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.