VILLEGAS, IN PRAISE OF GARCILASSO.

Si al apacible viento.

To the soft wind, the' eternal guest
Of these delicious skies,
Thou yet, sweet lute, hast been but prest
In beauty's cause, at love's behest,
To sing of bright blue eyes.

But leave these idle themes, and sound
His glory to the stars,
Whose footsteps ranged on classic ground,
Till Garonne saw him deal around
The battle-bolts of Mars.

Woe to the heart of Aquitaine!
Woe to the men she bred!
When, sheathed in steel, with fierce disdain,
He loosed a stream in every vein,
And dyed her ramparts red.

But, freed from war, he bound his brow
With myrtle leaves again,
To Venus paid a votary's vow,
And hymned her birth, assuming now
The falchion, now the pen.

Sweet as the swan, when death was nigh,
On Danube's willowed banks,
He held the waters roaring by,
With magic of his melody,
Congealed in crystal ranks.

Long, long that tune the stream shall keep,
And whisper as it flows;
Let Love too tell in murmurs deep
The noble words she heard him weep,
For well those words she knows.

Well as his song, grave, tender, sweet,
Beneath the beechen shade,
The wild brook babbling at his feet,
When he bewailed the chaste deceit
Of his beloved maid.

But hush the chords, for there, ah there,
Salicio too grew mute,
And broken-hearted with despair
For the too false, forsaking fair,
Hung up his useless lute!