ECLOGUE II.
SILVA I.
ALBANIO. SALICIO.
ALBANIO.
Temperate, when winter waves its snowy wing,
Is the sweet water of this sylvan spring;
And when the heats of summer scorch the grass,
More cold than snow: in your clear looking-glass,
Fair waves! the memory of that day returns,
With which my soul still shivers, melts, and burns;
Gazing on your clear depth and lustre pure,
My peace grows troubled, and my joy obscure;
Recovering you, I lose all self-content:
To whom, alas, could equal pains be sent!
Scenes that would soothe another's pangs to peace,
Add force to mine, or soothe but to increase.
This lucid fount, whose murmurs fill the mind,
The verdant forests waving with the wind,
The odours wafted from the mead, the flowers
In which the wild bee sits and sings for hours,
These might the moodiest misanthrope employ,
Make sound the sick, and turn distress to joy;
I only in this waste of sweetness pine
To death! oh beauty, rising to divine!
Oh curls of gold! oh eyes that laughed with light!
Oh swanlike neck! oh hand as ivory white!
How could an hour so mournful ever rise
To change a life so blest to tears and sighs,
Such glittering treasures into dust! I range
From place to place, and think, perhaps the change,
The change may partly temper and control
The ceaseless flame that thus consumes my soul.
Deceitful thought! as though so sharp a smart
By my departure must itself depart:
Poor languid limbs, the grief is but too deep
That tires you out! Oh that I could but sleep
Here for awhile! the heart awake to pain,
Perchance in slumbers and calm dreams might gain
Glimpse of the peace with which it pants to meet,
Though false as fair, and fugitive as sweet.
Then, amiable kind Sleep, descend, descend!
To thee my wearied spirit I commend.
SALICIO.
How highly he may rate
His fortunate estate,
Who, to the sweets of solitude resigned,
Lives lightly loose from care,
At distance from the snare
Of what encumbers and disturbs the mind!
He sees no thronged parade,
No pompous colonnade
Of proud grandees, nor greedy flatterers vile,
Ambitious each to sport
In sunshine of a court;
He is not forced to fawn, to sue, to smile,
To feign, to watch of power each veering sign,
Noticed to dread neglect, neglected to repine.
But, in calm idlesse laid
Supine in the cool shade
Of oak or ilex, beech or pendant pine,
Sees his flocks feeding stray,
Whitening a length of way,
Or numbers up his homeward-tending kine:
Store of rich silks unrolled,
Fine silver, glittering gold,
To him seem dross, base, worthless, and impure;
He holds them in such hate,
That with their cumbrous weight
He would not fancy he could live secure;
And thinking this, does wisely still maintain
His independent ease, and shuns the shining bane.
Him to soft slumbers call
The babbling brooks, the fall
Of silver fountains, and the unstudied hymns
Of cageless birds, whose throats
Pour forth the sweetest notes;
Shrill through the crystal air the music swims;
To which the humming bee
Keeps ceaseless company,
Flying solicitous from flower to flower,
Tasting each sweet that dwells
Within their scented bells;
Whilst the wind sways the forest, bower on bower,
That evermore, in drowsy murmurs deep,
Sings in the silent ear, and aids descending sleep.
Who breathes so loud? 'Tis strange I see him not;
Oh, there he lies, in that sequestered spot!
Thrice happy you, who thus, when troubles tire,
Relax the chords of thought, or of desire!
How finished, Nature, are thy works! neglect
Left nought in them to add to, or perfect.
Heightening our joy, diminishing our grief,
Sleep is thy gift, and given for our relief;
That at our joyous waking we might find
More health of body and repose of mind:
Refreshed we rise from that still pause of strife,
And with new relish taste the sweets of life.
When wearied out with care, sleep, settling calm,
Drops on our dewless lids her soothing balm,
Stilling the torn heart's agonizing throes,
From that brief quiet, that serene repose,
Fresh spirit we inspire, fresh comfort share,
And with new vigour run the race of care.
I on his dreams will gently steal, and see
If I the shepherd know, and if he be
Of the unhappy or contented class:
Is it Albanio slumbering there? Alas
The unhappy boy! Albanio, of a truth;
Sleep on, poor wearied, and afflicted youth!
How much more free do I esteem the dead,
Who, from all mortal storms escaped, is led
Safe into port, than he who living here,
So noble once, and lively in his cheer,
Cast by stern fortune from his glorious height,
Has bid a long, long farewell to delight!
He, though now stript of peace, and most distressed,
Was once, they say, most blissful of the blest,
In amorous pledges rich; the change how great!
I know not well the secret of his fate;
Lycid, who knew the tale, sometime ago
Told me a part, but much remains to know.
ALBANIO.
Is it a dream? or do I surely clasp
Her gentle hand, that answers grasp for grasp?
'Tis mockery all! how madly I believed
The flatterer sleep, and how am I deceived!
On swift wings rustling through the ivory door,
The vision flies, and leaves me as before,
Stretched lonely here; is't not enough, I bear
This grievous weight, the living soul's despair;
Or, to say truly, this uncertain strife,
And daily death of oft-renewing life!
SALICIO.
Albanio, cease thy weeping, which to see,
Grieves me.
ALBANIO.
Who witnesses my weeping?
SALICIO.
He
Who by partaking will assuage the smart.
ALBANIO.
Thou, my Salicio? Ah, thy gentle heart
And company in every strait could bring
Sweet solace, once; now, 'tis a different thing.
SALICIO.
Part of thy woes from Lycid I have heard,
Who here was present when the' event occurred;
Its actual cause he knew not, but surmised
The evil such, that it were best disguised.
I, as thou know'st, was in the city, bent
On travelling then, and only heard the' event
On my return; but now, I pray relate,
If not too painful, specially, the date,
The author, cause, and process of thy grief,
Which thus divided will find some relief.
ALBANIO.
Relief is certain with a friend so sure,
When such the sickness as admits of cure;
But this, this pierces to my marrow! Still,
Our shared pursuits by fountain, grove, and hill,
And our vowed friendship to thy wishes win
My else-sealed lips;—yet, how shall I begin?
My soul, my brain, with clouds is overcast,
At but the mere remembrance of the past—
The alarm, the mortal wound, the sudden pain,
Then every earlier feeling felt again,
Linked with the blighted present, all prevail,
And, like a spectre, scare me from the tale.
But yet, methinks, 'twere wisdom to obey,
Lay bare the wound, and sorrowing bleed away
From anguish and from life; and thus, dear friend,
From the commencement to the fatal end,
My woes will I relate, without disguise,
Though the sad tale my soul reluctant flies.
Well have I loved, well shall love, whilst the ray
Of life celestial lights this coil of clay,
The maid for whom I die! No free-will choice,
No thoughtless chase at Folly's calling voice
Led me to love, nor, oft as others aim,
With flattering fancies did I feed the flame;
But from my tenderest infancy, perforce,
Some fatal star inclined me to its course.
Thou know'st a maiden, beautiful and young,
From my own ancestors remotely sprung,
Lovelier than Love himself; in infancy
Vowed to Diana of the woods, with glee,
Amidst them, skilled the sylvan war to wage,
She passed the rosy April of her age:
I, who from night till morning, and from morn
Till night, to challenge of the sprightly horn,
Followed the inspiring chase without fatigue,
Came by degrees in such familiar league
With her, by like pursuits and tastes allied,
I could not stir an instant from her side.
Hour after hour this union stricter grew,
Joined with emotions precious, pure, and new:
What tangled mountain has been left untraced
By our swift feet? What heath, or leafy waste
Of forests, has not heard our hunting cry?
What babbling echo not been tired thereby?
Ever with liberal hands, when ceased our toils,
To the chaste patron who decreed our spoils,
We heaped the holy altars, talking o'er
Past risks, now offering of the grisly boar
The grim and tusked head, and nailing now
The stag's proud antlers on the sacred bough
Of some tall pine; and thus when evening burned,
With grateful, happy hearts, we home returned;
And when we shared the quarry, never went
From us one word or look of discontent.
Hunting of all kinds charmed, but that the most
Of simple birds, snared ever with least cost
Of toil; and when desired Aurora showed
Her rosy cheeks, and locks like gold that glowed,
With dew impearling all the forest flowers,
Away we passed to unfrequented bowers,
In the most secret valley we could find,
Shut from the tread and talk of humankind;
Then, binding to two lofty trees, unseen,
Our tinctured webs of very perfect green,
Our voices hushed, our steps as midnight still,
We netted off the vale from hill to hill;
Then, fetching a small compass, by degrees
We turned toward the snares, and shook the trees,
And stormed the shadiest nooks with shout and sling,
Till the whole wood was rustling on the wing:
Blackbirds, larks, goldfinches, before us flew,
Distracted, scared, not knowing what to do.
Who shunned the less, the greater evil met,
Confusedly taken in the painted net;
And curious then it was to hear them speak
Their griefs with doleful cry and piercing shriek;
Some—for the swarms were countless—you might see
Fluttering their wings and striving to get free,
Whilst others, far from showing signs of rage,
In dumb affliction drooped about the cage;
Till, drawing tight the cords, proud of the prey
Borne at our backs, we took our homeward way.
But when moist autumn came, and yellow fell
The wild-wood leaves round bowerless Philomel;
When August heats were past, a different sport,
But no less idle, we were wont to court,
To pass the day with joy; then, well you know,
Black clouds of starlings circle to and fro:
Mark now the craft that we employed to snare
These birds that go through unobstructed air.
One straggler first from their vast companies,
Alive we captured, which was done with ease;
Next, to its foot a long limed thread we tied,
And when the passing squadron we descried,
Aloft we tossed it; instantly it mixed
Amongst the rest, and our success was fixed;
For soon, as many as the tangling string,
Or by the head, or leg, or neck, or wing,
In its aërial voyage twined around,
Flagged in their strength, and fell towards the ground,
Yet not without long strugglings in their flight,
Much to their mischief, and to our delight.
Useless to it was the prophetic croak
Of the black rook in the umbrageous oak;
When one of them alive, as oft occurred,
Fell in our hands, we made the captive bird
Decoy to many a captive; to a plain
Spacious, and sowed perchance with winter grain,
Where flocks of rooks in company resort,
Our prize we took, and instant to the sport.
By the extreme points of its wings, to ground,
But without breaking them, the bird we bound;
Then followed what you scarce conceive; it stood
With eyes turned upward, in the attitude
Of one that contemplates the stars; from sight
Meanwhile we drew, when, frantic with affright,
It pierced the air with loud, distressful cries,
And summoned down its brethren from the skies.
Instant a swift swarm which no tongue could name,
Flew to its aid, and round it stalking came.
One, of its fellow's doom more piteous grown
Than cautious or considerate of its own,
Drew close—and on the first exertion made,
With death or sad captivity it paid
For its simplicity; the pinioned rook
So fast clung to it with the grappling-hook
Of its strong claws, that without special leave
It could not part: now you may well conceive
What our amusement was to see the twain,
That to break loose and this fresh aid to gain,
Wrestling engage; the quarrel did not cool
Till finished by our hand, and the poor fool
Was left at mournful leisure to repent
Of the vain help its thoughtless pity lent.
What would'st thou say, if, standing centinel
With upraised leg when midnight shadows fell,
The crane was snared betwixt us? Of no use
Was its sagacious caution to the goose,
Or its perpetual fame for second-sight
Against the snares and stratagems of night.
Nought could its strength or sleight at swimming save
The white swan, dwelling on the pathless wave,
Lest it by fire, like Phaëton, should die,
For whom its shrill voice yet upbraids the sky.
And thou, sad partridge, think'st thou that to flee
Straight from the copse secures thy life to thee?
Thy fall is in the stubble! On no bird,
No beast, had nature for defence conferred
Such cunning, but that by the net or shaft
It fell, subdued by our superior craft.
But were I each particular to tell
Of this delightful life, the vesper bell
Would sound ere it was done: enough to know
That this fond friendship, this divine-faced foe,
So pure from passion, undisturbed by fears,
To different colour changed my rising years.
My ill star shone; the spirit of unrest,
And love, excessive love, my soul possessed;
So deep, so absolute, I no more knew
Myself, but doubted if the change were true.
Then first I felt to mingle with the stir
Of sweet sensations in beholding her,
Fearful desires that on their ardent wings
Raised me to hope impracticable things.
Pain for her absence was not now a pain,
Nor even an anguish brooding in the brain,
But torment keen as death—the ceaseless smart
Of fire close raging in the naked heart.
To this sad pass I gradually was brought
By my ill star, and ne'er could I have thought
Its baneful power reached farther, were it not
Proved but too surely by my present lot,
That, when compared with these, my former woes
Might be considered as a sweet repose.
But here 'tis fit the hated tale that swells
My soul with grief, and thrills the tongue that tells,
Should find a close, nor sadden, though it sears
Albanio's memory, kind Salicio's ears.
Few words will speak the rest;—one hour, but one—
Wrecked my last joy, and left me quite undone.
SALICIO.
If, my dear friend, you spoke with one who ne'er
Had felt the dangerous flame, the restless care,
The bitter-sweets of love which thus you feel,
Wisdom it were the sequel to conceal:
But if I share the sorrows of thy breast,
Why as a stranger hide from me the rest?
Think'st thou that I on my part do not prove
This living death, this agony of love?
If skilled experience should not wholly end
Thy heavy grief, the pity of a friend,
Himself sore wounded by the marksman's dart,
Will fail not to at least assuage the smart.
Since, then, I candidly disclose my share
In such concerns (and even yet I bear
Marks of the arrow), it is quite unkind
To be so shy: whilst thou hast life, thy mind
Should cherish hope; I may, as Love's high priest,
Counsel some cure, or weep with thee at least.
No harm can come from subjecting thine ear
To the kind counsels of a friend sincere.
ALBANIO.
Thou would'st that I should fruitlessly contend
With one who must o'ercome me in the end.
Love wills my silence, nor can I commence
The tale requested without great offence:
Love chains my tongue, and thus—indeed, indeed—
Spare me, I feel that I must not proceed.
SALICIO.
What obstacle forbids thee to reveal
This ill to one who surely hopes to heal
In part the wound?
ALBANIO.
Love, love that doth deny
All comfort,—Love desires that I should die;
Knowing too well that for a little while
The mere relation would my grief beguile,
More swiftly to destroy, the God unjust
Has now deprived my bosom of the gust
Which late it had, to candidly avow,
And thus conclude its sorrows; so that now
It neither does become thy truth to seek
For farther knowledge, nor myself to speak,—
Myself, whom fortune has alone distressed,
And who alone in dying look for rest.
SALICIO.
Who is so barbarous to himself as e'er
To' entrust his person to a murderer's care,
His treasures to the spoiler! Can it be,
That without discomposure thou canst see
Love make in frolic, for a flight of skill,
Thy very tongue the puppet of his will?
ALBANIO.
Salicio, cease this language; curb thy tongue;
I feel the grief, the insult, and the wrong:
Whence these fine words? what schoolman did commit
To thee this pomp of philosophic wit,
A shepherd of the hills? with what light cheer
The careless lip can learn to be severe,
And oh, how easily a heart at ease
Can counsel sickness to throw off disease!
SALICIO.
I counselled nothing that deserved to call
An answer from thee of such scorn and gall:
Merely I asked thee—ask thee to relate
What it is makes thee so disconsolate.
I shared thy joy, and can I fail to be
Touched with thy grief? be free with me, be free.
ALBANIO.
Since I no longer can the point contest,
Be satisfied—I will relate the rest;
One promise given, that when the tale is done,
Thou wilt depart, and leave me quite alone;
Leave me alone, to weep, as eve declines,
My fatal loss amid these oaks and pines.
SALICIO.
Well! though thy wisdom I cannot commend,
I will prove more a fond than faithful friend;
Will quit the place, and leave thee to thy woes:
ALBANIO.
Now then, Salicio, hear what I disclose;
And you, the Dryads of this leafy grove,
Where'er you be, attend my tale of love!
I have already told the prosperous part,
And if in peace I could have fixed my heart,
How happy had I been; but the desire,
The constant striving to conceal my fire
From her, alas! whose sweet and gentle breath
But fanned it, brought me to the gates of death.
A thousand times she begged, implored to know
What secret something vexed my spirit so;
In my pale aspect she too plainly read
Grief of some sort, and gaiety was fled;
Thus would she say, thus sue to me, but sighs
And tears of anguish were my sole replies.
One afternoon, returning from the chase
Fatigued and fevered, in the sweetest place
Of this wide forest, even where now we sit,
We both resolved our toil to intermit.
Under the branches of this beech we flung
Our limbs at ease, and our bent bows unstrung.
Thus idly lying, we inspired with zest
The sweet, fresh spirit breathing from the west.
The flowers with which the mosses were inlaid,
A rich diversity of hues displayed,
And yielded scents as various; in the sun,
Lucid as glass, this clear, shrill fountain shone,
Revealing in its depth the sands like gold,
And smooth, white pebbles whence its waters rolled;
Nor goat, nor stag, nor hermit, nor the sound
Of distant sheepbells, broke the stillness round.
When with the water of the shaded pool
We had assuaged our thirst, and grew more cool,
She, who with kind solicitude still kept
The' intent to know why I so often wept,
With solemn prayers adjured me to confess
The cause or object of my sore distress;
And if 'twas love, not to be swayed by shame,
But own it such, and write the lady's name;
Vowing that as she always from her youth
Had shown me an affection full of truth,
So in this instance she with pure good-will
Would aid my views, and prove a sister still.
I, who no longer could my soul contain,
Yet dared not openly the truth explain,
Told her that in the fountain she might read
Her name whose beauty made my bosom bleed.
Her eager mind was instant on the wing,
She rose, she ran, and looked into the spring,
But seeing only her own face there, blushed
With maiden shame, and from the water rushed,
Swift as if touched with madness, not a look
She deigned me, but her way disdainful took,
And left me murmuring here, till life shall fail,
My rash resolve for ever to bewail.
My folly I accused—all, all engrossed
In vain reflections on the' advantage lost.
Thus grew my grief; thus fatally misled,
What sighs did I not breathe, what tears not shed;
For countless hours stretched here I lay, with eyes
Rigidly fixed upon the vacant skies;
And as one grief in hand another brought,
The ceaseless tear, the phantasies of thought,
The frequent swoon, remorse for felt offence,
Regret, despair, the senselessness of sense,
And a benumbing consciousness of pain
Perpetual, almost, almost whirled my brain.
I know not how I found my friends, nor what
Led my stray footsteps homeward to my cot;
I only know four suns had risen and past,
Since fasting, sleepless, motionless, aghast,
I had lain here; my herds too had been left
All this long time, of wonted grass bereft;
The calves that lately frisked it o'er the field,
Finding their udders no refreshment yield,
Lowing complained to the unheeding skies;
The woods, alone considerate of their cries,
Rebellowing loudly, gave back the lament,
As though condoling with their discontent.
These things yet moved me not; the many—all
In fact, that now upon me came to call,
Were frightened with my weeping; rumour led,
And curious wonder, numbers to my shed;
The shepherds, herdsmen, pruners of the vines,
Anxious to serve me, with sincerest signs
Of pity, pleaded, prayed me to declare
The cause of my mad grief and deep despair;
Stretched on the earth, to them my sole replies
Were broken groans, fast tears, and fiery sighs;
Or if at times I spoke, one answer came
From my wild lips—the same, and still the same:
"Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore,
Soon will you sing, 'Albanio is no more!'
This little comfort I at least shall have,
Though I be laid within the wormy grave,
Sad you will sing, 'Albanio is no more,'
Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore!"
The fifth night came: my ill star then inspired
My brain to dare what had been long desired—
The shuffling off life's load, and out I rushed
With wild resolve—creation all was hushed;
Through the dusk night I hurried to descry
Some lonely spot where I might fitly die.
As chance would have it, my faint footsteps drew
To a high cliff which yet far off I knew,
As pendant o'er the flood, scooped into caves
By constant sapping of the restless waves.
There, as I sate beneath an elm, o'erspent,
A sudden ray returning memory lent:
I once, with her, had to the neighbouring trees
Come at midnoon to take the cooling breeze.
On this my fancy fixed; the thought like balm
Assuaged my frenzy, and I grew more calm.
And now the dawn with roses had begun
To pave the path of the resplendent sun,
To which the green trees bowed, and, woke from rest,
The smiling Ocean bared her heaving breast;
When, as the melancholy swan, that feeling
Life's latest anguish o'er her spirit stealing,
Sings with her quivering bill and melting breath,
Sad, but most sweet, the lullaby to death;
So I, in equal pain and sickness lying,
The immortal passing, and the mortal dying,
Took my last farewell of the skies and sun,
In passionate laments that thus might run:
"Oh! fierce as Scythian bears in thy disdain,
And as the howling of the stormy main
Deaf to my plaints, come, conqueress, take thy prey,
A wretched frame fast hastening to decay!
I faint—I die, and thus will put an end
To thy dislike; no longer shall offend
The' enamoured breast where thy dear beauty lies,
My mournful face, rash lips, or weeping eyes.
Then thou, who in my lifetime scorned to move
One step to comfort me, or even reprove,
Stern to the last,—then thou wilt come, perchance,
And as thine eyes on my cold relics glance,
Repent thy rigour, and bewail my fate;
But the slow succour will have come too late.
Canst thou so soon my long, long love forget,
And in a moment break without regret
The bond of years? hast thou forgotten too
Childhood's sweet sports, whence first my passion grew,
When from the bowery ilex I shook down
Its autumn fruit, which on the crag's high crown
We tasted, sitting, chattering side by side?
Who climbed trees swinging o'er the hoarse deep tide,
And poured into thy lap, or at thy feet,
Their kernelled nuts, the sweetest of the sweet?
When did I ever place my foot within
The flowery vale, brown wood, or dingle green,
And culled not thousand odorous flowers to crest
Thy golden curls, or breathe upon thy breast?
You used to swear, when I was absent far,
There was no brightness in the morning star,
For you no sweetness in the noon's repose,
Taste in the wave, nor fragrance in the rose.
Whom do I wail to? Not a single word
Is heard by her by whom it should be heard.
Echo alone in pity deigns to hear me,
And with her mimic answers strives to cheer me,
Remembering sweet Narcissus, and the pain
Which she herself endured from shy disdain;
But ev'n kind Echo pity deems a fault,
Nor stands revealed within her hollow vault.
Spirits! if such there be, that take the care
Of dying lovers, and attend their prayer,
Or personal genius of my life! receive
The words I utter, ere my soul takes leave
Of its frail tenement! oh Dryades!
Peculiar guardians of these verdant trees,
And you, swift-swimming Naiads who reside
In this my native river! from the tide
Upraise your rosy heads, if there be one
That sighs, and weeps, and loves as I have done;
That I, white Goddesses, may have to say—
Though my weak plaints and unmelodious lay
Moved not one human eye to pitying tears,
The mournful dirge could touch diviner ears.
Oh fleet-foot Oreads of the hills! who go
Chasing through chestnut groves the hart and roe,
Leave wounding animals, draw near, and scan
The last convulsions of a wounded man!
And you, most gracious Maidens, that amid
The night of woods till summer noons lie hid,
Then, crowned with roses, issue from your oaks,
Your white breasts covered with your golden locks;
Sweet Hamadryads! hear my plaints forlorn,
And if with angry Fate ye are not sworn
Against me, to the causes of my death
Give celebration and perpetual breath.
Oh wolves! oh bears! that in the deep descents
Of these o'ershaded caves to my laments
Are listening now, as oft my flute could move
Your shaggy ears, and lull you into love,
Repose in peace! farewell each high-browed mountain!
Green crofts, farewell! Adieu thou fatal fountain!
Still waters, foaming streams, and you, ye strong
Sonorous cataracts, farewell! live long,
Long ages after me, and as ye sweep
To pay rich tribute to the hoary deep,
Oft sound my sad voice through the stony vales;
Oft to the traveller tell autumnal tales
Of him whose tuneful ditties charmed of old
Your living waves, rejoicing as ye rolled;
Who watered here his heifers, day by day,
And crowned with wreaths of laurel and of bay,
The brows of his strong bulls:"—and saying this,
I rose, from that tremendous precipice
To fling myself, and clambered up the hill
With hasty strides, and a determined will;
When lo! a blast sufficient to displace
The huge sierra from its stable base,
Arose and smote me to the earth, where long
I lay astonished from a stroke so strong.
But when at length I came to recollect,
And on the marvel seriously reflect,
I blamed my impious rashness, and the crime
That sought to end before the destined time,
By means so terrible, my life of grief,
Though harsh, determinate, though bitter, brief.
I have since then been steadily resigned
To wait for death, when mercilessly kind
It comes to free me from my pangs; and now,
See how it comes! Though heav'n did not allow
Me to find death, the assassin is left free
To find, and shake his fatal dart o'er me.—
I have now told thee the true cause, the cross
Occurrence, pain, and process of my loss;
Fulfil thy promise now, and if thou art
Indeed my friend, as I believe, depart;
Nor give disturbance to a grief so deep—
Its only solace is the wish to weep.
SALICIO.
On one point only now
Would I remark, if thou
Would'st not imagine it was meant to' advise;
I'd ask thee, what can blind
So utterly thy mind,
And warp thy judgment in so strange a wise,
As not at once to see
Instinctively, that she
Who so long charmed thee with her grateful smile,
With, or without regret,
Can never all forget
Your past fond friendship in so short a while;
How dost thou know but that she feels no less
Grief for her own coy flight, than pain for thy distress?
ALBANIO.
Cease, flattering sophist, cease
This artificial peace,
Nor with false comfort make my sufferings more;
Or I, far, far exiled,
Must seek some hideous wild
Where human footstep never stamped the shore.
She is entirely changed
From what she was, estranged
From all kind feelings; this too deemest thou,
Howe'er thy lips unwise
With rhetoric would disguise
The fatal truth, or seem to disallow;
But thy dear sophistry indulge alone,
Or for more credulous ears reserve it; I am gone!
SALICIO.
All hope of cure is vain,
Till less he dreads the pain
Of the physician's probe;—here then alone,
Indulging his caprice,
I'll leave him, till disease
Has passed its raging crisis, and is grown
More tractable, until
The storm of a self-will
So passing strong, has raved itself to rest:
And to yon bower of birch
I'll meanwhile pass, in search
Of the sweet nightingale's secreted nest;
And, beautiful Gravina, it shall be
Thine for one rosy kiss: I know the ivied tree.
