ELEGIES AND EPISTLES.
ELEGY I.
TO THE DUKE OF ALVA,
ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER, DON BERNARDINO DE TOLEDO.
Although this heavy stroke has touched my soul
With such regret, that I myself require
Some friend my deep depression to console,
That my spent fancy may afresh respire;
Yet would I try, if chance the' Aonian choir
Give me the requisite assistance, just
To strike a little comfort from the lyre,
Thy frenzy to assuage, revive thy trust,
And raise once more thy head and honours from the dust.
At thy distress the pitying Muses weep;
For neither, as I hear, when suns arise,
Nor when they set, giv'st thou thy sorrows sleep,
Rather by brooding o'er them as one dies,
Creat'st another, with disordered eyes
Still weeping, that I fear to see thy mind
And spirit melt away in tears and sighs,
Like snows on hill-tops, which the rainy wind
Moaning dissolves away, and leaves no trace behind.
Or if by chance thy wearied thought finds rest
For a few moments in desired repose,
'Tis to return to grief with added zest;
In that short slumber thy poor brother shows
Pallid as when he swooned away in throes
From his sweet life, and thou, intent to lift
His dear delusive corse, dost but enclose
The vacant air; then Sleep revokes her gift,
And from thy waking eye the mimic form flies swift.
Yet cherishing the dream, with sense at strife,
Thyself no more, thou anxiously look'st round
For that beloved brother, who through life
The better portion of thy soul was found,
Which, dying, could not leave it wholly sound;
And thus, forlorn, distracted, dost thou go,
Invoking him in shrieks and groans profound,
How changed in aspect! hurrying to and fro,
As mad Lampecia erst beside the fatal Po.
With the like earnest exclamations, she
Her Phaëton bewailed; "wild waves, restore
My poor lost brother, if you would not see
Me too die, watering with my tears your shore!"
Oft, oh how oft, did she the stream implore!
How oft, revived by grief, her shrieks renew!
And oh, as oft, that active frenzy o'er,
Whispering, 'twas all she could, green earth adieu,
Pale on the poplar shore her faded foliage strew.
Yet, I confess, if any accident
In this for-ever shifting state should bend
The noble soul so loudly to lament,
It were the present, since a mournful end
Has thus deprived thee of so dear a friend,
(Not a mere brother) one who not alone
Shared thy deep counsels, taught thee to unbend,
And knew each secret that to thee was known;
But every shade of thought peculiarly thine own.
In him reposed thy honourable, discreet,
And wise opinions, used but as the case
Chimed with his own; in him were seen to meet
Thy every virtue, excellence, and grace,
With lovely light, as in a crystal vase
Or glassy column, whose transparence shows
All things reflected in its lucid face,—
Sunlight, gem, flower, the rainbow, and the rose,
Clear in its vivid depth plays, sparkles, smiles, or glows.
Oh the dark doom, the miserable lot
Of human life, that through such trouble flies!
One storm comes threatening ere the last's forgot,
Fast as one ill departs, severer rise;
Whom has not war snatched from our weeping eyes!
Whom has not toil worn out! who has not laved
In blood his foeman's sword! who not seen rise
A thousand times the phantom he has braved,
But by hair-breadth escapes miraculously saved!
To many, oh how many, will be lost
Home, son, wife, memory, undistracted brain,
And fortune unincumbered! of this cost,
What rich returns, what vestiges remain?
Fortune? 'tis nought; fame? glory? victory? gain?
Distinction? would'st thou know, our history read;
Thou wilt there find that our fatigue and pain,
Like dust upon the wind is driven with speed,
Long ere our bright designs successfully proceed.
Invidious Death oft from the unripe ear
Gathers the grain; but in this cruel turn,
Not satisfied with being but so severe,
Has neither spared his youth, nor our concern;
Who could have prophesied a stroke so stern!
Whom had not hope deceived, alas, to vow
That one so virtuous from the dreary urn
Was surely charmed by that ingenuous brow,
O'er which the furrowing years had not yet driven their plough!
Yet is it not his losses, but our own
That we should weep; remorseless Death has made
A thousand clear discoveries, he has shown
Long life a torment, joy a posting shade,
And youth, grace, beauty, gems but to be paid,
Poor Nature's tax, at his tyrannic shrine;
Yet could not Death so far thy form degrade,
But that, when life itself was past, each line
Should yet of beauty speak, and workmanship divine.
'Tis true, it was a beauty unattended
By the rose-hues which Nature with such skill
Had with the virgin lily's whiteness blended
During thy life; the Spoiler had turned chill
The flame that tempered its chaste snows, but still
'Twas beauty most emphatic! thou didst rest
Calm and composed, as though 'twas but thy will
To sleep; a smile upon thy lips impressed
Told of the life to come, and spoke thy spirit blest.
What will the mother of thy love do now,
Who loved thee as her soul? ah me, I hear
The sound of her laments! what shrieks avow
Her agony! shrieks ringing far and near,
Which thy four sisters echo back, whose drear
Distress augments her grief; I see them go,
Forlorn, distracted, scattering o'er thy bier
Of their long ravished locks the golden flow,
Outraging every charm in concord with her woe.
I see old Tormes, full of sad concern,
With his white choir of nymphs forsake the waves,
And water earth with tears; not o'er his urn
Couched in the sweet cool of moist shady caves,
But on hot summer sands outstretched, he braves
The flaring sunbeams; flung abandoned down,
He with hoarse groans for Bernardino raves;
The yellow daffodils his locks that crown,
Tears with his tangled beard, and rends his sea-green gown.
His weeping Nymphs stand round him, unadorned,
Uncombed their yellow tresses; weep no more,
Your radiant eyes sufficiently have mourned,
Beauteous frequenters of the reedy shore!
With more availing sympathy restore
The mother, standing on distraction's verge;
Soon shall the dear chaste relics you deplore,
Inurned in marble, sleep beside your surge,
And your melodious waves prolong my funeral dirge.
And you, Nymphs, Satyrs, Fauns, that in green bowers
Live free from care, search each Sicilian steep
For salutary herbs and virtuous flowers,
To cure Fernando of a grief so deep;
Search every secret shade, as when you peep
After the lightfoot nymphs, and bounding go
O'er vales and rocks, so may they when asleep
You in their solitudes surprise them, show
Kind as yourselves can wish, and with like fervour glow.
But thou, Fernando, thou whose deeds both past
And recent, deeds which to a loftier aim
Oblige thee to aspire, such splendour cast,
Consider where thou art! for if the name
Which thou, the great and glorified of Fame,
Hast gained among the nations, find its date,
Thy virtue somewhat must relax, and blame
Be thine; and not to brave the storms of fate
With a serene resolve consists not with the Great.
Not thus the shaft, shot by some fatal star
In its due course, should pierce the noble soul;
Ev'n if the heavens should in the dreadful jar
Of maddening elements together roll,
And fall in fragments like a shrivelled scroll,
It should be crushed rather than entertain
Dejection; crags conduct to the high goal
Of immortality, and he whom pain
Leads to decline the' ascent, can ne'er the crown attain.
Call it not stern: for nature's due relief,
To human weakness freely I concede
The natural tears of overflowing grief,
But the excess which would delight to feed
On its own vitals, and indulged proceed
To all eternity, I must assail;
And Time at least, who lessens in his speed
All mortal things beside, if reason fail,
Should o'er thy grief at length be suffered to prevail.
Hector was not for ever so lamented
By his sad mother, or his more sad sire,
But when the fierce Achilles had relented
To his submissive tears, at his desire
Yielding the corse, and when funereal fire
Those dear devoted relics had possessed,
The shrieks they silenced of the Phrygian choir,
Their own acute soliloquies suppressed,
Stifled the rising groan, and soothed their sighs to rest.
Venus, in this point human, what did she
Not feel, perceiving forest, field, and flower,
Flushed with her darling's blood! but taught to see
That clouding her bright eyes with shower on shower
Of tears, might harm herself, but had no power
To purchase her beloved boy's return
From ruthless Proserpine's Cimmerian bower,
She dried her eyes, subdued her vain concern,
And with calm hand entwined her myrtles round his urn.
And soon with light and graceful steps once more
Idalia's verdurous paradise she pressed,
Her usual ornaments and garlands wore,
And round her clasped her beauty-breathing cest;
The winds in wanton flights her locks caressed,
And with fresh joy her looks and rosy bloom
All ocean, earth, and sky divinely blessed:
So look I forward to see thee resume
Wisely thy firmness past, and banish fruitless gloom.
Let thy desire to reach the skies, where care,
And death, and sorrow lose their dues, suffice
Without fresh instance; thou wilt notice there
How little Death has hurt the memories
Of his illustrious victims; cast thine eyes
Whither Faith calls thee, where the ransomed soul
Rests purified by fire, not otherwise
Than was Alcides, to its heavenly goal
When his purged spirit flew from Oeta's topmost knowl.
Thus he for whom such thousand tears are shed,
Who by a difficult and arduous way
Was from his mortal stains refined, is fled
To realms of glory, whence in broad survey
He sees blind mortals in the dark, astray,
And pitying, musing on these pangs of ours,
Joys to have spread his wings abroad, where day,
Day without night, leads on immortal hours,
And Bliss his sapphire crown wreathes round with amaranth flowers.
He Heaven's pure crystalline walks hand in hand
With his brave grandsire and his sire renowned,
The image of their virtues; to the band
Of angels, pleased they point each radiant wound;
This high reward his heroism has found,
The only vengeance granted in the skies
To earthly foes; the ocean flowing round
This globe of ours—the globe itself he eyes,
And learns its petty toys and trifles to despise.
He there beholds the mystic glass which shows
The past, the present, and the future joined;
He sees the period when thy life shall close;
He sees the place to thee in heaven assigned;
Thrice happy soul, freed from the affections blind
With which on earth so fruitlessly we yearn!
Who liv'st in peace and blessedness enshrined,
And shalt live long as, lit at love's bright urn,
With fire of joy divine celestial spirits burn.
And if kind heaven the wished duration lend
To this my sorrowing Elegy, I vow
Whilst shade and sunlight o'er the world extend
Their robes of gloom or glory, whilst winds bow
The woods, whilst lions haunt the mountain's brow,
Or fish the ocean, long as oceans roll,
The world shall sing of thee; since all allow
That one so young, enriched with such a soul,
Will ne'er again be seen from Pole to sparkling Pole.
ELEGY II.
TO BOSCÁN,
WRITTEN AT THE FOOT OF MOUNT ETNA.
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.