This sole return my servitude obtains
From stepdame Fortune, that she should deny
Her common changes in the griefs and pains
That vex my being; whither shall I fly,
A moment to shake off the misery
That loads my heart? alas, it is decreed
That distance to my anguish should supply
No rest, no ease, but that where'er I speed,
My arm from cankering chains should never more be freed!
If where the burning sun his splendour flings
On the scorched sands of Africa the wild,
Nurse of all venomous and savage things,
Or where his fire is quenched by ices piled
On ices to the clouds, where flower ne'er smiled,
Nor save the hoarse blast aught endured the clime,
I by imperious Fortune were exiled,
There to consume my melancholy time,
Smit by the' unshadowed blaze, or rained on by the rime;—
There, with his icy hand Fear still would seize
On my sad heart, and here, mid silent snows,
Where the sharp wind seems ev'n the stars to freeze,
Curdling to ice the flood that swiftest flows;
Ev'n here, I know that I could interpose
No screen to shield me from the vivid fire
Wherein chastised my ardent spirit glows,
Wasting away I trust by slow desire,
And thus 'twixt clashing ills distractedly expire.
EPISTLE TO BOSCÁN.
Who loves like me for his friend's eye to frame
Thoughts even on things that have no Spanish name,
Can never want materials for his sheet,
Clothed in a style brief, simple, easy, neat,
And chaste in ornament, as best befits
The chitchat writing of familiar wits.
Amidst the' advantage which with other things
To minds like ours perfected friendship brings,
Is this same careless freedom which one gains
From the nice pomp of ceremonial chains.
Thus free, thus easy, I proceed to tell
In the first place, that I'm arrived—and well
As one can be, who in a time so brief
Has rid the distance noted over-leaf.
A looser rein I give, as I proceed,
To my winged fancy than my trotting steed;
At times it bears me onward by a way
So smooth and pleasant, with a step so gay,
As makes me quite forget my past fatigues;
At times o'er ruts so rough, by such long leagues,
That in the present pain I lose no less
The vexing thought of undergone distress;
But times there are again, when I create
A middle course, both temperate and sedate,
When taste and temper, scene and season suit
With the ingenious thought and nice dispute.
Thus as I musing rode one day, and thought
On his endowments who so well has taught
The paths to friendship,[AR] almost instantly
My thoughts, beloved Boscán, recurred to thee,
And feelings rose, which singular appear,
At least to me, which therefore thou shalt hear.
Whilst much reflecting on the sacred tie
Of our affection which I hold so high,
The' exchange of talent, taste, intelligence,
Shared gifts and multiplied delights which thence
Refresh our souls in their perpetual flow—
There nothing is that makes me value so
The sweetness of this compact of the heart,
Than the affection on my own warm part.
Such force it has, that (not disparaging
The other pleasures that from friendship spring)
The aid—the advantage each to each has dealt,
With this alone my soul has seemed to melt,
And I well know that I am otherwise
Influenced in this than by the joys that rise
From things as useful; seeing then the' effect
So strong within me, led me to reflect
And search into the cause; I have thus traced
The pleasure, profit, ornament, and taste
Which the blest chain of love to me imparts,
(The chain some Angel tangled round our hearts)
To their true source, as things that do not mount
From me, but tell alone to my account;
But love itself (whence all things may have birth)
When it is seen to furnish aught of worth
To thee, dear friend, joy, taste, or benefit,
Is the grand reason of my valuing it
Above all selfish interests, as it is
More godlike to bestow imparted bliss,
Than to receive it; thus the loving makes
My good—a good that of no ill partakes.
Such were my thoughts. But oh, how shall I set
Fully to view my shame and my regret,
For having praised so at a single glance
The roads, the dealings, and hotels of France!
Shame—that with reason now thou may'st pronounce
Myself a fabler, and my praise a bounce;
Regret—my time so much to have misused
In rashly lauding what were best abused;
For here, all fibs apart, you find but jades
Of hacks, sour wines, and pilfering chambermaids,
Long ways, long bills, no silver, fleecing hosts,
And all the luxury of lumbering posts.
Arriving too from Naples by the way,
Naples,—the choice, the brilliant, and the gay!
I left no treasure buried there, except
You say that's buried which I might have kept;
Embrace Durál[10] for me, nor rate my Muse:
October twelfth, given forth from sweet Vaucluse,
Where the fine flame of Petrarch had its birth,
And where its ashes yet irradiate earth.