NEMOROSO.
Hark then for a space
To what I say; a singular strange case
Will I relate, of which—but let that pass—
I both the witness and the subject was.
On Tormes' banks, the sweetest stream of Spain,
Mild, sacred, clear, extends a spacious plain,
Green in mid-winter, green in autumn, green
In sultry summer as in spring serene;
At the far end of which, the eye's delight,
Charming in form, and of a pleasing height,
A hill o'erlooks the scene, whose wood-crowned crest
Fair towers surmount, whereon heaven seems to rest:
Towers of strange beauty, not so much admired
For their fine structure, although Toil has tired
Thereon his curious chisel, as renowned
For their grand Lords by glory haloed round.
All that is deemed desirable and great
May there be found, rank, wisdom, virtue, state,
The gifts of Nature, and the stores of Art,
Whatever Taste can wish, or Power impart.
There, dwells a man of genius, whose rare touch
Of the melodious lyre and pipe is such
As ne'er to satiate with its notes of grace
And flavourous tones, the Spirit of the place.
On Trebia's field stood his paternal home,
Trebia the red, the' Aceldama of Rome,
And still, though numerous years have intervened,
The favourite refuge of the same fierce fiend—
Of war, whose crimson sword its turf has stained,
Its green bowers ravaged, its pure waves profaned.
He, seeing this, abandoned it to find
Some scene more suited to his gentle mind:
Good fortune led his footsteps to the hall
Of Alba, so that splendid seat they call,
Severo him; the God of wit and light
Pours all his rays on his sciential sight.
He, when he wills, by signs and murmured spells,
Can curb the swiftest, mightiest stream that swells;
Change storms to golden calms, change night to noon,
Bid thunders bellow, and pluck down the moon,
If to his signals she will not reply,
And check the car that whirls her through the sky.
I fear, should I presume to speak in praise
Of all his power and wisdom, I should raise
His wrath, but this I must declare, above
All other things, the pangs of slighted love
He in an instant cures, removes the pain,
Converts impassioned frenzy to disdain,
Sadness to smiles, and on the soul's tuned keys
Rewakes its old familiar melodies.
I shall not know, Salicio, I am sure,
To tell the means and method of my cure,
But this I know, I came away quite sound,
Pure from desire, and vigorous from my wound.
I well remember that by Tormes' stream
I found him rapt in some pathetic theme,
Singing in strains whose sweetness might imprint
The soul of feeling in a heart of flint:
When me he saw, divining my desire,
He changed the mode, and rectified his lyre;
The praise of liberty from love he sings,
And with a sprightlier spirit smites the strings;
Reflected in his song, I stand confest
The slave of sense, and alien from all rest,
Shamed and surprised, till—how shall I explain
That strange effect?—the fascinating strain
The tincture takes of medicine, which, in brief,
Flows through my veins, and, grappling with my grief,
Roots out the venom: then was I as one
Who all night long o'er break-neck crags has run,
Not seeing where the path leads, till at last
Light dawns, and looking back, the perils passed
Rush on his sight, now so distinctly kenned,
The mere idea sets his hair on end:
So thunderstruck stood I, nor to this day
Can I, without a shudder of dismay,
Eye my past danger; my new scope of sight
Presented all things in their proper light,
And showed what I before with such a gust
Had grasped for gold, to be but worthless dust.
Such was the talisman, and such the skill
With which that ancient sage uncharmed my will;
My mind its native liveliness regained,
And my heart bounded as from bonds unchained.
SALICIO.
Oh fine old age! ev'n fruitful in thy snows,
That to the soul thus bring'st its lost repose,
Weaning the heart from love, the ungentle gust
That blasts our hopes, or weds them with the dust.
Merely from that with which thou hast amazed
My ear, I feel strong wishes in me raised,
To see and know him.
NEMOROSO.
Does thy wonder mount
So high, Salicio, at this poor account?
More could I say, if I were not afraid
To tire thy patience.
SALICIO.
What is this thou' hast said,
Unthinking Nemoroso? Can there be
Aught half so charming, half so sweet to me,
As listening to thy stories? Tell me more
Of sage Severo; tell me, I implore.
Nought interrupts the tale; our flocks at rest,
The fresh soft wind comes whispering from the west;
Sweet weeps the nightingale in song that moves
In amorous hearts the sadnesses she proves;
The turtle murmurs from her elm; the bee
Hums; the shy cuckoo shouts from tree to tree;
The wood a thousand flowers presents; the flowers
A thousand hues; and, hung with nodding bowers,
This babbling fountain with its voice invites
To social ease and interchanged delights.