The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Works of Garcilasso de la Vega, by J.H. Wiffen.

Boscán! here, where the Mantuan has inurned
Anchises' ashes to eternal fame,
We, Cæsar's hosts, from conquest are returned,
Some of their toils the promised fruits to claim—
Some who make virtue both the end and aim
Of action, or would have the world suppose
And say so, loud in public to declaim
Against such selfishness; whilst yet, heaven knows,
They act in secret all the meanness they oppose.

For me, a happy medium I observe;
For never has it entered in my scheme
To strive for much more silver than may serve
To lift me gracefully from each extreme
Of thrifty meanness, thriftless pride; I deem
The men contemptible that stoop to use
The one or other, that delight to seem
Too close, or inconsiderate in their views:
In error's moonlight maze their way both worthies lose.

But whither rove I? I stand pledged to send
An elegy, and find my language fast
Sliding toward satire; I correct, sweet friend,
My wandering course; and prosecute at last
My purpose, whither thou must know the past
Has ever led, and where the present still
Leads Garcilasso: on the green turf cast,
Here, midst the woods of this stupendous hill,
On various things I brood, not unperplexed by ill.

Yet leave I not the Muses, but the more
For this perplexity with them commune,
And with the charm of their delicious lore
Vary my life, and waste the summer noon;
Thus pass my hours beguiled; but out of tune
The lyre will sometimes be, when trials prove
The anxious lyrist: to the country soon
Of the sweet Siren shall I hence remove,
Yet, as of yore, the land of idlesse, ease, and love.

There once before my troubled heart found rest
With the sad turtle; but it is not now
So much by sadness as chill fear possessed,
Which, shooting through my veins, I know not how
To' endure and still exist; did sadness bow
My spirit but as then, 'twere a mere name;
Short absence from one's love, I even allow,
Enlivens life; slight water poured on flame
Brightens its blaze—in love short absence does the same.

But if much water on the flame is shed,
It fumes, it hisses, and the splendid fire
Decays into dark ashes; absence spread
Into great length, so deals with the desire
Kindled by love, and o'er the smouldering pyre
Of passion coldness creeps: I only wrong
This one result; the love that would expire
With all else lives in me, and, short or long,
Absence augments my ills, and makes desire more strong.

And reason, it might almost be presumed,
Confirms the paradox thus made of me,
And me alone; for doomed, as I was doomed
By heaven to love's sweet fires eternally,
Absence to quench the flame should also be
Infinite without end, unlimited
In its duration—a most startling plea,
True though it is, for absence can but spread
Through life, which finite is—it not disturbs the dead.

But how, oh how shall I be sure, that here
My evil Genius, in the change I seek,
Is not still sworn against me? this strong fear
It is that chills my heart, and renders weak
The wish I feel to visit that antique
Italian city, whence my eyes derive
Such exquisite delight, with tears they speak
Of the contrasting griefs my heart that rive,
And with them up in arms against me here I strive.

Oh fierce—oh rigorous—oh remorseless Mars!
In diamond tunic garmented, and so
Steeled always in the harshness that debars
The soul from feeling! wherefore as a foe
Force the fond lover evermore to go
Onward from strife to strife, o'er land and sea?
Exerting all thy power to work me woe,
I am so far reduced, that death would be
At length a blessed boon, my refuge, fiend, from thee!

But my hard fate this blessing does deny—
I meet it not in battle; the strong spear,
Sharp sword, and piercing arrow pass me by,
Yet strike down others in their young career,
That I might pine away to see my dear
Sweet fruit engrossed by aliens who deride
My vain distress; but whither does my fear
And grief transport me without shame or pride?
Whither I dread to think, and grieve to have descried?

Where the seen evil (from despair's revealings
Being already lost) can ne'er augment
My pain a tittle; such are now my feelings—
Yet if, when come, it should unveiled present
Its face of horror, what I now lament
Would gain in brightness; I should always feel
Grateful to Fortune, if she would consent
Merely on what my anxious fears reveal
Of pictured ills in store, to' affix her final seal.

It is, I know, the way to soothe the heart
With self-deceit, and dwell alone thereon,
As the sick man to whom true friends impart
His hopeless state, and warn him that anon
His failing, fluttering spirit must be gone,
Soothed by his wife's fond clamours that his case
Is not so bad, to fresh assurance won,
Casts at the word his eyes on her dear face,
And glad at heart expires, endeavouring her embrace.

'Tis wise—'tis well; thus Garcilasso too
Will leave each dark reflection, and rely
On Hope's gay dreams, no matter false or true,
And in his dear deceit contented die.
Since the clear knowledge that my end is nigh
Can never cure the ill, I too will play
With death, and as lost patients when they try
Warm baths, and perish in unfelt decay,
From love and life alike most sweetly faint away.

But thou, who in thy villa, blest with all
That heart can wish, look'st on the sweet sea-shore,
And undistracted, listening to the fall
And swell of the loud waves that round thee roar,
Gatherest to thy already rich scrutoire,
Fresh living verses for perpetual fame,
Rejoice! for fires more beauteous than of yore
Were kindled by the Dardan prince, inflame
Thy philosophic breast, and light thy laurelled name.

Fear not that Fortune with thwart blast will e'er
Vex thee—these lucid fires will calmness shed
On her wild winds; for me, I well see where
She forces me along, not to the dead,
For that is my desire; my hope is fed
By a deceit most slight, which does but just
Endure, whilst if I weave not the thin thread
Day after day, it breaking leaves my trust
Past fresh revival fallen, and darkening into dust.

This sole return my servitude obtains
From stepdame Fortune, that she should deny
Her common changes in the griefs and pains
That vex my being; whither shall I fly,
A moment to shake off the misery
That loads my heart? alas, it is decreed
That distance to my anguish should supply
No rest, no ease, but that where'er I speed,
My arm from cankering chains should never more be freed!

If where the burning sun his splendour flings
On the scorched sands of Africa the wild,
Nurse of all venomous and savage things,
Or where his fire is quenched by ices piled
On ices to the clouds, where flower ne'er smiled,
Nor save the hoarse blast aught endured the clime,
I by imperious Fortune were exiled,
There to consume my melancholy time,
Smit by the' unshadowed blaze, or rained on by the rime;—

There, with his icy hand Fear still would seize
On my sad heart, and here, mid silent snows,
Where the sharp wind seems ev'n the stars to freeze,
Curdling to ice the flood that swiftest flows;
Ev'n here, I know that I could interpose
No screen to shield me from the vivid fire
Wherein chastised my ardent spirit glows,
Wasting away I trust by slow desire,
And thus 'twixt clashing ills distractedly expire.

Who loves like me for his friend's eye to frame
Thoughts even on things that have no Spanish name,
Can never want materials for his sheet,
Clothed in a style brief, simple, easy, neat,
And chaste in ornament, as best befits
The chitchat writing of familiar wits.
Amidst the' advantage which with other things
To minds like ours perfected friendship brings,
Is this same careless freedom which one gains
From the nice pomp of ceremonial chains.
Thus free, thus easy, I proceed to tell
In the first place, that I'm arrived—and well
As one can be, who in a time so brief
Has rid the distance noted over-leaf.
A looser rein I give, as I proceed,
To my winged fancy than my trotting steed;
At times it bears me onward by a way
So smooth and pleasant, with a step so gay,
As makes me quite forget my past fatigues;
At times o'er ruts so rough, by such long leagues,
That in the present pain I lose no less
The vexing thought of undergone distress;
But times there are again, when I create
A middle course, both temperate and sedate,
When taste and temper, scene and season suit
With the ingenious thought and nice dispute.
Thus as I musing rode one day, and thought
On his endowments who so well has taught
The paths to friendship,[AR] almost instantly
My thoughts, beloved Boscán, recurred to thee,
And feelings rose, which singular appear,
At least to me, which therefore thou shalt hear.
Whilst much reflecting on the sacred tie
Of our affection which I hold so high,
The' exchange of talent, taste, intelligence,
Shared gifts and multiplied delights which thence
Refresh our souls in their perpetual flow—
There nothing is that makes me value so
The sweetness of this compact of the heart,
Than the affection on my own warm part.
Such force it has, that (not disparaging
The other pleasures that from friendship spring)
The aid—the advantage each to each has dealt,
With this alone my soul has seemed to melt,
And I well know that I am otherwise
Influenced in this than by the joys that rise
From things as useful; seeing then the' effect
So strong within me, led me to reflect
And search into the cause; I have thus traced
The pleasure, profit, ornament, and taste
Which the blest chain of love to me imparts,
(The chain some Angel tangled round our hearts)
To their true source, as things that do not mount
From me, but tell alone to my account;
But love itself (whence all things may have birth)
When it is seen to furnish aught of worth
To thee, dear friend, joy, taste, or benefit,
Is the grand reason of my valuing it
Above all selfish interests, as it is
More godlike to bestow imparted bliss,
Than to receive it; thus the loving makes
My good—a good that of no ill partakes.
Such were my thoughts. But oh, how shall I set
Fully to view my shame and my regret,
For having praised so at a single glance
The roads, the dealings, and hotels of France!
Shame—that with reason now thou may'st pronounce
Myself a fabler, and my praise a bounce;
Regret—my time so much to have misused
In rashly lauding what were best abused;
For here, all fibs apart, you find but jades
Of hacks, sour wines, and pilfering chambermaids,
Long ways, long bills, no silver, fleecing hosts,
And all the luxury of lumbering posts.
Arriving too from Naples by the way,
Naples,—the choice, the brilliant, and the gay!
I left no treasure buried there, except
You say that's buried which I might have kept;
Embrace Durál [10] for me, nor rate my Muse:
October twelfth, given forth from sweet Vaucluse,
Where the fine flame of Petrarch had its birth,
And where its ashes yet irradiate earth.

Had I the sweet resounding lyre,
Whose voice could in a moment chain
The howling wind's ungoverned ire,
And movement of the raging main,
On savage hills the leopard rein,
The lion's fiery soul entrance,
And lead along with golden tones
The fascinated trees and stones
In voluntary dance;

Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gnide,
It e'er should celebrate the scars,
Dust raised, blood shed, or laurels dyed
Beneath the gonfalon of Mars;
Or, borne sublime on festal cars,
The chiefs who to submission sank
The rebel German's soul of soul,
And forged the chains that now control
The frenzy of the Frank.

No, no! its harmonies should ring
In vaunt of glories all thine own,
A discord sometimes from the string
Struck forth to make thy harshness known
The fingered chords should speak alone
Of Beauty's triumphs, Love's alarms,
And one who, made by thy disdain
Pale as a lily clipt in twain,
Bewails thy fatal charms.

Of that poor captive, too contemned,
I speak,—his doom you might deplore—
In Venus' galliot-shell condemned
To strain for life the heavy oar.
Through thee no longer as of yore
He tames the unmanageable steed,
With curb of gold his pride restrains,
Or with pressed spurs and shaken reins
Torments him into speed.

Not now he wields for thy sweet sake
The sword in his accomplished hand,
Nor grapples like a poisonous snake,
The wrestler on the yellow sand:
The old heroic harp his hand
Consults not now, it can but kiss
The amorous lute's dissolving strings,
Which murmur forth a thousand things
Of banishment from bliss.

Through thee, my dearest friend and best
Grows harsh, importunate, and grave;
Myself have been his port of rest
From shipwreck on the yawning wave;
Yet now so high his passions rave
Above lost reason's conquered laws,
That not the traveller ere he slays
The asp, its sting, as he my face
So dreads, or so abhors.

In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide,
Thou wert not cradled, wert not born,
She who has not a fault beside
Should ne'er be signalized for scorn;
Else, tremble at the fate forlorn
Of Anaxárete, who spurned
The weeping Iphis from her gate,
Who, scoffing long, relenting late,
Was to a Statue turned.

Whilst yet soft pity she repelled,
Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride,
From her friezed window she beheld,
Aghast, the lifeless suicide;
Around his lily neck was tied
What freed his spirit from her chains,
And purchased with a few short sighs
For her immortal agonies,
Imperishable pains.

Then first she felt her bosom bleed
With love and pity; vain distress!
Oh what deep rigours must succeed
This first sole touch of tenderness!
Her eyes grow glazed and motionless,
Nailed on his wavering corse, each bone
Hardening in growth, invades her flesh,
Which, late so rosy, warm, and fresh,
Now stagnates into stone.

From limb to limb the frosts aspire,
Her vitals curdle with the cold;
The blood forgets its crimson fire,
The veins that e'er its motion rolled;
Till now the virgin's glorious mould
Was wholly into marble changed,
On which the Salaminians gazed,
Less at the prodigy amazed,
Than of the crime avenged.

Then tempt not thou Fate's angry arms,
By cruel frown or icy taunt;
But let thy perfect deeds and charms
To poets' harps, Divinest, grant
Themes worthy their immortal vaunt;
Else must our weeping strings presume
To celebrate in strains of woe,
The justice of some signal blow
That strikes thee to the tomb.

If e'er in howling deserts wide, unhabitable lands,
Distressed by equatorial suns and solitary sands;
Or heaped with pathless snows untrod but by the hoarse bleak blast,
By any accident or change of fortune I were cast,
And knew that in that wilderness, that world of fire or frost,
Thy cruel frowns awaited me at every tract I crossed,
Still would I on in search of thee, through simoom, sand, and sleet,
Till by unintermitted toil stretched dead before thy feet.

Let now thy pride and coyness end, since ended is the strength
Of him on whom they were discharged, be satisfied at length
That Love, since he desires that all his votaries should enjoy
Their life, and act as safety bids, is angry with the coy;
Time must pass on, remorse will come for treatment so severe,
Anguish and shame remain for thee, I know it and I fear;
For though I sorrow for myself, since thou must bear a part
For thy disdains, these sorrows pierce more sensibly my heart.

Thus go my hours increasing still materials for regret,
Which, ev'n as though my bitter cup were not o'erflowing yet,
In nothing serves me, but to show as in a lucid glass,
The ruined state in which I stand—the perils that I pass.
Heaven grant that this may profit me to think of some remead,
As I behold thee ever bent to break the bruised reed;
Here am I pointing out to thee the symptoms of my death,
Whilst like the fatal bird thou sitt'st, and steal'st away my breath!

If paleness past, unconscious sighs breath'd forth for thy stern sake,
And the long silence I have kept, have had no power to wake
In thee one touch of tenderness, not ev'n enough to raise
The recollected sense that I had ever met thy gaze,
Let my deep sufferings now at length from this time forth suffice,
Making me understand that 'twas my contrast in thine eyes,
My sickness rather than thy scorn that kept my suit at bay,
So will my grief become my good, and sickness prove my stay.

Ode! thou hast nothing more to do with me in bale or bliss,
Treat me as one unknown, with her it will not be amiss;
If fearful of offending me, oh seek not to persuade
By citing more my griefs, by them was all this mischief made.

Given up to my fate, shunning notice, I go
To the woods that first offer their glooms to my eye;
Scattering through them a thousand lamentings of woe
To the wind, on whose wings they but wander to die.
Though thine ear they deserve not, I cannot but sigh
To behold them go ruined the very same way
They would take if redressed, to me back they must fly,
Where, alas, they for ever and ever will stay!

But what shall I do, Lady? where for relief
Can I turn, if thou fail'st my kind angel to be,
Or whose aid will avail me in seasons of grief,
If my mournful complaints find not pity in thee?
Thou alone hold'st my soul so enchanted—I know
From my plaints that thou always turn'st smiling away,
Yet still I adore and plain to thee, as though
Thou would'st really care aught if I perished to-day.

I appeal to the trees that o'ershadow the dell;
They have heard what from thee I conceal, and their tongue,
If it can give account of distraction, will tell
What I murmured their green summer branches among.
But who can speak calmly my grief? let them then
Wrong me not, fear no longer my speech shall repress;
Who from year to year's end would consent to complain,
Without hope or expectance of any redress?

But redress is refused with such cruel commands,
As were never imposed upon any before,
For if others have ceased setting forth their demands,
Weeping only in secret the evils they bore,
It will hardly have been without some slight relief
To their pangs, but with me pain so melts into pain,
That my fancy ev'n fails to set bounds to my grief,
So I still suffer that which I cannot explain.

If e'er through my long brief of wrongs and defeats,
I at any time chance my regards to extend,
It is only by dealing in brilliant deceits,
That my still cherished cause I can hope to defend.
But thy quick expositions—one dim frown of pride,
One warm blush of resentment cuts short my defence,
And, outpleaded, I turn from thy beauty to chide,
If not curse both my want of perception and sense.

Yet what harm have I done thee? what wrong? not a shade!
Save that—Anger herself might forgive me the sin—
I have wished myself ruined, if only, stern maid,
To take vengeance on thee, tyrannising within.
Song of sorrow, go forth! I've already said more
Than they charged me, yet less than I trusted to say;
Let them ask me no further, lest further the store
Of my Lady's defects in my wrath I betray.

With the mild sound of clear swift waves the Danube's arms of foam
Circle a verdant isle which Peace has made her chosen home;
Where the fond poet might repair from weariness and strife,
And in the sunshine of sweet song consume his happy life.
Here evermore the smiling Spring goes scattering odorous flowers,
And nightingales and turtle-doves in depth of myrtle bowers,
Turn disappointment into hope, turn sadness to delight,
With magic of their fond laments, which cease not day nor night.

Here am I placed, or sooth to say, alone, 'neath foreign skies
Forced in arrest, and easy 'tis in such a paradise
To force a meditative man, whose own desires would doom
Himself with pleasure to a world all redolence and bloom.
One thought alone distresses me, if I whilst banished sink
'Midst such misfortunes to the grave, lest haply they should think
It was my complicated ills that caused my death, when I
Know well that if I die 'twill be because I wish to die.

My person's in the power and hands of him who can require,
And at his sovereign pleasure do what else he may desire,
But he shall ne'er have power to force my discontents to stay,
Whilst nothing more of me than this is subject to his sway.
When now the' inevitable doom shall come, my fatal hour,
And find me in the self-same place, the prisoner of his power,
Another thing more keen than death it is will deal the blow,
As whosoever has endured the like too well must know.

Idle it were at greater length on such a theme to speak,
Since my necessity is strong, and hopeless all I seek,
Since in the course of one short hour was all this ruin sent,
Since upon that the tears and toils of my whole life were spent.
And at the finish of a course like this, shall they presume
To scare me? let them know that now I cannot face my doom
But without dread, that Fortune when she caused to disappear
In one day all my happiness, grudged ev'n to leave me fear.

River divine, rich Danube! thou the bountiful and strong,
That through fierce nations roll'st thy waves rejoicingly along,
Since only but by rushing through thy drowning billows deep,
These scrolls can hence escape to tell the noble words I weep,
If wrecked in undeciphered loss on some far foreign land,
They should by any chance be found upon thy desert sand,
Since they upon thy willowed shore must drift, where'er they err,
Their relics let the kind blue waves with murmured hymns inter.

Ode of my melancholy hours! last infant of my lyre!
Although in booming waves it be thy fortune to expire,
Grieve not, since I, howe'er myself from holy rites debarred,
Have seen to all that touches thee with catholic regard.
Less, less had been thy life if thou hadst been but ranked among
Those without record that have risen and died upon my tongue;
Whose utter want of sympathy and haughtiness austere
Has been the cause of this, from me thou very soon shalt hear!

Once more from the dark ivies my proud harp!
I wish the sharpness of my ills to be
Shown in thy sounds, as they have been shown sharp
In their effects; I must bewail to thee
The occasions of my grief, the world shall know
Wherefore I perish, I at least will die
Confessed, not without shrift:
For by the tresses I am dragged along
By an antagonist so wild and strong,
That o'er sharp rocks and brambles, staining so
The pathway with my blood, it rushes by,
Than the swift-footed winds themselves more swift;
And to torment me for a longer space,
It sometimes paces gently over flowers,
Sweet as the morning, where I lose all trace
Of former pain, and rest luxurious hours;
But brief the respite! in this blissful case
Soon as it sees me, with collected powers,
With a new wildness, with a fury new,
It turns its rugged road to repursue.

Not by my own neglect into such harm
Fell I at first, 'twas destiny that bore,
And gave me up to the tormenting charm,
For both my reason and my judgment swore
To guard me as in bygone years they well
Had guarded me in seasons of alarm;
But when past perils they compared with those
They saw advancing, neither could they tell
Or what to make of such unusual foes,
How to engage with them, or how repel;
But stared to see the force with which they came,
Till, spurred on by pure shame,
With a slow pace and with a timid eye,
At length my Reason issued on the way,
And more and more as the fleet foe drew nigh,
The more did aggravating doubt display
My life in peril; dreading lest the die
Of that day's battle should be lost, dismay
Made the hot blood boll in my veins, until,
Reclaimed, it sank into as cold a chill.

I stood spectator of their chivalry;
Fighting in my defence, my Reason tired
And faint from thousand wounds became, and I,
Unconscious what the insidious thought inspired,
Was wishing my mailed Advocate to quit
The hopeless quarrel,—never in my life
Was what I wished fulfilled with so much ease,
For, kneeling down, at once she closed the strife,
And to the Lady did her sword submit,
Consenting she should have me for her slave,
As Victory urged, to slaughter or to save,
Whichever most might please.
Then, then indeed I felt my spirit rise,
That such unreasonable conditions e'er
Had been agreed to; anger, shame, surprise,
At once possessed me, fruitless as they were;
Then followed grief to know the treaty done,
And see my kingdom in the hands of one
Who gives me life and death each day, and this
Is the most moderate of her tyrannies.

Her eyes, whose lustre could irradiate well
The raven night, and dim the mid-day sun,
Changed me at once by some emphatic spell
From what I was—I gazed, and it was done.
Too finished fascination! glassed in mine,
The glory of her eyeballs did imprint
So bright a fire, that from its heat malign
My sickening soul acquired another tint.
The showers of tears I shed assisted more
This transformation; broken up, I found,
Was my past peace and freedom, in the core
Of my fond heart, an all-luxuriant ground,
The plant whereof I perish struck its root
Deep as its head extended high, and dense
As were its melancholy boughs; the fruit
Which it has been my wont to gather thence,
Sour is a thousand times for one time sweet,
But ever poisonous to the lips that eat.

Now, flying from myself as from a curse,
In search of her who shuns me as a foe,
I speed, which to one error adds a worse;
And in the midst of toil, fatigue, and woe,
Whilst the forged irons on my bound limbs ring,
Find myself singing as of old, but oh
How soon are checked the causeless songs I sing,
If in myself I lock my thoughts! for there
I view a field where nought but brambles spring,
And the black nightshade, garlanding despair.
Hope in the distance shows me, as she flies,
Her fluttering garments and light step, but ne'er
Her angel face,—tears rush into my eyes
At the delusion, nor can I forbear
To call her false as the mirage that kills
The thirsty pilgrim of the sandy waste,
When he beholds far-off, 'twixt seeming hills,
The stream he dies to taste;
With eager eye he marks its lucid face,
And listens, fancying that he heard it roar,
But when arrived in torment at the place,
Weeps to perceive it distant as before.

Of golden locks was the rich tissue wove
Framed by my sympathy, wherein with shame
My struggling Reason was entrapped like Love
In the strong arms of Appetite, the fame
Whereof drew all Olympus to regard
The Fire-God's capture; but 'twere out of place
For me this capture to go gaze, debarred
Of that whereby to contemplate the case.
So circumstanced I find myself! the field
Of tournament is cleared, the foe descried,
Alarmed I stand, without or spear or shield,
Closed are the barriers, and escape denied.
Who at my story is not terrified!
Who could believe that I am fallen so low,
That to the grief I hurry from, my pride
Is oft-times found so little of a foe,
That at the moment when I might regain
A life of freedom, I caress my chain,
And curse the hours and moments lately lent
To freer thoughts, as mournfully mis-spent.

This fancy is not always paramount,
For of a brain so wild the phantasies
Sleep not a moment; Grief at times will mount
The throne of Slavery, and her sceptre seize,
So that my fancy shrinks as from its place,
To shun the torture of its frightful face.
There is no part in me but frenzied is,
And wailed by me in turn; on my wild track,
Afresh protesting at the blind abyss,
I turn affrighted back.
Not urged by reason, not by judgment, this
Discretion of the mind is wholly lost;
All is become a barrenness or blot,
But this one grief, and ev'n the rising ghost
Of dead joy, gliding by, is heeded not;
I keep no chronicle of by-gone bliss,
But feel alone, within my heart and brain,
The fury and the force of present pain.

In midst of all this agony and woe
A shade of good descends my wounds to heal;
Surely, I fancy, my beloved foe
Must feel some little part of what I feel.
So insupportable a toil weighs down
My weary soul, that did I not create
Some strong deceit, of power to ease the weight,
I must at once die—die without my crown
Of martyrdom, a registered renown,
Untalked of by the world, unheard, unviewed!
And thus from my most miserable estate
I draw a gleam of good.
But soon my fate this train of things reverses,
For if I ever from the storm find peace,
Peace nurtures fear, and fear my peace disperses,
Swift as a rainbow arched o'er raging seas;
Thus from the flowers which for a space console,
Springs up the serpent that devours my soul.

Ode! if men, seeing thee, be seized with fright
At the caprice, inconstancy, and shock
Of these conflicting fancies of my brain,
Say that the cause thereof—tormenting pain,
Is stable, fixt, and changeless as a rock.
Say thou, that its fierce might
So storms my heart that it must yield, ere long,
Ev'n to a foe more terrible and strong;
To him, from whom all cross themselves—to save;
The Power whose home is in the lonely grave!

EPISTLE TO BOSCÁN.

ODES AND SONGS.

I. TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO [11].

II.
TO HIS LADY.

III.
TO HIS LADY.

IV.
WRITTEN IN EXILE.

V.
THE PROGRESS OF PASSION FOR HIS LADY.

SONNETS,
ETC.

EPISTLE TO BOSCÁN.

ODES AND SONGS.

I. TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO[11].

II. TO HIS LADY.

III. TO HIS LADY.

IV. WRITTEN IN EXILE.