, had to the neighbouring trees
Come at midnoon to take the cooling breeze.
On this my fancy fixed; the thought like balm
Assuaged my frenzy, and I grew more calm.
And now the dawn with roses had begun
To pave the path of the resplendent sun,
To which the green trees bowed, and, woke from rest,
The smiling Ocean bared her heaving breast;
When, as the melancholy swan, that feeling
Life's latest anguish o'er her spirit stealing,
Sings with her quivering bill and melting breath,
Sad, but most sweet, the lullaby to death;
So I, in equal pain and sickness lying,
The immortal passing, and the mortal dying,
Took my last farewell of the skies and sun,
In passionate laments that thus might run:
"Oh! fierce as Scythian bears in thy disdain,
And as the howling of the stormy main
Deaf to my plaints, come, conqueress, take thy prey,
A wretched frame fast hastening to decay!
I faint--I die, and thus will put an end
To thy dislike; no longer shall offend
The' enamoured breast where thy dear beauty lies,
My mournful face, rash lips, or weeping eyes.
Then thou, who in my lifetime scorned to move
One step to comfort me, or even reprove,
Stern to the last,--then thou wilt come, perchance,
And as thine eyes on my cold relics glance,
Repent thy rigour, and bewail my fate;
But the slow succour will have come too late.
Canst thou so soon my long, long love forget,
And in a moment break without regret
The bond of years? hast thou forgotten too
Childhood's sweet sports, whence first my passion grew,
When from the bowery ilex I shook down
Its autumn fruit, which on the crag's high crown
We tasted, sitting, chattering side by side?
Who climbed trees swinging o'er the hoarse deep tide,
And poured into thy lap, or at thy feet,
Their kernelled nuts, the sweetest of the sweet?
When did I ever place my foot within
The flowery vale, brown wood, or dingle green,
And culled not thousand odorous flowers to crest
Thy golden curls, or breathe upon thy breast?
You used to swear, when I was absent far,
There was no brightness in the morning star,
For you no sweetness in the noon's repose,
Taste in the wave, nor fragrance in the rose.
Whom do I wail to? Not a single word
Is heard by her by whom it should be heard.
Echo alone in pity deigns to hear me,
And with her mimic answers strives to cheer me,
Remembering sweet Narcissus, and the pain
Which she herself endured from shy disdain;
But ev'n kind Echo pity deems a fault,
Nor stands revealed within her hollow vault.
Spirits! if such there be, that take the care
Of dying lovers, and attend their prayer,
Or personal genius of my life! receive
The words I utter, ere my soul takes leave
Of its frail tenement! oh Dryades!
Peculiar guardians of these verdant trees,
And you, swift-swimming Naiads who reside
In this my native river! from the tide
Upraise your rosy heads, if there be one
That sighs, and weeps, and loves as I have done;
That I, white Goddesses, may have to say--
Though my weak plaints and unmelodious lay
Moved not one human eye to pitying tears,
The mournful dirge could touch diviner ears.
Oh fleet-foot Oreads of the hills! who go
Chasing through chestnut groves the hart and roe,
Leave wounding animals, draw near, and scan
The last convulsions of a wounded man!
And you, most gracious Maidens, that amid
The night of woods till summer noons lie hid,
Then, crowned with roses, issue from your oaks,
Your white breasts covered with your golden locks;
Sweet Hamadryads! hear my plaints forlorn,
And if with angry Fate ye are not sworn
Against me, to the causes of my death
Give celebration and perpetual breath.
Oh wolves! oh bears! that in the deep descents
Of these o'ershaded caves to my laments
Are listening now, as oft my flute could move
Your shaggy ears, and lull you into love,
Repose in peace! farewell each high-browed mountain!
Green crofts, farewell! Adieu thou fatal fountain!
Still waters, foaming streams, and you, ye strong
Sonorous cataracts, farewell! live long,
Long ages after me, and as ye sweep
To pay rich tribute to the hoary deep,
Oft sound my sad voice through the stony vales;
Oft to the traveller tell autumnal tales
Of him whose tuneful ditties charmed of old
Your living waves, rejoicing as ye rolled;
Who watered here his heifers, day by day,
And crowned with wreaths of laurel and of bay,
The brows of his strong bulls:"--and saying this,
I rose, from that tremendous precipice
To fling myself, and clambered up the hill
With hasty strides, and a determined will;
When lo! a blast sufficient to displace
The huge sierra from its stable base,
Arose and smote me to the earth, where long
I lay astonished from a stroke so strong.
But when at length I came to recollect,
And on the marvel seriously reflect,
I blamed my impious rashness, and the crime
That sought to end before the destined time,
By means so terrible, my life of grief,
Though harsh, determinate, though bitter, brief.
I have since then been steadily resigned
To wait for death, when mercilessly kind
It comes to free me from my pangs; and now,
See how it comes! Though heav'n did not allow
Me to find death, the assassin is left free
To find, and shake his fatal dart o'er me.--
I have now told thee the true cause, the cross
Occurrence, pain, and process of my loss;
Fulfil thy promise now, and if thou art
Indeed my friend, as I believe, depart;
Nor give disturbance to a grief so deep--
Its only solace is the wish to weep.

SALICIO.

On one point only now
Would I remark, if thou
Would'st not imagine it was meant to' advise;
I'd ask thee, what can blind
So utterly thy mind,
And warp thy judgment in so strange a wise,
As not at once to see
Instinctively, that she
Who so long charmed thee with her grateful smile,
With, or without regret,
Can never all forget
Your past fond friendship in so short a while;
How dost thou know but that she feels no less
Grief for her own coy flight, than pain for thy distress?

ALBANIO.

Cease, flattering sophist, cease
This artificial peace,
Nor with false comfort make my sufferings more;
Or I, far, far exiled,
Must seek some hideous wild
Where human footstep never stamped the shore.
She is entirely changed
From what she was, estranged
From all kind feelings; this too deemest thou,
Howe'er thy lips unwise
With rhetoric would disguise
The fatal truth, or seem to disallow;
But thy dear sophistry indulge alone,
Or for more credulous ears reserve it; I am gone!

SALICIO.

All hope of cure is vain,
Till less he dreads the pain
Of the physician's probe;--here then alone,
Indulging his caprice,
I'll leave him, till disease
Has passed its raging crisis, and is grown
More tractable, until
The storm of a self-will
So passing strong, has raved itself to rest:
And to yon bower of birch
I'll meanwhile pass, in search
Of the sweet nightingale's secreted nest;
And, beautiful Gravina, it shall be
Thine for one rosy kiss: I know the ivied tree.

SILVA II.

CAMILLA. ALBANIO. SALICIO. NEMOROSO.

CAMILLA.

Echo the sound did much misrepresent,
If this is not the way the roebuck went
After 'twas struck; how swift it must have fled,
And with what strength, considering how it bled!
So deep the bearded shaft transfixed its side,
That the white feather was alone descried;
And now the search of what eludes my sight
Tires me to death. It can't have stretched its flight
Beyond this valley; it must surely be
Here, and perhaps expiring! oh that she,
My Lady of the Groves, would of her pack
Lend me a hound to follow up the track,
The whilst I sleep away the hours of heat
Within these woods!--Oh visitants most sweet!
Fresh, amorous, gentle, flavourous breezes, blow
In deeper gusts, and break this burning glow
Of the meridian sun! at length, I pass
My naked soles upon the cold green grass;
Thy sylvan toils this raging noon commit
To men, Diana, whom they best befit!
For once I dare thy horn to disobey;
Thy favourite chase has cost me dear to-day.
Ah my sweet fountain! from what paradise
Hast thou too cast me by a mere surprise?
Know'st thou, clear mirror, what thy glass has done?
Driven from me the delightful face of one,
Whose kind society and faith approved
I now no less desire than then I loved,
But not as he supposed; God grant that first
Her heart may break, ere vowed Camilla burst
The virgin band that binds her with the maids
Of dear Diana, and her sacred shades!
With what reluctance thought renews the sense
Of this sad history, but the youth's offence
Exculpates me; if of his absence I
Were the prime cause, I would most willingly
Myself condemn, but he, I recollect,
Both wilful was, and wanting in respect.
But why afflict myself for this? I yet
Would live contented, and the boy forget.--
These clear cool springs a lulling murmur make,
Here will I lie, and my sweet siesta take;
And when the sultry noon is over, go
Again in search of my rebellious roe:
Still 'tis a mystery and surprise to me
With such a wound how it so far could flee!

ALBANIO.

Methought, or frolic fancy must delight
With false presentments to deceive my sight,
I saw a wood-nymph, gliding through the groves,
Reach the near fountain; haply, if she loves,
She may advise me of some charm, may name
Some dear deceit to ease this painful flame:
No given advice but aggravates my grief,
If 'tis in discord with my own belief,
And to the hopeless harm can none accrue:
Oh holy Gods! what is it that I view?
Is it a phantom changed into the form
Of her whose beauty makes my blood run warm?
No, 'tis herself, Camilla, sleeping here;
It must be she--her beauty makes it clear!
But one such wonder Nature wished to make,
Then broke the die for admiration's sake.
How could I then suppose her not the same,
When Nature's self no second such can frame!
But now, though certain is the bliss displayed,
How shall I venture to awake the maid,
Dreading the light that lures me to her side?
And yet--if only for the pleasing pride
Of touching her, methinks that I might shake
This fear away; but what if she should wake?
To seize and not to loose her--soft! I fear
That daring act might make her more austere;
Yet, what is to be done? I wish to reach
My former seat beneath the shady beech,
And hers is slumber deep as death; she lies,
How beautifully blind! the bee that flies
Near her, the quarrelling birds, that old sweet tune
Hummed by the spring, all voices of the noon
Tease, but disturb her not; her face is free--
A charming book--to be perused by me,
And I will seize the' occasion; if the boughs
In being parted should from slumber rouse,
Strong to detain her I am still, though not
As when we last were seated on this spot:
Oh hands, once vigorously disposed to end me!
See you how much your power can now befriend me?
Why not exert it for my welfare!--small
The risk--one effort will suffice for all.

CAMILLA.

Aid me Diana!

ALBANIO.

Stir not! from my hold
Thou canst not break; but hear what I unfold.

CAMILLA.

Who would have told me of so rude a stroke?
Nymphs of the wood, your succour I invoke!
Save me, oh save! Albanio, this from thee?
Say, art thou frenzied?

ALBANIO.

Frenzy should it be,
That makes me love--oh more than life,--the cause
Of all my grief, who scorns me and abhors.

CAMILLA.

I ought, methinks, to be abhorred by thee,
To make thy speeches with thy deeds agree;
To seek to treat me so, at such a time!
Outrage on outrage heaping, crime on crime.

ALBANIO.

I commit outrage against thee! May I
In thy disgrace, my dear Camilla, die,

CAMILLA.

Hast thou not
Infringed our friendship on this very spot,
Seeking to turn it by a course amiss
From placid thoughts?

ALBANIO.

Oh holy Artemis!
Must the distraction of a single hour
Whole years of fond attention overpower,
When, too, repentance mourns the fault, and when--

CAMILLA.

Ah, this is always the sly way with men!
They dare the crime, and if the' event goes wrong,
Cry your forgiveness with the meekest tongue.

ALBANIO.

What have I dared, Camilla?

CAMILLA.

It is well;
Ask these dumb woods, this fountain, it shall tell;
There it remains in face of the pure skies,
The living witness of thy wrong device.

ALBANIO.

If death, disgrace, or pain can expiate
My fault, behold me here prepared to sate
Thy anger to the full.

CAMILLA.

Let go my wrist!
Scarce can I breathe; let go, I do insist!

ALBANIO.

Much, much I fear that thou wilt take the wing
Of the wild winds, and flee.

CAMILLA.

Fear no such thing!
With pure fatigue I am quite overcome;
Unhand me! Oh, my dislocated thumb!

ALBANIO.

Wilt thou sit still, if I my grasp forego,
Whilst by clear reasons I proceed to show
That without any reason thou with me
Wert wroth?

CAMILLA.

A pretty reasoner thou wilt be!
Well, free me that I may.

ALBANIO.

Swear first in sooth,
By our past friendship and our bygone youth.

CAMILLA.

Soothly I swear by the pure law sincere
Of our past friendship, to sit down and hear--
Thy chidings, sure enough; to what a state
Hast thou reduced my hand in this debate
By thy fierce grasp!

ALBANIO.

To what a state hast thou
Reduced my soul by leaving me till now!

CAMILLA.

My golden clasp, if that be lost--woe's me!
Unlucky that I am! 'tis gone, I see,
Fallen in this fatal vale! what mischief more?

ALBANIO.

I should not wonder if it dropped before,
In the deep Vale of Nettles.

CAMILLA.

I desire,
Where'er it dropped, to seek it.

ALBANIO.

That will tire
Still more my dear Camilla; leave that toil!
I'll find the clasp; I cannot bear the soil
Should scorch my enemy's white feet;--

CAMILLA.

Well, well,
Since you're so good--behold that beechen dell
In sunshine, look straight forward, there, below;
A full round hour I've there been spending:

ALBANIO.

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

CAMILLA.

Swain, rest assured that I will die before
Thy apprehending hands affright me more.

ALBANIO.

Ah, faithless nymph! and is it in this mode
Thou keep'st thy plighted oath? Oh heavy load
Of curst existence! oh false love, to cheer
My drooping soul with hopes so insincere!
Oh painful mode of martyrdom! oh death,
Cool torturer, slow to claim my hated breath!
You give me cause to call high Heaven unjust;
Gape, empty earth, and repossess the dust
Of this rebellious body, which debars
The swift-winged soul from soaring to the stars!
I, I will let it loose; let them that dare
Resist--resist me?--of themselves take care,
It much concerns them! Can I not fulfil
My threats? die, go--here--there--where'er I will,
Spirit or flesh?

CAMILLA.

Hark! he desires to do
Himself some mischief; my worst fears were true,
And his mind wanders.

ALBANIO.

Oh that here I had
The man whose malice seems to drive me mad!
I feel discharged of a vast weight! it seems
I fly, disdaining mountains, woods, and streams,
My farm, flock, field, and dairy! Are not these
Feet? yes, with them I fly where'er I please.
And now I come to think, my body's gone;
It is the spirit I command alone.
Some one has stolen and hid it as I gazed
On the clear sky, somewhat too much amazed;
Or has it stayed behind asleep? I swear
A figure coloured like the rose was there,
Slumbering most sweetly; now, if that should be
My shape--no, that was far too fair for me.

NEMOROSO.

Poor head! I would not give a coin of brass
For thy discretion now.

ALBANIO.

To whom, alas,
Shall I give notice of the theft?

SALICIO.

'Tis strange,
And passing sad, to see the utter change
In this once sprightly youth, with whom we two,
My Nemoroso, have had much to do;
Mild, pleasant, good, wise, sociable, and kind,
The sweetest temper and sincerest mind.

ALBANIO.

I will find witness, or small power is left
Me 'gainst the man that did commit the theft,
And though my body's absent, as a foe
Will drive him on to death; ah, dost thou know
Aught of the thief, my gentle fountain fair?
Speak, if thou dost! so may the swart star ne'er
Sear thy fresh shades, or scorch thy silver spring,
But still green fairies round thee dance and sing.
There stands a man at bottom of the brook,
With laurel crowned, and in his hand a crook
Shaped like mine own, of oak: ho! who goes there?
Answer, my friend! Heaven help me! I declare
Thou' art deaf or dumb, some mortal foe I fear
To life's humanities; holla! give ear;
I am a disembodied soul; I seek
My body, which, in a malicious freak,
Some cruel thief has stol'n, it much has stirred me;
Deaf or not deaf I care not--have you heard me?
O gracious God! either my wayward brain
Wanders, or I behold my shape again;
Ha, my loved body! I no longer doubt thee,
I clearly see thy image; whilst without thee
I have been most unhappy--come, draw nigher,
End both thy exile and my lorn desire.

NEMOROSO.

I much suspect that his continual thought
And dreams of death, have in his fancy wrought
This pictured separation.

SALICIO.

As in sleep,
Ills which awake perpetually we weep,
Fraught with the grief that haunts the soul, remain,
And print their shadowy species on the brain.

ALBANIO.

If thou art not in chains, come forth to' endow
Me with the true form of a man, who now
Have but the title left; but if thou' art bound
By magic art, and rooted to the ground,
I pray thee speak! for if my piteous pleading
Should fail to touch the ear of Heaven unheeding,
I to the bowers of Tartarus will depart,
And storm fierce Pluto's adamantine heart,
As for his absent consort, unalarmed,
Did the fond lover, who with music charmed
Hell's grisly maids, and hushed, sweet harmonist,
The raging snakes that round their temples hissed!

NEMOROSO.

With what good arguments does he enforce
His mad opinions!

SALICIO.

The accustomed course
Of ingenuity awhile holds on,
When genius fails, and apprehension's gone;
Thus, though now frenzied, still a lucid vein
Runs through the dark ideas of his brain,
Having been what we knew him once.

NEMOROSO.

No more,
Praise him not to me, for my heart runs o'er
With grief to see him in so lost a strait.

ALBANIO.

I was considering what a painful state
This strange, sad exile is; for, to my mind,
Nor woods, nor oceans warred on by the wind,
Nor moated towers, nor mountains, pathless proved,
Nor others' sweet society beloved,
Cuts us asunder, but a slender wall
Of water, lucid, but preventing all
The blissful union we desire so much;
For from that surface where we all but touch
Thou never dost depart, and seemest never
Satiate with gazing, by each fond endeavour
Of becks, and smiles, and gestures, signifying
Desire of junction, duteous, but denying;
Brother, reach out thy arm, that we may shake
Hands like good friends, and for past friendship's sake,
Once more embrace! ha! mock'st thou me? dost thou
Fly from me thus? 'tis acting not, I vow,
As a friend should; I from the fountain's froth
Am dripping wet, and thou, too, art thou wroth--
Poor Sir Unfortunate? ha! ha! how swift
Thy--what is it? thy figure thou dost shift;
Ruffled, disturbed, and with a writhen face!
That this unlucky thing now should take place!
I was consoled in seeing so serene
Thy amorous image and thy smiling mien.
No happy thing with me will now endure!

NEMOROSO.

Nothing at least that will thy frenzy cure.

SALICIO.

Let us depart; fresh furies now begin
To storm his soul.

ALBANIO.

Oh heav'n! why not leap in,
And reach the centre of the fountain cold?

SALICIO.

What foolish fancy's this, Albanio? hold!

ALBANIO.

Oh the clear thief! but how? what? is it well
To' invest thyself with my secreted shell
Of flesh, before my face? oh insolence!
As if I were a block devoid of sense
And common feeling; but this hand shall slay,
And pluck thy daring spirit out.

SALICIO.

Away!
Come thou; I am not equal to the task
Of mastering him.

NEMOROSO.

What would'st thou?

SALICIO.

Canst thou ask,
Kinsman unkind, what would I? disengage
My hand and throat, if his malicious rage
Give me but power.

NEMOROSO.

Act no such petty part;
Thou canst but do thy duty where thou art.

SALICIO.

Is this a time for pleasantry and play?
Sport'st thou with life? come instantly, I pray!

NEMOROSO.

Anon: I'll stand awhile aloof, and see
How from a madcap thou thyself canst free.

SALICIO.

Alas! I strike for self-defence.

ALBANIO.

Although
You die--

NEMOROSO.

It is too true; madman, let go!

ALBANIO.

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

NEMOROSO.

Off, off this instant!

ALBANIO.

Why, how harm I thee?

NEMOROSO.

Me? not in any wise.

ALBANIO.

Then homeward turn,
And meddle not in what you've no concern.

SALICIO.

Ha, madman! pinion him and hold him tight,
For mercy's sake; I'll do for thee, sir knight!
Hold fast his elbows whilst the cord I tie;
Sound of the switch perchance may terrify
His proud soul to submission.

ALBANIO.

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

SALICIO.

No.

ALBANIO.

Would you kill me?

SALICIO.

Yes.

ALBANIO.

A harmless gnat!
Look how much higher this rock is than that.

NEMOROSO.

'Tis well; he shortly will forget his vaunt.

SALICIO.

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

ALBANIO.

What! lashed and pinioned?

SALICIO.

Hush, give ear.

ALBANIO.

Woe's me!
Dark was the hour when first I strove with thee,
So harsh thou smitest; were we not before
As brothers fond; shall we be such no more?

NEMOROSO.

Albanio, friend beloved, be silent now;
Sleep here awhile, and move not.

ALBANIO.

Knowest thou
Any news of me?

SALICIO.

Mad, poor fool!

ALBANIO.

Agreed.
Soft, for I sleep.

SALICIO.

Indeed dost thou?

ALBANIO.

Indeed!
Sound as the dead! what motion do I make?
Only observe me.

SALICIO.

Hush! the wand I shake
Shall pay the price of thy rebellious will,
If thou unclose an eye.

NEMOROSO.

He is more still
And tranquil than he was: Salicio,
What are thy thoughts; can he be cured, or no?

SALICIO.

To use all gentle methods that may tend
Or to the life or health of such a friend,
Is our just duty.

NEMOROSO.

Hark then for a space
To what I say; a singular strange case
Will I relate, of which--but let that pass--
I both the witness and the subject was.
On Tormes' banks, the sweetest stream of Spain,
Mild, sacred, clear, extends a spacious plain,
Green in mid-winter, green in autumn, green
In sultry summer as in spring serene;
At the far end of which, the eye's delight,
Charming in form, and of a pleasing height,
A hill o'erlooks the scene, whose wood-crowned crest
Fair towers surmount, whereon heaven seems to rest:
Towers of strange beauty, not so much admired
For their fine structure, although Toil has tired
Thereon his curious chisel, as renowned
For their grand Lords by glory haloed round.
All that is deemed desirable and great
May there be found, rank, wisdom, virtue, state,
The gifts of Nature, and the stores of Art,
Whatever Taste can wish, or Power impart.
There, dwells a man of genius, whose rare touch
Of the melodious lyre and pipe is such
As ne'er to satiate with its notes of grace
And flavourous tones, the Spirit of the place.
On Trebia's field stood his paternal home,
Trebia the red, the' Aceldama of Rome,
And still, though numerous years have intervened,
The favourite refuge of the same fierce fiend--
Of war, whose crimson sword its turf has stained,
Its green bowers ravaged, its pure waves profaned.
He, seeing this, abandoned it to find
Some scene more suited to his gentle mind:
Good fortune led his footsteps to the hall
Of ALBA, so that splendid seat they call,
SEVERO him; the God of wit and light
Pours all his rays on his sciential sight.
He, when he wills, by signs and murmured spells,
Can curb the swiftest, mightiest stream that swells;
Change storms to golden calms, change night to noon,
Bid thunders bellow, and pluck down the moon,
If to his signals she will not reply,
And check the car that whirls her through the sky.
I fear, should I presume to speak in praise
Of all his power and wisdom, I should raise
His wrath, but this I must declare, above
All other things, the pangs of slighted love
He in an instant cures, removes the pain,
Converts impassioned frenzy to disdain,
Sadness to smiles, and on the soul's tuned keys
Rewakes its old familiar melodies.
I shall not know, Salicio, I am sure,
To tell the means and method of my cure,
But this I know, I came away quite sound,
Pure from desire, and vigorous from my wound.
I well remember that by Tormes' stream
I found him rapt in some pathetic theme,
Singing in strains whose sweetness might imprint
The soul of feeling in a heart of flint:
When me he saw, divining my desire,
He changed the mode, and rectified his lyre;
The praise of liberty from love he sings,
And with a sprightlier spirit smites the strings;
Reflected in his song, I stand confest
The slave of sense, and alien from all rest,
Shamed and surprised, till--how shall I explain
That strange effect?--the fascinating strain
The tincture takes of medicine, which, in brief,
Flows through my veins, and, grappling with my grief,
Roots out the venom: then was I as one
Who all night long o'er break-neck crags has run,
Not seeing where the path leads, till at last
Light dawns, and looking back, the perils passed
Rush on his sight, now so distinctly kenned,
The mere idea sets his hair on end:
So thunderstruck stood I, nor to this day
Can I, without a shudder of dismay,
Eye my past danger; my new scope of sight
Presented all things in their proper light,
And showed what I before with such a gust
Had grasped for gold, to be but worthless dust.
Such was the talisman, and such the skill
With which that ancient sage uncharmed my will;
My mind its native liveliness regained,
And my heart bounded as from bonds unchained.

SALICIO.

Oh fine old age! ev'n fruitful in thy snows,
That to the soul thus bring'st its lost repose,
Weaning the heart from love, the ungentle gust
That blasts our hopes, or weds them with the dust.
Merely from that with which thou hast amazed
My ear, I feel strong wishes in me raised,
To see and know him.

NEMOROSO.

Does thy wonder mount
So high, Salicio, at this poor account?
More could I say, if I were not afraid
To tire thy patience.

SALICIO.

What is this thou' hast said,
Unthinking Nemoroso? Can there be
Aught half so charming, half so sweet to me,
As listening to thy stories? Tell me more
Of sage Severo; tell me, I implore.
Nought interrupts the tale; our flocks at rest,
The fresh soft wind comes whispering from the west;
Sweet weeps the nightingale in song that moves
In amorous hearts the sadnesses she proves;
The turtle murmurs from her elm; the bee
Hums; the shy cuckoo shouts from tree to tree;
The wood a thousand flowers presents; the flowers
A thousand hues; and, hung with nodding bowers,
This babbling fountain with its voice invites
To social ease and interchanged delights.

SILVA III.

NEMOROSO. SALICIO.

NEMOROSO.

Hark then awhile, and I will tell of things
Strange and amazing: Spirits of these springs,
Nymphs, I invoke you! Silvans, Satyrs, Fauns,
That haunt the glens, the greenwoods, and the lawns!
Sweet from my lips let each clear accent part,
All point or grace, all harmony or art,
Since neither pastoral pipe, Arcadian quill,
Nor syrinx sounds in concord with my will.
To such rare heights Severo's powers aspire,
His chanted verse and smooth harmonious lyre
Can stay fleet whirlwinds in their mid career,
His golden words and messages to hear,
And make them from austere, rebellious lords,
Obsequious slaves to dance around his chords
In voluntary song; old Tormes knows
His incantation, and, commanded, shows
The Senior all his secrets: once he led
The mighty master to his fountain-head,
And showed him where mid river-flowers and fern
He lies, incumbent o'er a crystal urn;
On this he saw a thousand things embossed,
Foreseen, and sculptured with surprising cost;
With so divine a wit the sage has wrought
This vase, each object seems instinct with thought.
On every side the figured bas-reliefs
Depict the deeds and virtues of the chiefs,
Who by illustrious titles dignified,
And ruled the tract through which his waters glide.
There the brave youth, DON GARCIA, stood confessed
By his disdainful mien, dilated chest;
He 'gainst a wise and potent king that held
His sire in bondage, gallantly rebelled,
Each bold retainer summoning, to aid
His pious aims; with him the God pourtrayed
His son, who showed, whilst earth enjoyed his light,
At court a Phoebus, and a Mars in fight:
Young though he seemed, he promised in his look
Supreme success in all he undertook;
Ev'n in his youth, upon the Moors he dealt
Severe rebukes, and made his puissance felt;
And as the chieftain of the Christian band,
Confirmed his heart and exercised his hand.
Elsewhere, with more assured renown, and now
With more of manhood on his martial brow,
He harassed the fierce Franks: sublime he stood
To sight, his armours red with hostile blood.
Long in the straitened siege had he sustained
The woes of want; no measure now remained,
But through the breaches of the rending wall
In furious sally on the foe to fall.
What numbers died that day beneath his spear!
What other numbers fled like hunted deer!
No pictured tale, no sculptured argument,
No poet's flame could fitly represent
How fierce FADRIQUE smote them as they fled,
The chaser's rage, and the pursued one's dread.
Near him is seen in bold relief his son,
DON GARCIA, equalled upon earth by none,
Unless by his Fernando! who could view
The ardent light of his dear beauty, who
The expression of his frank fair countenance,
Nor own his grandeur in that single glance?
Alas! in cruelty the Furies hurled
War's fires abroad, and snatched him from the world,
The world so happy in his light! sad Spain,
Thy weeping eyes how oft didst thou in vain
Roll toward Gelves! Acting his sad part,
The youth is sculptured with such lively art,
That should you see it, you would say each stroke
Was fraught with life, and that the crystal spoke.
The broad sands burned, the sun of bloody red,
His soldiers round him fell down faint or dead;
With earnest vigilance he only cursed
That dull delay, and reckless as at first,
Praised glorious death; when suddenly the sound
Of Illa Allah shook the skies, the ground
Rang with strong trampling, and a dusty host
Of fierce barbarians the young chief enclosed;
But he, nought daunted, cast to them his gage,
In generous frenzy of audacious rage,
And bore up bravely, making many pay
The price of their temerity; these lay
In deep disorder, some whose vital threads
He had already slit, with cloven heads,
Wallowing in blood; some silent dying; some
Yet breathing free, not wholly overcome,
Showed palpitating bowels, strangely gored
By the deep gashes given by his sharp sword.
But Fate was in the conflict, and at last,
Deaf with the din, his spirits failing fast,
Pierced through with thousand swords, and craving grace
For all his sins, he laid his pallid face
On the burnt soil, and sighed away, forlorn,
His soul of beauty like the rose of morn,
That smit by the hot season, sickening grieves,
Hangs its gay head, and pales its crimson leaves;
Or as a lily which the passing share
Leaves cruelly cut down, whereby its fair
Transparent hue, though not all perished, now
That its maternal earth neglects to throw
Juice through its veins, fades soon as noontide tells
Her wonted rosary on its dewy bells;
So on the mimic sands, in miniature,
Shows thy fair face, fresh rose, white lily pure!
Next a strange sculpture draws and so detains
The' observer's notice, that he entertains
No curiosity aught else to view,
How wild soe'er, or beautiful, or new.
The three sweet Graces there are seen pourtrayed
With Phidian skill, transparently arrayed;
One only garment of celestial white
Veils their soft limbs, but shuts not out the sight.
Drawn are they cheering, strengthening for the throe,
A noble lady in her hour of woe.
Soon the dear infant is seen born; ne'er smiled
The ripening moon upon a lovelier child;
Upon his little cradle, overspread
With flowers, the name of DON FERNANDO'S read.
From sweetly singing on the shady crown
Of Pindus, the Nine Lights of life come down;
And with them Phoebus, rosy and unshorn,
Goes, like the moon amidst the stars of morn,
With graceful step; arriving, they confess
His charms, and long and tenderly caress.
Elsewhere winged Mercury is drawn beholding
Mars, the plumed warrior, cautiously enfolding
The new-born infant in his rude embrace,
Soon giving courteous and respectful place
To Venus, smiling at his side; in turn
She kissed his cheek, and from a golden urn
Sprinkled Elysian nectar o'er the boy
With lavish hand, and fond familiar joy:
But Phoebus from her arms the child displaced,
And gave the office to his sisters chaste.
They were delighted with the sweet employ;
Time waves his wings, the babe becomes a boy,
Rising and flourishing in youthful grace,
Like a tall poplar in a shady place.
Talents he showed untaught, and undisguised
Gave now such proofs of genius, as surprised
The associate nymphs, and they the boy consigned
To one of blameless life and cultured mind,
Who to the world might make more manifest
The rich endowments which the child possessed;
An ancient man, whose face, ungiven to guile,
Expressed severeness sweetening to a smile,
Received the youth; Severo, when his gaze
Fell on this form, stood spell-bound with amaze;
For as within a looking-glass he viewed
Himself depicted, air, age, attitude,
All were conformable, just so he trod,
So looked, so greeted; turning to the god,
He saw him smiling at his frank surprise;
"And why this so great wonder?" Tormes cries;
"Seem I so ignorant as not to' have known,
Ere to thy yearning mother thou wert shown,
That thou wouldst be, when future suns should shine,
The wise Director of his soul divine?"
The Ancient, with deep joy of wonder bred,
His eager eyes upon the picture fed.
Next, as his looks along the sculptures glanced,
A youth with Phoebus hand in hand advanced;
Courteous his air, from his ingenuous face,
Informed with wisdom, modesty, and grace,
And every mild affection, at a scan
The passer-by would mark him for a man,
Perfect in all gentilities of mind,
That sweeten life and harmonize mankind.
The form which lively thus the sculptor drew,
Assur'd Severo in an instant knew,
For him who had by careful culture shown
Fernando's spirit lovely as his own;
Had given him grace, sincerity, and ease,
The pure politeness that aspires to please,
The candid virtues that disdain pretence,
And martial manliness, and sprightly sense,
With all the generous courtesies enshrined
In the fair temple of Fernando's mind.
When well surveyed, his name Severo read,
"BOSCÁN!!" whose genius o'er the world is spread:
In whose illumined aspect shines the fire
That, streamed from Delphos, lights him to the lyre,
And warms those songs which with mankind shall stay,
Whilst endless ages roll unfelt away!
More ripeness marked the youth, as to his rules
Listening, he culled the learning of the schools;
These left at length, he in gymnastic games,
War's mimic symbols, strives with youths, whose names
Had never else been known to after years
In the wide world; the tilt of canes and spears,
Wrestling, the course, the circus, toil and dust,
Gave his arm skill, and made his limbs robust.
Next, amorous Venus shows her rosy face,
Seizing his hand, she leads him for a space
From the severe gymnasium, and aside
Points out his fault with all a lecturer's pride;
Tells him how ill he acts; that some few hours
The roughest soldier wreathes his sword with flowers,
And that in endless turmoil so to waste
The May of life was treason to good taste.
Entering a myrtle bower, she shows him, laid
Midst leaves and violets blue, a slumbering maid:
Flushed was her cheek, and as she slept she smiled,
As some delightful dream her brain beguiled:
He saw, the crimsoning cheek his passion spoke;
The bowers they rustled, and the nymph awoke.
Smit with her beauty, he desired to wed
The enchanting shape--the Goddess shook her head--
As if she feared the parties to unite;
He gazed--he gazed, insatiate with the sight!
From her dear side he could not, could not move,
Wept on her neck, and vowed eternal love.
Next, angry Mars, imperious to behold,
Advancing, gave the youth a crown of gold:
Threatening the illustrious youth, a knight was seen,
Of a fierce spirit and insulting mien.
In cautious wise beneath the setting moon
They timed their steps, and met on a pontoon;
Well had the sculptor shadowed out the fight,
His clouding crystal spoke the noon of night.
Mars was their umpire; he condemned the foe,
And placed his crown upon the conqueror's brow;
Graced with the gold, the hero shone from far,
As in blue heaven the beautiful bright star
That ushers in Aurora: thence his name
Spreads to all parts, and gathers greater fame.
Soon other happier arts he meditates
To steal from death, elusive of the Fates,
Much of himself, and live admired, unfled,
When the blind vulgar might lament him dead.
Hymen came moving to the crotal's clash,
His right foot sandalled with a golden sash;
A choir of virgins sing; on dancing feet
They part alternate, and alternate meet;
Then softly lay upon the bridal couch
A blushing girl, whom Venus did avouch
To be the same that, bowered in myrtles deep,
Erst smiled so sweetly in her dreaming sleep--
A dream as sweetly realized! she showed
Worthy the youth on whom she was bestowed;
Her pillow bore the words, impaled in flame,
DONNA MARIA ENRÍQUEZ, her name;
Anxious to be admitted, scarce the choir
Of nymphs could check Fernando's forward fire:
At length he was received, and left beside
His virtuous, pure, and beautiful young bride.
Elsewhere, on one foot standing, never stable,
Capricious Fortune did the sculptor fable,
Calling to Don Fernando that he led
A life of idleness, and now must tread
A toilsome path, but she would be his guide,
And venture first: he with her wish complied,
Made her his boon companion, and pursued
Her who, unveiled, as beautiful is wooed,
But, veiled from sight, deemed fearful, nothing worth,
Virtue her name, the rarity of earth!
Whom does she guide along with equal pace,
But him whom thus her beauty leads to face
Each fresh fatigue, for glory to aspire,
And scorn the chains of delicate desire.
The mighty Pyrenees, which seem to shoot
To heaven their summit as to hell their root,
They traversed in mid-winter; white the snow
Colours the clime, and mute the torrents flow
Under cold crystal bridges that confine
Their tides, smooth sliding through the frozen mine;
Whilst, if a blast but stirs the pines, they bend,
And with the weight of ices crashing rend.
Through all they strive, nor will be held at bay
Or by the length or wildness of the way.
By constant toil the hero makes advance,
Till the gained summit shifts the scene to France;
His swiftness Fame renewed--his spirits cheered,
On flying wings beside him she appeared,
And signified, in act and attitude,
That the hill-tracks would soon become less rude.
Of various guides the Duke selected one,
And on they rode beneath the mounting sun;
Faint wax their horses, but they reached at last
The walls of Paris, and its portals passed.
There the gaunt form of Sickness stands to sight,
The healthy duke assisting to alight;
Touched by her hand, his colour seems to fade,
He droops, he faints, and sickens to a shade.
Soon, crossing from a shady thicket green,
The form of Esculapius might be seen
With balms and herbs, nor did he slack his tread
Till he arrived beside Fernando's bed:
With his right foot he entered, and at length
Restored the patient to his usual strength.
His way he took where white-wall'd convents shine,
And reached the passage of the lucid Rhine.
The rich romantic river on its breast
Received him, glorying in so great a guest,
And called to mind the hour when to the same
Embarking point the Latin Cæsar came.
He seemed not scanty of his waves, but swelled
Floods like a sea, and the light bark impelled,
Which flying left behind green viny bowers,
High castled crags, and old romantic towers.
Blythely his impulse the swift bark obeyed,
And passed the spot where erst a ravished maid,
And thousand virgins with her, stained the sod
With blood, recorded in the book of God.
The espoused pure virgin, Ursula, was seen
Casting her dying eyes to heaven serene,
The tyrant looking on, who, at a word,
From breast to beauteous breast the sword transferred.
Thence through wide Germany he shaped his way
To where in doubt the Christian army lay,
Till to his sight the rapid Danube gave
His affluent floods; he launched upon the wave.
From the spurned shore the refluent currents strong
Winged through cleft crags his bounding boat along,
Whilst the strained oars with forcible descent
Raised showers of silver wheresoe'er it went:
On--on like lightning was it seen to fly,
Its very motion sculptured to the eye.
The heroic duke, a little farther on,
Was pictured disembarked at Ratisbon,
Where for the Imperial crown on every hand
War had convoked the magnates of the land.
Amidst his peers and princes Charles was placed,
Our Spanish Cæsar, and the duke embraced,
Charmed with his coming; all in pleased surprise
Fixed on Fernando their saluting eyes,
And the same instant they perceived him, grew
Sure of the victory when the trumpet blew.
With much vain-glory, haughtiness of mien,
And barbarous boasting, the Grand Turk was seen,
Armed, and in rich costume; pitched far and wide
Near weeping Hungary was his camp descried.
So strange a multitude o'erspread the plain,
That scarce the region could the host contain,--
A host so vast, the country, you would think,
Would fail for pasture, and the stream for drink.
Cæsar, with pious zeal and valiant soul,
These hosts despised, and bade his flags unrol;
His tribes convoked, and shortly you might see
An army form--bold, resolute, and free;
See various nations in one camp combined,
Various in speech, but influenced by one mind.
They swarmed not o'er the land in such parade
Of numbers as the Moslem, but displayed
That which these failed to show--a brave freewill,
Faith, courage, firmness, discipline, and skill.
Them with a generous zeal, by apt applause,
Fernando heartens in the common cause,
That numbers of them in his views took part,
Won to his flag with admirable art.
The fierce yet docile German he addressed
In his own style, and so to all the rest
Conformed in custom, humour, mood, and tongue,
Grave with the age'd and sprightly with the young,
That the phlegmatic Fleming would have said,
In Lisle or Antwerp he was born and bred,
In Spain the excelling Spaniard; the astute
Italian marks him, with amazement mute,
His nation's ease so well he seems to hit,
Her past proud valour, and her modern wit.
He seems in him to see arise again
Rome's last, sole hope, the youth who passed to Spain,
And closed her long, long warfare in the fall
Of rival Carthage and grim Hannibal,
Whose crimson sword, to Nemesis devote,
So oft was pointed at her naked throat.
Next sickening Envy on the crystal stood,
Severely sculptured, adverse to his good,
Gathering against Fernando, face to face,
The unfavoured faction, loud for his disgrace.
With them she armed, but in all points, with pain,
Found her arts baffled and her influence wane.
He with mild tongue and with extended hands
The tumult hushed of the censorious bands,
And by degrees soared with so high a flight,
The eyes of Envy could not reach his height,
So that successless, blinded by the blaze
Of his clear virtue, she her passion sways,
And forces her proud self, in suppliant weed,
On earth to kneel, and for forgiveness plead.
The monster's spoils he carelessly received,
And, from these rude anxieties relieved,
Walked in the cool serene of eve beside
The lonely stream, and near its tossing tide
Encountered Cæsar, full of doubt and care
For the success of the approaching war;
Since, though he banished sadness, still the thought
Of the vast stake he ventured, with it brought
Wish for wise counsel; this the duke bestowed;
They there agreed on a convenient mode
To' obstruct the plans of Solyman, destroy
His high-raised hopes, and blast his promised joy.
Their counsels ended, weary they repose
On the green turf, and as their eyelids close,
Hear the dim Danube's voice, so it might seem,
Murmur approval of their golden scheme.
Then to the pausing eye the chisel gave
The clear stream's Genius issuing from the wave,
Aged, on tiptoe moving mute, with reeds
And willows crowned, and robed in sea-green weeds;
He in that sleep uncertain showed them clear
All that concerned their ends; it would appear
That this sweet idlesse crossed their good, for swift
(As though some precious gem or cherished gift
Was burning in the flames) they start, they rise,
With terror touched and a divine surprise;
Divine surprise, that ceasing leaves behind
Hope to the heart, and gladness to the mind.
The stream without delay appeared to urge
The chiefs aboard, and smoothed its eddying surge,
That the Armada which it had to guide
O'er its broad waters might more gently glide.
What favour to the fleets its Genius bore,
Was seen in the calm wave and feathering oar.
With admirable speed you next might mark
A well-ranged army instantly embark;
The sturdy movement of dipt oars, combined
With little hindrance from the wave or wind,
Swift through the deep sonorous waters works
That fleet, obnoxious to the tyrant Turks.
No human artist could, though born to' excel,
Have framed a picture which expressed so well
The fleet, the host, the speed, the waves' rich fret;
Scarce in the forge at which the Cyclops sweat,
And, tired, change arms at every hammering blow,
Could their grand Master have expressed it so.
Through the clear current who had seen them bear,
Would on that missal have been apt to swear
That the sharp prows provoked the blue profound,
And clove the billows with a silver sound;
Grey foam before, bright bubbles danced behind;
Anon the banners, trembling in the wind,
Mimicked the moving waters; on the coast
Like living things appeared the adverse host,
Shy and incredulous, which, filled of late
With barbarous scorn and haughtiness sedate,
Thought not to meet with men that would prevent
Their march; ours, piqued by such injustice, went
Measuring their way so furiously and wroth,
That the whole stream fermented into froth.
The other host, affrighted at the view,
From tent to tent in wild distraction flew,
Eager to gather from the public breath
The' unknown intelligence of life or death;
Like a vast stream by wintry breezes crost,
Through bones and marrow ran an icy frost,
Till, the whole camp in uproar, each one placed
His hopes of safety in immediate haste.
The camp is raised in tumult; on their way
They march, they speed in shameful disarray;
Leaving behind in terror, unconcealed,
Their gold and jewels strewed o'er all the field.
The tents wherein sloth, murder, revelling,
And rape, found place with each unholy thing,
They part without; armed steeds run masterless;
On their scared lords the scared dependants press;
Whilst the fierce Spaniard, hovering round their rear,
Strains the red sword, and shakes the lifted spear.
Cæsar is seen attempting to restrain
Fernando, ardent above all to stain
His sword in unbelieving blood; with bold
And eager action, not to be controlled,
He struggles with the king; as the fierce hound
Of generous Erin, on the spring to bound
After the bristly boar, restricted, whines,
And quarrels with the leash that scarce confines
His passionate desire and fleet-foot flight,
Which makes his master draw the string more tight--
So, imaged to the life, contending stand
The fixt to fly, the settled to withstand;
So Cæsar curbs, just so Fernando grieves,
As whoso views them at a glance perceives.
Next on the clear pictorial urn is feigned
Victory, contented with the laurels gained;
Cæsar embraced--unthinking, without check,
She throws her arm around Fernando's neck;
He turns away with spleen but ill concealed,
And mourns the easy triumphs of the field.
A foreign car does next the crystal grace,
Filled with the spoils of the barbaric race,
And in accompaniment the sculptured seals
Of conquest, captives fettered to the wheels,--
Mantles, and purple silks of various realms,
Brast lances, crescents, gonfalons, and helms,
Light vant-braces, cleft shields, turbans emblazed
With gems, and swords, into a trophy raised,
Shine forth, round which, as with one heart and voice,
Cities and nations gather and rejoice.
The Tyrrhene next was whitening with the sails
Of the vast ships blown home by willing gales;
Glorious, renowned, with foamy prows they sweep,
And like majestic fishes swim the deep.
Till greenly crowned with laurel, they at last
In Barcelona Bay glad anchor cast.
Thence, promised vows fulfilled, with offered prayers
And consecrated spoils, the duke prepares
To hurry instant, glowing with the fire
Of amorous hope and long-chastised desire.
He passes Catalonia, leaves behind
The towns of Arragon, and swift as wind,
Without alighting, ever with his heel
Striking his courser, treads in sweet Castile.
To home's near joys--his lady's wished embrace,
He yields his heart--he reserenes his face,
And from his eyes and from his thought drives far
Death, dangers, doubts, vexations, wounds, and war.
Then, held alone by ecstasy in thrall,
The crystal shows him in his happy hall.
On tiptoe meeting him, with many a kiss,
His wife, half dubious of so great a bliss,
Flings round his neck with all the wife's delight
Her well-shaped arms, so delicately white,
And smiling strains him to her heart, whilst rise
Unconscious tears to her rejoicing eyes;
Those lucid eyes that the clear sun outshine,--
Glittering they gush, and make them yet more fine.
With her beloved Fernando, earth again,
The field, the stream, the mountain, and the plain,
Were deeply,--in her view, divinely blessed,
And under various modes their bliss expressed;
More lofty rise the walls; the breathing bowers
Of lovelier colours pour forth sweeter flowers;
Tormes himself is pictured in the tale,
With all his Naiads, pouring through the vale
In greater affluence his abundant streams;
With stags the face of the green mountain teems,
Roebucks and fallow deer, that sportive browze
The savoury herb, or crop the leafy boughs;
More verdant spreads the plain, extending even
Till her charmed eye beholds it blend with heaven;
And heaven is hers, deep joy, and deeper peace,
A joy whose sense exaggerates all it sees,
Full of his presence of whose praise earth sings,
And glorying Valour tells immortal things.
This saw Severo palpably and clear,
They were no dreams, no fictions; should'st thou hear
His tale, thou would'st religiously believe
The truth of it, as though thou didst perceive
Thyself the sculptures; as the urn he eyed,
He vows he in the forms such force descried--
That had even life been given to what were wrought,
They could not look more animate with thought.
What to the mind or eye obscure remained,
The courteous River lucidly explained.
"He, the young chieftain of that army," said
The God, "from pole to pole his rule shall spread;
And that his glorious deeds, when by thy lyre
Divinely hymned, mankind may more admire,
Know that these many acts, these perils sought,
And victories won by him, shall all be wrought,
With every deed with which the vase is rife,
Within the first five lustres of his life;
Now thou hast all foreseen, go forth--the Urn
To its accustomed place I must return."
"Yet first," Severo said, "to me unfold
What that may be which blinds me to behold,
Which glitters on the shaded crystal bright
As a red comet in the noon of night?"
"More knowledge, friend, than Heav'n metes out to man,"
Said he, "can ne'er be conquered by his scan;
If I not clearly picture that which draws
Thy notice thus, thou art thyself the cause;
For whilst a veil of flesh your spirit shrouds,
A thousand things are circumfused with clouds,
Which mock the curious eyes that would inquire
Into their secrets; with inferior fire
I could not work them: know then (to thy ear
I well may trust it) that what glitters here
With an excess so radiant, hue so warm,
That the dazed vision fails to fix its form,
Is what Fernando's hand and soul sublime
Shall gloriously perform in after-time;
Deeds which, compared with what he yet has done,
Are as a sparkling star or summer sun
To an obscure low vapour; thy weak view
Is not sufficient for such warmth of hue,
Till grown accustomed to the gaze; to him
Who long has languished in a dungeon dim,
Sunshine is agony--so thou, who caged
In depths of gross obstruction wert engaged
In contemplating one that might appear,
The differing native of a lovelier sphere,
Must not much wonder that thy shrinking sight
Was dazzled by such luxury of light.
But see, within my waves the sun's bright eye
Closes--is closed--ere thou canst make reply!"
Thus saying--with a pleasant parting look,
The Senior by the hand Severo shook.
Oh wonderful! the waves where the sun sank
Were on each side restricted in a rank,
And, deep albeit before, did now disclose
The bed between them, and as high they rose,
Deepening the part near which the prophet stood,
He gave a spring, and leaped into the flood;
White flew the foam to heaven, and loud to land
Roared the stirred waters mixed with golden sand.
In a new science versed, Severo grey
Was for collecting without vain delay
Its fruits for future hope, and unbesought
Wrote down the' events exact as Tormes taught;
And though he well might judge my mind would fail
To apprehend aright the' impressive tale,
Yet not for this did he refuse to' unrol
For my survey the strange prophetic scroll;
Insatiably I read, yet thou, sweet friend,
Art wondering when the tale will have an end.

SALICIO.

No! ravishment is mine
At this strange tale divine,
So well set forth by thy enchanting tongue;
Within my breast I felt,
Long as thine accents dwelt
On the rare virtues of a prince so young,
My throbbing heart beat higher,
And glow with the desire
To contemplate him present--the foretold
Of Fame, whose visnomy,
Though absent from mine eye,
By thy divine account I now behold:
Who but must wish to see the storied scrolls,
Since o'er the lively urn the silent billow rolls!
After what thou hast told,
Religiously I hold
The opinion that Severo's powers can shed
Light on the clouded brain,
Albanio's frenzy chain,
Health to the sick, and almost to the dead
Give being; it is just
We put our perfect trust
In him to whom such secrets were revealed,
As one whose skilful hand
Disorders can withstand,
Bid ev'n disease itself fresh vigour yield,
And by his subtle wisdom quickly raise
To bloom whatever droops, or sickens, or decays.

NEMOROSO.

To this result since thine opinions tend,
Salicio, what with our distracted friend?

SALICIO.

Act a friend's part; take presently our course
From hence, and ere his frenzy gathers force
Or from indulgence or delay, present
Our patient to Severe:

NEMOROSO.

I consent.
We on the morrow, ere the clear warm ray
Of the arising sun is seen to play
Upon the purple hills, will go; and sure
I feel, his skill will work an easy cure.

SALICIO.

Fold now the flock, for from the mountain's head
Cool airs descend, and longer shadows spread.
Look round, and see how from the farms whereto
Those labourers trudge, the calm smoke, rising blue,
Curls in a column to the rosy sky!
Seek with our flocks the usual vale, whilst I
Attend the youth--since he has lain so long
In quiet swoon, his fit cannot be strong.

NEMOROSO.

If thou should'st first reach home, go not to bed,
But speed the supper, and see Lyca spread
The cloth--'tis much if yet her fire's alight:

SALICIO.

I will; I will; unless in my despite
Albanio hurl me down some breakneck dell:
Farewell, dear friend!

NEMOROSO.

Salicio, friend, farewell!