ECLOGUE II.

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ALBANIO. SALICIO.ALBANIO.Temperate, when winter waves its snowy wing,Is the sweet water of this sylvan spring;And when the heats of summer scorch the grass,More cold than snow: in your clear looking-glass,Fair waves! the memory of that day returns,With which my soul still shivers, melts, and burns;Gazing on your clear depth and lustre pure,My peace grows troubled, and my joy obscure;Recovering you, I lose all self-content:To whom, alas, could equal pains be sent!Scenes that would soothe another's pangs to peace,Add force to mine, or soothe but to increase.This lucid fount, whose murmurs fill the mind,The verdant forests waving with the wind,The odours wafted from the mead, the flowersIn which the wild bee sits and sings for hours,These might the moodiest misanthrope employ,Make sound the sick, and turn distress to joy;I only in this waste of sweetness pineTo death! oh beauty, rising to divine!Oh curls of gold! oh eyes that laughed with light!Oh swanlike neck! oh hand as ivory white!How could an hour so mournful ever riseTo change a life so blest to tears and sighs,Such glittering treasures into dust! I rangeFrom place to place, and think, perhaps the change,The change may partly temper and controlThe ceaseless flame that thus consumes my soul.Deceitful thought! as though so sharp a smartBy my departure must itself depart:Poor languid limbs, the grief is but too deepThat tires you out! Oh that I could but sleepHere for awhile! the heart awake to pain,Perchance in slumbers and calm dreams might gainGlimpse of the peace with which it pants to meet,Though false as fair, and fugitive as sweet.Then, amiable kind Sleep, descend, descend!To thee my wearied spirit I commend.SALICIO.How highly he may rateHis fortunate estate,Who, to the sweets of solitude resigned,Lives lightly loose from care,At distance from the snareOf what encumbers and disturbs the mind!He sees no thronged parade,No pompous colonnadeOf proud grandees, nor greedy flatterers vile,Ambitious each to sportIn sunshine of a court;He is not forced to fawn, to sue, to smile,To feign, to watch of power each veering sign,Noticed to dread neglect, neglected to repine.But, in calm idlesse laidSupine in the cool shadeOf oak or ilex, beech or pendant pine,Sees his flocks feeding stray,Whitening a length of way,Or numbers up his homeward-tending kine:Store of rich silks unrolled,Fine silver, glittering gold,To him seem dross, base, worthless, and impure;He holds them in such hate,That with their cumbrous weightHe would not fancy he could live secure;And thinking this, does wisely still maintainHis independent ease, and shuns the shining bane.Him to soft slumbers callThe babbling brooks, the fallOf silver fountains, and the unstudied hymnsOf cageless birds, whose throatsPour forth the sweetest notes;Shrill through the crystal air the music swims;To which the humming beeKeeps ceaseless company,Flying solicitous from flower to flower,Tasting each sweet that dwellsWithin their scented bells;Whilst the wind sways the forest, bower on bower,That evermore, in drowsy murmurs deep,Sings in the silent ear, and aids descending sleep.Who breathes so loud? 'Tis strange I see him not;Oh, there he lies, in that sequestered spot!Thrice happy you, who thus, when troubles tire,Relax the chords of thought, or of desire!How finished, Nature, are thy works! neglectLeft nought in them to add to, or perfect.Heightening our joy, diminishing our grief,Sleep is thy gift, and given for our relief;That at our joyous waking we might findMore health of body and repose of mind:Refreshed we rise from that still pause of strife,And with new relish taste the sweets of life.When wearied out with care, sleep, settling calm,Drops on our dewless lids her soothing balm,Stilling the torn heart's agonizing throes,From that brief quiet, that serene repose,Fresh spirit we inspire, fresh comfort share,And with new vigour run the race of care.I on his dreams will gently steal, and seeIf I the shepherd know, and if he beOf the unhappy or contented class:Is it Albanio slumbering there? AlasThe unhappy boy! Albanio, of a truth;Sleep on, poor wearied, and afflicted youth!How much more free do I esteem the dead,Who, from all mortal storms escaped, is ledSafe into port, than he who living here,So noble once, and lively in his cheer,Cast by stern fortune from his glorious height,Has bid a long, long farewell to delight!He, though now stript of peace, and most distressed,Was once, they say, most blissful of the blest,In amorous pledges rich; the change how great!I know not well the secret of his fate;Lycid, who knew the tale, sometime agoTold me a part, but much remains to know.ALBANIO.Is it a dream? or do I surely claspHer gentle hand, that answers grasp for grasp?'Tis mockery all! how madly I believedThe flatterer sleep, and how am I deceived!On swift wings rustling through the ivory door,The vision flies, and leaves me as before,Stretched lonely here; is't not enough, I bearThis grievous weight, the living soul's despair;Or, to say truly, this uncertain strife,And daily death of oft-renewing life!SALICIO.Albanio, cease thy weeping, which to see,Grieves me.ALBANIO.Who witnesses my weeping?SALICIO.HeWho by partaking will assuage the smart.ALBANIO.Thou, my Salicio? Ah, thy gentle heartAnd company in every strait could bringSweet solace, once; now, 'tis a different thing.SALICIO.Part of thy woes from Lycid I have heard,Who here was present when the' event occurred;Its actual cause he knew not, but surmisedThe evil such, that it were best disguised.I, as thou know'st, was in the city, bentOn travelling then, and only heard the' eventOn my return; but now, I pray relate,If not too painful, specially, the date,The author, cause, and process of thy grief,Which thus divided will find some relief.ALBANIO.Relief is certain with a friend so sure,When such the sickness as admits of cure;But this, this pierces to my marrow! Still,Our shared pursuits by fountain, grove, and hill,And our vowed friendship to thy wishes winMy else-sealed lips;—yet, how shall I begin?My soul, my brain, with clouds is overcast,At but the mere remembrance of the past—The alarm, the mortal wound, the sudden pain,Then every earlier feeling felt again,Linked with the blighted present, all prevail,And, like a spectre, scare me from the tale.But yet, methinks, 'twere wisdom to obey,Lay bare the wound, and sorrowing bleed awayFrom anguish and from life; and thus, dear friend,From the commencement to the fatal end,My woes will I relate, without disguise,Though the sad tale my soul reluctant flies.Well have I loved, well shall love, whilst the rayOf life celestial lights this coil of clay,The maid for whom I die! No free-will choice,No thoughtless chase at Folly's calling voiceLed me to love, nor, oft as others aim,With flattering fancies did I feed the flame;But from my tenderest infancy, perforce,Some fatal star inclined me to its course.Thou know'st a maiden, beautiful and young,From my own ancestors remotely sprung,Lovelier than Love himself; in infancyVowed to Diana of the woods, with glee,Amidst them, skilled the sylvan war to wage,She passed the rosy April of her age:I, who from night till morning, and from mornTill night, to challenge of the sprightly horn,Followed the inspiring chase without fatigue,Came by degrees in such familiar leagueWith her, by like pursuits and tastes allied,I could not stir an instant from her side.Hour after hour this union stricter grew,Joined with emotions precious, pure, and new:What tangled mountain has been left untracedBy our swift feet? What heath, or leafy wasteOf forests, has not heard our hunting cry?What babbling echo not been tired thereby?Ever with liberal hands, when ceased our toils,To the chaste patron who decreed our spoils,We heaped the holy altars, talking o'erPast risks, now offering of the grisly boarThe grim and tusked head, and nailing nowThe stag's proud antlers on the sacred boughOf some tall pine; and thus when evening burned,With grateful, happy hearts, we home returned;And when we shared the quarry, never wentFrom us one word or look of discontent.Hunting of all kinds charmed, but that the mostOf simple birds, snared ever with least costOf toil; and when desired Aurora showedHer rosy cheeks, and locks like gold that glowed,With dew impearling all the forest flowers,Away we passed to unfrequented bowers,In the most secret valley we could find,Shut from the tread and talk of humankind;Then, binding to two lofty trees, unseen,Our tinctured webs of very perfect green,Our voices hushed, our steps as midnight still,We netted off the vale from hill to hill;Then, fetching a small compass, by degreesWe turned toward the snares, and shook the trees,And stormed the shadiest nooks with shout and sling,Till the whole wood was rustling on the wing:Blackbirds, larks, goldfinches, before us flew,Distracted, scared, not knowing what to do.Who shunned the less, the greater evil met,Confusedly taken in the painted net;And curious then it was to hear them speakTheir griefs with doleful cry and piercing shriek;Some—for the swarms were countless—you might seeFluttering their wings and striving to get free,Whilst others, far from showing signs of rage,In dumb affliction drooped about the cage;Till, drawing tight the cords, proud of the preyBorne at our backs, we took our homeward way.But when moist autumn came, and yellow fellThe wild-wood leaves round bowerless Philomel;When August heats were past, a different sport,But no less idle, we were wont to court,To pass the day with joy; then, well you know,Black clouds of starlings circle to and fro:Mark now the craft that we employed to snareThese birds that go through unobstructed air.One straggler first from their vast companies,Alive we captured, which was done with ease;Next, to its foot a long limed thread we tied,And when the passing squadron we descried,Aloft we tossed it; instantly it mixedAmongst the rest, and our success was fixed;For soon, as many as the tangling string,Or by the head, or leg, or neck, or wing,In its aërial voyage twined around,Flagged in their strength, and fell towards the ground,Yet not without long strugglings in their flight,Much to their mischief, and to our delight.Useless to it was the prophetic croakOf the black rook in the umbrageous oak;When one of them alive, as oft occurred,Fell in our hands, we made the captive birdDecoy to many a captive; to a plainSpacious, and sowed perchance with winter grain,Where flocks of rooks in company resort,Our prize we took, and instant to the sport.By the extreme points of its wings, to ground,But without breaking them, the bird we bound;Then followed what you scarce conceive; it stoodWith eyes turned upward, in the attitudeOf one that contemplates the stars; from sightMeanwhile we drew, when, frantic with affright,It pierced the air with loud, distressful cries,And summoned down its brethren from the skies.Instant a swift swarm which no tongue could name,Flew to its aid, and round it stalking came.One, of its fellow's doom more piteous grownThan cautious or considerate of its own,Drew close—and on the first exertion made,With death or sad captivity it paidFor its simplicity; the pinioned rookSo fast clung to it with the grappling-hookOf its strong claws, that without special leaveIt could not part: now you may well conceiveWhat our amusement was to see the twain,That to break loose and this fresh aid to gain,Wrestling engage; the quarrel did not coolTill finished by our hand, and the poor foolWas left at mournful leisure to repentOf the vain help its thoughtless pity lent.What would'st thou say, if, standing centinelWith upraised leg when midnight shadows fell,The crane was snared betwixt us? Of no useWas its sagacious caution to the goose,Or its perpetual fame for second-sightAgainst the snares and stratagems of night.Nought could its strength or sleight at swimming saveThe white swan, dwelling on the pathless wave,Lest it by fire, like Phaëton, should die,For whom its shrill voice yet upbraids the sky.And thou, sad partridge, think'st thou that to fleeStraight from the copse secures thy life to thee?Thy fall is in the stubble! On no bird,No beast, had nature for defence conferredSuch cunning, but that by the net or shaftIt fell, subdued by our superior craft.But were I each particular to tellOf this delightful life, the vesper bellWould sound ere it was done: enough to knowThat this fond friendship, this divine-faced foe,So pure from passion, undisturbed by fears,To different colour changed my rising years.My ill star shone; the spirit of unrest,And love, excessive love, my soul possessed;So deep, so absolute, I no more knewMyself, but doubted if the change were true.Then first I felt to mingle with the stirOf sweet sensations in beholding her,Fearful desires that on their ardent wingsRaised me to hope impracticable things.Pain for her absence was not now a pain,Nor even an anguish brooding in the brain,But torment keen as death—the ceaseless smartOf fire close raging in the naked heart.To this sad pass I gradually was broughtBy my ill star, and ne'er could I have thoughtIts baneful power reached farther, were it notProved but too surely by my present lot,That, when compared with these, my former woesMight be considered as a sweet repose.But here 'tis fit the hated tale that swellsMy soul with grief, and thrills the tongue that tells,Should find a close, nor sadden, though it searsAlbanio's memory, kind Salicio's ears.Few words will speak the rest;—one hour, but one—Wrecked my last joy, and left me quite undone.SALICIO.If, my dear friend, you spoke with one who ne'erHad felt the dangerous flame, the restless care,The bitter-sweets of love which thus you feel,Wisdom it were the sequel to conceal:But if I share the sorrows of thy breast,Why as a stranger hide from me the rest?Think'st thou that I on my part do not proveThis living death, this agony of love?If skilled experience should not wholly endThy heavy grief, the pity of a friend,Himself sore wounded by the marksman's dart,Will fail not to at least assuage the smart.Since, then, I candidly disclose my shareIn such concerns (and even yet I bearMarks of the arrow), it is quite unkindTo be so shy: whilst thou hast life, thy mindShould cherish hope; I may, as Love's high priest,Counsel some cure, or weep with thee at least.No harm can come from subjecting thine earTo the kind counsels of a friend sincere.ALBANIO.Thou would'st that I should fruitlessly contendWith one who must o'ercome me in the end.Love wills my silence, nor can I commenceThe tale requested without great offence:Love chains my tongue, and thus—indeed, indeed—Spare me, I feel that I must not proceed.SALICIO.What obstacle forbids thee to revealThis ill to one who surely hopes to healIn part the wound?ALBANIO.Love, love that doth denyAll comfort,—Love desires that I should die;Knowing too well that for a little whileThe mere relation would my grief beguile,More swiftly to destroy, the God unjustHas now deprived my bosom of the gustWhich late it had, to candidly avow,And thus conclude its sorrows; so that nowIt neither does become thy truth to seekFor farther knowledge, nor myself to speak,—Myself, whom fortune has alone distressed,And who alone in dying look for rest.SALICIO.Who is so barbarous to himself as e'erTo' entrust his person to a murderer's care,His treasures to the spoiler! Can it be,That without discomposure thou canst seeLove make in frolic, for a flight of skill,Thy very tongue the puppet of his will?ALBANIO.Salicio, cease this language; curb thy tongue;I feel the grief, the insult, and the wrong:Whence these fine words? what schoolman did commitTo thee this pomp of philosophic wit,A shepherd of the hills? with what light cheerThe careless lip can learn to be severe,And oh, how easily a heart at easeCan counsel sickness to throw off disease!SALICIO.I counselled nothing that deserved to callAn answer from thee of such scorn and gall:Merely I asked thee—ask thee to relateWhat it is makes thee so disconsolate.I shared thy joy, and can I fail to beTouched with thy grief? be free with me, be free.ALBANIO.Since I no longer can the point contest,Be satisfied—I will relate the rest;One promise given, that when the tale is done,Thou wilt depart, and leave me quite alone;Leave me alone, to weep, as eve declines,My fatal loss amid these oaks and pines.SALICIO.Well! though thy wisdom I cannot commend,I will prove more a fond than faithful friend;Will quit the place, and leave thee to thy woes:ALBANIO.Now then, Salicio, hear what I disclose;And you, the Dryads of this leafy grove,Where'er you be, attend my tale of love!I have already told the prosperous part,And if in peace I could have fixed my heart,How happy had I been; but the desire,The constant striving to conceal my fireFrom her, alas! whose sweet and gentle breathBut fanned it, brought me to the gates of death.A thousand times she begged, implored to knowWhat secret something vexed my spirit so;In my pale aspect she too plainly readGrief of some sort, and gaiety was fled;Thus would she say, thus sue to me, but sighsAnd tears of anguish were my sole replies.One afternoon, returning from the chaseFatigued and fevered, in the sweetest placeOf this wide forest, even where now we sit,We both resolved our toil to intermit.Under the branches of this beech we flungOur limbs at ease, and our bent bows unstrung.Thus idly lying, we inspired with zestThe sweet, fresh spirit breathing from the west.The flowers with which the mosses were inlaid,A rich diversity of hues displayed,And yielded scents as various; in the sun,Lucid as glass, this clear, shrill fountain shone,Revealing in its depth the sands like gold,And smooth, white pebbles whence its waters rolled;Nor goat, nor stag, nor hermit, nor the soundOf distant sheepbells, broke the stillness round.When with the water of the shaded poolWe had assuaged our thirst, and grew more cool,She, who with kind solicitude still keptThe' intent to know why I so often wept,With solemn prayers adjured me to confessThe cause or object of my sore distress;And if 'twas love, not to be swayed by shame,But own it such, and write the lady's name;Vowing that as she always from her youthHad shown me an affection full of truth,So in this instance she with pure good-willWould aid my views, and prove a sister still.I, who no longer could my soul contain,Yet dared not openly the truth explain,Told her that in the fountain she might readHer name whose beauty made my bosom bleed.Her eager mind was instant on the wing,She rose, she ran, and looked into the spring,But seeing only her own face there, blushedWith maiden shame, and from the water rushed,Swift as if touched with madness, not a lookShe deigned me, but her way disdainful took,And left me murmuring here, till life shall fail,My rash resolve for ever to bewail.My folly I accused—all, all engrossedIn vain reflections on the' advantage lost.Thus grew my grief; thus fatally misled,What sighs did I not breathe, what tears not shed;For countless hours stretched here I lay, with eyesRigidly fixed upon the vacant skies;And as one grief in hand another brought,The ceaseless tear, the phantasies of thought,The frequent swoon, remorse for felt offence,Regret, despair, the senselessness of sense,And a benumbing consciousness of painPerpetual, almost, almost whirled my brain.I know not how I found my friends, nor whatLed my stray footsteps homeward to my cot;I only know four suns had risen and past,Since fasting, sleepless, motionless, aghast,I had lain here; my herds too had been leftAll this long time, of wonted grass bereft;The calves that lately frisked it o'er the field,Finding their udders no refreshment yield,Lowing complained to the unheeding skies;The woods, alone considerate of their cries,Rebellowing loudly, gave back the lament,As though condoling with their discontent.These things yet moved me not; the many—allIn fact, that now upon me came to call,Were frightened with my weeping; rumour led,And curious wonder, numbers to my shed;The shepherds, herdsmen, pruners of the vines,Anxious to serve me, with sincerest signsOf pity, pleaded, prayed me to declareThe cause of my mad grief and deep despair;Stretched on the earth, to them my sole repliesWere broken groans, fast tears, and fiery sighs;Or if at times I spoke, one answer cameFrom my wild lips—the same, and still the same:"Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore,Soon will you sing, 'Albanio is no more!'This little comfort I at least shall have,Though I be laid within the wormy grave,Sad you will sing, 'Albanio is no more,'Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore!"The fifth night came: my ill star then inspiredMy brain to dare what had been long desired—The shuffling off life's load, and out I rushedWith wild resolve—creation all was hushed;Through the dusk night I hurried to descrySome lonely spot where I might fitly die.As chance would have it, my faint footsteps drewTo a high cliff which yet far off I knew,As pendant o'er the flood, scooped into cavesBy constant sapping of the restless waves.There, as I sate beneath an elm, o'erspent,A sudden ray returning memory lent:I once, with her, had to the neighbouring treesCome at midnoon to take the cooling breeze.On this my fancy fixed; the thought like balmAssuaged my frenzy, and I grew more calm.And now the dawn with roses had begunTo pave the path of the resplendent sun,To which the green trees bowed, and, woke from rest,The smiling Ocean bared her heaving breast;When, as the melancholy swan, that feelingLife's latest anguish o'er her spirit stealing,Sings with her quivering bill and melting breath,Sad, but most sweet, the lullaby to death;So I, in equal pain and sickness lying,The immortal passing, and the mortal dying,Took my last farewell of the skies and sun,In passionate laments that thus might run:"Oh! fierce as Scythian bears in thy disdain,And as the howling of the stormy mainDeaf to my plaints, come, conqueress, take thy prey,A wretched frame fast hastening to decay!I faint—I die, and thus will put an endTo thy dislike; no longer shall offendThe' enamoured breast where thy dear beauty lies,My mournful face, rash lips, or weeping eyes.Then thou, who in my lifetime scorned to moveOne step to comfort me, or even reprove,Stern to the last,—then thou wilt come, perchance,And as thine eyes on my cold relics glance,Repent thy rigour, and bewail my fate;But the slow succour will have come too late.Canst thou so soon my long, long love forget,And in a moment break without regretThe bond of years? hast thou forgotten tooChildhood's sweet sports, whence first my passion grew,When from the bowery ilex I shook downIts autumn fruit, which on the crag's high crownWe tasted, sitting, chattering side by side?Who climbed trees swinging o'er the hoarse deep tide,And poured into thy lap, or at thy feet,Their kernelled nuts, the sweetest of the sweet?When did I ever place my foot withinThe flowery vale, brown wood, or dingle green,And culled not thousand odorous flowers to crestThy golden curls, or breathe upon thy breast?You used to swear, when I was absent far,There was no brightness in the morning star,For you no sweetness in the noon's repose,Taste in the wave, nor fragrance in the rose.Whom do I wail to? Not a single wordIs heard by her by whom it should be heard.Echo alone in pity deigns to hear me,And with her mimic answers strives to cheer me,Remembering sweet Narcissus, and the painWhich she herself endured from shy disdain;But ev'n kind Echo pity deems a fault,Nor stands revealed within her hollow vault.Spirits! if such there be, that take the careOf dying lovers, and attend their prayer,Or personal genius of my life! receiveThe words I utter, ere my soul takes leaveOf its frail tenement! oh Dryades!Peculiar guardians of these verdant trees,And you, swift-swimming Naiads who resideIn this my native river! from the tideUpraise your rosy heads, if there be oneThat sighs, and weeps, and loves as I have done;That I, white Goddesses, may have to say—Though my weak plaints and unmelodious layMoved not one human eye to pitying tears,The mournful dirge could touch diviner ears.Oh fleet-foot Oreads of the hills! who goChasing through chestnut groves the hart and roe,Leave wounding animals, draw near, and scanThe last convulsions of a wounded man!And you, most gracious Maidens, that amidThe night of woods till summer noons lie hid,Then, crowned with roses, issue from your oaks,Your white breasts covered with your golden locks;Sweet Hamadryads! hear my plaints forlorn,And if with angry Fate ye are not swornAgainst me, to the causes of my deathGive celebration and perpetual breath.Oh wolves! oh bears! that in the deep descentsOf these o'ershaded caves to my lamentsAre listening now, as oft my flute could moveYour shaggy ears, and lull you into love,Repose in peace! farewell each high-browed mountain!Green crofts, farewell! Adieu thou fatal fountain!Still waters, foaming streams, and you, ye strongSonorous cataracts, farewell! live long,Long ages after me, and as ye sweepTo pay rich tribute to the hoary deep,Oft sound my sad voice through the stony vales;Oft to the traveller tell autumnal talesOf him whose tuneful ditties charmed of oldYour living waves, rejoicing as ye rolled;Who watered here his heifers, day by day,And crowned with wreaths of laurel and of bay,The brows of his strong bulls:"—and saying this,I rose, from that tremendous precipiceTo fling myself, and clambered up the hillWith hasty strides, and a determined will;When lo! a blast sufficient to displaceThe huge sierra from its stable base,Arose and smote me to the earth, where longI lay astonished from a stroke so strong.But when at length I came to recollect,And on the marvel seriously reflect,I blamed my impious rashness, and the crimeThat sought to end before the destined time,By means so terrible, my life of grief,Though harsh, determinate, though bitter, brief.I have since then been steadily resignedTo wait for death, when mercilessly kindIt comes to free me from my pangs; and now,See how it comes! Though heav'n did not allowMe to find death, the assassin is left freeTo find, and shake his fatal dart o'er me.—I have now told thee the true cause, the crossOccurrence, pain, and process of my loss;Fulfil thy promise now, and if thou artIndeed my friend, as I believe, depart;Nor give disturbance to a grief so deep—Its only solace is the wish to weep.SALICIO.On one point only nowWould I remark, if thouWould'st not imagine it was meant to' advise;I'd ask thee, what can blindSo utterly thy mind,And warp thy judgment in so strange a wise,As not at once to seeInstinctively, that sheWho so long charmed thee with her grateful smile,With, or without regret,Can never all forgetYour past fond friendship in so short a while;How dost thou know but that she feels no lessGrief for her own coy flight, than pain for thy distress?ALBANIO.Cease, flattering sophist, ceaseThis artificial peace,Nor with false comfort make my sufferings more;Or I, far, far exiled,Must seek some hideous wildWhere human footstep never stamped the shore.She is entirely changedFrom what she was, estrangedFrom all kind feelings; this too deemest thou,Howe'er thy lips unwiseWith rhetoric would disguiseThe fatal truth, or seem to disallow;But thy dear sophistry indulge alone,Or for more credulous ears reserve it; I am gone!SALICIO.All hope of cure is vain,Till less he dreads the painOf the physician's probe;—here then alone,Indulging his caprice,I'll leave him, till diseaseHas passed its raging crisis, and is grownMore tractable, untilThe storm of a self-willSo passing strong, has raved itself to rest:And to yon bower of birchI'll meanwhile pass, in searchOf the sweet nightingale's secreted nest;And, beautiful Gravina, it shall beThine for one rosy kiss: I know the ivied tree.

ALBANIO. SALICIO.

ALBANIO.

Temperate, when winter waves its snowy wing,Is the sweet water of this sylvan spring;And when the heats of summer scorch the grass,More cold than snow: in your clear looking-glass,Fair waves! the memory of that day returns,With which my soul still shivers, melts, and burns;Gazing on your clear depth and lustre pure,My peace grows troubled, and my joy obscure;Recovering you, I lose all self-content:To whom, alas, could equal pains be sent!Scenes that would soothe another's pangs to peace,Add force to mine, or soothe but to increase.This lucid fount, whose murmurs fill the mind,The verdant forests waving with the wind,The odours wafted from the mead, the flowersIn which the wild bee sits and sings for hours,These might the moodiest misanthrope employ,Make sound the sick, and turn distress to joy;I only in this waste of sweetness pineTo death! oh beauty, rising to divine!Oh curls of gold! oh eyes that laughed with light!Oh swanlike neck! oh hand as ivory white!How could an hour so mournful ever riseTo change a life so blest to tears and sighs,Such glittering treasures into dust! I rangeFrom place to place, and think, perhaps the change,The change may partly temper and controlThe ceaseless flame that thus consumes my soul.Deceitful thought! as though so sharp a smartBy my departure must itself depart:Poor languid limbs, the grief is but too deepThat tires you out! Oh that I could but sleepHere for awhile! the heart awake to pain,Perchance in slumbers and calm dreams might gainGlimpse of the peace with which it pants to meet,Though false as fair, and fugitive as sweet.Then, amiable kind Sleep, descend, descend!To thee my wearied spirit I commend.

SALICIO.

How highly he may rateHis fortunate estate,Who, to the sweets of solitude resigned,Lives lightly loose from care,At distance from the snareOf what encumbers and disturbs the mind!He sees no thronged parade,No pompous colonnadeOf proud grandees, nor greedy flatterers vile,Ambitious each to sportIn sunshine of a court;He is not forced to fawn, to sue, to smile,To feign, to watch of power each veering sign,Noticed to dread neglect, neglected to repine.But, in calm idlesse laidSupine in the cool shadeOf oak or ilex, beech or pendant pine,Sees his flocks feeding stray,Whitening a length of way,Or numbers up his homeward-tending kine:Store of rich silks unrolled,Fine silver, glittering gold,To him seem dross, base, worthless, and impure;He holds them in such hate,That with their cumbrous weightHe would not fancy he could live secure;And thinking this, does wisely still maintainHis independent ease, and shuns the shining bane.Him to soft slumbers callThe babbling brooks, the fallOf silver fountains, and the unstudied hymnsOf cageless birds, whose throatsPour forth the sweetest notes;Shrill through the crystal air the music swims;To which the humming beeKeeps ceaseless company,Flying solicitous from flower to flower,Tasting each sweet that dwellsWithin their scented bells;Whilst the wind sways the forest, bower on bower,That evermore, in drowsy murmurs deep,Sings in the silent ear, and aids descending sleep.Who breathes so loud? 'Tis strange I see him not;Oh, there he lies, in that sequestered spot!Thrice happy you, who thus, when troubles tire,Relax the chords of thought, or of desire!How finished, Nature, are thy works! neglectLeft nought in them to add to, or perfect.Heightening our joy, diminishing our grief,Sleep is thy gift, and given for our relief;That at our joyous waking we might findMore health of body and repose of mind:Refreshed we rise from that still pause of strife,And with new relish taste the sweets of life.When wearied out with care, sleep, settling calm,Drops on our dewless lids her soothing balm,Stilling the torn heart's agonizing throes,From that brief quiet, that serene repose,Fresh spirit we inspire, fresh comfort share,And with new vigour run the race of care.I on his dreams will gently steal, and seeIf I the shepherd know, and if he beOf the unhappy or contented class:Is it Albanio slumbering there? AlasThe unhappy boy! Albanio, of a truth;Sleep on, poor wearied, and afflicted youth!How much more free do I esteem the dead,Who, from all mortal storms escaped, is ledSafe into port, than he who living here,So noble once, and lively in his cheer,Cast by stern fortune from his glorious height,Has bid a long, long farewell to delight!He, though now stript of peace, and most distressed,Was once, they say, most blissful of the blest,In amorous pledges rich; the change how great!I know not well the secret of his fate;Lycid, who knew the tale, sometime agoTold me a part, but much remains to know.

ALBANIO.

Is it a dream? or do I surely claspHer gentle hand, that answers grasp for grasp?'Tis mockery all! how madly I believedThe flatterer sleep, and how am I deceived!On swift wings rustling through the ivory door,The vision flies, and leaves me as before,Stretched lonely here; is't not enough, I bearThis grievous weight, the living soul's despair;Or, to say truly, this uncertain strife,And daily death of oft-renewing life!

SALICIO.

Albanio, cease thy weeping, which to see,Grieves me.

ALBANIO.

Who witnesses my weeping?

SALICIO.

HeWho by partaking will assuage the smart.

ALBANIO.

Thou, my Salicio? Ah, thy gentle heartAnd company in every strait could bringSweet solace, once; now, 'tis a different thing.

SALICIO.

Part of thy woes from Lycid I have heard,Who here was present when the' event occurred;Its actual cause he knew not, but surmisedThe evil such, that it were best disguised.I, as thou know'st, was in the city, bentOn travelling then, and only heard the' eventOn my return; but now, I pray relate,If not too painful, specially, the date,The author, cause, and process of thy grief,Which thus divided will find some relief.

ALBANIO.

Relief is certain with a friend so sure,When such the sickness as admits of cure;But this, this pierces to my marrow! Still,Our shared pursuits by fountain, grove, and hill,And our vowed friendship to thy wishes winMy else-sealed lips;—yet, how shall I begin?My soul, my brain, with clouds is overcast,At but the mere remembrance of the past—The alarm, the mortal wound, the sudden pain,Then every earlier feeling felt again,Linked with the blighted present, all prevail,And, like a spectre, scare me from the tale.But yet, methinks, 'twere wisdom to obey,Lay bare the wound, and sorrowing bleed awayFrom anguish and from life; and thus, dear friend,From the commencement to the fatal end,My woes will I relate, without disguise,Though the sad tale my soul reluctant flies.Well have I loved, well shall love, whilst the rayOf life celestial lights this coil of clay,The maid for whom I die! No free-will choice,No thoughtless chase at Folly's calling voiceLed me to love, nor, oft as others aim,With flattering fancies did I feed the flame;But from my tenderest infancy, perforce,Some fatal star inclined me to its course.Thou know'st a maiden, beautiful and young,From my own ancestors remotely sprung,Lovelier than Love himself; in infancyVowed to Diana of the woods, with glee,Amidst them, skilled the sylvan war to wage,She passed the rosy April of her age:I, who from night till morning, and from mornTill night, to challenge of the sprightly horn,Followed the inspiring chase without fatigue,Came by degrees in such familiar leagueWith her, by like pursuits and tastes allied,I could not stir an instant from her side.Hour after hour this union stricter grew,Joined with emotions precious, pure, and new:What tangled mountain has been left untracedBy our swift feet? What heath, or leafy wasteOf forests, has not heard our hunting cry?What babbling echo not been tired thereby?Ever with liberal hands, when ceased our toils,To the chaste patron who decreed our spoils,We heaped the holy altars, talking o'erPast risks, now offering of the grisly boarThe grim and tusked head, and nailing nowThe stag's proud antlers on the sacred boughOf some tall pine; and thus when evening burned,With grateful, happy hearts, we home returned;And when we shared the quarry, never wentFrom us one word or look of discontent.Hunting of all kinds charmed, but that the mostOf simple birds, snared ever with least costOf toil; and when desired Aurora showedHer rosy cheeks, and locks like gold that glowed,With dew impearling all the forest flowers,Away we passed to unfrequented bowers,In the most secret valley we could find,Shut from the tread and talk of humankind;Then, binding to two lofty trees, unseen,Our tinctured webs of very perfect green,Our voices hushed, our steps as midnight still,We netted off the vale from hill to hill;Then, fetching a small compass, by degreesWe turned toward the snares, and shook the trees,And stormed the shadiest nooks with shout and sling,Till the whole wood was rustling on the wing:Blackbirds, larks, goldfinches, before us flew,Distracted, scared, not knowing what to do.Who shunned the less, the greater evil met,Confusedly taken in the painted net;And curious then it was to hear them speakTheir griefs with doleful cry and piercing shriek;Some—for the swarms were countless—you might seeFluttering their wings and striving to get free,Whilst others, far from showing signs of rage,In dumb affliction drooped about the cage;Till, drawing tight the cords, proud of the preyBorne at our backs, we took our homeward way.But when moist autumn came, and yellow fellThe wild-wood leaves round bowerless Philomel;When August heats were past, a different sport,But no less idle, we were wont to court,To pass the day with joy; then, well you know,Black clouds of starlings circle to and fro:Mark now the craft that we employed to snareThese birds that go through unobstructed air.One straggler first from their vast companies,Alive we captured, which was done with ease;Next, to its foot a long limed thread we tied,And when the passing squadron we descried,Aloft we tossed it; instantly it mixedAmongst the rest, and our success was fixed;For soon, as many as the tangling string,Or by the head, or leg, or neck, or wing,In its aërial voyage twined around,Flagged in their strength, and fell towards the ground,Yet not without long strugglings in their flight,Much to their mischief, and to our delight.Useless to it was the prophetic croakOf the black rook in the umbrageous oak;When one of them alive, as oft occurred,Fell in our hands, we made the captive birdDecoy to many a captive; to a plainSpacious, and sowed perchance with winter grain,Where flocks of rooks in company resort,Our prize we took, and instant to the sport.By the extreme points of its wings, to ground,But without breaking them, the bird we bound;Then followed what you scarce conceive; it stoodWith eyes turned upward, in the attitudeOf one that contemplates the stars; from sightMeanwhile we drew, when, frantic with affright,It pierced the air with loud, distressful cries,And summoned down its brethren from the skies.Instant a swift swarm which no tongue could name,Flew to its aid, and round it stalking came.One, of its fellow's doom more piteous grownThan cautious or considerate of its own,Drew close—and on the first exertion made,With death or sad captivity it paidFor its simplicity; the pinioned rookSo fast clung to it with the grappling-hookOf its strong claws, that without special leaveIt could not part: now you may well conceiveWhat our amusement was to see the twain,That to break loose and this fresh aid to gain,Wrestling engage; the quarrel did not coolTill finished by our hand, and the poor foolWas left at mournful leisure to repentOf the vain help its thoughtless pity lent.What would'st thou say, if, standing centinelWith upraised leg when midnight shadows fell,The crane was snared betwixt us? Of no useWas its sagacious caution to the goose,Or its perpetual fame for second-sightAgainst the snares and stratagems of night.Nought could its strength or sleight at swimming saveThe white swan, dwelling on the pathless wave,Lest it by fire, like Phaëton, should die,For whom its shrill voice yet upbraids the sky.And thou, sad partridge, think'st thou that to fleeStraight from the copse secures thy life to thee?Thy fall is in the stubble! On no bird,No beast, had nature for defence conferredSuch cunning, but that by the net or shaftIt fell, subdued by our superior craft.But were I each particular to tellOf this delightful life, the vesper bellWould sound ere it was done: enough to knowThat this fond friendship, this divine-faced foe,So pure from passion, undisturbed by fears,To different colour changed my rising years.My ill star shone; the spirit of unrest,And love, excessive love, my soul possessed;So deep, so absolute, I no more knewMyself, but doubted if the change were true.Then first I felt to mingle with the stirOf sweet sensations in beholding her,Fearful desires that on their ardent wingsRaised me to hope impracticable things.Pain for her absence was not now a pain,Nor even an anguish brooding in the brain,But torment keen as death—the ceaseless smartOf fire close raging in the naked heart.To this sad pass I gradually was broughtBy my ill star, and ne'er could I have thoughtIts baneful power reached farther, were it notProved but too surely by my present lot,That, when compared with these, my former woesMight be considered as a sweet repose.But here 'tis fit the hated tale that swellsMy soul with grief, and thrills the tongue that tells,Should find a close, nor sadden, though it searsAlbanio's memory, kind Salicio's ears.Few words will speak the rest;—one hour, but one—Wrecked my last joy, and left me quite undone.

SALICIO.

If, my dear friend, you spoke with one who ne'erHad felt the dangerous flame, the restless care,The bitter-sweets of love which thus you feel,Wisdom it were the sequel to conceal:But if I share the sorrows of thy breast,Why as a stranger hide from me the rest?Think'st thou that I on my part do not proveThis living death, this agony of love?If skilled experience should not wholly endThy heavy grief, the pity of a friend,Himself sore wounded by the marksman's dart,Will fail not to at least assuage the smart.Since, then, I candidly disclose my shareIn such concerns (and even yet I bearMarks of the arrow), it is quite unkindTo be so shy: whilst thou hast life, thy mindShould cherish hope; I may, as Love's high priest,Counsel some cure, or weep with thee at least.No harm can come from subjecting thine earTo the kind counsels of a friend sincere.

ALBANIO.

Thou would'st that I should fruitlessly contendWith one who must o'ercome me in the end.Love wills my silence, nor can I commenceThe tale requested without great offence:Love chains my tongue, and thus—indeed, indeed—Spare me, I feel that I must not proceed.

SALICIO.

What obstacle forbids thee to revealThis ill to one who surely hopes to healIn part the wound?

ALBANIO.

Love, love that doth denyAll comfort,—Love desires that I should die;Knowing too well that for a little whileThe mere relation would my grief beguile,More swiftly to destroy, the God unjustHas now deprived my bosom of the gustWhich late it had, to candidly avow,And thus conclude its sorrows; so that nowIt neither does become thy truth to seekFor farther knowledge, nor myself to speak,—Myself, whom fortune has alone distressed,And who alone in dying look for rest.

SALICIO.

Who is so barbarous to himself as e'erTo' entrust his person to a murderer's care,His treasures to the spoiler! Can it be,That without discomposure thou canst seeLove make in frolic, for a flight of skill,Thy very tongue the puppet of his will?

ALBANIO.

Salicio, cease this language; curb thy tongue;I feel the grief, the insult, and the wrong:Whence these fine words? what schoolman did commitTo thee this pomp of philosophic wit,A shepherd of the hills? with what light cheerThe careless lip can learn to be severe,And oh, how easily a heart at easeCan counsel sickness to throw off disease!

SALICIO.

I counselled nothing that deserved to callAn answer from thee of such scorn and gall:Merely I asked thee—ask thee to relateWhat it is makes thee so disconsolate.I shared thy joy, and can I fail to beTouched with thy grief? be free with me, be free.

ALBANIO.

Since I no longer can the point contest,Be satisfied—I will relate the rest;One promise given, that when the tale is done,Thou wilt depart, and leave me quite alone;Leave me alone, to weep, as eve declines,My fatal loss amid these oaks and pines.

SALICIO.

Well! though thy wisdom I cannot commend,I will prove more a fond than faithful friend;Will quit the place, and leave thee to thy woes:

ALBANIO.

Now then, Salicio, hear what I disclose;And you, the Dryads of this leafy grove,Where'er you be, attend my tale of love!I have already told the prosperous part,And if in peace I could have fixed my heart,How happy had I been; but the desire,The constant striving to conceal my fireFrom her, alas! whose sweet and gentle breathBut fanned it, brought me to the gates of death.A thousand times she begged, implored to knowWhat secret something vexed my spirit so;In my pale aspect she too plainly readGrief of some sort, and gaiety was fled;Thus would she say, thus sue to me, but sighsAnd tears of anguish were my sole replies.One afternoon, returning from the chaseFatigued and fevered, in the sweetest placeOf this wide forest, even where now we sit,We both resolved our toil to intermit.Under the branches of this beech we flungOur limbs at ease, and our bent bows unstrung.Thus idly lying, we inspired with zestThe sweet, fresh spirit breathing from the west.The flowers with which the mosses were inlaid,A rich diversity of hues displayed,And yielded scents as various; in the sun,Lucid as glass, this clear, shrill fountain shone,Revealing in its depth the sands like gold,And smooth, white pebbles whence its waters rolled;Nor goat, nor stag, nor hermit, nor the soundOf distant sheepbells, broke the stillness round.When with the water of the shaded poolWe had assuaged our thirst, and grew more cool,She, who with kind solicitude still keptThe' intent to know why I so often wept,With solemn prayers adjured me to confessThe cause or object of my sore distress;And if 'twas love, not to be swayed by shame,But own it such, and write the lady's name;Vowing that as she always from her youthHad shown me an affection full of truth,So in this instance she with pure good-willWould aid my views, and prove a sister still.I, who no longer could my soul contain,Yet dared not openly the truth explain,Told her that in the fountain she might readHer name whose beauty made my bosom bleed.Her eager mind was instant on the wing,She rose, she ran, and looked into the spring,But seeing only her own face there, blushedWith maiden shame, and from the water rushed,Swift as if touched with madness, not a lookShe deigned me, but her way disdainful took,And left me murmuring here, till life shall fail,My rash resolve for ever to bewail.My folly I accused—all, all engrossedIn vain reflections on the' advantage lost.Thus grew my grief; thus fatally misled,What sighs did I not breathe, what tears not shed;For countless hours stretched here I lay, with eyesRigidly fixed upon the vacant skies;And as one grief in hand another brought,The ceaseless tear, the phantasies of thought,The frequent swoon, remorse for felt offence,Regret, despair, the senselessness of sense,And a benumbing consciousness of painPerpetual, almost, almost whirled my brain.I know not how I found my friends, nor whatLed my stray footsteps homeward to my cot;I only know four suns had risen and past,Since fasting, sleepless, motionless, aghast,I had lain here; my herds too had been leftAll this long time, of wonted grass bereft;The calves that lately frisked it o'er the field,Finding their udders no refreshment yield,Lowing complained to the unheeding skies;The woods, alone considerate of their cries,Rebellowing loudly, gave back the lament,As though condoling with their discontent.These things yet moved me not; the many—allIn fact, that now upon me came to call,Were frightened with my weeping; rumour led,And curious wonder, numbers to my shed;The shepherds, herdsmen, pruners of the vines,Anxious to serve me, with sincerest signsOf pity, pleaded, prayed me to declareThe cause of my mad grief and deep despair;Stretched on the earth, to them my sole repliesWere broken groans, fast tears, and fiery sighs;Or if at times I spoke, one answer cameFrom my wild lips—the same, and still the same:"Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore,Soon will you sing, 'Albanio is no more!'This little comfort I at least shall have,Though I be laid within the wormy grave,Sad you will sing, 'Albanio is no more,'Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore!"The fifth night came: my ill star then inspiredMy brain to dare what had been long desired—The shuffling off life's load, and out I rushedWith wild resolve—creation all was hushed;Through the dusk night I hurried to descrySome lonely spot where I might fitly die.As chance would have it, my faint footsteps drewTo a high cliff which yet far off I knew,As pendant o'er the flood, scooped into cavesBy constant sapping of the restless waves.There, as I sate beneath an elm, o'erspent,A sudden ray returning memory lent:I once, with her, had to the neighbouring treesCome at midnoon to take the cooling breeze.On this my fancy fixed; the thought like balmAssuaged my frenzy, and I grew more calm.And now the dawn with roses had begunTo pave the path of the resplendent sun,To which the green trees bowed, and, woke from rest,The smiling Ocean bared her heaving breast;When, as the melancholy swan, that feelingLife's latest anguish o'er her spirit stealing,Sings with her quivering bill and melting breath,Sad, but most sweet, the lullaby to death;So I, in equal pain and sickness lying,The immortal passing, and the mortal dying,Took my last farewell of the skies and sun,In passionate laments that thus might run:"Oh! fierce as Scythian bears in thy disdain,And as the howling of the stormy mainDeaf to my plaints, come, conqueress, take thy prey,A wretched frame fast hastening to decay!I faint—I die, and thus will put an endTo thy dislike; no longer shall offendThe' enamoured breast where thy dear beauty lies,My mournful face, rash lips, or weeping eyes.Then thou, who in my lifetime scorned to moveOne step to comfort me, or even reprove,Stern to the last,—then thou wilt come, perchance,And as thine eyes on my cold relics glance,Repent thy rigour, and bewail my fate;But the slow succour will have come too late.Canst thou so soon my long, long love forget,And in a moment break without regretThe bond of years? hast thou forgotten tooChildhood's sweet sports, whence first my passion grew,When from the bowery ilex I shook downIts autumn fruit, which on the crag's high crownWe tasted, sitting, chattering side by side?Who climbed trees swinging o'er the hoarse deep tide,And poured into thy lap, or at thy feet,Their kernelled nuts, the sweetest of the sweet?When did I ever place my foot withinThe flowery vale, brown wood, or dingle green,And culled not thousand odorous flowers to crestThy golden curls, or breathe upon thy breast?You used to swear, when I was absent far,There was no brightness in the morning star,For you no sweetness in the noon's repose,Taste in the wave, nor fragrance in the rose.Whom do I wail to? Not a single wordIs heard by her by whom it should be heard.Echo alone in pity deigns to hear me,And with her mimic answers strives to cheer me,Remembering sweet Narcissus, and the painWhich she herself endured from shy disdain;But ev'n kind Echo pity deems a fault,Nor stands revealed within her hollow vault.Spirits! if such there be, that take the careOf dying lovers, and attend their prayer,Or personal genius of my life! receiveThe words I utter, ere my soul takes leaveOf its frail tenement! oh Dryades!Peculiar guardians of these verdant trees,And you, swift-swimming Naiads who resideIn this my native river! from the tideUpraise your rosy heads, if there be oneThat sighs, and weeps, and loves as I have done;That I, white Goddesses, may have to say—Though my weak plaints and unmelodious layMoved not one human eye to pitying tears,The mournful dirge could touch diviner ears.Oh fleet-foot Oreads of the hills! who goChasing through chestnut groves the hart and roe,Leave wounding animals, draw near, and scanThe last convulsions of a wounded man!And you, most gracious Maidens, that amidThe night of woods till summer noons lie hid,Then, crowned with roses, issue from your oaks,Your white breasts covered with your golden locks;Sweet Hamadryads! hear my plaints forlorn,And if with angry Fate ye are not swornAgainst me, to the causes of my deathGive celebration and perpetual breath.Oh wolves! oh bears! that in the deep descentsOf these o'ershaded caves to my lamentsAre listening now, as oft my flute could moveYour shaggy ears, and lull you into love,Repose in peace! farewell each high-browed mountain!Green crofts, farewell! Adieu thou fatal fountain!Still waters, foaming streams, and you, ye strongSonorous cataracts, farewell! live long,Long ages after me, and as ye sweepTo pay rich tribute to the hoary deep,Oft sound my sad voice through the stony vales;Oft to the traveller tell autumnal talesOf him whose tuneful ditties charmed of oldYour living waves, rejoicing as ye rolled;Who watered here his heifers, day by day,And crowned with wreaths of laurel and of bay,The brows of his strong bulls:"—and saying this,I rose, from that tremendous precipiceTo fling myself, and clambered up the hillWith hasty strides, and a determined will;When lo! a blast sufficient to displaceThe huge sierra from its stable base,Arose and smote me to the earth, where longI lay astonished from a stroke so strong.But when at length I came to recollect,And on the marvel seriously reflect,I blamed my impious rashness, and the crimeThat sought to end before the destined time,By means so terrible, my life of grief,Though harsh, determinate, though bitter, brief.I have since then been steadily resignedTo wait for death, when mercilessly kindIt comes to free me from my pangs; and now,See how it comes! Though heav'n did not allowMe to find death, the assassin is left freeTo find, and shake his fatal dart o'er me.—I have now told thee the true cause, the crossOccurrence, pain, and process of my loss;Fulfil thy promise now, and if thou artIndeed my friend, as I believe, depart;Nor give disturbance to a grief so deep—Its only solace is the wish to weep.

SALICIO.

On one point only nowWould I remark, if thouWould'st not imagine it was meant to' advise;I'd ask thee, what can blindSo utterly thy mind,And warp thy judgment in so strange a wise,As not at once to seeInstinctively, that sheWho so long charmed thee with her grateful smile,With, or without regret,Can never all forgetYour past fond friendship in so short a while;How dost thou know but that she feels no lessGrief for her own coy flight, than pain for thy distress?

ALBANIO.

Cease, flattering sophist, ceaseThis artificial peace,Nor with false comfort make my sufferings more;Or I, far, far exiled,Must seek some hideous wildWhere human footstep never stamped the shore.She is entirely changedFrom what she was, estrangedFrom all kind feelings; this too deemest thou,Howe'er thy lips unwiseWith rhetoric would disguiseThe fatal truth, or seem to disallow;But thy dear sophistry indulge alone,Or for more credulous ears reserve it; I am gone!

SALICIO.

All hope of cure is vain,Till less he dreads the painOf the physician's probe;—here then alone,Indulging his caprice,I'll leave him, till diseaseHas passed its raging crisis, and is grownMore tractable, untilThe storm of a self-willSo passing strong, has raved itself to rest:And to yon bower of birchI'll meanwhile pass, in searchOf the sweet nightingale's secreted nest;And, beautiful Gravina, it shall beThine for one rosy kiss: I know the ivied tree.

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