O fierce—O rigorous—O 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.
* * * *
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 heart, and light thy laurelled name."
It may be supposed, that the learned Italians of those days welcomed a spirit congenial to their own, and were proud of a poet who transferred to another language that elegance of style and elevated purity of thought, the original growth of their native land. Cardinal Bembo thus writes of him to a friend, in a letter dated 15th of August, 1535:—"Signor Garcilaso is indeed a graceful poet, and his odes are all in the highest degree pleasing to me, and merit peculiar admiration and praise. In fine spirit he has far excelled all the writers of his nation; and if he be not wanting to himself in diligent study, he will no less excel other nations who are considered masters of poetry. I am not surprised that the marquis del Vasto has wished to have him with him, and that he holds him in great affection."
Among cardinal Bembo's Latin letters, there is one to Garcilaso, full of compliments, which show the high esteem in which he was held. "From the verses which you have sent me, I am happy to perceive, first, how much you love me, since you are not one who would else flatter with encomiums, nor call one dear to you whom you have never seen; and, secondly, how much you excel in lyric compositions, in splendour of genius, and sweetness of expression.—You have not only surpassed all your fellow Spaniards, who have devoted themselves to Parnassus and the Muses, but you supply incentives even to the Italians, and again and again invite them to endeavour to be overcome in this contest and in these studies by no one but yourself; which judgment of mine some other of your writings sent to me from Naples have confirmed. For it is impossible to meet in this age with compositions more classically pure, more dignified in sentiment, or more elegant in style. In that you love me, therefore, I most justly and sincerely rejoice; and that you are a great and good man, I congratulate in the first place yourself, but most of all, your country, in that she is thus about to receive so great an increase of honour and glory.
"There is, however, another circumstance which greatly increases the honour I have received; for lately, when the monk Onorato, whom I perceive you know by reputation, entered into conversation with me, and, amongst other topics, asked me what I thought of your poems, the opinion I gave happened to coincide exactly with his own; and he is a man of very acute perception, and extremely well versed in poetical pursuits. He told me that his friends had written to him of your very many and great virtues, of the urbanity of your manners, the integrity of your life, and accomplishments of your mind; adding that it was a fact confirmed by all Neapolitans that knew you, that no one had come from Spain to their city in these times, wherein the greatest resort has been made by your nation to Italy, whom they loved more affectionately than yourself, or one on whom they would confer superior benefits."
Garcilaso did not, however, long enjoy the leisure that he so well employed. Charles V., whose great ambition was to crush the power of France, and to possess himself of a portion of that kingdom, was resolved to take advantage of the disastrous issue of Francis I.'s attempt upon the duchy of Milan, and rashly determined to invade a country whose armies, however he might meet victoriously in other fields, he could not hope to vanquish in their own. He entered France from the south; and recalling Garcilaso, conferred on him an honourable command over eleven companies of infantry. Leaving Naples to join this expedition, he traversed Italy, and from Vaucluse wrote an epistle to Boscan in a fighter and gayer style than is usual with him; while he dwells with affectionate pleasure on the the of friendship that united them, saying, among other things,—
"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 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 thou may'st now 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!
Embrace Dural 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."
To the period of this campaign Wiffen is inclined to attribute the composition of his third eclogue which, in point of merit, is the second, and which was avowedly written during a war—for, as he says,—
"'Midst arms—with scarce one pause from bloody toil,
When war's hoarse trumpet breaks the poet's dream,
Have I there moments stolen, oft claimed."
This expedition was disastrous in itself and fatal to the poet. An invading army is necessarily abhorred by all; and while it inflicts, also suffers the utmost horrors of war. The French general wisely acted on the defensive, and, having laid the country waste, left famine and disease to win the game. The emperor, unsuccessful in his attempts upon Marseilles and Arles, was obliged to retreat through a country roused to exasperation by the ills it had endured. His army, in consequence, was exposed to a thousand disasters, while the very peasants, hanging on its rear, or lying in ambush, cut off the stragglers, and disputed the passage of every defile. On one occasion, at Muy near Frejus, the imperialists were held in check by a party of fifty rustics, who, armed with muskets, had thrown themselves into a tower, and harassed them on their passage. The emperor ordered Garcilaso to attack and carry it with his battalion. Eager in his obedience, Garcilaso led the way to scale the tower. The peasants observing that he wore a gaily embroidered dress over his armour, fancied that it was the emperor himself, and marked him out for destruction. He was the first to mount the ladder; a block of stone rolled from the battlements, struck him on the head and beat him to the ground. He was carried to Nice; but no care could avail to save him: he lingered for twenty days, and then died, November, 1536, at the age only of thirty-three. He showed, we are told, no less the spirit of a Christian in his death, than of a soldier in the hour of peril. His death was universally lamented; and the emperor displayed his sense of the loss he had sustained, by causing all the peasants who survived the taking of the tower, twenty-eight in number, to be hanged. Such a token of respect would scarcely soothe the ghost of the gentle poet; but it was in accordance with the spirit of the times. The body was interred at first in the church of Saint Dominique at Nice; but two years afterwards was removed to the tomb of his ancestors in a chapel of the church of San Pedro Martyr de Toledo.