ECLOGUE II.

[End of poem illustration]

CAMILLA. ALBANIO. SALICIO. NEMOROSO.CAMILLA.Echo the sound did much misrepresent,If this is not the way the roebuck wentAfter 'twas struck; how swift it must have fled,And with what strength, considering how it bled!So deep the bearded shaft transfixed its side,That the white feather was alone descried;And now the search of what eludes my sightTires me to death. It can't have stretched its flightBeyond this valley; it must surely beHere, and perhaps expiring! oh that she,My Lady of the Groves, would of her packLend me a hound to follow up the track,The whilst I sleep away the hours of heatWithin these woods!—Oh visitants most sweet!Fresh, amorous, gentle, flavourous breezes, blowIn deeper gusts, and break this burning glowOf the meridian sun! at length, I passMy naked soles upon the cold green grass;Thy sylvan toils this raging noon commitTo men, Diana, whom they best befit!For once I dare thy horn to disobey;Thy favourite chase has cost me dear to-day.Ah my sweet fountain! from what paradiseHast thou too cast me by a mere surprise?Know'st thou, clear mirror, what thy glass has done?Driven from me the delightful face of one,Whose kind society and faith approvedI now no less desire than then I loved,But not as he supposed; God grant that firstHer heart may break, ere vowed Camilla burstThe virgin band that binds her with the maidsOf dear Diana, and her sacred shades!With what reluctance thought renews the senseOf this sad history, but the youth's offenceExculpates me; if of his absence IWere the prime cause, I would most willinglyMyself condemn, but he, I recollect,Both wilful was, and wanting in respect.But why afflict myself for this? I yetWould live contented, and the boy forget.—These clear cool springs a lulling murmur make,Here will I lie, and my sweet siesta take;And when the sultry noon is over, goAgain in search of my rebellious roe:Still 'tis a mystery and surprise to meWith such a wound how it so far could flee!ALBANIO.Methought, or frolic fancy must delightWith false presentments to deceive my sight,I saw a wood-nymph, gliding through the groves,Reach the near fountain; haply, if she loves,She may advise me of some charm, may nameSome dear deceit to ease this painful flame:No given advice but aggravates my grief,If 'tis in discord with my own belief,And to the hopeless harm can none accrue:Oh holy Gods! what is it that I view?Is it a phantom changed into the formOf her whose beauty makes my blood run warm?No, 'tis herself, Camilla, sleeping here;It must be she—her beauty makes it clear!But one such wonder Nature wished to make,Then broke the die for admiration's sake.How could I then suppose her not the same,When Nature's self no second such can frame!But now, though certain is the bliss displayed,How shall I venture to awake the maid,Dreading the light that lures me to her side?And yet—if only for the pleasing prideOf touching her, methinks that I might shakeThis fear away; but what if she should wake?To seize and not to loose her—soft! I fearThat daring act might make her more austere;Yet, what is to be done? I wish to reachMy former seat beneath the shady beech,And hers is slumber deep as death; she lies,How beautifully blind! the bee that fliesNear her, the quarrelling birds, that old sweet tuneHummed by the spring, all voices of the noonTease, but disturb her not; her face is free—A charming book—to be perused by me,And I will seize the' occasion; if the boughsIn being parted should from slumber rouse,Strong to detain her I am still, though notAs when we last were seated on this spot:Oh hands, once vigorously disposed to end me!See you how much your power can now befriend me?Why not exert it for my welfare!—smallThe risk—one effort will suffice for all.CAMILLA.Aid me Diana!ALBANIO.Stir not! from my holdThou canst not break; but hear what I unfold.CAMILLA.Who would have told me of so rude a stroke?Nymphs of the wood, your succour I invoke!Save me, oh save! Albanio, this from thee?Say, art thou frenzied?ALBANIO.Frenzy should it be,That makes me love—oh more than life,—the causeOf all my grief, who scorns me and abhors.CAMILLA.I ought, methinks, to be abhorred by thee,To make thy speeches with thy deeds agree;To seek to treat me so, at such a time!Outrage on outrage heaping, crime on crime.ALBANIO.I commit outrage against thee! May IIn thy disgrace, my dear Camilla, die,CAMILLA.Hast thou notInfringed our friendship on this very spot,Seeking to turn it by a course amissFrom placid thoughts?ALBANIO.Oh holy Artemis!Must the distraction of a single hourWhole years of fond attention overpower,When, too, repentance mourns the fault, and when—CAMILLA.Ah, this is always the sly way with men!They dare the crime, and if the' event goes wrong,Cry your forgiveness with the meekest tongue.ALBANIO.What have I dared, Camilla?CAMILLA.It is well;Ask these dumb woods, this fountain, it shall tell;There it remains in face of the pure skies,The living witness of thy wrong device.ALBANIO.If death, disgrace, or pain can expiateMy fault, behold me here prepared to sateThy anger to the full.CAMILLA.Let go my wrist!Scarce can I breathe; let go, I do insist!ALBANIO.Much, much I fear that thou wilt take the wingOf the wild winds, and flee.CAMILLA.Fear no such thing!With pure fatigue I am quite overcome;Unhand me! Oh, my dislocated thumb!ALBANIO.Wilt thou sit still, if I my grasp forego,Whilst by clear reasons I proceed to showThat without any reason thou with meWert wroth?CAMILLA.A pretty reasoner thou wilt be!Well, free me that I may.ALBANIO.Swear first in sooth,By our past friendship and our bygone youth.CAMILLA.Soothly I swear by the pure law sincereOf our past friendship, to sit down and hear—Thy chidings, sure enough; to what a stateHast thou reduced my hand in this debateBy thy fierce grasp!ALBANIO.To what a state hast thouReduced my soul by leaving me till now!CAMILLA.My golden clasp, if that be lost—woe's me!Unlucky that I am! 'tis gone, I see,Fallen in this fatal vale! what mischief more?ALBANIO.I should not wonder if it dropped before,In the deep Vale of Nettles.CAMILLA.I desire,Where'er it dropped, to seek it.ALBANIO.That will tireStill more my dear Camilla; leave that toil!I'll find the clasp; I cannot bear the soilShould scorch my enemy's white feet;—CAMILLA.Well, well,Since you're so good—behold that beechen dellIn sunshine, look straight forward, there, below;A full round hour I've there been spending:ALBANIO.So!I see it now; but meanwhile pray don't go.CAMILLA.Swain, rest assured that I will die beforeThy apprehending hands affright me more.ALBANIO.Ah, faithless nymph! and is it in this modeThou keep'st thy plighted oath? Oh heavy loadOf curst existence! oh false love, to cheerMy drooping soul with hopes so insincere!Oh painful mode of martyrdom! oh death,Cool torturer, slow to claim my hated breath!You give me cause to call high Heaven unjust;Gape, empty earth, and repossess the dustOf this rebellious body, which debarsThe swift-winged soul from soaring to the stars!I, I will let it loose; let them that dareResist—resist me?—of themselves take care,It much concerns them! Can I not fulfilMy threats? die, go—here—there—where'er I will,Spirit or flesh?CAMILLA.Hark! he desires to doHimself some mischief; my worst fears were true,And his mind wanders.ALBANIO.Oh that here I hadThe man whose malice seems to drive me mad!I feel discharged of a vast weight! it seemsI fly, disdaining mountains, woods, and streams,My farm, flock, field, and dairy! Are not theseFeet? yes, with them I fly where'er I please.And now I come to think, my body's gone;It is the spirit I command alone.Some one has stolen and hid it as I gazedOn the clear sky, somewhat too much amazed;Or has it stayed behind asleep? I swearA figure coloured like the rose was there,Slumbering most sweetly; now, if that should beMy shape—no, that was far too fair for me.NEMOROSO.Poor head! I would not give a coin of brassFor thy discretion now.ALBANIO.To whom, alas,Shall I give notice of the theft?SALICIO.'Tis strange,And passing sad, to see the utter changeIn this once sprightly youth, with whom we two,My Nemoroso, have had much to do;Mild, pleasant, good, wise, sociable, and kind,The sweetest temper and sincerest mind.ALBANIO.I will find witness, or small power is leftMe 'gainst the man that did commit the theft,And though my body's absent, as a foeWill drive him on to death; ah, dost thou knowAught of the thief, my gentle fountain fair?Speak, if thou dost! so may the swart star ne'erSear thy fresh shades, or scorch thy silver spring,But still green fairies round thee dance and sing.There stands a man at bottom of the brook,With laurel crowned, and in his hand a crookShaped like mine own, of oak: ho! who goes there?Answer, my friend! Heaven help me! I declareThou' art deaf or dumb, some mortal foe I fearTo life's humanities; holla! give ear;I am a disembodied soul; I seekMy body, which, in a malicious freak,Some cruel thief has stol'n, it much has stirred me;Deaf or not deaf I care not—have you heard me?O gracious God! either my wayward brainWanders, or I behold my shape again;Ha, my loved body! I no longer doubt thee,I clearly see thy image; whilst without theeI have been most unhappy—come, draw nigher,End both thy exile and my lorn desire.NEMOROSO.I much suspect that his continual thoughtAnd dreams of death, have in his fancy wroughtThis pictured separation.SALICIO.As in sleep,Ills which awake perpetually we weep,Fraught with the grief that haunts the soul, remain,And print their shadowy species on the brain.ALBANIO.If thou art not in chains, come forth to' endowMe with the true form of a man, who nowHave but the title left; but if thou' art boundBy magic art, and rooted to the ground,I pray thee speak! for if my piteous pleadingShould fail to touch the ear of Heaven unheeding,I to the bowers of Tartarus will depart,And storm fierce Pluto's adamantine heart,As for his absent consort, unalarmed,Did the fond lover, who with music charmedHell's grisly maids, and hushed, sweet harmonist,The raging snakes that round their temples hissed!NEMOROSO.With what good arguments does he enforceHis mad opinions!SALICIO.The accustomed courseOf ingenuity awhile holds on,When genius fails, and apprehension's gone;Thus, though now frenzied, still a lucid veinRuns through the dark ideas of his brain,Having been what we knew him once.NEMOROSO.No more,Praise him not to me, for my heart runs o'erWith grief to see him in so lost a strait.ALBANIO.I was considering what a painful stateThis strange, sad exile is; for, to my mind,Nor woods, nor oceans warred on by the wind,Nor moated towers, nor mountains, pathless proved,Nor others' sweet society beloved,Cuts us asunder, but a slender wallOf water, lucid, but preventing allThe blissful union we desire so much;For from that surface where we all but touchThou never dost depart, and seemest neverSatiate with gazing, by each fond endeavourOf becks, and smiles, and gestures, signifyingDesire of junction, duteous, but denying;Brother, reach out thy arm, that we may shakeHands like good friends, and for past friendship's sake,Once more embrace! ha! mock'st thou me? dost thouFly from me thus? 'tis acting not, I vow,As a friend should; I from the fountain's frothAm dripping wet, and thou, too, art thou wroth—Poor Sir Unfortunate? ha! ha! how swiftThy—what is it? thy figure thou dost shift;Ruffled, disturbed, and with a writhen face!That this unlucky thing now should take place!I was consoled in seeing so sereneThy amorous image and thy smiling mien.No happy thing with me will now endure!NEMOROSO.Nothing at least that will thy frenzy cure.SALICIO.Let us depart; fresh furies now beginTo storm his soul.ALBANIO.Oh heav'n! why not leap in,And reach the centre of the fountain cold?SALICIO.What foolish fancy's this, Albanio? hold!ALBANIO.Oh the clear thief! but how? what? is it wellTo' invest thyself with my secreted shellOf flesh, before my face? oh insolence!As if I were a block devoid of senseAnd common feeling; but this hand shall slay,And pluck thy daring spirit out.SALICIO.Away!Come thou; I am not equal to the taskOf mastering him.NEMOROSO.What would'st thou?SALICIO.Canst thou ask,Kinsman unkind, what would I? disengageMy hand and throat, if his malicious rageGive me but power.NEMOROSO.Act no such petty part;Thou canst but do thy duty where thou art.SALICIO.Is this a time for pleasantry and play?Sport'st thou with life? come instantly, I pray!NEMOROSO.Anon: I'll stand awhile aloof, and seeHow from a madcap thou thyself canst free.SALICIO.Alas! I strike for self-defence.ALBANIO.AlthoughYou die—NEMOROSO.It is too true; madman, let go!ALBANIO.I'll end him; but one moment let me be.NEMOROSO.Off, off this instant!ALBANIO.Why, how harm I thee?NEMOROSO.Me? not in any wise.ALBANIO.Then homeward turn,And meddle not in what you've no concern.SALICIO.Ha, madman! pinion him and hold him tight,For mercy's sake; I'll do for thee, sir knight!Hold fast his elbows whilst the cord I tie;Sound of the switch perchance may terrifyHis proud soul to submission.ALBANIO.Noble lords,If I be still, will you put up your swords?SALICIO.No.ALBANIO.Would you kill me?SALICIO.Yes.ALBANIO.A harmless gnat!Look how much higher this rock is than that.NEMOROSO.'Tis well; he shortly will forget his vaunt.SALICIO.Soft; for 'tis thus they use such minds to daunt.ALBANIO.What! lashed and pinioned?SALICIO.Hush, give ear.ALBANIO.Woe's me!Dark was the hour when first I strove with thee,So harsh thou smitest; were we not beforeAs brothers fond; shall we be such no more?NEMOROSO.Albanio, friend beloved, be silent now;Sleep here awhile, and move not.ALBANIO.Knowest thouAny news of me?SALICIO.Mad, poor fool!ALBANIO.Agreed.Soft, for I sleep.SALICIO.Indeed dost thou?ALBANIO.Indeed!Sound as the dead! what motion do I make?Only observe me.SALICIO.Hush! the wand I shakeShall pay the price of thy rebellious will,If thou unclose an eye.NEMOROSO.He is more stillAnd tranquil than he was: Salicio,What are thy thoughts; can he be cured, or no?SALICIO.To use all gentle methods that may tendOr to the life or health of such a friend,Is our just duty.NEMOROSO.Hark then for a spaceTo what I say; a singular strange caseWill I relate, of which—but let that pass—I both the witness and the subject was.On Tormes' banks, the sweetest stream of Spain,Mild, sacred, clear, extends a spacious plain,Green in mid-winter, green in autumn, greenIn sultry summer as in spring serene;At the far end of which, the eye's delight,Charming in form, and of a pleasing height,A hill o'erlooks the scene, whose wood-crowned crestFair towers surmount, whereon heaven seems to rest:Towers of strange beauty, not so much admiredFor their fine structure, although Toil has tiredThereon his curious chisel, as renownedFor their grand Lords by glory haloed round.All that is deemed desirable and greatMay there be found, rank, wisdom, virtue, state,The gifts of Nature, and the stores of Art,Whatever Taste can wish, or Power impart.There, dwells a man of genius, whose rare touchOf the melodious lyre and pipe is suchAs ne'er to satiate with its notes of graceAnd flavourous tones, the Spirit of the place.On Trebia's field stood his paternal home,Trebia the red, the' Aceldama of Rome,And still, though numerous years have intervened,The favourite refuge of the same fierce fiend—Of war, whose crimson sword its turf has stained,Its green bowers ravaged, its pure waves profaned.He, seeing this, abandoned it to findSome scene more suited to his gentle mind:Good fortune led his footsteps to the hallOfAlba, so that splendid seat they call,Severohim; the God of wit and lightPours all his rays on his sciential sight.He, when he wills, by signs and murmured spells,Can curb the swiftest, mightiest stream that swells;Change storms to golden calms, change night to noon,Bid thunders bellow, and pluck down the moon,If to his signals she will not reply,And check the car that whirls her through the sky.I fear, should I presume to speak in praiseOf all his power and wisdom, I should raiseHis wrath, but this I must declare, aboveAll other things, the pangs of slighted loveHe in an instant cures, removes the pain,Converts impassioned frenzy to disdain,Sadness to smiles, and on the soul's tuned keysRewakes its old familiar melodies.I shall not know, Salicio, I am sure,To tell the means and method of my cure,But this I know, I came away quite sound,Pure from desire, and vigorous from my wound.I well remember that by Tormes' streamI found him rapt in some pathetic theme,Singing in strains whose sweetness might imprintThe soul of feeling in a heart of flint:When me he saw, divining my desire,He changed the mode, and rectified his lyre;The praise of liberty from love he sings,And with a sprightlier spirit smites the strings;Reflected in his song, I stand confestThe slave of sense, and alien from all rest,Shamed and surprised, till—how shall I explainThat strange effect?—the fascinating strainThe tincture takes of medicine, which, in brief,Flows through my veins, and, grappling with my grief,Roots out the venom: then was I as oneWho all night long o'er break-neck crags has run,Not seeing where the path leads, till at lastLight dawns, and looking back, the perils passedRush on his sight, now so distinctly kenned,The mere idea sets his hair on end:So thunderstruck stood I, nor to this dayCan I, without a shudder of dismay,Eye my past danger; my new scope of sightPresented all things in their proper light,And showed what I before with such a gustHad grasped for gold, to be but worthless dust.Such was the talisman, and such the skillWith which that ancient sage uncharmed my will;My mind its native liveliness regained,And my heart bounded as from bonds unchained.SALICIO.Oh fine old age! ev'n fruitful in thy snows,That to the soul thus bring'st its lost repose,Weaning the heart from love, the ungentle gustThat blasts our hopes, or weds them with the dust.Merely from that with which thou hast amazedMy ear, I feel strong wishes in me raised,To see and know him.NEMOROSO.Does thy wonder mountSo high, Salicio, at this poor account?More could I say, if I were not afraidTo tire thy patience.SALICIO.What is this thou' hast said,Unthinking Nemoroso? Can there beAught half so charming, half so sweet to me,As listening to thy stories? Tell me moreOf sage Severo; tell me, I implore.Nought interrupts the tale; our flocks at rest,The fresh soft wind comes whispering from the west;Sweet weeps the nightingale in song that movesIn amorous hearts the sadnesses she proves;The turtle murmurs from her elm; the beeHums; the shy cuckoo shouts from tree to tree;The wood a thousand flowers presents; the flowersA thousand hues; and, hung with nodding bowers,This babbling fountain with its voice invitesTo social ease and interchanged delights.

CAMILLA. ALBANIO. SALICIO. NEMOROSO.

CAMILLA.

Echo the sound did much misrepresent,If this is not the way the roebuck wentAfter 'twas struck; how swift it must have fled,And with what strength, considering how it bled!So deep the bearded shaft transfixed its side,That the white feather was alone descried;And now the search of what eludes my sightTires me to death. It can't have stretched its flightBeyond this valley; it must surely beHere, and perhaps expiring! oh that she,My Lady of the Groves, would of her packLend me a hound to follow up the track,The whilst I sleep away the hours of heatWithin these woods!—Oh visitants most sweet!Fresh, amorous, gentle, flavourous breezes, blowIn deeper gusts, and break this burning glowOf the meridian sun! at length, I passMy naked soles upon the cold green grass;Thy sylvan toils this raging noon commitTo men, Diana, whom they best befit!For once I dare thy horn to disobey;Thy favourite chase has cost me dear to-day.Ah my sweet fountain! from what paradiseHast thou too cast me by a mere surprise?Know'st thou, clear mirror, what thy glass has done?Driven from me the delightful face of one,Whose kind society and faith approvedI now no less desire than then I loved,But not as he supposed; God grant that firstHer heart may break, ere vowed Camilla burstThe virgin band that binds her with the maidsOf dear Diana, and her sacred shades!With what reluctance thought renews the senseOf this sad history, but the youth's offenceExculpates me; if of his absence IWere the prime cause, I would most willinglyMyself condemn, but he, I recollect,Both wilful was, and wanting in respect.But why afflict myself for this? I yetWould live contented, and the boy forget.—These clear cool springs a lulling murmur make,Here will I lie, and my sweet siesta take;And when the sultry noon is over, goAgain in search of my rebellious roe:Still 'tis a mystery and surprise to meWith such a wound how it so far could flee!

ALBANIO.

Methought, or frolic fancy must delightWith false presentments to deceive my sight,I saw a wood-nymph, gliding through the groves,Reach the near fountain; haply, if she loves,She may advise me of some charm, may nameSome dear deceit to ease this painful flame:No given advice but aggravates my grief,If 'tis in discord with my own belief,And to the hopeless harm can none accrue:Oh holy Gods! what is it that I view?Is it a phantom changed into the formOf her whose beauty makes my blood run warm?No, 'tis herself, Camilla, sleeping here;It must be she—her beauty makes it clear!But one such wonder Nature wished to make,Then broke the die for admiration's sake.How could I then suppose her not the same,When Nature's self no second such can frame!But now, though certain is the bliss displayed,How shall I venture to awake the maid,Dreading the light that lures me to her side?And yet—if only for the pleasing prideOf touching her, methinks that I might shakeThis fear away; but what if she should wake?To seize and not to loose her—soft! I fearThat daring act might make her more austere;Yet, what is to be done? I wish to reachMy former seat beneath the shady beech,And hers is slumber deep as death; she lies,How beautifully blind! the bee that fliesNear her, the quarrelling birds, that old sweet tuneHummed by the spring, all voices of the noonTease, but disturb her not; her face is free—A charming book—to be perused by me,And I will seize the' occasion; if the boughsIn being parted should from slumber rouse,Strong to detain her I am still, though notAs when we last were seated on this spot:Oh hands, once vigorously disposed to end me!See you how much your power can now befriend me?Why not exert it for my welfare!—smallThe risk—one effort will suffice for all.

CAMILLA.

Aid me Diana!

ALBANIO.

Stir not! from my holdThou canst not break; but hear what I unfold.

CAMILLA.

Who would have told me of so rude a stroke?Nymphs of the wood, your succour I invoke!Save me, oh save! Albanio, this from thee?Say, art thou frenzied?

ALBANIO.

Frenzy should it be,That makes me love—oh more than life,—the causeOf all my grief, who scorns me and abhors.

CAMILLA.

I ought, methinks, to be abhorred by thee,To make thy speeches with thy deeds agree;To seek to treat me so, at such a time!Outrage on outrage heaping, crime on crime.

ALBANIO.

I commit outrage against thee! May IIn thy disgrace, my dear Camilla, die,

CAMILLA.

Hast thou notInfringed our friendship on this very spot,Seeking to turn it by a course amissFrom placid thoughts?

ALBANIO.

Oh holy Artemis!Must the distraction of a single hourWhole years of fond attention overpower,When, too, repentance mourns the fault, and when—

CAMILLA.

Ah, this is always the sly way with men!They dare the crime, and if the' event goes wrong,Cry your forgiveness with the meekest tongue.

ALBANIO.

What have I dared, Camilla?

CAMILLA.

It is well;Ask these dumb woods, this fountain, it shall tell;There it remains in face of the pure skies,The living witness of thy wrong device.

ALBANIO.

If death, disgrace, or pain can expiateMy fault, behold me here prepared to sateThy anger to the full.

CAMILLA.

Let go my wrist!Scarce can I breathe; let go, I do insist!

ALBANIO.

Much, much I fear that thou wilt take the wingOf the wild winds, and flee.

CAMILLA.

Fear no such thing!With pure fatigue I am quite overcome;Unhand me! Oh, my dislocated thumb!

ALBANIO.

Wilt thou sit still, if I my grasp forego,Whilst by clear reasons I proceed to showThat without any reason thou with meWert wroth?

CAMILLA.

A pretty reasoner thou wilt be!Well, free me that I may.

ALBANIO.

Swear first in sooth,By our past friendship and our bygone youth.

CAMILLA.

Soothly I swear by the pure law sincereOf our past friendship, to sit down and hear—Thy chidings, sure enough; to what a stateHast thou reduced my hand in this debateBy thy fierce grasp!

ALBANIO.

To what a state hast thouReduced my soul by leaving me till now!

CAMILLA.

My golden clasp, if that be lost—woe's me!Unlucky that I am! 'tis gone, I see,Fallen in this fatal vale! what mischief more?

ALBANIO.

I should not wonder if it dropped before,In the deep Vale of Nettles.

CAMILLA.

I desire,Where'er it dropped, to seek it.

ALBANIO.

That will tireStill more my dear Camilla; leave that toil!I'll find the clasp; I cannot bear the soilShould scorch my enemy's white feet;—

CAMILLA.

Well, well,Since you're so good—behold that beechen dellIn sunshine, look straight forward, there, below;A full round hour I've there been spending:

ALBANIO.

So!I see it now; but meanwhile pray don't go.

CAMILLA.

Swain, rest assured that I will die beforeThy apprehending hands affright me more.

ALBANIO.

Ah, faithless nymph! and is it in this modeThou keep'st thy plighted oath? Oh heavy loadOf curst existence! oh false love, to cheerMy drooping soul with hopes so insincere!Oh painful mode of martyrdom! oh death,Cool torturer, slow to claim my hated breath!You give me cause to call high Heaven unjust;Gape, empty earth, and repossess the dustOf this rebellious body, which debarsThe swift-winged soul from soaring to the stars!I, I will let it loose; let them that dareResist—resist me?—of themselves take care,It much concerns them! Can I not fulfilMy threats? die, go—here—there—where'er I will,Spirit or flesh?

CAMILLA.

Hark! he desires to doHimself some mischief; my worst fears were true,And his mind wanders.

ALBANIO.

Oh that here I hadThe man whose malice seems to drive me mad!I feel discharged of a vast weight! it seemsI fly, disdaining mountains, woods, and streams,My farm, flock, field, and dairy! Are not theseFeet? yes, with them I fly where'er I please.And now I come to think, my body's gone;It is the spirit I command alone.Some one has stolen and hid it as I gazedOn the clear sky, somewhat too much amazed;Or has it stayed behind asleep? I swearA figure coloured like the rose was there,Slumbering most sweetly; now, if that should beMy shape—no, that was far too fair for me.

NEMOROSO.

Poor head! I would not give a coin of brassFor thy discretion now.

ALBANIO.

To whom, alas,Shall I give notice of the theft?

SALICIO.

'Tis strange,And passing sad, to see the utter changeIn this once sprightly youth, with whom we two,My Nemoroso, have had much to do;Mild, pleasant, good, wise, sociable, and kind,The sweetest temper and sincerest mind.

ALBANIO.

I will find witness, or small power is leftMe 'gainst the man that did commit the theft,And though my body's absent, as a foeWill drive him on to death; ah, dost thou knowAught of the thief, my gentle fountain fair?Speak, if thou dost! so may the swart star ne'erSear thy fresh shades, or scorch thy silver spring,But still green fairies round thee dance and sing.There stands a man at bottom of the brook,With laurel crowned, and in his hand a crookShaped like mine own, of oak: ho! who goes there?Answer, my friend! Heaven help me! I declareThou' art deaf or dumb, some mortal foe I fearTo life's humanities; holla! give ear;I am a disembodied soul; I seekMy body, which, in a malicious freak,Some cruel thief has stol'n, it much has stirred me;Deaf or not deaf I care not—have you heard me?O gracious God! either my wayward brainWanders, or I behold my shape again;Ha, my loved body! I no longer doubt thee,I clearly see thy image; whilst without theeI have been most unhappy—come, draw nigher,End both thy exile and my lorn desire.

NEMOROSO.

I much suspect that his continual thoughtAnd dreams of death, have in his fancy wroughtThis pictured separation.

SALICIO.

As in sleep,Ills which awake perpetually we weep,Fraught with the grief that haunts the soul, remain,And print their shadowy species on the brain.

ALBANIO.

If thou art not in chains, come forth to' endowMe with the true form of a man, who nowHave but the title left; but if thou' art boundBy magic art, and rooted to the ground,I pray thee speak! for if my piteous pleadingShould fail to touch the ear of Heaven unheeding,I to the bowers of Tartarus will depart,And storm fierce Pluto's adamantine heart,As for his absent consort, unalarmed,Did the fond lover, who with music charmedHell's grisly maids, and hushed, sweet harmonist,The raging snakes that round their temples hissed!

NEMOROSO.

With what good arguments does he enforceHis mad opinions!

SALICIO.

The accustomed courseOf ingenuity awhile holds on,When genius fails, and apprehension's gone;Thus, though now frenzied, still a lucid veinRuns through the dark ideas of his brain,Having been what we knew him once.

NEMOROSO.

No more,Praise him not to me, for my heart runs o'erWith grief to see him in so lost a strait.

ALBANIO.

I was considering what a painful stateThis strange, sad exile is; for, to my mind,Nor woods, nor oceans warred on by the wind,Nor moated towers, nor mountains, pathless proved,Nor others' sweet society beloved,Cuts us asunder, but a slender wallOf water, lucid, but preventing allThe blissful union we desire so much;For from that surface where we all but touchThou never dost depart, and seemest neverSatiate with gazing, by each fond endeavourOf becks, and smiles, and gestures, signifyingDesire of junction, duteous, but denying;Brother, reach out thy arm, that we may shakeHands like good friends, and for past friendship's sake,Once more embrace! ha! mock'st thou me? dost thouFly from me thus? 'tis acting not, I vow,As a friend should; I from the fountain's frothAm dripping wet, and thou, too, art thou wroth—Poor Sir Unfortunate? ha! ha! how swiftThy—what is it? thy figure thou dost shift;Ruffled, disturbed, and with a writhen face!That this unlucky thing now should take place!I was consoled in seeing so sereneThy amorous image and thy smiling mien.No happy thing with me will now endure!

NEMOROSO.

Nothing at least that will thy frenzy cure.

SALICIO.

Let us depart; fresh furies now beginTo storm his soul.

ALBANIO.

Oh heav'n! why not leap in,And reach the centre of the fountain cold?

SALICIO.

What foolish fancy's this, Albanio? hold!

ALBANIO.

Oh the clear thief! but how? what? is it wellTo' invest thyself with my secreted shellOf flesh, before my face? oh insolence!As if I were a block devoid of senseAnd common feeling; but this hand shall slay,And pluck thy daring spirit out.

SALICIO.

Away!Come thou; I am not equal to the taskOf mastering him.

NEMOROSO.

What would'st thou?

SALICIO.

Canst thou ask,Kinsman unkind, what would I? disengageMy hand and throat, if his malicious rageGive me but power.

NEMOROSO.

Act no such petty part;Thou canst but do thy duty where thou art.

SALICIO.

Is this a time for pleasantry and play?Sport'st thou with life? come instantly, I pray!

NEMOROSO.

Anon: I'll stand awhile aloof, and seeHow from a madcap thou thyself canst free.

SALICIO.

Alas! I strike for self-defence.

ALBANIO.

AlthoughYou die—

NEMOROSO.

It is too true; madman, let go!

ALBANIO.

I'll end him; but one moment let me be.

NEMOROSO.

Off, off this instant!

ALBANIO.

Why, how harm I thee?

NEMOROSO.

Me? not in any wise.

ALBANIO.

Then homeward turn,And meddle not in what you've no concern.

SALICIO.

Ha, madman! pinion him and hold him tight,For mercy's sake; I'll do for thee, sir knight!Hold fast his elbows whilst the cord I tie;Sound of the switch perchance may terrifyHis proud soul to submission.

ALBANIO.

Noble lords,If I be still, will you put up your swords?

SALICIO.

No.

ALBANIO.

Would you kill me?

SALICIO.

Yes.

ALBANIO.

A harmless gnat!Look how much higher this rock is than that.

NEMOROSO.

'Tis well; he shortly will forget his vaunt.

SALICIO.

Soft; for 'tis thus they use such minds to daunt.

ALBANIO.

What! lashed and pinioned?

SALICIO.

Hush, give ear.

ALBANIO.

Woe's me!Dark was the hour when first I strove with thee,So harsh thou smitest; were we not beforeAs brothers fond; shall we be such no more?

NEMOROSO.

Albanio, friend beloved, be silent now;Sleep here awhile, and move not.

ALBANIO.

Knowest thouAny news of me?

SALICIO.

Mad, poor fool!

ALBANIO.

Agreed.Soft, for I sleep.

SALICIO.

Indeed dost thou?

ALBANIO.

Indeed!Sound as the dead! what motion do I make?Only observe me.

SALICIO.

Hush! the wand I shakeShall pay the price of thy rebellious will,If thou unclose an eye.

NEMOROSO.

He is more stillAnd tranquil than he was: Salicio,What are thy thoughts; can he be cured, or no?

SALICIO.

To use all gentle methods that may tendOr to the life or health of such a friend,Is our just duty.

NEMOROSO.

Hark then for a spaceTo what I say; a singular strange caseWill I relate, of which—but let that pass—I both the witness and the subject was.On Tormes' banks, the sweetest stream of Spain,Mild, sacred, clear, extends a spacious plain,Green in mid-winter, green in autumn, greenIn sultry summer as in spring serene;At the far end of which, the eye's delight,Charming in form, and of a pleasing height,A hill o'erlooks the scene, whose wood-crowned crestFair towers surmount, whereon heaven seems to rest:Towers of strange beauty, not so much admiredFor their fine structure, although Toil has tiredThereon his curious chisel, as renownedFor their grand Lords by glory haloed round.All that is deemed desirable and greatMay there be found, rank, wisdom, virtue, state,The gifts of Nature, and the stores of Art,Whatever Taste can wish, or Power impart.There, dwells a man of genius, whose rare touchOf the melodious lyre and pipe is suchAs ne'er to satiate with its notes of graceAnd flavourous tones, the Spirit of the place.On Trebia's field stood his paternal home,Trebia the red, the' Aceldama of Rome,And still, though numerous years have intervened,The favourite refuge of the same fierce fiend—Of war, whose crimson sword its turf has stained,Its green bowers ravaged, its pure waves profaned.He, seeing this, abandoned it to findSome scene more suited to his gentle mind:Good fortune led his footsteps to the hallOfAlba, so that splendid seat they call,Severohim; the God of wit and lightPours all his rays on his sciential sight.He, when he wills, by signs and murmured spells,Can curb the swiftest, mightiest stream that swells;Change storms to golden calms, change night to noon,Bid thunders bellow, and pluck down the moon,If to his signals she will not reply,And check the car that whirls her through the sky.I fear, should I presume to speak in praiseOf all his power and wisdom, I should raiseHis wrath, but this I must declare, aboveAll other things, the pangs of slighted loveHe in an instant cures, removes the pain,Converts impassioned frenzy to disdain,Sadness to smiles, and on the soul's tuned keysRewakes its old familiar melodies.I shall not know, Salicio, I am sure,To tell the means and method of my cure,But this I know, I came away quite sound,Pure from desire, and vigorous from my wound.I well remember that by Tormes' streamI found him rapt in some pathetic theme,Singing in strains whose sweetness might imprintThe soul of feeling in a heart of flint:When me he saw, divining my desire,He changed the mode, and rectified his lyre;The praise of liberty from love he sings,And with a sprightlier spirit smites the strings;Reflected in his song, I stand confestThe slave of sense, and alien from all rest,Shamed and surprised, till—how shall I explainThat strange effect?—the fascinating strainThe tincture takes of medicine, which, in brief,Flows through my veins, and, grappling with my grief,Roots out the venom: then was I as oneWho all night long o'er break-neck crags has run,Not seeing where the path leads, till at lastLight dawns, and looking back, the perils passedRush on his sight, now so distinctly kenned,The mere idea sets his hair on end:So thunderstruck stood I, nor to this dayCan I, without a shudder of dismay,Eye my past danger; my new scope of sightPresented all things in their proper light,And showed what I before with such a gustHad grasped for gold, to be but worthless dust.Such was the talisman, and such the skillWith which that ancient sage uncharmed my will;My mind its native liveliness regained,And my heart bounded as from bonds unchained.

SALICIO.

Oh fine old age! ev'n fruitful in thy snows,That to the soul thus bring'st its lost repose,Weaning the heart from love, the ungentle gustThat blasts our hopes, or weds them with the dust.Merely from that with which thou hast amazedMy ear, I feel strong wishes in me raised,To see and know him.

NEMOROSO.

Does thy wonder mountSo high, Salicio, at this poor account?More could I say, if I were not afraidTo tire thy patience.

SALICIO.

What is this thou' hast said,Unthinking Nemoroso? Can there beAught half so charming, half so sweet to me,As listening to thy stories? Tell me moreOf sage Severo; tell me, I implore.Nought interrupts the tale; our flocks at rest,The fresh soft wind comes whispering from the west;Sweet weeps the nightingale in song that movesIn amorous hearts the sadnesses she proves;The turtle murmurs from her elm; the beeHums; the shy cuckoo shouts from tree to tree;The wood a thousand flowers presents; the flowersA thousand hues; and, hung with nodding bowers,This babbling fountain with its voice invitesTo social ease and interchanged delights.

NEMOROSO. SALICIO.NEMOROSO.Hark then awhile, and I will tell of thingsStrange and amazing: Spirits of these springs,Nymphs, I invoke you! Silvans, Satyrs, Fauns,That haunt the glens, the greenwoods, and the lawns!Sweet from my lips let each clear accent part,All point or grace, all harmony or art,Since neither pastoral pipe, Arcadian quill,Nor syrinx sounds in concord with my will.To such rare heights Severo's powers aspire,His chanted verse and smooth harmonious lyreCan stay fleet whirlwinds in their mid career,His golden words and messages to hear,And make them from austere, rebellious lords,Obsequious slaves to dance around his chordsIn voluntary song; old Tormes knowsHis incantation, and, commanded, showsThe Senior all his secrets: once he ledThe mighty master to his fountain-head,And showed him where mid river-flowers and fernHe lies, incumbent o'er a crystal urn;On this he saw a thousand things embossed,Foreseen, and sculptured with surprising cost;With so divine a wit the sage has wroughtThis vase, each object seems instinct with thought.On every side the figured bas-reliefsDepict the deeds and virtues of the chiefs,Who by illustrious titles dignified,And ruled the tract through which his waters glide.There the brave youth,Don Garcia, stood confessedBy his disdainful mien, dilated chest;He 'gainst a wise and potent king that heldHis sire in bondage, gallantly rebelled,[7]Each bold retainer summoning, to aidHis pious aims; with him the God pourtrayedHis son, who showed, whilst earth enjoyed his light,At court a Phœbus, and a Mars in fight:Young though he seemed, he promised in his lookSupreme success in all he undertook;Ev'n in his youth, upon the Moors he dealtSevere rebukes, and made his puissance felt;And as the chieftain of the Christian band,Confirmed his heart and exercised his hand.Elsewhere, with more assured renown, and nowWith more of manhood on his martial brow,He harassed the fierce Franks: sublime he stoodTo sight, his armours red with hostile blood.Long in the straitened siege had he sustainedThe woes of want; no measure now remained,But through the breaches of the rending wallIn furious sally on the foe to fall.What numbers died that day beneath his spear!What other numbers fled like hunted deer!No pictured tale, no sculptured argument,No poet's flame could fitly representHow fierceFadriquesmote them as they fled,The chaser's rage, and the pursued one's dread.Near him is seen in bold relief his son,Don Garcia, equalled upon earth by none,Unless by his Fernando! who could viewThe ardent light of his dear beauty, whoThe expression of his frank fair countenance,Nor own his grandeur in that single glance?Alas! in cruelty the Furies hurledWar's fires abroad, and snatched him from the world,The world so happy in his light! sad Spain,Thy weeping eyes how oft didst thou in vainRoll toward Gelves! Acting his sad part,The youth is sculptured with such lively art,That should you see it, you would say each strokeWas fraught with life, and that the crystal spoke.The broad sands burned, the sun of bloody red,His soldiers round him fell down faint or dead;With earnest vigilance he only cursedThat dull delay, and reckless as at first,Praised glorious death; when suddenly the soundOf Illa Allah shook the skies, the groundRang with strong trampling, and a dusty hostOf fierce barbarians the young chief enclosed;But he, nought daunted, cast to them his gage,In generous frenzy of audacious rage,And bore up bravely, making many payThe price of their temerity; these layIn deep disorder, some whose vital threadsHe had already slit, with cloven heads,Wallowing in blood; some silent dying; someYet breathing free, not wholly overcome,Showed palpitating bowels, strangely goredBy the deep gashes given by his sharp sword.But Fate was in the conflict, and at last,Deaf with the din, his spirits failing fast,Pierced through with thousand swords, and craving graceFor all his sins, he laid his pallid faceOn the burnt soil, and sighed away, forlorn,His soul of beauty like the rose of morn,That smit by the hot season, sickening grieves,Hangs its gay head, and pales its crimson leaves;Or as a lily which the passing shareLeaves cruelly cut down, whereby its fairTransparent hue, though not all perished, nowThat its maternal earth neglects to throwJuice through its veins, fades soon as noontide tellsHer wonted rosary on its dewy bells;So on the mimic sands, in miniature,Shows thy fair face, fresh rose, white lily pure!Next a strange sculpture draws and so detainsThe' observer's notice, that he entertainsNo curiosity aught else to view,How wild soe'er, or beautiful, or new.The three sweet Graces there are seen pourtrayedWith Phidian skill, transparently arrayed;One only garment of celestial whiteVeils their soft limbs, but shuts not out the sight.Drawn are they cheering, strengthening for the throe,A noble lady in her hour of woe.Soon the dear infant is seen born; ne'er smiledThe ripening moon upon a lovelier child;Upon his little cradle, overspreadWith flowers, the name ofDon Fernando'sread.From sweetly singing on the shady crownOf Pindus, the Nine Lights of life come down;And with them Phœbus, rosy and unshorn,Goes, like the moon amidst the stars of morn,With graceful step; arriving, they confessHis charms, and long and tenderly caress.Elsewhere winged Mercury is drawn beholdingMars, the plumed warrior, cautiously enfoldingThe new-born infant in his rude embrace,Soon giving courteous and respectful placeTo Venus, smiling at his side; in turnShe kissed his cheek, and from a golden urnSprinkled Elysian nectar o'er the boyWith lavish hand, and fond familiar joy:But Phœbus from her arms the child displaced,And gave the office to his sisters chaste.They were delighted with the sweet employ;Time waves his wings, the babe becomes a boy,Rising and flourishing in youthful grace,Like a tall poplar in a shady place.Talents he showed untaught, and undisguisedGave now such proofs of genius, as surprisedThe associate nymphs, and they the boy consignedTo one of blameless life and cultured mind,Who to the world might make more manifestThe rich endowments which the child possessed;An ancient man, whose face, ungiven to guile,Expressed severeness sweetening to a smile,Received the youth; Severo, when his gazeFell on this form, stood spell-bound with amaze;For as within a looking-glass he viewedHimself depicted, air, age, attitude,All were conformable, just so he trod,So looked, so greeted; turning to the god,He saw him smiling at his frank surprise;"And why this so great wonder?" Tormes cries;"Seem I so ignorant as not to' have known,Ere to thy yearning mother thou wert shown,That thou wouldst be, when future suns should shine,The wise Director of his soul divine?"The Ancient, with deep joy of wonder bred,His eager eyes upon the picture fed.Next, as his looks along the sculptures glanced,A youth with Phœbus hand in hand advanced;Courteous his air, from his ingenuous face,Informed with wisdom, modesty, and grace,And every mild affection, at a scanThe passer-by would mark him for a man,Perfect in all gentilities of mind,That sweeten life and harmonize mankind.The form which lively thus the sculptor drew,Assur'd Severo in an instant knew,For him who had by careful culture shownFernando's spirit lovely as his own;Had given him grace, sincerity, and ease,The pure politeness that aspires to please,The candid virtues that disdain pretence,And martial manliness, and sprightly sense,With all the generous courtesies enshrinedIn the fair temple of Fernando's mind.When well surveyed, his name Severo read,"Boscán!!" whose genius o'er the world is spread:In whose illumined aspect shines the fireThat, streamed from Delphos, lights him to the lyre,And warms those songs which with mankind shall stay,Whilst endless ages roll unfelt away!More ripeness marked the youth, as to his rulesListening, he culled the learning of the schools;These left at length, he in gymnastic games,War's mimic symbols, strives with youths, whose namesHad never else been known to after yearsIn the wide world; the tilt of canes and spears,Wrestling, the course, the circus, toil and dust,Gave his arm skill, and made his limbs robust.Next, amorous Venus shows her rosy face,Seizing his hand, she leads him for a spaceFrom the severe gymnasium, and asidePoints out his fault with all a lecturer's pride;Tells him how ill he acts; that some few hoursThe roughest soldier wreathes his sword with flowers,And that in endless turmoil so to wasteThe May of life was treason to good taste.Entering a myrtle bower, she shows him, laidMidst leaves and violets blue, a slumbering maid:Flushed was her cheek, and as she slept she smiled,As some delightful dream her brain beguiled:He saw, the crimsoning cheek his passion spoke;The bowers they rustled, and the nymph awoke.Smit with her beauty, he desired to wedThe enchanting shape—the Goddess shook her head—As if she feared the parties to unite;He gazed—he gazed, insatiate with the sight!From her dear side he could not, could not move,Wept on her neck, and vowed eternal love.Next, angry Mars, imperious to behold,Advancing, gave the youth a crown of gold:Threatening the illustrious youth, a knight was seen,Of a fierce spirit and insulting mien.[8]In cautious wise beneath the setting moonThey timed their steps, and met on a pontoon;Well had the sculptor shadowed out the fight,His clouding crystal spoke the noon of night.Mars was their umpire; he condemned the foe,And placed his crown upon the conqueror's brow;Graced with the gold, the hero shone from far,As in blue heaven the beautiful bright starThat ushers in Aurora: thence his nameSpreads to all parts, and gathers greater fame.Soon other happier arts he meditatesTo steal from death, elusive of the Fates,Much of himself, and live admired, unfled,When the blind vulgar might lament him dead.Hymen came moving to the crotal's clash,His right foot sandalled with a golden sash;A choir of virgins sing; on dancing feetThey part alternate, and alternate meet;Then softly lay upon the bridal couchA blushing girl, whom Venus did avouchTo be the same that, bowered in myrtles deep,Erst smiled so sweetly in her dreaming sleep—A dream as sweetly realized! she showedWorthy the youth on whom she was bestowed;Her pillow bore the words, impaled in flame,Donna Maria Enríquez, her name;Anxious to be admitted, scarce the choirOf nymphs could check Fernando's forward fire:At length he was received, and left besideHis virtuous, pure, and beautiful young bride.Elsewhere, on one foot standing, never stable,Capricious Fortune did the sculptor fable,Calling to Don Fernando that he ledA life of idleness, and now must treadA toilsome path, but she would be his guide,And venture first: he with her wish complied,Made her his boon companion, and pursuedHer who, unveiled, as beautiful is wooed,But, veiled from sight, deemed fearful, nothing worth,Virtue her name, the rarity of earth!Whom does she guide along with equal pace,But him whom thus her beauty leads to faceEach fresh fatigue, for glory to aspire,And scorn the chains of delicate desire.The mighty Pyrenees, which seem to shootTo heaven their summit as to hell their root,They traversed in mid-winter; white the snowColours the clime, and mute the torrents flowUnder cold crystal bridges that confineTheir tides, smooth sliding through the frozen mine;Whilst, if a blast but stirs the pines, they bend,And with the weight of ices crashing rend.Through all they strive, nor will be held at bayOr by the length or wildness of the way.By constant toil the hero makes advance,Till the gained summit shifts the scene to France;His swiftness Fame renewed—his spirits cheered,On flying wings beside him she appeared,And signified, in act and attitude,That the hill-tracks would soon become less rude.Of various guides the Duke selected one,And on they rode beneath the mounting sun;Faint wax their horses, but they reached at lastThe walls of Paris, and its portals passed.There the gaunt form of Sickness stands to sight,The healthy duke assisting to alight;Touched by her hand, his colour seems to fade,He droops, he faints, and sickens to a shade.Soon, crossing from a shady thicket green,The form of Esculapius might be seenWith balms and herbs, nor did he slack his treadTill he arrived beside Fernando's bed:With his right foot he entered, and at lengthRestored the patient to his usual strength.His way he took where white-wall'd convents shine,And reached the passage of the lucid Rhine.The rich romantic river on its breastReceived him, glorying in so great a guest,And called to mind the hour when to the sameEmbarking point the Latin Cæsar came.He seemed not scanty of his waves, but swelledFloods like a sea, and the light bark impelled,Which flying left behind green viny bowers,High castled crags, and old romantic towers.Blythely his impulse the swift bark obeyed,And passed the spot where erst a ravished maid,And thousand virgins with her, stained the sodWith blood, recorded in the book of God.The espoused pure virgin, Ursula, was seenCasting her dying eyes to heaven serene,The tyrant looking on, who, at a word,From breast to beauteous breast the sword transferred.Thence through wide Germany he shaped his wayTo where in doubt the Christian army lay,Till to his sight the rapid Danube gaveHis affluent floods; he launched upon the wave.From the spurned shore the refluent currents strongWinged through cleft crags his bounding boat along,Whilst the strained oars with forcible descentRaised showers of silver wheresoe'er it went:On—on like lightning was it seen to fly,Its very motion sculptured to the eye.The heroic duke, a little farther on,Was pictured disembarked at Ratisbon,Where for the Imperial crown on every handWar had convoked the magnates of the land.Amidst his peers and princes Charles was placed,Our Spanish Cæsar, and the duke embraced,Charmed with his coming; all in pleased surpriseFixed on Fernando their saluting eyes,And the same instant they perceived him, grewSure of the victory when the trumpet blew.With much vain-glory, haughtiness of mien,And barbarous boasting, the Grand Turk was seen,Armed, and in rich costume; pitched far and wideNear weeping Hungary was his camp descried.So strange a multitude o'erspread the plain,That scarce the region could the host contain,—A host so vast, the country, you would think,Would fail for pasture, and the stream for drink.Cæsar, with pious zeal and valiant soul,These hosts despised, and bade his flags unrol;His tribes convoked, and shortly you might seeAn army form—bold, resolute, and free;See various nations in one camp combined,Various in speech, but influenced by one mind.They swarmed not o'er the land in such paradeOf numbers as the Moslem, but displayedThat which these failed to show—a brave freewill,Faith, courage, firmness, discipline, and skill.Them with a generous zeal, by apt applause,Fernando heartens in the common cause,That numbers of them in his views took part,Won to his flag with admirable art.The fierce yet docile German he addressedIn his own style, and so to all the restConformed in custom, humour, mood, and tongue,Grave with the age'd and sprightly with the young,That the phlegmatic Fleming would have said,In Lisle or Antwerp he was born and bred,In Spain the excelling Spaniard; the astuteItalian marks him, with amazement mute,His nation's ease so well he seems to hit,Her past proud valour, and her modern wit.He seems in him to see arise againRome's last, sole hope, the youth who passed to Spain,And closed her long, long warfare in the fallOf rival Carthage and grim Hannibal,Whose crimson sword, to Nemesis devote,So oft was pointed at her naked throat.Next sickening Envy on the crystal stood,Severely sculptured, adverse to his good,Gathering against Fernando, face to face,The unfavoured faction, loud for his disgrace.With them she armed, but in all points, with pain,Found her arts baffled and her influence wane.He with mild tongue and with extended handsThe tumult hushed of the censorious bands,And by degrees soared with so high a flight,The eyes of Envy could not reach his height,So that successless, blinded by the blazeOf his clear virtue, she her passion sways,And forces her proud self, in suppliant weed,On earth to kneel, and for forgiveness plead.The monster's spoils he carelessly received,And, from these rude anxieties relieved,Walked in the cool serene of eve besideThe lonely stream, and near its tossing tideEncountered Cæsar, full of doubt and careFor the success of the approaching war;Since, though he banished sadness, still the thoughtOf the vast stake he ventured, with it broughtWish for wise counsel; this the duke bestowed;They there agreed on a convenient modeTo' obstruct the plans of Solyman, destroyHis high-raised hopes, and blast his promised joy.Their counsels ended, weary they reposeOn the green turf, and as their eyelids close,Hear the dim Danube's voice, so it might seem,Murmur approval of their golden scheme.Then to the pausing eye the chisel gaveThe clear stream's Genius issuing from the wave,Aged, on tiptoe moving mute, with reedsAnd willows crowned, and robed in sea-green weeds;He in that sleep uncertain showed them clearAll that concerned their ends; it would appearThat this sweet idlesse crossed their good, for swift(As though some precious gem or cherished giftWas burning in the flames) they start, they rise,With terror touched and a divine surprise;Divine surprise, that ceasing leaves behindHope to the heart, and gladness to the mind.The stream without delay appeared to urgeThe chiefs aboard, and smoothed its eddying surge,That the Armada which it had to guideO'er its broad waters might more gently glide.What favour to the fleets its Genius bore,Was seen in the calm wave and feathering oar.With admirable speed you next might markA well-ranged army instantly embark;The sturdy movement of dipt oars, combinedWith little hindrance from the wave or wind,Swift through the deep sonorous waters worksThat fleet, obnoxious to the tyrant Turks.No human artist could, though born to' excel,Have framed a picture which expressed so wellThe fleet, the host, the speed, the waves' rich fret;Scarce in the forge at which the Cyclops sweat,And, tired, change arms at every hammering blow,Could their grand Master have expressed it so.Through the clear current who had seen them bear,Would on that missal have been apt to swearThat the sharp prows provoked the blue profound,And clove the billows with a silver sound;Grey foam before, bright bubbles danced behind;Anon the banners, trembling in the wind,Mimicked the moving waters; on the coastLike living things appeared the adverse host,Shy and incredulous, which, filled of lateWith barbarous scorn and haughtiness sedate,Thought not to meet with men that would preventTheir march; ours, piqued by such injustice, wentMeasuring their way so furiously and wroth,That the whole stream fermented into froth.The other host, affrighted at the view,From tent to tent in wild distraction flew,Eager to gather from the public breathThe' unknown intelligence of life or death;Like a vast stream by wintry breezes crost,Through bones and marrow ran an icy frost,Till, the whole camp in uproar, each one placedHis hopes of safety in immediate haste.The camp is raised in tumult; on their wayThey march, they speed in shameful disarray;Leaving behind in terror, unconcealed,Their gold and jewels strewed o'er all the field.The tents wherein sloth, murder, revelling,And rape, found place with each unholy thing,They part without; armed steeds run masterless;On their scared lords the scared dependants press;Whilst the fierce Spaniard, hovering round their rear,Strains the red sword, and shakes the lifted spear.Cæsar is seen attempting to restrainFernando, ardent above all to stainHis sword in unbelieving blood; with boldAnd eager action, not to be controlled,He struggles with the king; as the fierce houndOf generous Erin, on the spring to boundAfter the bristly boar, restricted, whines,And quarrels with the leash that scarce confinesHis passionate desire and fleet-foot flight,Which makes his master draw the string more tight—So, imaged to the life, contending standThe fixt to fly, the settled to withstand;So Cæsar curbs, just so Fernando grieves,As whoso views them at a glance perceives.Next on the clear pictorial urn is feignedVictory, contented with the laurels gained;Cæsar embraced—unthinking, without check,She throws her arm around Fernando's neck;He turns away with spleen but ill concealed,And mourns the easy triumphs of the field.A foreign car does next the crystal grace,Filled with the spoils of the barbaric race,And in accompaniment the sculptured sealsOf conquest, captives fettered to the wheels,—Mantles, and purple silks of various realms,Brast lances, crescents, gonfalons, and helms,Light vant-braces, cleft shields, turbans emblazedWith gems, and swords, into a trophy raised,Shine forth, round which, as with one heart and voice,Cities and nations gather and rejoice.The Tyrrhene next was whitening with the sailsOf the vast ships blown home by willing gales;Glorious, renowned, with foamy prows they sweep,And like majestic fishes swim the deep.Till greenly crowned with laurel, they at lastIn Barcelona Bay glad anchor cast.Thence, promised vows fulfilled, with offered prayersAnd consecrated spoils, the duke preparesTo hurry instant, glowing with the fireOf amorous hope and long-chastised desire.He passes Catalonia, leaves behindThe towns of Arragon, and swift as wind,Without alighting, ever with his heelStriking his courser, treads in sweet Castile.To home's near joys—his lady's wished embrace,He yields his heart—he reserenes his face,And from his eyes and from his thought drives farDeath, dangers, doubts, vexations, wounds, and war.Then, held alone by ecstasy in thrall,The crystal shows him in his happy hall.On tiptoe meeting him, with many a kiss,His wife, half dubious of so great a bliss,Flings round his neck with all the wife's delightHer well-shaped arms, so delicately white,And smiling strains him to her heart, whilst riseUnconscious tears to her rejoicing eyes;Those lucid eyes that the clear sun outshine,—Glittering they gush, and make them yet more fine.With her beloved Fernando, earth again,The field, the stream, the mountain, and the plain,Were deeply,—in her view, divinely blessed,And under various modes their bliss expressed;More lofty rise the walls; the breathing bowersOf lovelier colours pour forth sweeter flowers;Tormes himself is pictured in the tale,With all his Naiads, pouring through the valeIn greater affluence his abundant streams;With stags the face of the green mountain teems,Roebucks and fallow deer, that sportive browzeThe savoury herb, or crop the leafy boughs;More verdant spreads the plain, extending evenTill her charmed eye beholds it blend with heaven;And heaven is hers, deep joy, and deeper peace,A joy whose sense exaggerates all it sees,Full of his presence of whose praise earth sings,And glorying Valour tells immortal things.This saw Severo palpably and clear,They were no dreams, no fictions; should'st thou hearHis tale, thou would'st religiously believeThe truth of it, as though thou didst perceiveThyself the sculptures; as the urn he eyed,He vows he in the forms such force descried—That had even life been given to what were wrought,They could not look more animate with thought.What to the mind or eye obscure remained,The courteous River lucidly explained."He, the young chieftain of that army," saidThe God, "from pole to pole his rule shall spread;And that his glorious deeds, when by thy lyreDivinely hymned, mankind may more admire,Know that these many acts, these perils sought,And victories won by him, shall all be wrought,With every deed with which the vase is rife,Within the first five lustres of his life;Now thou hast all foreseen, go forth—the UrnTo its accustomed place I must return.""Yet first," Severo said, "to me unfoldWhat that may be which blinds me to behold,Which glitters on the shaded crystal brightAs a red comet in the noon of night?""More knowledge, friend, than Heav'n metes out to man,"Said he, "can ne'er be conquered by his scan;If I not clearly picture that which drawsThy notice thus, thou art thyself the cause;For whilst a veil of flesh your spirit shrouds,A thousand things are circumfused with clouds,Which mock the curious eyes that would inquireInto their secrets; with inferior fireI could not work them: know then (to thy earI well may trust it) that what glitters hereWith an excess so radiant, hue so warm,That the dazed vision fails to fix its form,Is what Fernando's hand and soul sublimeShall gloriously perform in after-time;Deeds which, compared with what he yet has done,Are as a sparkling star or summer sunTo an obscure low vapour; thy weak viewIs not sufficient for such warmth of hue,Till grown accustomed to the gaze; to himWho long has languished in a dungeon dim,Sunshine is agony—so thou, who cagedIn depths of gross obstruction wert engagedIn contemplating one that might appear,The differing native of a lovelier sphere,Must not much wonder that thy shrinking sightWas dazzled by such luxury of light.But see, within my waves the sun's bright eyeCloses—is closed—ere thou canst make reply!"Thus saying—with a pleasant parting look,The Senior by the hand Severo shook.Oh wonderful! the waves where the sun sankWere on each side restricted in a rank,And, deep albeit before, did now discloseThe bed between them, and as high they rose,Deepening the part near which the prophet stood,He gave a spring, and leaped into the flood;White flew the foam to heaven, and loud to landRoared the stirred waters mixed with golden sand.In a new science versed, Severo greyWas for collecting without vain delayIts fruits for future hope, and unbesoughtWrote down the' events exact as Tormes taught;And though he well might judge my mind would failTo apprehend aright the' impressive tale,Yet not for this did he refuse to' unrolFor my survey the strange prophetic scroll;Insatiably I read, yet thou, sweet friend,Art wondering when the tale will have an end.SALICIO.No! ravishment is mineAt this strange tale divine,So well set forth by thy enchanting tongue;Within my breast I felt,Long as thine accents dweltOn the rare virtues of a prince so young,My throbbing heart beat higher,And glow with the desireTo contemplate him present—the foretoldOf Fame, whose visnomy,Though absent from mine eye,By thy divine account I now behold:Who but must wish to see the storied scrolls,Since o'er the lively urn the silent billow rolls!After what thou hast told,Religiously I holdThe opinion that Severo's powers can shedLight on the clouded brain,Albanio's frenzy chain,Health to the sick, and almost to the deadGive being; it is justWe put our perfect trustIn him to whom such secrets were revealed,As one whose skilful handDisorders can withstand,Bid ev'n disease itself fresh vigour yield,And by his subtle wisdom quickly raiseTo bloom whatever droops, or sickens, or decays.NEMOROSO.To this result since thine opinions tend,Salicio, what with our distracted friend?SALICIO.Act a friend's part; take presently our courseFrom hence, and ere his frenzy gathers forceOr from indulgence or delay, presentOur patient to Severe:NEMOROSO.I consent.We on the morrow, ere the clear warm rayOf the arising sun is seen to playUpon the purple hills, will go; and sureI feel, his skill will work an easy cure.SALICIO.Fold now the flock, for from the mountain's headCool airs descend, and longer shadows spread.Look round, and see how from the farms wheretoThose labourers trudge, the calm smoke, rising blue,Curls in a column to the rosy sky!Seek with our flocks the usual vale, whilst IAttend the youth—since he has lain so longIn quiet swoon, his fit cannot be strong.NEMOROSO.If thou should'st first reach home, go not to bed,But speed the supper, and see Lyca spreadThe cloth—'tis much if yet her fire's alight:SALICIO.I will; I will; unless in my despiteAlbanio hurl me down some breakneck dell:Farewell, dear friend!NEMOROSO.Salicio, friend, farewell!

NEMOROSO. SALICIO.

NEMOROSO.

Hark then awhile, and I will tell of thingsStrange and amazing: Spirits of these springs,Nymphs, I invoke you! Silvans, Satyrs, Fauns,That haunt the glens, the greenwoods, and the lawns!Sweet from my lips let each clear accent part,All point or grace, all harmony or art,Since neither pastoral pipe, Arcadian quill,Nor syrinx sounds in concord with my will.To such rare heights Severo's powers aspire,His chanted verse and smooth harmonious lyreCan stay fleet whirlwinds in their mid career,His golden words and messages to hear,And make them from austere, rebellious lords,Obsequious slaves to dance around his chordsIn voluntary song; old Tormes knowsHis incantation, and, commanded, showsThe Senior all his secrets: once he ledThe mighty master to his fountain-head,And showed him where mid river-flowers and fernHe lies, incumbent o'er a crystal urn;On this he saw a thousand things embossed,Foreseen, and sculptured with surprising cost;With so divine a wit the sage has wroughtThis vase, each object seems instinct with thought.On every side the figured bas-reliefsDepict the deeds and virtues of the chiefs,Who by illustrious titles dignified,And ruled the tract through which his waters glide.There the brave youth,Don Garcia, stood confessedBy his disdainful mien, dilated chest;He 'gainst a wise and potent king that heldHis sire in bondage, gallantly rebelled,[7]Each bold retainer summoning, to aidHis pious aims; with him the God pourtrayedHis son, who showed, whilst earth enjoyed his light,At court a Phœbus, and a Mars in fight:Young though he seemed, he promised in his lookSupreme success in all he undertook;Ev'n in his youth, upon the Moors he dealtSevere rebukes, and made his puissance felt;And as the chieftain of the Christian band,Confirmed his heart and exercised his hand.Elsewhere, with more assured renown, and nowWith more of manhood on his martial brow,He harassed the fierce Franks: sublime he stoodTo sight, his armours red with hostile blood.Long in the straitened siege had he sustainedThe woes of want; no measure now remained,But through the breaches of the rending wallIn furious sally on the foe to fall.What numbers died that day beneath his spear!What other numbers fled like hunted deer!No pictured tale, no sculptured argument,No poet's flame could fitly representHow fierceFadriquesmote them as they fled,The chaser's rage, and the pursued one's dread.Near him is seen in bold relief his son,Don Garcia, equalled upon earth by none,Unless by his Fernando! who could viewThe ardent light of his dear beauty, whoThe expression of his frank fair countenance,Nor own his grandeur in that single glance?Alas! in cruelty the Furies hurledWar's fires abroad, and snatched him from the world,The world so happy in his light! sad Spain,Thy weeping eyes how oft didst thou in vainRoll toward Gelves! Acting his sad part,The youth is sculptured with such lively art,That should you see it, you would say each strokeWas fraught with life, and that the crystal spoke.The broad sands burned, the sun of bloody red,His soldiers round him fell down faint or dead;With earnest vigilance he only cursedThat dull delay, and reckless as at first,Praised glorious death; when suddenly the soundOf Illa Allah shook the skies, the groundRang with strong trampling, and a dusty hostOf fierce barbarians the young chief enclosed;But he, nought daunted, cast to them his gage,In generous frenzy of audacious rage,And bore up bravely, making many payThe price of their temerity; these layIn deep disorder, some whose vital threadsHe had already slit, with cloven heads,Wallowing in blood; some silent dying; someYet breathing free, not wholly overcome,Showed palpitating bowels, strangely goredBy the deep gashes given by his sharp sword.But Fate was in the conflict, and at last,Deaf with the din, his spirits failing fast,Pierced through with thousand swords, and craving graceFor all his sins, he laid his pallid faceOn the burnt soil, and sighed away, forlorn,His soul of beauty like the rose of morn,That smit by the hot season, sickening grieves,Hangs its gay head, and pales its crimson leaves;Or as a lily which the passing shareLeaves cruelly cut down, whereby its fairTransparent hue, though not all perished, nowThat its maternal earth neglects to throwJuice through its veins, fades soon as noontide tellsHer wonted rosary on its dewy bells;So on the mimic sands, in miniature,Shows thy fair face, fresh rose, white lily pure!Next a strange sculpture draws and so detainsThe' observer's notice, that he entertainsNo curiosity aught else to view,How wild soe'er, or beautiful, or new.The three sweet Graces there are seen pourtrayedWith Phidian skill, transparently arrayed;One only garment of celestial whiteVeils their soft limbs, but shuts not out the sight.Drawn are they cheering, strengthening for the throe,A noble lady in her hour of woe.Soon the dear infant is seen born; ne'er smiledThe ripening moon upon a lovelier child;Upon his little cradle, overspreadWith flowers, the name ofDon Fernando'sread.From sweetly singing on the shady crownOf Pindus, the Nine Lights of life come down;And with them Phœbus, rosy and unshorn,Goes, like the moon amidst the stars of morn,With graceful step; arriving, they confessHis charms, and long and tenderly caress.Elsewhere winged Mercury is drawn beholdingMars, the plumed warrior, cautiously enfoldingThe new-born infant in his rude embrace,Soon giving courteous and respectful placeTo Venus, smiling at his side; in turnShe kissed his cheek, and from a golden urnSprinkled Elysian nectar o'er the boyWith lavish hand, and fond familiar joy:But Phœbus from her arms the child displaced,And gave the office to his sisters chaste.They were delighted with the sweet employ;Time waves his wings, the babe becomes a boy,Rising and flourishing in youthful grace,Like a tall poplar in a shady place.Talents he showed untaught, and undisguisedGave now such proofs of genius, as surprisedThe associate nymphs, and they the boy consignedTo one of blameless life and cultured mind,Who to the world might make more manifestThe rich endowments which the child possessed;An ancient man, whose face, ungiven to guile,Expressed severeness sweetening to a smile,Received the youth; Severo, when his gazeFell on this form, stood spell-bound with amaze;For as within a looking-glass he viewedHimself depicted, air, age, attitude,All were conformable, just so he trod,So looked, so greeted; turning to the god,He saw him smiling at his frank surprise;"And why this so great wonder?" Tormes cries;"Seem I so ignorant as not to' have known,Ere to thy yearning mother thou wert shown,That thou wouldst be, when future suns should shine,The wise Director of his soul divine?"The Ancient, with deep joy of wonder bred,His eager eyes upon the picture fed.Next, as his looks along the sculptures glanced,A youth with Phœbus hand in hand advanced;Courteous his air, from his ingenuous face,Informed with wisdom, modesty, and grace,And every mild affection, at a scanThe passer-by would mark him for a man,Perfect in all gentilities of mind,That sweeten life and harmonize mankind.The form which lively thus the sculptor drew,Assur'd Severo in an instant knew,For him who had by careful culture shownFernando's spirit lovely as his own;Had given him grace, sincerity, and ease,The pure politeness that aspires to please,The candid virtues that disdain pretence,And martial manliness, and sprightly sense,With all the generous courtesies enshrinedIn the fair temple of Fernando's mind.When well surveyed, his name Severo read,"Boscán!!" whose genius o'er the world is spread:In whose illumined aspect shines the fireThat, streamed from Delphos, lights him to the lyre,And warms those songs which with mankind shall stay,Whilst endless ages roll unfelt away!More ripeness marked the youth, as to his rulesListening, he culled the learning of the schools;These left at length, he in gymnastic games,War's mimic symbols, strives with youths, whose namesHad never else been known to after yearsIn the wide world; the tilt of canes and spears,Wrestling, the course, the circus, toil and dust,Gave his arm skill, and made his limbs robust.Next, amorous Venus shows her rosy face,Seizing his hand, she leads him for a spaceFrom the severe gymnasium, and asidePoints out his fault with all a lecturer's pride;Tells him how ill he acts; that some few hoursThe roughest soldier wreathes his sword with flowers,And that in endless turmoil so to wasteThe May of life was treason to good taste.Entering a myrtle bower, she shows him, laidMidst leaves and violets blue, a slumbering maid:Flushed was her cheek, and as she slept she smiled,As some delightful dream her brain beguiled:He saw, the crimsoning cheek his passion spoke;The bowers they rustled, and the nymph awoke.Smit with her beauty, he desired to wedThe enchanting shape—the Goddess shook her head—As if she feared the parties to unite;He gazed—he gazed, insatiate with the sight!From her dear side he could not, could not move,Wept on her neck, and vowed eternal love.Next, angry Mars, imperious to behold,Advancing, gave the youth a crown of gold:Threatening the illustrious youth, a knight was seen,Of a fierce spirit and insulting mien.[8]In cautious wise beneath the setting moonThey timed their steps, and met on a pontoon;Well had the sculptor shadowed out the fight,His clouding crystal spoke the noon of night.Mars was their umpire; he condemned the foe,And placed his crown upon the conqueror's brow;Graced with the gold, the hero shone from far,As in blue heaven the beautiful bright starThat ushers in Aurora: thence his nameSpreads to all parts, and gathers greater fame.Soon other happier arts he meditatesTo steal from death, elusive of the Fates,Much of himself, and live admired, unfled,When the blind vulgar might lament him dead.Hymen came moving to the crotal's clash,His right foot sandalled with a golden sash;A choir of virgins sing; on dancing feetThey part alternate, and alternate meet;Then softly lay upon the bridal couchA blushing girl, whom Venus did avouchTo be the same that, bowered in myrtles deep,Erst smiled so sweetly in her dreaming sleep—A dream as sweetly realized! she showedWorthy the youth on whom she was bestowed;Her pillow bore the words, impaled in flame,Donna Maria Enríquez, her name;Anxious to be admitted, scarce the choirOf nymphs could check Fernando's forward fire:At length he was received, and left besideHis virtuous, pure, and beautiful young bride.Elsewhere, on one foot standing, never stable,Capricious Fortune did the sculptor fable,Calling to Don Fernando that he ledA life of idleness, and now must treadA toilsome path, but she would be his guide,And venture first: he with her wish complied,Made her his boon companion, and pursuedHer who, unveiled, as beautiful is wooed,But, veiled from sight, deemed fearful, nothing worth,Virtue her name, the rarity of earth!Whom does she guide along with equal pace,But him whom thus her beauty leads to faceEach fresh fatigue, for glory to aspire,And scorn the chains of delicate desire.The mighty Pyrenees, which seem to shootTo heaven their summit as to hell their root,They traversed in mid-winter; white the snowColours the clime, and mute the torrents flowUnder cold crystal bridges that confineTheir tides, smooth sliding through the frozen mine;Whilst, if a blast but stirs the pines, they bend,And with the weight of ices crashing rend.Through all they strive, nor will be held at bayOr by the length or wildness of the way.By constant toil the hero makes advance,Till the gained summit shifts the scene to France;His swiftness Fame renewed—his spirits cheered,On flying wings beside him she appeared,And signified, in act and attitude,That the hill-tracks would soon become less rude.Of various guides the Duke selected one,And on they rode beneath the mounting sun;Faint wax their horses, but they reached at lastThe walls of Paris, and its portals passed.There the gaunt form of Sickness stands to sight,The healthy duke assisting to alight;Touched by her hand, his colour seems to fade,He droops, he faints, and sickens to a shade.Soon, crossing from a shady thicket green,The form of Esculapius might be seenWith balms and herbs, nor did he slack his treadTill he arrived beside Fernando's bed:With his right foot he entered, and at lengthRestored the patient to his usual strength.His way he took where white-wall'd convents shine,And reached the passage of the lucid Rhine.The rich romantic river on its breastReceived him, glorying in so great a guest,And called to mind the hour when to the sameEmbarking point the Latin Cæsar came.He seemed not scanty of his waves, but swelledFloods like a sea, and the light bark impelled,Which flying left behind green viny bowers,High castled crags, and old romantic towers.Blythely his impulse the swift bark obeyed,And passed the spot where erst a ravished maid,And thousand virgins with her, stained the sodWith blood, recorded in the book of God.The espoused pure virgin, Ursula, was seenCasting her dying eyes to heaven serene,The tyrant looking on, who, at a word,From breast to beauteous breast the sword transferred.Thence through wide Germany he shaped his wayTo where in doubt the Christian army lay,Till to his sight the rapid Danube gaveHis affluent floods; he launched upon the wave.From the spurned shore the refluent currents strongWinged through cleft crags his bounding boat along,Whilst the strained oars with forcible descentRaised showers of silver wheresoe'er it went:On—on like lightning was it seen to fly,Its very motion sculptured to the eye.The heroic duke, a little farther on,Was pictured disembarked at Ratisbon,Where for the Imperial crown on every handWar had convoked the magnates of the land.Amidst his peers and princes Charles was placed,Our Spanish Cæsar, and the duke embraced,Charmed with his coming; all in pleased surpriseFixed on Fernando their saluting eyes,And the same instant they perceived him, grewSure of the victory when the trumpet blew.With much vain-glory, haughtiness of mien,And barbarous boasting, the Grand Turk was seen,Armed, and in rich costume; pitched far and wideNear weeping Hungary was his camp descried.So strange a multitude o'erspread the plain,That scarce the region could the host contain,—A host so vast, the country, you would think,Would fail for pasture, and the stream for drink.Cæsar, with pious zeal and valiant soul,These hosts despised, and bade his flags unrol;His tribes convoked, and shortly you might seeAn army form—bold, resolute, and free;See various nations in one camp combined,Various in speech, but influenced by one mind.They swarmed not o'er the land in such paradeOf numbers as the Moslem, but displayedThat which these failed to show—a brave freewill,Faith, courage, firmness, discipline, and skill.Them with a generous zeal, by apt applause,Fernando heartens in the common cause,That numbers of them in his views took part,Won to his flag with admirable art.The fierce yet docile German he addressedIn his own style, and so to all the restConformed in custom, humour, mood, and tongue,Grave with the age'd and sprightly with the young,That the phlegmatic Fleming would have said,In Lisle or Antwerp he was born and bred,In Spain the excelling Spaniard; the astuteItalian marks him, with amazement mute,His nation's ease so well he seems to hit,Her past proud valour, and her modern wit.He seems in him to see arise againRome's last, sole hope, the youth who passed to Spain,And closed her long, long warfare in the fallOf rival Carthage and grim Hannibal,Whose crimson sword, to Nemesis devote,So oft was pointed at her naked throat.Next sickening Envy on the crystal stood,Severely sculptured, adverse to his good,Gathering against Fernando, face to face,The unfavoured faction, loud for his disgrace.With them she armed, but in all points, with pain,Found her arts baffled and her influence wane.He with mild tongue and with extended handsThe tumult hushed of the censorious bands,And by degrees soared with so high a flight,The eyes of Envy could not reach his height,So that successless, blinded by the blazeOf his clear virtue, she her passion sways,And forces her proud self, in suppliant weed,On earth to kneel, and for forgiveness plead.The monster's spoils he carelessly received,And, from these rude anxieties relieved,Walked in the cool serene of eve besideThe lonely stream, and near its tossing tideEncountered Cæsar, full of doubt and careFor the success of the approaching war;Since, though he banished sadness, still the thoughtOf the vast stake he ventured, with it broughtWish for wise counsel; this the duke bestowed;They there agreed on a convenient modeTo' obstruct the plans of Solyman, destroyHis high-raised hopes, and blast his promised joy.Their counsels ended, weary they reposeOn the green turf, and as their eyelids close,Hear the dim Danube's voice, so it might seem,Murmur approval of their golden scheme.Then to the pausing eye the chisel gaveThe clear stream's Genius issuing from the wave,Aged, on tiptoe moving mute, with reedsAnd willows crowned, and robed in sea-green weeds;He in that sleep uncertain showed them clearAll that concerned their ends; it would appearThat this sweet idlesse crossed their good, for swift(As though some precious gem or cherished giftWas burning in the flames) they start, they rise,With terror touched and a divine surprise;Divine surprise, that ceasing leaves behindHope to the heart, and gladness to the mind.The stream without delay appeared to urgeThe chiefs aboard, and smoothed its eddying surge,That the Armada which it had to guideO'er its broad waters might more gently glide.What favour to the fleets its Genius bore,Was seen in the calm wave and feathering oar.With admirable speed you next might markA well-ranged army instantly embark;The sturdy movement of dipt oars, combinedWith little hindrance from the wave or wind,Swift through the deep sonorous waters worksThat fleet, obnoxious to the tyrant Turks.No human artist could, though born to' excel,Have framed a picture which expressed so wellThe fleet, the host, the speed, the waves' rich fret;Scarce in the forge at which the Cyclops sweat,And, tired, change arms at every hammering blow,Could their grand Master have expressed it so.Through the clear current who had seen them bear,Would on that missal have been apt to swearThat the sharp prows provoked the blue profound,And clove the billows with a silver sound;Grey foam before, bright bubbles danced behind;Anon the banners, trembling in the wind,Mimicked the moving waters; on the coastLike living things appeared the adverse host,Shy and incredulous, which, filled of lateWith barbarous scorn and haughtiness sedate,Thought not to meet with men that would preventTheir march; ours, piqued by such injustice, wentMeasuring their way so furiously and wroth,That the whole stream fermented into froth.The other host, affrighted at the view,From tent to tent in wild distraction flew,Eager to gather from the public breathThe' unknown intelligence of life or death;Like a vast stream by wintry breezes crost,Through bones and marrow ran an icy frost,Till, the whole camp in uproar, each one placedHis hopes of safety in immediate haste.The camp is raised in tumult; on their wayThey march, they speed in shameful disarray;Leaving behind in terror, unconcealed,Their gold and jewels strewed o'er all the field.The tents wherein sloth, murder, revelling,And rape, found place with each unholy thing,They part without; armed steeds run masterless;On their scared lords the scared dependants press;Whilst the fierce Spaniard, hovering round their rear,Strains the red sword, and shakes the lifted spear.Cæsar is seen attempting to restrainFernando, ardent above all to stainHis sword in unbelieving blood; with boldAnd eager action, not to be controlled,He struggles with the king; as the fierce houndOf generous Erin, on the spring to boundAfter the bristly boar, restricted, whines,And quarrels with the leash that scarce confinesHis passionate desire and fleet-foot flight,Which makes his master draw the string more tight—So, imaged to the life, contending standThe fixt to fly, the settled to withstand;So Cæsar curbs, just so Fernando grieves,As whoso views them at a glance perceives.Next on the clear pictorial urn is feignedVictory, contented with the laurels gained;Cæsar embraced—unthinking, without check,She throws her arm around Fernando's neck;He turns away with spleen but ill concealed,And mourns the easy triumphs of the field.A foreign car does next the crystal grace,Filled with the spoils of the barbaric race,And in accompaniment the sculptured sealsOf conquest, captives fettered to the wheels,—Mantles, and purple silks of various realms,Brast lances, crescents, gonfalons, and helms,Light vant-braces, cleft shields, turbans emblazedWith gems, and swords, into a trophy raised,Shine forth, round which, as with one heart and voice,Cities and nations gather and rejoice.The Tyrrhene next was whitening with the sailsOf the vast ships blown home by willing gales;Glorious, renowned, with foamy prows they sweep,And like majestic fishes swim the deep.Till greenly crowned with laurel, they at lastIn Barcelona Bay glad anchor cast.Thence, promised vows fulfilled, with offered prayersAnd consecrated spoils, the duke preparesTo hurry instant, glowing with the fireOf amorous hope and long-chastised desire.He passes Catalonia, leaves behindThe towns of Arragon, and swift as wind,Without alighting, ever with his heelStriking his courser, treads in sweet Castile.To home's near joys—his lady's wished embrace,He yields his heart—he reserenes his face,And from his eyes and from his thought drives farDeath, dangers, doubts, vexations, wounds, and war.Then, held alone by ecstasy in thrall,The crystal shows him in his happy hall.On tiptoe meeting him, with many a kiss,His wife, half dubious of so great a bliss,Flings round his neck with all the wife's delightHer well-shaped arms, so delicately white,And smiling strains him to her heart, whilst riseUnconscious tears to her rejoicing eyes;Those lucid eyes that the clear sun outshine,—Glittering they gush, and make them yet more fine.With her beloved Fernando, earth again,The field, the stream, the mountain, and the plain,Were deeply,—in her view, divinely blessed,And under various modes their bliss expressed;More lofty rise the walls; the breathing bowersOf lovelier colours pour forth sweeter flowers;Tormes himself is pictured in the tale,With all his Naiads, pouring through the valeIn greater affluence his abundant streams;With stags the face of the green mountain teems,Roebucks and fallow deer, that sportive browzeThe savoury herb, or crop the leafy boughs;More verdant spreads the plain, extending evenTill her charmed eye beholds it blend with heaven;And heaven is hers, deep joy, and deeper peace,A joy whose sense exaggerates all it sees,Full of his presence of whose praise earth sings,And glorying Valour tells immortal things.This saw Severo palpably and clear,They were no dreams, no fictions; should'st thou hearHis tale, thou would'st religiously believeThe truth of it, as though thou didst perceiveThyself the sculptures; as the urn he eyed,He vows he in the forms such force descried—That had even life been given to what were wrought,They could not look more animate with thought.What to the mind or eye obscure remained,The courteous River lucidly explained."He, the young chieftain of that army," saidThe God, "from pole to pole his rule shall spread;And that his glorious deeds, when by thy lyreDivinely hymned, mankind may more admire,Know that these many acts, these perils sought,And victories won by him, shall all be wrought,With every deed with which the vase is rife,Within the first five lustres of his life;Now thou hast all foreseen, go forth—the UrnTo its accustomed place I must return.""Yet first," Severo said, "to me unfoldWhat that may be which blinds me to behold,Which glitters on the shaded crystal brightAs a red comet in the noon of night?""More knowledge, friend, than Heav'n metes out to man,"Said he, "can ne'er be conquered by his scan;If I not clearly picture that which drawsThy notice thus, thou art thyself the cause;For whilst a veil of flesh your spirit shrouds,A thousand things are circumfused with clouds,Which mock the curious eyes that would inquireInto their secrets; with inferior fireI could not work them: know then (to thy earI well may trust it) that what glitters hereWith an excess so radiant, hue so warm,That the dazed vision fails to fix its form,Is what Fernando's hand and soul sublimeShall gloriously perform in after-time;Deeds which, compared with what he yet has done,Are as a sparkling star or summer sunTo an obscure low vapour; thy weak viewIs not sufficient for such warmth of hue,Till grown accustomed to the gaze; to himWho long has languished in a dungeon dim,Sunshine is agony—so thou, who cagedIn depths of gross obstruction wert engagedIn contemplating one that might appear,The differing native of a lovelier sphere,Must not much wonder that thy shrinking sightWas dazzled by such luxury of light.But see, within my waves the sun's bright eyeCloses—is closed—ere thou canst make reply!"Thus saying—with a pleasant parting look,The Senior by the hand Severo shook.Oh wonderful! the waves where the sun sankWere on each side restricted in a rank,And, deep albeit before, did now discloseThe bed between them, and as high they rose,Deepening the part near which the prophet stood,He gave a spring, and leaped into the flood;White flew the foam to heaven, and loud to landRoared the stirred waters mixed with golden sand.In a new science versed, Severo greyWas for collecting without vain delayIts fruits for future hope, and unbesoughtWrote down the' events exact as Tormes taught;And though he well might judge my mind would failTo apprehend aright the' impressive tale,Yet not for this did he refuse to' unrolFor my survey the strange prophetic scroll;Insatiably I read, yet thou, sweet friend,Art wondering when the tale will have an end.

SALICIO.

No! ravishment is mineAt this strange tale divine,So well set forth by thy enchanting tongue;Within my breast I felt,Long as thine accents dweltOn the rare virtues of a prince so young,My throbbing heart beat higher,And glow with the desireTo contemplate him present—the foretoldOf Fame, whose visnomy,Though absent from mine eye,By thy divine account I now behold:Who but must wish to see the storied scrolls,Since o'er the lively urn the silent billow rolls!After what thou hast told,Religiously I holdThe opinion that Severo's powers can shedLight on the clouded brain,Albanio's frenzy chain,Health to the sick, and almost to the deadGive being; it is justWe put our perfect trustIn him to whom such secrets were revealed,As one whose skilful handDisorders can withstand,Bid ev'n disease itself fresh vigour yield,And by his subtle wisdom quickly raiseTo bloom whatever droops, or sickens, or decays.

NEMOROSO.

To this result since thine opinions tend,Salicio, what with our distracted friend?

SALICIO.

Act a friend's part; take presently our courseFrom hence, and ere his frenzy gathers forceOr from indulgence or delay, presentOur patient to Severe:

NEMOROSO.

I consent.We on the morrow, ere the clear warm rayOf the arising sun is seen to playUpon the purple hills, will go; and sureI feel, his skill will work an easy cure.

SALICIO.

Fold now the flock, for from the mountain's headCool airs descend, and longer shadows spread.Look round, and see how from the farms wheretoThose labourers trudge, the calm smoke, rising blue,Curls in a column to the rosy sky!Seek with our flocks the usual vale, whilst IAttend the youth—since he has lain so longIn quiet swoon, his fit cannot be strong.

NEMOROSO.

If thou should'st first reach home, go not to bed,But speed the supper, and see Lyca spreadThe cloth—'tis much if yet her fire's alight:

SALICIO.

I will; I will; unless in my despiteAlbanio hurl me down some breakneck dell:Farewell, dear friend!

NEMOROSO.

Salicio, friend, farewell!

Back to Index Next