I.
When I sit down to contemplate my case,
And to review the stages of the way,
I find from where my steps went first astray,
They might have lost me in a darker maze:
But when these memories pass, around I gaze,
And wonder whence could come a doom so dark;
I know I die, and suffer more to mark
My care conclude with my concluding race.
Yes, die I will, and so my spirit free
From her who well will know to' undo and slay me
If so she wishes,—such her wish will be,
For since my own will does to death betray me,
Hers, which is less my friend, must compass too
My death—if not, what is it she will do?
And to review the stages of the way,
I find from where my steps went first astray,
They might have lost me in a darker maze:
But when these memories pass, around I gaze,
And wonder whence could come a doom so dark;
I know I die, and suffer more to mark
My care conclude with my concluding race.
Yes, die I will, and so my spirit free
From her who well will know to' undo and slay me
If so she wishes,—such her wish will be,
For since my own will does to death betray me,
Hers, which is less my friend, must compass too
My death—if not, what is it she will do?
II.
At length into thy hands I come—to die;
For sure I am that ev'n the poor relief
Of lightening with laments my weight of grief,
Is a desire thy rigour will deny.
How my life has so long been borne, or why
So guardedly sustained, I cannot tell,
Unless for proof how willingly and well
The sword will act that cuts so firm a tie.
My tears have fallen where barrenness and drought
Small fruit have yielded, let what I have wept
For thee suffice—their wasted springs have kept
Pace with my pining; but if still you crave
Tears, cruel Lady, be they henceforth sought
Where the yew weeps o'er Garcilasso's grave!
For sure I am that ev'n the poor relief
Of lightening with laments my weight of grief,
Is a desire thy rigour will deny.
How my life has so long been borne, or why
So guardedly sustained, I cannot tell,
Unless for proof how willingly and well
The sword will act that cuts so firm a tie.
My tears have fallen where barrenness and drought
Small fruit have yielded, let what I have wept
For thee suffice—their wasted springs have kept
Pace with my pining; but if still you crave
Tears, cruel Lady, be they henceforth sought
Where the yew weeps o'er Garcilasso's grave!
III.
Awhile my hopes will tower aloft in air
On cheerful wings, till, weary with their flight,
They fall relaxed from their Icarian height,
And leave me on the surges of despair.
This change from bliss to ruin who could bear?
Oh wearied heart! in this thy dark estate
Of wretchedness be vigorous and elate,—
Calms follow storms, and frowning ends in fair.
By force of arm myself will undertake,
Though fraught with danger and alarming ill,
To break a barrier none beside would break;
Death—durance—nought shall countervail my will,
To come to thee, my Beauty, saved or lost,
Or as a living form, or naked ghost!
On cheerful wings, till, weary with their flight,
They fall relaxed from their Icarian height,
And leave me on the surges of despair.
This change from bliss to ruin who could bear?
Oh wearied heart! in this thy dark estate
Of wretchedness be vigorous and elate,—
Calms follow storms, and frowning ends in fair.
By force of arm myself will undertake,
Though fraught with danger and alarming ill,
To break a barrier none beside would break;
Death—durance—nought shall countervail my will,
To come to thee, my Beauty, saved or lost,
Or as a living form, or naked ghost!
IV.
Lady, thy face is written in my soul,
And whensoe'er I wish to chant thy praise,
On that illumined manuscript I gaze,
Thou the sweet scribe art, I but read the scroll.
In this dear study all my days shall roll;
And though this book can ne'er the half receive
Of what in thee is charming, I believe
In that I see not, and thus see the whole
With faith's clear eye; I but received my breath
To love thee, my ill Genius shaped the rest;
'Tis now that soul's mechanic act to love thee,
I love thee, owe thee more than I confessed;
I gained life by thee, cruel though I prove thee;
In thee I live, through thee I bleed to death.
And whensoe'er I wish to chant thy praise,
On that illumined manuscript I gaze,
Thou the sweet scribe art, I but read the scroll.
In this dear study all my days shall roll;
And though this book can ne'er the half receive
Of what in thee is charming, I believe
In that I see not, and thus see the whole
With faith's clear eye; I but received my breath
To love thee, my ill Genius shaped the rest;
'Tis now that soul's mechanic act to love thee,
I love thee, owe thee more than I confessed;
I gained life by thee, cruel though I prove thee;
In thee I live, through thee I bleed to death.
V.
By rugged ways I reach towards a bourn
Which awes me not, and if I strive to slack
My usual pace, or for a change draw back,
There am I dragged with cruel unconcern;
But still, with death at hand, for life I yearn,
And seek fresh means my footsteps to reverse;
I know the better, I approve the worse,
Either from evil custom, or the stern
Fatality of woe. Yet, my brief time—
The wandering process of my wayward years
Alike in manhood as in early prime,—
My will (with which I war not now) in fact,
Sure Death, whose peaceful slumber dries all tears,
Make me not care the harm to counteract.
Which awes me not, and if I strive to slack
My usual pace, or for a change draw back,
There am I dragged with cruel unconcern;
But still, with death at hand, for life I yearn,
And seek fresh means my footsteps to reverse;
I know the better, I approve the worse,
Either from evil custom, or the stern
Fatality of woe. Yet, my brief time—
The wandering process of my wayward years
Alike in manhood as in early prime,—
My will (with which I war not now) in fact,
Sure Death, whose peaceful slumber dries all tears,
Make me not care the harm to counteract.
VI.
He who has lost so much, stern Deity,
Can lose no more! oh Love, let what has past
Suffice thee—let it profit me at last
Ne'er to have shrunk from thy supreme decree.
On the white walls of thy pure sanctuary
My pictured tablets and dank robes I hung,
Ev'n as a shipwrecked solitary, flung
Safely ashore from thy tempestuous sea.
Then vowed I never more to trust the bliss,
At my command and option, to the guile
Of such another syren, but from this
How shall vows save me? in the risk I run
I break no vow, for neither is her smile
Like others' smiles, nor in my power to shun.
Can lose no more! oh Love, let what has past
Suffice thee—let it profit me at last
Ne'er to have shrunk from thy supreme decree.
On the white walls of thy pure sanctuary
My pictured tablets and dank robes I hung,
Ev'n as a shipwrecked solitary, flung
Safely ashore from thy tempestuous sea.
Then vowed I never more to trust the bliss,
At my command and option, to the guile
Of such another syren, but from this
How shall vows save me? in the risk I run
I break no vow, for neither is her smile
Like others' smiles, nor in my power to shun.
VII.
From that illumined face, pure, mild, and sweet,
A living spirit in keen lightning flies;
And by perception of my eager eyes,
I feel it stays not till their orbs repeat
Its ardour; blandly on the track they meet,
Which my charmed spirit, winged with warmth, pursues,
Undone, and clamouring for the good it views:
When absent, Memory in her holy heat
Paints its passed beauty, till my soul will glow,
Thinking it real, and divinely stirred,
On tiptoe fly to its embrace, but meeting
Nought but repulse from its angelic foe,
Whose aspect guards the gate, it dies with beating
Its heart against it, like a captive bird.
A living spirit in keen lightning flies;
And by perception of my eager eyes,
I feel it stays not till their orbs repeat
Its ardour; blandly on the track they meet,
Which my charmed spirit, winged with warmth, pursues,
Undone, and clamouring for the good it views:
When absent, Memory in her holy heat
Paints its passed beauty, till my soul will glow,
Thinking it real, and divinely stirred,
On tiptoe fly to its embrace, but meeting
Nought but repulse from its angelic foe,
Whose aspect guards the gate, it dies with beating
Its heart against it, like a captive bird.
VIII.
If I live on, dear Lady, in the void
Caused by your absences, I seem to' offend
Him who adores you, and to discommend
The bliss that in your presence I enjoyed.
Soon by another thought am I annoyed—
If I of life despair, I forfeit too
The good I hope for in beholding you;
By ills so varying is my peace destroyed.
My feelings in this variance all take part
So fiercely, that I know not what decreed
Me to such grievances—I never look
On their dissensions without swift rebuke,
But night and day they war with nicest art.
And in my ruin are alone agreed.
Caused by your absences, I seem to' offend
Him who adores you, and to discommend
The bliss that in your presence I enjoyed.
Soon by another thought am I annoyed—
If I of life despair, I forfeit too
The good I hope for in beholding you;
By ills so varying is my peace destroyed.
My feelings in this variance all take part
So fiercely, that I know not what decreed
Me to such grievances—I never look
On their dissensions without swift rebuke,
But night and day they war with nicest art.
And in my ruin are alone agreed.
IX.
Oh lovely gifts, by me too fatal found!
Lovely and dear indeed whilst Heaven was kind;
In mine immortal memory ye are joined,
And sworn with her to give my dying wound;
Who would have said, sweet seasons past, when crowned
With the ecstatic hope your emblems lent,
That one day you would have to represent
Despair so dark, affliction so profound?
Since in an hour ye made unpitying theft
Of those Elysian dreams, do not deny
To take as well the sorrow you have left;
Else, can I but suspect ye raised so high
My youthful joys, to wish that I should die
Midst mournful memories of the bliss bereft!
Lovely and dear indeed whilst Heaven was kind;
In mine immortal memory ye are joined,
And sworn with her to give my dying wound;
Who would have said, sweet seasons past, when crowned
With the ecstatic hope your emblems lent,
That one day you would have to represent
Despair so dark, affliction so profound?
Since in an hour ye made unpitying theft
Of those Elysian dreams, do not deny
To take as well the sorrow you have left;
Else, can I but suspect ye raised so high
My youthful joys, to wish that I should die
Midst mournful memories of the bliss bereft!
X.
In order to restrain this mad desire,
Impossible and rash, and thus to miss
The fall from danger's crag, ah, if for this
My proud thoughts, blind with what they most admire,
Still fail to see what safety would require,
Me as I am, too timid or too bold,
In such confusion that I dare not hold
The reins of that which sets my soul on fire;
What can it serve to see the pictured tale
Of him who, falling with scorched wings, gave name
And celebration to the Icarian seas;
Or that where (poplars now) seven maids bewail
Their Phaëton's past frenzy, and the flame
Whose rage the' Italian waves could scarce appease?
Impossible and rash, and thus to miss
The fall from danger's crag, ah, if for this
My proud thoughts, blind with what they most admire,
Still fail to see what safety would require,
Me as I am, too timid or too bold,
In such confusion that I dare not hold
The reins of that which sets my soul on fire;
What can it serve to see the pictured tale
Of him who, falling with scorched wings, gave name
And celebration to the Icarian seas;
Or that where (poplars now) seven maids bewail
Their Phaëton's past frenzy, and the flame
Whose rage the' Italian waves could scarce appease?
XI.
Strange icy throes the arms of Daphne bind,
Which shoot, and spread, and lengthen into boughs;
And into green leaves metamorphosed shows
The head whose locks, wooed by the summer wind,
Made the fine gold seem dim; the rigorous rind
Clothes the soft members that still pant; her feet,
Snowy as swift, in earth fast rooted meet,
By thousand tortuous fibres intertwined.
The author of an injury so great,
With virtue of his tears this laurel fed,
Which flourished thus, perpetual greenness keeping;
Oh fatal growth! oh miserable estate!
That from his weeping each fresh day should spread
The very cause and reason of his weeping.
Which shoot, and spread, and lengthen into boughs;
And into green leaves metamorphosed shows
The head whose locks, wooed by the summer wind,
Made the fine gold seem dim; the rigorous rind
Clothes the soft members that still pant; her feet,
Snowy as swift, in earth fast rooted meet,
By thousand tortuous fibres intertwined.
The author of an injury so great,
With virtue of his tears this laurel fed,
Which flourished thus, perpetual greenness keeping;
Oh fatal growth! oh miserable estate!
That from his weeping each fresh day should spread
The very cause and reason of his weeping.
XII.
As a fond mother, whose sick infant lies
Weeping, importunate for what she knows
If giv'n will double all his pangs and woes,
In tenderest mercy his desire denies;
Till, moved to pity by his streaming eyes,
She can withstand no longer, but in haste
Submits the flavourous mischief to his taste,
And seals his ruin, though she stills his cries;
So to my sick and frenzied thoughts that yearn
And plead to me for thee, I would deny
The fatal fruit with merciful concern;
But night and day they murmur, weep, and pine,
Till I, alas, consent to soothe their cry,
Forgetful of their death, and ev'n of mine!
Weeping, importunate for what she knows
If giv'n will double all his pangs and woes,
In tenderest mercy his desire denies;
Till, moved to pity by his streaming eyes,
She can withstand no longer, but in haste
Submits the flavourous mischief to his taste,
And seals his ruin, though she stills his cries;
So to my sick and frenzied thoughts that yearn
And plead to me for thee, I would deny
The fatal fruit with merciful concern;
But night and day they murmur, weep, and pine,
Till I, alas, consent to soothe their cry,
Forgetful of their death, and ev'n of mine!
XIII.
If lamentations and complaints could rein
The course of rivers as they rolled along,
And move on desert hills, attired in song,
The savage forests, if they could constrain
Fierce tigers and chill rocks to entertain
The sound, and with less urgency than mine,
Lead tyrant Pluto and stern Proserpine,
Sad and subdued with magic of their strain;
Why will not my vexatious being, spent
In misery and in tears, to softness soothe
A bosom steeled against me? with more ruth
An ear of rapt attention should be lent
The voice of him that mourns himself for lost,
Than that which sorrowed for a forfeit ghost!
The course of rivers as they rolled along,
And move on desert hills, attired in song,
The savage forests, if they could constrain
Fierce tigers and chill rocks to entertain
The sound, and with less urgency than mine,
Lead tyrant Pluto and stern Proserpine,
Sad and subdued with magic of their strain;
Why will not my vexatious being, spent
In misery and in tears, to softness soothe
A bosom steeled against me? with more ruth
An ear of rapt attention should be lent
The voice of him that mourns himself for lost,
Than that which sorrowed for a forfeit ghost!
XIV. EPITAPH ON HIS BROTHER, D. FERNANDO DE GUZMAN,
Who died of the Pestilence at Naples, in the twentieth year of his age, serving in the army of the Emperor against the French.
Neither the odious weapons of the Gaul,
In anger brandished at my breast, nor sleet
Of poisonous arrows, than the winds more fleet,
Shot by the warders of the mounted wall,
Nor skirmish, nor the roaring thunderball—
The dreadful counterpart of those above,
Forged by Vulcanian artifice, when Jove
In wrath would the rebellious world appal—
Could for a single moment haste my death,
Though much I braved the risks of cruel war;
But 'twas the fatal air bereaved my breath,
In one short day, and to thine urnless hand,
Parthenope, consigned my ashes—far,
Alas! so far from my dear native land!
In anger brandished at my breast, nor sleet
Of poisonous arrows, than the winds more fleet,
Shot by the warders of the mounted wall,
Nor skirmish, nor the roaring thunderball—
The dreadful counterpart of those above,
Forged by Vulcanian artifice, when Jove
In wrath would the rebellious world appal—
Could for a single moment haste my death,
Though much I braved the risks of cruel war;
But 'twas the fatal air bereaved my breath,
In one short day, and to thine urnless hand,
Parthenope, consigned my ashes—far,
Alas! so far from my dear native land!
XV.
Fate! in my griefs sole agent, how have I
Felt thy harsh rule! my vine, with hurtful hand,
Thou hast cut down, and scattered on the sand
Both flower and fruit; in little compass lie
My loves—the joys of summers far-flown by—
And every happier expectation turned
To scornful ashes, which, though scarce inurned,
Hear not the wrath and clamour of my cry.
The tears which thou to-day hast seen me shower
On this lone sepulchre, receive, receive!
Though there they may be fruitless, till the hour
When the brown shadows of an endless eve
Shall shroud these eyes, which saw on earth thy power,
Leaving me others which thou canst not grieve.
Felt thy harsh rule! my vine, with hurtful hand,
Thou hast cut down, and scattered on the sand
Both flower and fruit; in little compass lie
My loves—the joys of summers far-flown by—
And every happier expectation turned
To scornful ashes, which, though scarce inurned,
Hear not the wrath and clamour of my cry.
The tears which thou to-day hast seen me shower
On this lone sepulchre, receive, receive!
Though there they may be fruitless, till the hour
When the brown shadows of an endless eve
Shall shroud these eyes, which saw on earth thy power,
Leaving me others which thou canst not grieve.
XVI.
Thinking the path I journeyed led me right,
I have fallen on such mishap, that not the pleas
Of fancy, nor the wildest images
Can for an instant minister delight.
The green field seems a desert,—starry night
Obscure—the sprightliest conversation dead—
Sweet music harsh, and my most favourite bed
Of odorous violets, the hard field of fight.
Of sleep—(if sleep I have) that part alone
Visits my weary soul, which surely is
The frightful synonym of death, and last,
I deem, whate'er may be my spirit's tone,—
Ere half run out its sands of weariness,
Each passing hour still heavier than the past.
I have fallen on such mishap, that not the pleas
Of fancy, nor the wildest images
Can for an instant minister delight.
The green field seems a desert,—starry night
Obscure—the sprightliest conversation dead—
Sweet music harsh, and my most favourite bed
Of odorous violets, the hard field of fight.
Of sleep—(if sleep I have) that part alone
Visits my weary soul, which surely is
The frightful synonym of death, and last,
I deem, whate'er may be my spirit's tone,—
Ere half run out its sands of weariness,
Each passing hour still heavier than the past.
XVII.
If I am wax to thy sweet will, and hence
Sun myself only in thy sight, (and he
Who views thy radiance uninflamed, must be
Void of all feeling) whence, Señora, whence
Rises a circumstance, whose strange offence
Against the laws of reason, had it been
Less seldom proved on me—less seldom seen,
Had led me to mistrust my very sense—
Whence comes it, that far-off I am inflamed
And kindled by thy aspect, even until
My melting heart its fervour scarce sustains,
Whilst if encountered near by thine untamed,
Untameably bright eye, an instant chill
Makes the blood curdle in my crimson veins?
Sun myself only in thy sight, (and he
Who views thy radiance uninflamed, must be
Void of all feeling) whence, Señora, whence
Rises a circumstance, whose strange offence
Against the laws of reason, had it been
Less seldom proved on me—less seldom seen,
Had led me to mistrust my very sense—
Whence comes it, that far-off I am inflamed
And kindled by thy aspect, even until
My melting heart its fervour scarce sustains,
Whilst if encountered near by thine untamed,
Untameably bright eye, an instant chill
Makes the blood curdle in my crimson veins?
XVIII. TO JULIO CÆSAR CARACCIOLA.
Julio! when weeping I have left the friend
That never leaves my thought, the better part
Of my cleft soul, that like another heart
Did life and strength to my existence lend,
After my sum of bliss I seem to send
An eye of strict inquiry, and so fast
Find it consuming, that I fear at last
Peace must depart, and ev'n existence end.
And in this fear my tongue strives to converse
With thee, dear friend, of that remembered day,
When I began, sad wanderer to thy shrine
Of beauty, from my own far, far away,
News of thy soul to send in plaintive verse,
And learn from thee intelligence of mine.
That never leaves my thought, the better part
Of my cleft soul, that like another heart
Did life and strength to my existence lend,
After my sum of bliss I seem to send
An eye of strict inquiry, and so fast
Find it consuming, that I fear at last
Peace must depart, and ev'n existence end.
And in this fear my tongue strives to converse
With thee, dear friend, of that remembered day,
When I began, sad wanderer to thy shrine
Of beauty, from my own far, far away,
News of thy soul to send in plaintive verse,
And learn from thee intelligence of mine.
XIX.
So strongly are the cruel winds combined
My ruin to concert, that they disperse
My tender fancies soon as framed, and worse,
Leave all my keen anxieties behind,
That like tenacious ivies darkly twined
Round some old ruin, fix their vigorous root
Deep in my heart, and their wild branches shoot
O'er all the fond affections of my mind.
Yet on the other hand I murmur not,
Now that the winds in their tempestuous strife
Have stolen my bliss, that thus my sorrows stay;
I rather gather comfort from the thought;
For in the process of so hard a life,
They lessen the long toil and weary way.
My ruin to concert, that they disperse
My tender fancies soon as framed, and worse,
Leave all my keen anxieties behind,
That like tenacious ivies darkly twined
Round some old ruin, fix their vigorous root
Deep in my heart, and their wild branches shoot
O'er all the fond affections of my mind.
Yet on the other hand I murmur not,
Now that the winds in their tempestuous strife
Have stolen my bliss, that thus my sorrows stay;
I rather gather comfort from the thought;
For in the process of so hard a life,
They lessen the long toil and weary way.
XX. TO D. ALONSO DE AVALO, MARQUIS DEL VASTO.
Illustrious Marquis, on whom Heaven showers down
All the bliss this world knows! if to the light
Of thy resplendent valour—to the height
Whereto the voice of thy sublime renown
Calls me, I climb, as to the flaming crown
Of some stupendous mountain, thou shalt be
Eternal, peerless, sole, and I through thee
Scornful of winged Time's destructive frown.
All that we wish from heaven, and gain on earth,
Are in thy high perfections met; in short,
Thou art the unique wonder, at whose birth
Her world of bright conceptions Nature scanned,
Singled the best, and with Dædalian hand,
Thrice livelier than her cast the statue wrought.
All the bliss this world knows! if to the light
Of thy resplendent valour—to the height
Whereto the voice of thy sublime renown
Calls me, I climb, as to the flaming crown
Of some stupendous mountain, thou shalt be
Eternal, peerless, sole, and I through thee
Scornful of winged Time's destructive frown.
All that we wish from heaven, and gain on earth,
Are in thy high perfections met; in short,
Thou art the unique wonder, at whose birth
Her world of bright conceptions Nature scanned,
Singled the best, and with Dædalian hand,
Thrice livelier than her cast the statue wrought.
XXI.
With keen desire to see what the fine swell
Of thy white bosom in its core keeps shrined,
If the interior graces of the mind
Its outward shape and loveliness excel,
I have my sight fixed on it; but the spell
Of its voluptuous beauty holds mine eyes
In such enchantment, that their curious spies
Pass not to mark the spirit in its cell,
And thus stay weeping at the portal, made
To grieve me by that hiding hand which even
Holds its own bosom's beauty unforgiven;
So I behold my hope to death betrayed,
And love's sharp lances, rarely known to fail,
Serve not to pierce beyond its muslin mail.
Of thy white bosom in its core keeps shrined,
If the interior graces of the mind
Its outward shape and loveliness excel,
I have my sight fixed on it; but the spell
Of its voluptuous beauty holds mine eyes
In such enchantment, that their curious spies
Pass not to mark the spirit in its cell,
And thus stay weeping at the portal, made
To grieve me by that hiding hand which even
Holds its own bosom's beauty unforgiven;
So I behold my hope to death betrayed,
And love's sharp lances, rarely known to fail,
Serve not to pierce beyond its muslin mail.
XXII.
As, love, the lily and purpureal rose
Show their sweet colours on thy chaste warm cheek,
Thy radiant looks, angelically meek,
Serene the tempest to divine repose,
And as thy hair, which for its birthright chose
The opal's dye, upon the whitest neck
Waved by the winds of heaven without a check,
In exquisite disorder falls and flows;
Gather the rich fruit of thy mirthful spring,
Ere angry Time around thy temples shed
The snows of hasting age; his icy wing
Will wither the fresh rose, however red;
And changing not his custom, quickly change
The glory of all objects in his range.
Show their sweet colours on thy chaste warm cheek,
Thy radiant looks, angelically meek,
Serene the tempest to divine repose,
And as thy hair, which for its birthright chose
The opal's dye, upon the whitest neck
Waved by the winds of heaven without a check,
In exquisite disorder falls and flows;
Gather the rich fruit of thy mirthful spring,
Ere angry Time around thy temples shed
The snows of hasting age; his icy wing
Will wither the fresh rose, however red;
And changing not his custom, quickly change
The glory of all objects in his range.
XXIII.
Prostrate on earth the lofty column lies,
That late sustained my life; oh how much joy,
How many hopes did one dark day destroy!
And on the wind each blest idea flies.
How sure to fail is Fancy, when she tries
To build aught durable for me! fresh woes
Come with the force of persecuting foes,
And like abandoned things my hopes chastise:
Oft times I yield, yet oft my tyrants face,
With a new fury that might break in twain
A mountain placed to bar my way—impell'd
By the desire some day to turn again—
Turn to behold her loveliness and grace,
Whom it were better ne'er to have beheld.
That late sustained my life; oh how much joy,
How many hopes did one dark day destroy!
And on the wind each blest idea flies.
How sure to fail is Fancy, when she tries
To build aught durable for me! fresh woes
Come with the force of persecuting foes,
And like abandoned things my hopes chastise:
Oft times I yield, yet oft my tyrants face,
With a new fury that might break in twain
A mountain placed to bar my way—impell'd
By the desire some day to turn again—
Turn to behold her loveliness and grace,
Whom it were better ne'er to have beheld.
XXIV. FROM AUSIAS MARCH.[AS]
Love! I have dressed myself in robes of white,
Shaped by thy scissors; as I put them on,
I find them loose and easy, but anon
They grow uneasy, cumbersome, and tight.
After consenting with a child's delight
To wear them, such repentance has possessed
My soul, that oft, by pure impatience pressed,
I try to tear them off in thy despite.
But who can free himself from such a suit,
When his thwart nature has become thereto
Conformed? if of my reason any part
Remains unparalyzed, it has not heart
To abet my cause, for in this stern dispute
Of circumstance, it knows it would not do.
Shaped by thy scissors; as I put them on,
I find them loose and easy, but anon
They grow uneasy, cumbersome, and tight.
After consenting with a child's delight
To wear them, such repentance has possessed
My soul, that oft, by pure impatience pressed,
I try to tear them off in thy despite.
But who can free himself from such a suit,
When his thwart nature has become thereto
Conformed? if of my reason any part
Remains unparalyzed, it has not heart
To abet my cause, for in this stern dispute
Of circumstance, it knows it would not do.
XXV. TO BOSCÁN.
Boscán, you are now revenged upon my play
Of past severe unkindness, who reproved
The tenderness of that soft heart which loved
With such excessive warmth; now, not a day
Passes, but for the things I used to say
With so much rudeness, I myself chastise;
Still, times there are when I at heart despise,
And blush for the abasement I betray.
Know that, full grown, and armed against desire,
With my eyes open I have vailed my plume
To the blind boy you know,—but soft, my lute,
Never, oh never did man's heart consume
In so divine and beautiful a fire;
If you her name solicit, I am mute.
Of past severe unkindness, who reproved
The tenderness of that soft heart which loved
With such excessive warmth; now, not a day
Passes, but for the things I used to say
With so much rudeness, I myself chastise;
Still, times there are when I at heart despise,
And blush for the abasement I betray.
Know that, full grown, and armed against desire,
With my eyes open I have vailed my plume
To the blind boy you know,—but soft, my lute,
Never, oh never did man's heart consume
In so divine and beautiful a fire;
If you her name solicit, I am mute.
XXVI.
Wild doubts, that floating in my brain delight
To war with my fond feelings, tempesting
In your suspicious flight with angry wing
My melancholy bosom, day and night!
Now is my force of mind extinguished quite,
And all resistance, vain is my lamenting,—
Vanquished, I yield myself at length, repenting,—
E'er to have striven in such a hopeless fight.
Bear me to that lone tower whose gate alarms
The quick,—my death I saw not graven there,
Blindness has sealed my eyes till now; my arms
I cast aside; since their misfortunes bar
Help from the unhappy—the proud pomp prepare,
And hang my spoils on your triumphal car!
To war with my fond feelings, tempesting
In your suspicious flight with angry wing
My melancholy bosom, day and night!
Now is my force of mind extinguished quite,
And all resistance, vain is my lamenting,—
Vanquished, I yield myself at length, repenting,—
E'er to have striven in such a hopeless fight.
Bear me to that lone tower whose gate alarms
The quick,—my death I saw not graven there,
Blindness has sealed my eyes till now; my arms
I cast aside; since their misfortunes bar
Help from the unhappy—the proud pomp prepare,
And hang my spoils on your triumphal car!
XXVII.
Within my spirit was conceived in train
Of amiable esteem a love most sweet,
Whose birth, with all the joy with which men greet
Their first-born's birth, long wished for, but in vain,
I hailed,—but soon from it was born a bane
Which has entirely conquered that fond flight
Of feeling, and transformed my first delight
Into sharp rigour and tormenting pain.
O cruel grandson, that to thy meek sire
Giv'st life, yet strik'st thy mournful grandsire dead,
Why so unlike thy parent! what black scowl
Wear'st thou, stern Jealousy, beneath thy cowl,
When ev'n thine own fierce mother, Envy dire,
Shrieks to behold the monster which she bred!
Of amiable esteem a love most sweet,
Whose birth, with all the joy with which men greet
Their first-born's birth, long wished for, but in vain,
I hailed,—but soon from it was born a bane
Which has entirely conquered that fond flight
Of feeling, and transformed my first delight
Into sharp rigour and tormenting pain.
O cruel grandson, that to thy meek sire
Giv'st life, yet strik'st thy mournful grandsire dead,
Why so unlike thy parent! what black scowl
Wear'st thou, stern Jealousy, beneath thy cowl,
When ev'n thine own fierce mother, Envy dire,
Shrieks to behold the monster which she bred!
XXVIII.
I am for ever bathed in tears, I rend
The air with sighs, and suffer more from dread
To tell thee 'tis through thee I have been led
To such a state that, seeing where I tend,
And the long distance I have come, sweet friend,
In following thee, if I desire to leave
The vain pursuit, my heart sinks to perceive
The way behind me lengthening without end.
And if I wish to reach the onward height,
Sad thoughts of those who in the wilderness
Have fallen, at every step awake my fear;
Now above all things then I need the light
Of hope, by which I have been wont to steer
Through the dim tract of thy forgetfulness.
The air with sighs, and suffer more from dread
To tell thee 'tis through thee I have been led
To such a state that, seeing where I tend,
And the long distance I have come, sweet friend,
In following thee, if I desire to leave
The vain pursuit, my heart sinks to perceive
The way behind me lengthening without end.
And if I wish to reach the onward height,
Sad thoughts of those who in the wilderness
Have fallen, at every step awake my fear;
Now above all things then I need the light
Of hope, by which I have been wont to steer
Through the dim tract of thy forgetfulness.
XXIX.
Past now the countries of the Midland Main,
Wretched—I lose the bliss of former times,
Borne farther every day from Christian climes,
Realms, customs, tongues, and from my native Spain.
And now despairing to return again,
I muse on remedies of fancied power;
The most assured one is the fatal hour
That will conclude at once my life and pain.
I should be charmed from whate'er ills close o'er me,
With seeing you, Lady, or might hope to be,
If I could hope without the certainty
Of losing what I hope; but not seeing you,
Save death, I see no remedy before me,
And if death be one, it will fail me too.
Wretched—I lose the bliss of former times,
Borne farther every day from Christian climes,
Realms, customs, tongues, and from my native Spain.
And now despairing to return again,
I muse on remedies of fancied power;
The most assured one is the fatal hour
That will conclude at once my life and pain.
I should be charmed from whate'er ills close o'er me,
With seeing you, Lady, or might hope to be,
If I could hope without the certainty
Of losing what I hope; but not seeing you,
Save death, I see no remedy before me,
And if death be one, it will fail me too.
XXX. TO BOSCÁN, FROM GOLETTA.
Boscán! the sword, the shout, and trumpet shrill
Of Mars, who, watering with his own red blood
The Lybian soil in this tremendous feud,
Makes our green Roman laurel flourish still,—
Have to my memory brought the ancient skill,
And old Italian valour, by whose force
All Africa was shook, from the coy source
Of Nile's young fountain to far Atlas' hill.
Here, where the steady Roman's conquering brand
And fiery torch tipt with licentious flame,
Have left poor Carthage nothing but a name,
Love with his whirling thoughts on every hand
Wounds and inflames me in his fearful sway,
And I in tears and ashes waste away.
Of Mars, who, watering with his own red blood
The Lybian soil in this tremendous feud,
Makes our green Roman laurel flourish still,—
Have to my memory brought the ancient skill,
And old Italian valour, by whose force
All Africa was shook, from the coy source
Of Nile's young fountain to far Atlas' hill.
Here, where the steady Roman's conquering brand
And fiery torch tipt with licentious flame,
Have left poor Carthage nothing but a name,
Love with his whirling thoughts on every hand
Wounds and inflames me in his fearful sway,
And I in tears and ashes waste away.
XXXI.
I thank thee, Heaven, that I have snapt in twain
The heavy yoke that on my neck I wore,
And that at length I can behold from shore,
Void of all fear, the black tempestuous main;
Can see, suspended by a slender chain,
The life of lovers who enchanted rest
In error, slumbering upon Beauty's breast,
To warning deaf, and blinded to their bane.
So shall I smile when mortals are undone,
Nor yet be found so cruel to my kind
As may appear,—I shall but smile as one
To health restored, whom sickness long confined,
Not to see others suffering, but to see
Myself from similar afflictions free.
The heavy yoke that on my neck I wore,
And that at length I can behold from shore,
Void of all fear, the black tempestuous main;
Can see, suspended by a slender chain,
The life of lovers who enchanted rest
In error, slumbering upon Beauty's breast,
To warning deaf, and blinded to their bane.
So shall I smile when mortals are undone,
Nor yet be found so cruel to my kind
As may appear,—I shall but smile as one
To health restored, whom sickness long confined,
Not to see others suffering, but to see
Myself from similar afflictions free.
XXXII. TO MARIO GALEOTA.
WRITTEN FROM GOLETTA.
My friend, ungrateful Love, who well must know
With what pure constancy my faith I keep,
Exerting his base pride, which is to heap
Upon his dearest friend his heaviest woe,—
Fearing that if I write, and publish so
His deeds, his grandeur I abate, his force
Not equalling his spite, has had recourse
To the fierce intervention of my foe;
And in the noble part with which I wield
The sword, and that which gives intelligence
Of our conceptions, I have wounded been;
But I will take good care that the offence
Shall cost the offender dear, now I am healed,
Offended, free, and for repayment keen.
With what pure constancy my faith I keep,
Exerting his base pride, which is to heap
Upon his dearest friend his heaviest woe,—
Fearing that if I write, and publish so
His deeds, his grandeur I abate, his force
Not equalling his spite, has had recourse
To the fierce intervention of my foe;
And in the noble part with which I wield
The sword, and that which gives intelligence
Of our conceptions, I have wounded been;
But I will take good care that the offence
Shall cost the offender dear, now I am healed,
Offended, free, and for repayment keen.
XXXIII.
My tongue goes as grief guides it, and I stray
Already in my grief without a guide;
We both must go, howe'er dissatisfied,
With hasty step in an unwished-for way.
I, but companioned by the dark array
Of images that frenzy does create,
And that, as forced along by grief to state
A thousand things it never wished to say.
The law to me is most severe—it knows
My innocence, yet makes not mine alone,
But others' faults, my torturers! why should I
Smart for the madness of my tongue, when woes
Beyond endurance lift the lash on high,
And Reason trembles on her tottering throne?
Already in my grief without a guide;
We both must go, howe'er dissatisfied,
With hasty step in an unwished-for way.
I, but companioned by the dark array
Of images that frenzy does create,
And that, as forced along by grief to state
A thousand things it never wished to say.
The law to me is most severe—it knows
My innocence, yet makes not mine alone,
But others' faults, my torturers! why should I
Smart for the madness of my tongue, when woes
Beyond endurance lift the lash on high,
And Reason trembles on her tottering throne?
XXXIV.
Entering a valley in a sandy waste
Which none was journeying save myself alone,
A dog I noticed, which with piteous tone
In disconcerted grief the wild sands paced;
Now to the sky it howled, its way now traced
Snuffing the dew, now ran, now turned, now stayed,
And its concern by every mark betrayed
Of desolate delay or restless haste.
It was that it had missed its lord that morn,
And felt the separation; mark the pain
Of absence! Much did its distraction move
My pity, and 'have patience, poor forlorn,'
I cried—'I, thy superior, from my love
Am absent too, yet my regret restrain.'
Which none was journeying save myself alone,
A dog I noticed, which with piteous tone
In disconcerted grief the wild sands paced;
Now to the sky it howled, its way now traced
Snuffing the dew, now ran, now turned, now stayed,
And its concern by every mark betrayed
Of desolate delay or restless haste.
It was that it had missed its lord that morn,
And felt the separation; mark the pain
Of absence! Much did its distraction move
My pity, and 'have patience, poor forlorn,'
I cried—'I, thy superior, from my love
Am absent too, yet my regret restrain.'
XXXV.
Loud blew the winds in anger and disdain,
And raged the waves, when to his Sestian maid,
Leander, ardent of her charms, essayed
For the last time to swim the stormy main.
Conquered with toil, o'erwearied, and in pain,
More for the bliss which he should lose by death,
Than sorrowful to breathe out his sweet breath
On the vext surge he buffeted in vain,—
Feebly, 'twas all he could, the dying boy
Called to the waves, (but never word of woe
Was heard by them) "if me you must destroy,
This melancholy night, look not so stern;
Vent as you will your rage on my return,
But spare, kind waters, spare me as I go!"
And raged the waves, when to his Sestian maid,
Leander, ardent of her charms, essayed
For the last time to swim the stormy main.
Conquered with toil, o'erwearied, and in pain,
More for the bliss which he should lose by death,
Than sorrowful to breathe out his sweet breath
On the vext surge he buffeted in vain,—
Feebly, 'twas all he could, the dying boy
Called to the waves, (but never word of woe
Was heard by them) "if me you must destroy,
This melancholy night, look not so stern;
Vent as you will your rage on my return,
But spare, kind waters, spare me as I go!"