When thou Listea from the world away
Didst take, thy nature and thy strength, thy worth,
Thy spirit, wrath and lordship to the earth
Thou didst by that proud deed alone display.
All that the earth possesseth fair and gay,
Graceful and witty, thou didst likewise doom,
When thou didst doom Listea; in her tomb
Thou didst with her this wealth of blisses lay.
My painful life grows longer, and its weight
I can no more upon my shoulders bear,
For without her I am in darkness drear;
His life is death who is not fortunate.
I have no hope in fortune nor in fate,
I have no hope in time, no hope in Heaven;
I may not hope for solace to be given,
Nor yet for good where evil is so great.
Oh ye who feel what sorrow is, come, find
In mine your consolation, when ye see
Its strength, its vigour and alacrity;
Then ye will see how far yours falls behind.
Where are ye now, shepherds graceful and kind,
Crisio, Marsilio, and Orfenio? What
Do ye? Why come ye not? Why count ye not
Mine greater far than troubles of your mind?
But who is this who cometh into sight,
Emerging at the crossing of yon path?
Marsilio 'tis, whom Love as prisoner hath,
The cause Belisa, her praise his delight.
The fierce snake of disdain with cruel bite
His soul doth ever gnaw and eke his breast,
He spends his life in torment without rest,
And yet not his but mine the blacker plight.
He thinks the ill that makes his soul complain
Is greater than the sorrow of my woe.
Within this thicket 'twill be well to go,
That I may see if he perchance complain.
Alas! to think to match it with the pain
That never leaves me is but vanity.
The road mine opens that to ill draws nigh,
Closing the pathway that doth bliss attain.
MARSILIO.
Oh steps that by steps bring
Me to death's agonies
I am constrained to blame your tardiness!
Unto the sweet lot cling,
For in your swiftness lies
My bliss, and in such hour of bitterness.
Behold, me to distress,
The hardness of my foe
Within her angry breast,
Hostile unto my rest,
Doth ever do what it was wont to do,
And therefore let us flee,
If but we can, from her dread cruelty.
To what clime shall I go,
Or to what land unknown
To make my dwelling there, that I may be
Safe from tormenting woe,
From sad and certain moan,
Which shall not end till it hath ended me?
Whether I stay or flee
To Libya's sandy plains
Or to the dwelling-place
Of Scythia's savage race,
One thing alone doth mitigate my pain;
That a contented mind
I do not in a change of dwelling find.
It wins me everywhere,
The rigorous disdain
Of her that hath no peer, my cruel foe,
And yet an issue fair
'Tis not for me to gain
From Love or hope amidst such cruel woe.
Belisa, daylight's glow,
Thou glory of our age,
If prayers of a friend
Have power thy will to bend,
Temper of thy right hand the ruthless rage!
The fire my breast doth hold,
May it have power in thine to melt the cold.
Yet deaf unto my cry,
Ruthless and merciless,
As to the wearied mariner's appeal
The tempest raging by
That stirs the angry sea,
Threatening to life the doom unspeakable,
Adamant, marble, steel,
And rugged Alpine brow,
The sturdy holm-oak old,
The oak that to the cold
North wind its lofty crest doth never bow,
All gentle are and kind
Compared unto the wrath in thee we find.