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.