The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch

My heart was fill'd with wonder and amaze,
As one struck dumb, in silence stands at gaze
Expecting counsel, when my friend drew near,
And said: "What do you look? why stay you here?
What mean you? know you not that I am one
Of these, and must attend? pray, let's be gone."
"Dear friend," said I, "consider what desire
To learn the rest hath set my heart on fire;
My own haste stops me." "I believe 't," said he,
"And I will help; 'tis not forbidden me.
This noble man, on whom the others wait
(You see) is Pompey, justly call'd The Great:
Cornelia followeth, weeping his hard fate,
And Ptolemy's unworthy causeless hate.
You see far off the Grecian general;
His base wife, with Ægisthus wrought his fall:
Behold them there, and judge if Love be blind.
But here are lovers of another kind,
And other faith they kept. Lynceus was saved
By Hypermnestra: Pyramus bereaved
Himself of life, thinking his mistress slain:
Thisbe's like end shorten'd her mourning pain.
Leander, swimming often, drown'd at last;
Hero her fair self from her window cast.
Courteous Ulysses his long stay doth mourn;
His chaste wife prayeth for his safe return;
While Circe's amorous charms her prayers control,
And rather vex than please his virtuous soul.
Hamilcar's son, who made great Rome afraid,
By a mean wench of Spain is captive led.
This Hypsicratea is, the virtuous fair,
Who for her husband's dear love cut her hair,
And served in all his wars: this is the wife
Of Brutus, Portia, constant in her life
And death: this Julia is, who seems to moan,
That Pompey lovèd best, when she was gone.
Look here and see the Patriarch much abused
Who twice seven years for his fair Rachel choosed
To serve: O powerful love increased by woe!
His father this: now see his grandsire go
With Sarah from his home. This cruel Love
O'ercame good David; so it had power to move
His righteous heart to that abhorrèd crime,
For which he sorrow'd all his following time;
Just such like error soil'd his wise son's fame,
For whose idolatry God's anger came:
Here's he who in one hour could love and hate:
Here Tamar, full of anguish, wails her state;
Her brother Absalom attempts t' appease
Her grievèd soul. Samson takes care to please
His fancy; and appears more strong than wise,
Who in a traitress' bosom sleeping lies.
Amongst those pikes and spears which guard the place,
Love, wine, and sleep, a beauteous widow's face
And pleasing art hath Holophernes ta'en;
She back again retires, who hath him slain,
With her one maid, bearing the horrid head
In haste, and thanks God that so well she sped.
The next is Sichem, he who found his death
In circumcision; his father hath
Like mischief felt; the city all did prove
The same effect of his rash violent love.
You see Ahasuerus how well he bears
His loss; a new love soon expels his cares;
This cure in this disease doth seldom fail,
One nail best driveth out another nail.
If you would see love mingled oft with hate,
Bitter with sweet, behold fierce Herod's state,
Beset with love and cruelty at once:
Enraged at first, then late his fault bemoans,
And Mariamne calls; those three fair dames
(Who in the list of captives write their names)
Procris, Deidamia, Artemisia were
All good, the other three as wicked are—
Semiramis, Byblis, and Myrrha named,
Who of their crooked ways are now ashamed
Here be the erring knights in ancient scrolls,
Lancelot, Tristram, and the vulgar souls
That wait on these; Guenever, and the fair
Isond, with other lovers; and the pair
Who, as they walk together, seem to plain,
Their just, but cruel fate, by one hand slain."
Thus he discoursed: and as a man that fears
Approaching harm, when he a trumpet hears,
Starts at the blow ere touch'd, my frighted blood
Retired: as one raised from his tomb I stood;
When by my side I spied a lovely maid,
(No turtle ever purer whiteness had!)
And straight was caught (who lately swore I would
Defend me from a man at arms), nor could
Resist the wounds of words with motion graced:
The image yet is in my fancy placed.
My friend was willing to increase my woe,
And smiling whisper'd,—"You alone may go
Confer with whom you please, for now we are
All stained with one crime." My sullen care
Was like to theirs, who are more grieved to know
Another's happiness than their own woe;
For seeing her, who had enthrall'd my mind,
Live free in peace, and no disturbance find:
And seeing that I knew my hurt too late.
And that her beauty was my dying fate:
Love, jealousy, and envy held my sight
So fix'd on that fair face, no other light
I could behold; like one who in the rage
Of sickness greedily his thirst would 'suage
With hurtful drink, which doth his palate please,
Thus (blind and deaf t' all other joys are ease)
So many doubtful ways I follow'd her,
The memory still shakes my soul with fear.
Since when mine eyes are moist, and view the ground,
My heart is heavy, and my steps have found
A solitary dwelling 'mongst the woods,
I stray o'er rocks and fountains, hills and floods:
Since when such store my scatter'd papers hold
Of thoughts, of tears, of ink; which oft I fold,
Unfold, and tear: since when I know the scope
Of Love, and what they fear, and what they hope;
And how they live that in his cloister dwell,
The skilful in their face may read it well.
Meanwhile I see, how fierce and gallant she
Cares not for me, nor for my misery,
Proud of her virtue, and my overthrow:
And on the other side (if aught I know),
This lord, who hath the world in triumph led,
She keeps in fear; thus all my hopes are dead,
No strength nor courage left, nor can I be
Revenged, as I expected once; for he,
Who tortures me and others, is abused
By her; she'll not be caught, and long hath used
(Rebellious as she is!) to shun his wars,
And is a sun amidst the lesser stars.
Her grace, smiles, slights, her words in order set;
Her hair dispersed or in a golden net;
Her eyes inflaming with a light divine
So burn my heart, I dare no more repine.
Ah, who is able fully to express
Her pleasing ways, her merit? No excess,
No bold hyperboles I need to fear,
My humble style cannot enough come near
The truth; my words are like a little stream
Compared with th' ocean, so large a theme
Is that high praise; new worth, not seen before,
Is seen in her, and can be seen no more;
Therefore all tongues are silenced; and I,
Her prisoner now, see her at liberty:
And night and day implore (O unjust fate!)
She neither hears nor pities my estate:
Hard laws of Love! But though a partial lot
I plainly see in this, yet must I not
Refuse to serve: the gods, as well as men,
With like reward of old have felt like pain.
Now know I how the mind itself doth part
(Now making peace, now war, now truce)—what art
Poor lovers use to hide their stinging woe:
And how their blood now comes, and now doth go
Betwixt their heart and cheeks, by shame or fear:
How they be eloquent, yet speechless are;
And how they both ways lean, they watch and sleep,
Languish to death, yet life and vigour keep:
I trod the paths made happy by her feet,
And search the foe I am afraid to meet.
I know how lovers metamorphosed are
To that they love: I know what tedious care
I feel; how vain my joy, how oft I change
Design and countenance; and (which is strange)
I live without a soul: I know the way
To cheat myself a thousand times a day:
I know to follow while I flee my fire
I freeze when present; absent, my desire
Is hot: I know what cruel rigour Love
Practiseth on the mind, and doth remove
All reason thence, and how he racks the heart:
And how a soul hath neither strength nor art
Without a helper to resist his blows:
And how he flees, and how his darts he throws:
And how his threats the fearful lover feels:
And how he robs by force, and how he steals:
How oft his wheels turn round (now high, now low)
With how uncertain hope, how certain woe:
How all his promises be void of faith,
And how a fire hid in our bones he hath:
How in our veins he makes a secret wound,
Whence open flames and death do soon abound.
In sum, I know how giddy and how vain
Be lovers' lives; what fear and boldness reign
In all their ways; how every sweet is paid.
And with a double weight of sour allay'd:
I also know their customs, sighs, and songs;
Their sudden muteness, and their stammering tongues:
How short their joy, how long their pain doth last,
How wormwood spoileth all their honey's taste.

Anna Hume.

PART IV.

Poscia che mia fortuna in forza altrui.

When once my will was captive by my fate,
And I had lost the liberty, which late
Made my life happy; I, who used before
To flee from Love (as fearful deer abhor
The following huntsman), suddenly became
(Like all my fellow-servants) calm and tame;
And view'd the travails, wrestlings, and the smart,
The crooked by-paths, and the cozening art
That guides the amorous flock: then whilst mine eye
I cast in every corner, to espy
Some ancient or modern who had proved
Famous, I saw him, who had only loved
Eurydice, and found out hell, to call
Her dear ghost back; he named her in his fall
For whom he died. Aleæus there was known,
Skilful in love and verse: Anacreon,
Whose muse sung nought but love: Pindarus, he
Was also there: there I might Virgil see:
Many brave wits I found, some looser rhymes,
By others writ, hath pleased the ancient times:
Ovid was one: after Catullus came:
Propertius next, his elegies the name
Of Cynthia bear: Tibullus, and the young
Greek poetess, who is received among
The noble troop for her rare Sapphic muse.
Thus looking here and there (as oft I use),
I spied much people on a flowery plain,
Amongst themselves disputes of love maintain.
Behold Beatrice with Dante; Selvaggia, she
Brought her Pistoian Cino; Guitton may be
Offended that he is the latter named:
Behold both Guidos for their learning famed:
Th' honest Bolognian: the Sicilians first
Wrote love in rhymes, but wrote their rhymes the worst.
Franceschin and Sennuccio (whom all know)
Were worthy and humane: after did go
A squadron of another garb and phrase,
Of whom Arnaldo Daniel hath most praise,
Great master in Love's art, his style, as new
As sweet, honours his country: next, a few
Whom Love did lightly wound: both Peters made
Two: one, the less Arnaldo: some have had
A harder war; both the Rimbaldos, th' one
Sung Beatrice, though her quality was known
Too much above his reach in Montferrat.
Alvernia's old Piero, and Girault:
Folchetto, who from Genoa was estranged
And call'd Marsilian, he wisely changed
His name, his state, his country, and did gain
In all: Jeffray made haste to catch his bane
With sails and oars: Guilliam, too, sweetly sung
That pleasing art, was cause he died so young.
Amarig, Bernard, Hugo, and Anselm
Were there, with thousands more, whose tongues were helm,
Shield, sword, and spear, all their offensive arms,
And their defensive to prevent their harms.
From those I turn'd, comparing my own woe,
To view my country-folks; and there might know
The good Tomasso, who did once adorn
Bologna, now Messina holds his urn.
Ah, vanish'd joys! Ah, life too full of bane!
How wert thou from mine eyes so quickly ta'en!
Since without thee nothing is in my power
To do, where art thou from me at this hour?
What is our life? If aught it bring of ease,
A sick man's dream, a fable told to please.
Some few there from the common road did stray;
Lælius and Socrates, with whom I may
A longer progress take: Oh, what a pair
Of dear esteemèd friends to me they were!
'Tis not my verse, nor prose, may reach thieir praise;
Neither of these can naked virtue raise
Above her own true place: with them I have
Reach'd many heights; one yoke of learning gave
Laws to our steps, to them my fester'd wound
I oft have show'd; no time or place I found
To part from them; and hope, and wish we may
Be undivided till my breath decay:
With them I used (too early) to adorn
My head with th' honour'd branches, only worn
For her dear sake I did so deeply love,
Who fill'd my thoughts; but ah! I daily prove,
No fruit nor leaves from thence can gather'd be:
The root hath sharp and bitter been to me.
For this I was accustomed much to vex,
But I have seen that which my anger checks:
(A theme for buskins, not a comic stage)
She took the God, adored by the rage
Of such dull fools as he had captive led:
But first, I'll tell you what of us he made;
Then, from her hand what was his own sad fate,
Which Orpheus or Homer might relate.
His winged coursers o'er the ditches leapt,
And we their way as desperately kept,
Till he had reached where his mother reigns,
Nor would he ever pull or turn the reins;
But scour'd o'er woods and mountains; none did care
Nor could discern in what strange world they were.
Beyond the place, where old Ægeus mourns,
An island lies, Phœbus none sweeter burns,
Nor Neptune ever bathed a better shore:
About the midst a beauteous hill, with store
Of shades and pleasing smells, so fresh a spring
As drowns all manly thoughts: this place doth bring
Venus much joy; 't was given her deity,
Ere blind man knew a truer god than she:
Of which original it yet retains
Too much, so little goodness there remains,
That it the vicious doth only please,
Is by the virtuous shunn'd as a disease.
Here this fine Lord insulteth o'er us all
Tied in a chain, from Thule to Ganges' fall.
Griefs in our breasts, vanity in our arms;
Fleeting delights are there, and weighty harms:
Repentance swiftly following to annoy:
(Such Tarquin found it, and the bane of Troy)
All that whole valley with the echoes rung
Of running brooks, and birds that gently sung:
The banks were clothed in yellow, purple, green,
Scarlet and white, their pleasing springs were seen;
And gliding streams amongst the tender grass,
Thickets and soft winds to refresh the place.
After when winter maketh sharp the air,
Warm leaves, and leisure, sports, and gallant cheer
Enthrall low minds. Now th' equinox hath made
The day t' equal the night; and Progne had
With her sweet sister, each their old task ta'en:
(Ah! how the faith in fortune placed is vain!)
Just in the time, and place, and in the hour
When humble tears should earthly joys devour,
It pleased him, whom th' vulgar honour so,
To triumph over me; and now I know
What miserable servitude they prove,
What ruin, and what death, that fall in love.
Errors, dreams, paleness waiteth on his chair,
False fancies o'er the door, and on the stair
Are slippery hopes, unprofitable gain,
And gainful loss; such steps it doth contain,
As who descend, may boast their fortune best;
Who most ascend, most fall: a wearied rest,
And resting trouble, glorious disgrace;
A duskish and obscure illustriousness;
Unfaithful loyalty, and cozening faith,
That nimble fury, lazy reason hath:
A prison, whose wide ways do all receive,
Whose narrow paths a hard retiring leave:
A steep descent, by which we slide with ease,
But find no hold our crawling steps to raise:
Within confusion, turbulence, annoy
Are mix'd; undoubted woe, and doubtful joy:
Vulcano, where the sooty Cyclops dwell;
Liparis, Stromboli, nor Mongibel,
Nor Ischia, have more horrid noise and smoke:
He hates himself that stoops to such a yoke.
Thus were we all throng'd in so strait a cage,
I changed my looks and hair, before my age,
Dreaming on liberty (by strong desire
My soul made apt to hope), and did admire
Those gallant minds, enslaved to such a woe
(My heart within my breast dissolved like snow
Before the sun), as one would side-ways cast
His eye on pictures, which his feet hath pass'd.

Anna Hume.

THE SAME.

PART I.

The fatal morning dawn'd that brought again
The sad memorial of my ancient pain;
That day, the source of long-protracted woe,
When I began the plagues of Love to know,
Hyperion's throne, along the azure field,
Between the splendid horns of Taurus wheel'd;
And from her spouse the Queen of Morn withdrew
Her sandals, gemm'd with frost-bespangled dew.
Sad recollection, rising with the morn,
Of my disastrous love, repaid with scorn,
Oppressed my sense; till welcome soft repose
Gave a short respite from my swelling woes.
Then seem'd I in a vision borne away,
Where a deep winding vale sequester'd lay;
Nor long I rested on the flowery green
Ere a soft radiance dawn'd along the scene.—
Fallacious sign of hope! for, close behind,
Dark shades of coming woe were seen combined.
There, on his car, a conqu'ring chief I spied,
Like Rome's proud sons, that led the living tide
Of vanquished foes, in long triumphal state,
To Capitolian Jove's disclosing gate.
With little joy I saw the splendid show,
Spent and dejected by my lengthen'd woe;
Sick of the world, and all its worthless train,
That world, where all the hateful passions reign;
And yet intent the mystic cause to find,
(For knowledge is the banquet of the mind)
Languid and slow I turn'd my cheerless eyes
On the proud warrior, and his uncouth guise.
High on his seat an archer youth was seen,
With loaded quiver, and malicious mien
Nor plate, nor mail, his cruel shaft can ward,
Nor polish'd burganet the temples guard;
His burning chariot seem'd by coursers drawn;
While, like the snows that clothe the wintry lawn
His waving wings with rainbow colour gay
On either naked shoulder seem'd to play;
And, filing far behind, a countless train
In sad procession hid the groaning plain:
Some, captive, seem'd in long disastrous strife,
Some, in the deadly fray, bereft of life;
And freshly wounded some. A viewless hand
Led me to mingle with the mornful band,
And learn the fortunes of the sentenced crew,
Who, pierced by Love, had bid the world adieu.
With keen survey I mark'd the ghostly show,
To find a shade among the sons of woe
To memory known: but every trace was lost
In the dim features of the moving host:
Oblivion's hand had drawn a dark disguise
O'er their wan lineaments and beamless eyes.
At length, a pallid face I seem'd to know;
Which wore, methought, a lighter mask of woe;
He call'd me by my name.—"Behold!" he cried,
"What plagues the hapless thralls of Love abide!"—
"How am I known by thee?" with new surprise
I cried; "no mark recalls thee to my eyes."—
"Oh, heavy is my load!" he seem'd to say;
"Through this dark medium no detecting ray
Assists thy sight; but I, like thee, can boast
My birth on famed Etruria's ancient coast."—
The secret which his murky mask conceal'd,
His well-known voice and Tuscan tongue reveal'd;
Thence to a lighter station we repair'd,
And thus the phantom spoke, with mild regard:—
"We thought to see thy name with ours enroll'd
Long since; for oft thy looks this fate foretold."—
"True," I replied; "but I survived the strife:
His arrows reach'd me, but were short of life."—
Pausing, he spoke:—"A spark to flame will rise,
And bear thy name in glory to the skies."—
His meaning was obscure, but in my breast
I felt the substance of his words impress'd,
As sculptured stone, or monumental brass,
Keeps the firm record, or heroic face.
With youthful ardour new, and hope inspired,
Quick from my grave companion I required
The name and fortunes of the passing train.
And why in mournful pomp they trod the plain—
"Time," he return'd, "the secret then will show,
When thou shalt join the retinue of woe:
But years shall sprinkle o'er thy locks with gray,
And alter'd looks the signs of age betray,
Ere at his powerful touch the fetters fall,
Which many a moon thy captive limbs shall gall:
Yet will I grant thy suit, and give to view
The various fortunes of the captive crew:
But mark their leader first, that chief renown'd—
The Power of Love! by every nation own'd.
His sway thou soon, as well as we, shalt know,
Stung to the heart by goads of dulcet woe.
In him unthinking youth's misgovern'd rage,
Join'd with the cool malignity of age,
Is known to mingle with insidious guile,
Deep, deep conceal'd beneath an infant's smile.
The child of slothful ease, and sensual heat—
By sweet delirious thoughts, in dark retreat,
Mature in mischief grown—he springs away,
A wingèd god, and thousands own his sway.
Some, as thou seest, are number'd with the dead,
And some the bitter drops of sorrow shed
Through lingering life, by viewless tangles bound,
That link the soul, and chain it to the ground.
There Cæsar walks! of Celtic laurels proud.
Nor feels himself in sensual bondage bow'd:
He treads the flowery path, nor sees the snare
Laid for his honour by the Egyptian fair.
Here Love his triumph shows, and leads along
The world's great owner in the captive throng;
And o'er the master of unscepter'd kings
Exulting soars, and claps his purple wings.
See his adopted son! he knew her guile,
And nobly scorn'd the siren of the Nile;
Yet fell by Roman charms and from her spouse
The pregnant consort bore, regardless of her vows
There, cruel Nero feels his iron heart
Lanced by imperious Love's resistless dart;
Replete with rage, and scorning human ties,
He falls the victim of two conquering eyes;
Deep ambush'd there in philosophic spoils,
The little tyrant tries his artful wiles:
E'en in that hallow'd breast, where, deep enshrined,
Lay all the varied treasures of the mind,
He lodged his venom'd shaft. The hoary sage,
Like meaner mortals, felt the passion rage
In boundless fury for a strumpet's charms,
And clasp'd the shining mischief in his arms.—
See Dionysius link'd with Pheræ's lord,
Pale doubt and dread on either front abhorr'd.
Scowl terrible! yet Love assign'd their doom;
A wife and mistress mark'd them for the tomb!—
The next is he that on Antandros' coast
His fair Crëusa mourn'd, for ever lost;
Yet cut the bonds of Love on Tyber's shore,
And bought a bride with young Evander's gore.
Here droop'd the victim of a lawless flame:
The amorous frenzy of the Cretan dame
He fled abhorrent, and contemn'd her tears,
And to the dire suggestion closed his ears.
But nought, alas! his purity avail'd—
Fate in his flight the hapless youth assail'd,
By interdicted Love to Vengeance fired;
And by his father's curse the son expired.
The stepdame shared his fate, and dearly paid
A spouse, a sister, and a son betray'd:
Her conscience, by the false impeachment stung,
Upon herself return'd the deadly wrong;
And he, that broke before his plighted vows,
Met his deserts in an adulterous spouse.
See! where he droops between the sister dames,
And fondly melts—the other scorns his flames,—
The mighty slave of Omphale behind
Is seen, and he whom Love and fraud combined
Sent to the shades of everlasting night;
And still he seems to weep his wretched plight.—
There, Phyllis mourns Demophoon's broken vows,
And fell Medea there pursues her spouse;
With impious boast, and shrill upbraiding cries,
She tells him how she broke the holy ties
Of kindred for his sake; the guilty shore
That from her poignard drank a brother's gore;
The deep affliction of her royal sire.
Who heard her flight with imprecations dire.—
See! beauteous Helen, with her Trojan swain—
The royal youth that fed his amorous pain,
With ardent gaze, on those destructive charms
That waken'd half the warring world to arms—
Yonder, behold Œnone's wild despair,
Who mourns the triumphs of the Spartan fair!
The injured husband answers groan for groan,
And young Hermione with piteous moan
Orestes calls; while Laodamia near
Bewails her valiant consort's fate severe.—
Adrastus' daughter there laments her spouse
Sincere and constant to her nuptial vows;
Yet, lured by her, with gold's seductive aid,
Her lord, Eriphile, to death betray'd."

And now, the baleful anthem, loud and long,
Rose in full chorus from the passing throng;
And Love's sad name, the cause of all their woes,
In execrations seem'd the dirge to close.—
But who the number and the names can tell
Of those that seem'd the deadly strain to swell!—
Not men alone, but gods my dream display'd—
Celestial wailings fill'd the myrtle shade:
Soft Venus, with her lover, mourn'd the snare,
The King of Shades, and Proserpine the fair;
Juno, whose frown disclosed her jealous spite;
Nor, less enthrall'd by Love, the god of light,
Who held in scorn the wingèd warrior's dart
Till in his breast he felt the fatal smart.—
Each god, whose name the learned Roman told,
In Cupid's numerous levy seem'd enroll'd;
And, bound before his car in fetters strong,
In sullen state the Thunderer march'd along.

Boyd.

PART II.

Thus, as I view'd th' interminable host,
The prospect seem'd at last in dimness lost:
But still the wish remain'd their doom to know,
As, watchful, I survey'd the passing show.
As each majestic form emerged to light,
Thither, intent, I turn'd my sharpen'd sight;
And soon a noble pair my notice drew,
That, hand in hand approaching, met my view.
In gentle parley, and communion sweet—
With looks of love, they seem'd mine eyes to meet;
Yet strange was their attire—their tongue unknown
Spoke them the natives of a distant zone;
But every doubt my kind assistant clear'd,
Instant I knew them, when their names were heard.
To one, encouraged by his aspect mild,
I spoke—the other with a frown recoil'd.—
"O Masinissa!"—thus my speech began,
"By Scipio's friendship, and the gentle ban
Of constant love, attend my warm request."
Turning around, the solemn shade address'd
His answer thus:—"With like desire I glow
Your lineage, name, and character, to know,
Since you have learnt my name." With soft reply
I said, "A name like mine can nought supply
The notice of renown like yours to claim.
No smother'd spark like mine emits a flame
To catch the public eye, as you can boast—
A leading name in Cupid's numerous host!
Alike his future victims and the past
Shall own the common tie, while time itself shall last.
But tell me (if your guide allow a space
The semblance of those tendant shades to trace)
The names and fortunes of the following pair
Who seem the noblest gifts of mind to share."—
"My name," he said, "you seem to know so well
That faithful Memory all the rest can tell;
But as the sad detail may soothe my woes,
Listen, while I my mournful doom disclose:—
To Rome and Scipio's cause my faith was bound,
E'en Lælius scarce a warmer friendship own'd:
Where'er their ensigns fann'd the summer sky,
I led my Libyans on, a firm ally;
Propitious Fortune still advanced his name,
Yet more than she bestow'd, his worth might claim.
Still we advanced, and still our glory grew
While westward far the Roman eagle flew
With conquest wing'd; but my unlucky star
Led me, unconscious, to the fatal snare
Which Love had laid. I saw the regal dame—
Our hearts at once confess'd a mutual flame.
Caught by the lure of interdicted joys,
Proudly I scorn'd the stern forbidding voice
Of Roman policy; and hoped the vows
At Hymen's altar sworn, might save my spouse.
But, oh! that wondrous man, who ne'er would yield
To passion's call, the cruel sentence seal'd,
That tore my consort from my fond embrace,
And left me sunk in anguish and disgrace.
Unmoved he saw my briny sorrows flow,
Unmoved he listen'd to my tale of woe!
But friendship, waked at last, with reverent awe,
Obsequious, own'd his mind's superior law;
And to that holy and unclouded light,
That led him on through passion's dubious night,
Submiss I bow'd; for, oh! the beam of day
Is dark to him that wants her guiding ray!—
Love, hardly conquer'd, long repined in vain,
When Justice link'd the adamantine chain;
And cruel Friendship o'er the conquer'd ground
Raised with strong hand th' insuperable mound.
To him I owed my laurels nobly won—
I loved him as a brother, sire, and son,
For in an equal race our lives had run;
Yet the sad price I paid with burning tears;—
Dire was the cause that woke my gloomy fears!
Too well the sad result my soul divined,
Too well I knew the unsubmitting mind
Of Sophonisba would prefer the tomb
To stern captivity's ignoble doom.
I, too, sad victim of celestial wrath,
Was forced to aid the tardy stroke of death:
With pangs I yielded to her piercing cries,
To speed her passage to the nether skies;
And worse than death endured, her mind to save
From shame, more hateful than the yawning grave.—
What was my anguish, when she seized the bowl,
She knows! and you, whose sympathising soul
Has felt the fiery shaft, may guess my pains—
Now tears and anguish are her sole remains.
That treasure, to preserve my faith to Rome,
Those hands committed to th' untimely tomb;
And every hope and joy of life resign'd
To keep the stain of falsehood from my mind.
But hasten, and the moving pomp survey,
(The light-wing'd moments brook no long delay),
To try if any form your notice claims
Among those love-lorn youths and amorous dames."—
With poignant grief I heard his tale of woe,
That seem'd to melt my heart like vernal snow,
When a low voice these sullen accents sung:—
"Not for himself, but those from whom he sprung,
He merits fate; for I detest them all
To whose fell rage I owe my country's fall."
"Oh, calm your rage, unhappy Queen!" I cried;
"Twice was the land and sea in slaughter dyed
By cruel Carthage, till the sentence pass'd
That laid her glories in the dust at last."—
"Yet mournful wreaths no less the victors crown'd;
In deep despair our valour oft they own'd.
Your own impartial annals yet proclaim
The Punic glory and the Roman shame."
She spoke—and with a smile of hostile spite
Join'd the deep train, and darken'd to my sight.
Then, as a traveller through lands unknown
With care and keen observance journeys on;
Whose dubious thoughts his eager steps retard,
Thus through the files I pass'd with fix'd regard;
Still singling some amid the moving show,
Intent the story of their loves to know.
A spectre now within my notice came,
Though dubious marks of joy, commix'd with shame,
His features wore, like one who gains a boon
With secret glee, which shame forbids to own,
O dire example of the Demon's power!
The father leaves the hymeneal bower
For his incestuous son; the guilty spouse
With transport mix'd with honour, meets his vows!
In mournful converse now, amidst the host,
Their compact they bewail'd, and Syria lost!
Instant, with eager step, I turn'd aside,
And met the double husband, and the bride,
And with an earnest voice the first address'd:—
A look of dread the spectre's face express'd,
When first the accents of victorious Rome
Brought to his mind his kingdom's ancient doom.
At length, with many a doleful sigh, he said,
"You here behold Seleucus' royal shade.
Antiochus is next; his life to save,
My ready hand my beauteous consort gave,
(From me, whose will was law, a legal prize,)
That bound our souls in everlasting ties
Indissolubly strong. The royal fair
Forsook a throne to cure the deep despair
Of him, who would have dared the stroke of Death,
To keep, without a stain, his filial faith.
A skilful leech the deadly symptoms guess'd;
His throbbing veins the secret soon confess'd
Of Love with honour match'd, in dire debate,
Whenever he beheld my lovely mate;
Else gentle Love, subdued by filial dread,
Had sent him down among th' untimely dead."—
Then, like a man that feels a sudden thought
His purpose change, the mingling crowd he sought,
And left the question, which a moment hung
Scarce half suppress'd upon my faltering tongue.
Suspended for a moment, still I stood,
With various thoughts oppress'd in musing mood.
At length a voice was heard, "The passing day
Is yours, but it permits not long delay."—
I turn'd in haste, and saw a fleeting train
Outnumbering those who pass'd the surging main
By Xerxes led—a naked wailing crew,
Whose wretched plight the drops of sorrow drew
From my full eyes.—Of many a clime and tongue
Commix'd the mournful pageant moved along
While scarce the fortunes or the name of one
Among a thousand passing forms was known.
I spied that Ethiopian's dusky charms,
Which woke in Perseus' bosom Love's alarms;
And next was he who for a shadow burn'd,
Which the deceitful watery glass return'd;
Enamour'd of himself, in sad decay—
Amid abundance, poor—he look'd his life away;
And now transform'd through passion's baneful power,
He o'er the margin hangs, a drooping flower;
While, by her hopeless love congeal'd to stone,
His mistress seems to look in silence on;
Then he that loved, by too severe a fate,
The cruel maid who met his love with hate,
Pass'd by; with many more who met their doom
By female pride, and fill'd an early tomb.—
There too, the victim of her plighted vows,
Halcyone for ever mourns her spouse;
Who now, in feathers clad, as poets feign,
Makes a short summer on the wintry main.—
Then he that to the cliffs the maid pursued,
And seem'd by turns to soar, and swim the flood;—
And she, who, snared by Love, her father sold,
With her, who fondly snared the rolling gold;
And her young paramour, who made his boast
That he had gain'd the prize his rival lost.—
Acis and Galatea next were seen,
And Polyphemus with infuriate mien;—
And Glaucus there, by rival arts assail'd,
Fell Circe's hate and Scylla's doom bewail'd.—
Then sad Carmenta, with her royal lord,
Whom the fell sorceress clad, by arts abhorr'd,
With plumes; but still the regal stamp impress'd
On his imperial wings and lofty crest.—
Then she, whose tears the springing fount supplied;—
And she whose form above the rolling tide
Hangs a portentous cliff—the royal fair,
Who wrote the dictates of her last despair
To him whose ships had left the friendly strand.
With the keen steel in her determined hand.—
There, too, Pygmalion, with his new-made spouse,
With many more, I spied, whose amorous vows
And fates in never-dying song resound
Where Aganippe laves the sacred ground:—
And, last of all, I saw the lovely maid
Of Love unconscious, by an oath betray'd.