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.