Galatea

by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

DAMON.

The idle fancies that our minds do weave,
Which hither and thither are buffeted
In rapid flight by every wind that blows;
Man's feeble heart, ever inclined to grieve,
Set upon pleasures that are doomed to fade,
Wherein it seeks, but findeth not, repose;
The world that never knows
The truth, the promiser of joyous pleasures;
Its siren voice, whose word
Is scarcely overheard,
When it transforms its pleasures to displeasures;
Babylon, chaos, seen and read by me
In everything I see;
The mood the careful courtier doth command—
Have set, in unity
With my desire, the pen within my hand.

I would my rude ill-shapen quill might rise,
My lord, though brief and feeble be its flight,
Unto the realms that my desire doth gain,
So that the task of raising to the skies
Thy goodness rare and virtue ever bright
It might essay, and thus its wish attain.
But who is there that fain
Would on his shoulders cast so great a burden,
Unless he is a new
Atlas, in strength so true,
That Heaven doth little weary him or burden?
And even he the load will be compelled
To shift, that he has held,
On to the arms of a new Hercules,
And yet such toil beheld,
Although he bow and sweat, I count but ease.

But since 'tis to my strength impossible,
And but an empty wish I give to prove
All that my loyal fancy doth conceal,
Let us consider if 'tis possible
My feeble ill-contented hand to move,
And some vague sign of joy thereby reveal;
Herein my power I feel
So powerless, that thou thine ears must lend,
And to the bitter groans
And agonising moans
That issue from a breast despised, attend;
Upon that breast fire, air, and earth, and sea
Make war unceasingly,
Conspiring all together for its pain,
Which its sad destiny
Doth bound, and its small fortune doth contain.

Were this not so in truth, an easy thing
It were through pleasure's realm one's steps to bend,
And countless pleasures to the mind restore,
The mountain, strand, or river picturing.
Not Love, but fortune, fate and chance did lend
Their wealth of glory to a shepherd poor:
But Time a triumph o'er
This sweet tale claims, and of it doth remain
Alone a feeble shadow,
Which doth the thought o'ershadow
That thinks on it the more, and fills with pain.
Such is the fitting plight of all mankind!
The pleasure we designed
In a few hours is changed to sore displeasure,
And no one will e'er shall find
In many years a firm and lasting pleasure.

Now let the idle thought revolve on high,
Let it ascend or descend to the abyss,
And in a moment run from east to west,
'Twill say, however much it sweat and ply
Its strength, escaping from its miseries,
Set in dread hell, or Heaven loftiest:
"Oh thrice and four times blest
And blest and blest again with happiness,
The simple herdsman who,
With his poor sheep and few,
Liveth with more content and peacefulness
Than Crassus rich or Midas in his greed,
Since the life he doth lead,
A shepherd's life, of healthy simple powers,
Doth make him take no heed
Of this false, wretched, courtly life of ours."

Beside the trunk that Vulcan's flame dissolves,
Of sturdy oak, he seeks himself to warm,
Amidst the might of winter's bristling cold,
And there in peace a clear account resolves
To give of life to Heaven, and how from harm
To keep his flock, he doth discussion hold.
And when away hath rolled
The hard and barren frost, when it doth shrink,
When he who had his birth
In Delos, doth the earth
And air inflame, then, on some river's brink,
Of willows green and elms its canopy,
In rustic harmony
He sounds the shrilly fife, or lifts his voice:
Then truly one doth see
The waters stop to listen and rejoice,

He is not wearied by the solemn face
Of one in favour, who doth bear the port
Of governor, where he is not obeyed,
Nor by the sweetly uttered lofty praise
Of the false flatterer, who in absence short,
Views, leaders, parties, changeth undismayed.
Of the disdain displayed
By the wise secretary, of his pride
Who bears the golden key,
But little recketh he,
Nor of the league of divers chiefs allied.
Not for a moment from his flock he goes,
Because the angry blows
Of frenzied Mars on either side may sound,
Who doth such skill disclose
That e'en his followers scarce have profit found.

Within a circle small his footsteps wend
From the high mountain to the peaceful plain,
To the clear river from the fountain cold.
Nor doth he plough, in madness without end,
The heaving meadows of the ocean main,
Desiring distant countries to behold.
It doth not make him bold
To learn that close beside his village lives
The great unconquered king,
Whose weal is everything,
Yet not to see him small displeasure gives.
No ambitious busy-body he, beside
Himself, who without pride
Runs after favour, and a favourite's power,
Though never hath he dyed
His sword or lance in blood of Turk or Moor.

'Tis not for him to change or face or hue
Because the lord he serveth changeth face
Or hue, since he no lord hath to constrain
Him with mute tongue to follow and pursue—
As Clytie did her golden lover chase—
The sweet or bitter pleasure he may gain.
Nor doth he share the pain
Of fearing that an idle, careless thought
Within the thankless breast
Of his lord may at last
The memory of his loyal service blot,
And thus be his the doom of banishment;
His mien doth not present
Other than what his healthy breast doth hold;
Our ways, with falsehood blent,
Do not compete with rustic knowledge old.