ELEGIES AND EPISTLES.

Although this heavy stroke has touched my soul With such regret, that I myself require Some friend my deep depression to console, That my spent fancy may afresh respire; Yet would I try, if chance the' Aonian choir Give me the requisite assistance, just To strike a little comfort from the lyre, Thy frenzy to assuage, revive thy trust, And raise once more thy head and honours from the dust. At thy distress the pitying Muses weep; For neither, as I hear, when suns arise, Nor when they set, giv'st thou thy sorrows sleep, Rather by brooding o'er them as one dies, Creat'st another, with disordered eyes Still weeping, that I fear to see thy mind And spirit melt away in tears and sighs, Like snows on hill-tops, which the rainy wind Moaning dissolves away, and leaves no trace behind. Or if by chance thy wearied thought finds rest For a few moments in desired repose, 'Tis to return to grief with added zest; In that short slumber thy poor brother shows Pallid as when he swooned away in throes From his sweet life, and thou, intent to lift His dear delusive corse, dost but enclose The vacant air; then Sleep revokes her gift, And from thy waking eye the mimic form flies swift. Yet cherishing the dream, with sense at strife, Thyself no more, thou anxiously look'st round For that beloved brother, who through life The better portion of thy soul was found, Which, dying, could not leave it wholly sound; And thus, forlorn, distracted, dost thou go, Invoking him in shrieks and groans profound, How changed in aspect! hurrying to and fro, As mad Lampecia erst beside the fatal Po. With the like earnest exclamations, she Her Phaëton bewailed; "wild waves, restore My poor lost brother, if you would not see Me too die, watering with my tears your shore!" Oft, oh how oft, did she the stream implore! How oft, revived by grief, her shrieks renew! And oh, as oft, that active frenzy o'er, Whispering, 'twas all she could, green earth adieu, Pale on the poplar shore her faded foliage strew. Yet, I confess, if any accident In this for-ever shifting state should bend The noble soul so loudly to lament, It were the present, since a mournful end Has thus deprived thee of so dear a friend, (Not a mere brother) one who not alone Shared thy deep counsels, taught thee to unbend, And knew each secret that to thee was known; But every shade of thought peculiarly thine own. In him reposed thy honourable, discreet, And wise opinions, used but as the case Chimed with his own; in him were seen to meet Thy every virtue, excellence, and grace, With lovely light, as in a crystal vase Or glassy column, whose transparence shows All things reflected in its lucid face,— Sunlight, gem, flower, the rainbow, and the rose, Clear in its vivid depth plays, sparkles, smiles, or glows. Oh the dark doom, the miserable lot Of human life, that through such trouble flies! One storm comes threatening ere the last's forgot, Fast as one ill departs, severer rise; Whom has not war snatched from our weeping eyes! Whom has not toil worn out! who has not laved In blood his foeman's sword! who not seen rise A thousand times the phantom he has braved, But by hair-breadth escapes miraculously saved! To many, oh how many, will be lost Home, son, wife, memory, undistracted brain, And fortune unincumbered! of this cost, What rich returns, what vestiges remain? Fortune? 'tis nought; fame? glory? victory? gain? Distinction? would'st thou know, our history read; Thou wilt there find that our fatigue and pain, Like dust upon the wind is driven with speed, Long ere our bright designs successfully proceed. Invidious Death oft from the unripe ear Gathers the grain; but in this cruel turn, Not satisfied with being but so severe, Has neither spared his youth, nor our concern; Who could have prophesied a stroke so stern! Whom had not hope deceived, alas, to vow That one so virtuous from the dreary urn Was surely charmed by that ingenuous brow, O'er which the furrowing years had not yet driven their plough! Yet is it not his losses, but our own That we should weep; remorseless Death has made A thousand clear discoveries, he has shown Long life a torment, joy a posting shade, And youth, grace, beauty, gems but to be paid, Poor Nature's tax, at his tyrannic shrine; Yet could not Death so far thy form degrade, But that, when life itself was past, each line Should yet of beauty speak, and workmanship divine. 'Tis true, it was a beauty unattended By the rose-hues which Nature with such skill Had with the virgin lily's whiteness blended During thy life; the Spoiler had turned chill The flame that tempered its chaste snows, but still 'Twas beauty most emphatic! thou didst rest Calm and composed, as though 'twas but thy will To sleep; a smile upon thy lips impressed Told of the life to come, and spoke thy spirit blest. What will the mother of thy love do now, Who loved thee as her soul? ah me, I hear The sound of her laments! what shrieks avow Her agony! shrieks ringing far and near, Which thy four sisters echo back, whose drear Distress augments her grief; I see them go, Forlorn, distracted, scattering o'er thy bier Of their long ravished locks the golden flow, Outraging every charm in concord with her woe. I see old Tormes, full of sad concern, With his white choir of nymphs forsake the waves, And water earth with tears; not o'er his urn Couched in the sweet cool of moist shady caves, But on hot summer sands outstretched, he braves The flaring sunbeams; flung abandoned down, He with hoarse groans for Bernardino raves; The yellow daffodils his locks that crown, Tears with his tangled beard, and rends his sea-green gown. His weeping Nymphs stand round him, unadorned, Uncombed their yellow tresses; weep no more, Your radiant eyes sufficiently have mourned, Beauteous frequenters of the reedy shore! With more availing sympathy restore The mother, standing on distraction's verge; Soon shall the dear chaste relics you deplore, Inurned in marble, sleep beside your surge, And your melodious waves prolong my funeral dirge. And you, Nymphs, Satyrs, Fauns, that in green bowers Live free from care, search each Sicilian steep For salutary herbs and virtuous flowers, To cure Fernando of a grief so deep; Search every secret shade, as when you peep After the lightfoot nymphs, and bounding go O'er vales and rocks, so may they when asleep You in their solitudes surprise them, show Kind as yourselves can wish, and with like fervour glow. But thou, Fernando, thou whose deeds both past And recent, deeds which to a loftier aim Oblige thee to aspire, such splendour cast, Consider where thou art! for if the name Which thou, the great and glorified of Fame, Hast gained among the nations, find its date, Thy virtue somewhat must relax, and blame Be thine; and not to brave the storms of fate With a serene resolve consists not with the Great. Not thus the shaft, shot by some fatal star In its due course, should pierce the noble soul; Ev'n if the heavens should in the dreadful jar Of maddening elements together roll, And fall in fragments like a shrivelled scroll, It should be crushed rather than entertain Dejection; crags conduct to the high goal Of immortality, and he whom pain Leads to decline the' ascent, can ne'er the crown attain. Call it not stern: for nature's due relief, To human weakness freely I concede The natural tears of overflowing grief, But the excess which would delight to feed On its own vitals, and indulged proceed To all eternity, I must assail; And Time at least, who lessens in his speed All mortal things beside, if reason fail, Should o'er thy grief at length be suffered to prevail. Hector was not for ever so lamented By his sad mother, or his more sad sire, But when the fierce Achilles had relented To his submissive tears, at his desire Yielding the corse, and when funereal fire Those dear devoted relics had possessed, The shrieks they silenced of the Phrygian choir, Their own acute soliloquies suppressed, Stifled the rising groan, and soothed their sighs to rest. Venus, in this point human, what did she Not feel, perceiving forest, field, and flower, Flushed with her darling's blood! but taught to see That clouding her bright eyes with shower on shower Of tears, might harm herself, but had no power To purchase her beloved boy's return From ruthless Proserpine's Cimmerian bower, She dried her eyes, subdued her vain concern, And with calm hand entwined her myrtles round his urn. And soon with light and graceful steps once more Idalia's verdurous paradise she pressed, Her usual ornaments and garlands wore, And round her clasped her beauty-breathing cest; The winds in wanton flights her locks caressed, And with fresh joy her looks and rosy bloom All ocean, earth, and sky divinely blessed: So look I forward to see thee resume Wisely thy firmness past, and banish fruitless gloom. Let thy desire to reach the skies, where care, And death, and sorrow lose their dues, suffice Without fresh instance; thou wilt notice there How little Death has hurt the memories Of his illustrious victims; cast thine eyes Whither Faith calls thee, where the ransomed soul Rests purified by fire, not otherwise Than was Alcides, to its heavenly goal When his purged spirit flew from Oeta's topmost knowl. Thus he for whom such thousand tears are shed, Who by a difficult and arduous way Was from his mortal stains refined, is fled To realms of glory, whence in broad survey He sees blind mortals in the dark, astray, And pitying, musing on these pangs of ours, Joys to have spread his wings abroad, where day, Day without night, leads on immortal hours, And Bliss his sapphire crown wreathes round with amaranth flowers. He Heaven's pure crystalline walks hand in hand With his brave grandsire and his sire renowned, The image of their virtues; to the band Of angels, pleased they point each radiant wound; This high reward his heroism has found, The only vengeance granted in the skies To earthly foes; the ocean flowing round This globe of ours—the globe itself he eyes, And learns its petty toys and trifles to despise. He there beholds the mystic glass which shows The past, the present, and the future joined; He sees the period when thy life shall close; He sees the place to thee in heaven assigned; Thrice happy soul, freed from the affections blind With which on earth so fruitlessly we yearn! Who liv'st in peace and blessedness enshrined, And shalt live long as, lit at love's bright urn, With fire of joy divine celestial spirits burn. And if kind heaven the wished duration lend To this my sorrowing Elegy, I vow Whilst shade and sunlight o'er the world extend Their robes of gloom or glory, whilst winds bow The woods, whilst lions haunt the mountain's brow, Or fish the ocean, long as oceans roll, The world shall sing of thee; since all allow That one so young, enriched with such a soul, Will ne'er again be seen from Pole to sparkling Pole.

Boscán! here, where the Mantuan has inurned Anchises' ashes to eternal fame, We, Cæsar's hosts, from conquest are returned, Some of their toils the promised fruits to claim— Some who make virtue both the end and aim Of action, or would have the world suppose And say so, loud in public to declaim Against such selfishness; whilst yet, heaven knows, They act in secret all the meanness they oppose. For me, a happy medium I observe; For never has it entered in my scheme To strive for much more silver than may serve To lift me gracefully from each extreme Of thrifty meanness, thriftless pride; I deem The men contemptible that stoop to use The one or other, that delight to seem Too close, or inconsiderate in their views: In error's moonlight maze their way both worthies lose. But whither rove I? I stand pledged to send An elegy, and find my language fast Sliding toward satire; I correct, sweet friend, My wandering course; and prosecute at last My purpose, whither thou must know the past Has ever led, and where the present still Leads Garcilasso: on the green turf cast, Here, midst the woods of this stupendous hill, On various things I brood, not unperplexed by ill. Yet leave I not the Muses, but the more For this perplexity with them commune, And with the charm of their delicious lore Vary my life, and waste the summer noon; Thus pass my hours beguiled; but out of tune The lyre will sometimes be, when trials prove The anxious lyrist: to the country soon Of the sweet Siren shall I hence remove, Yet, as of yore, the land of idlesse, ease, and love. There once before my troubled heart found rest With the sad turtle; but it is not now So much by sadness as chill fear possessed, Which, shooting through my veins, I know not how To' endure and still exist; did sadness bow My spirit but as then, 'twere a mere name; Short absence from one's love, I even allow, Enlivens life; slight water poured on flame Brightens its blaze—in love short absence does the same. 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. 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.

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.