I.

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When I sit down to contemplate my case,And to review the stages of the way,I find from where my steps went first astray,They might have lost me in a darker maze:But when these memories pass, around I gaze,And wonder whence could come a doom so dark;I know I die, and suffer more to markMy care conclude with my concluding race.Yes, die I will, and so my spirit freeFrom her who well will know to' undo and slay meIf so she wishes,—such her wish will be,For since my own will does to death betray me,Hers, which is less my friend, must compass tooMy death—if not, what is it she will do?

At length into thy hands I come—to die;For sure I am that ev'n the poor reliefOf lightening with laments my weight of grief,Is a desire thy rigour will deny.How my life has so long been borne, or whySo guardedly sustained, I cannot tell,Unless for proof how willingly and wellThe sword will act that cuts so firm a tie.My tears have fallen where barrenness and droughtSmall fruit have yielded, let what I have weptFor thee suffice—their wasted springs have keptPace with my pining; but if still you craveTears, cruel Lady, be they henceforth soughtWhere the yew weeps o'er Garcilasso's grave!

Awhile my hopes will tower aloft in airOn cheerful wings, till, weary with their flight,They fall relaxed from their Icarian height,And leave me on the surges of despair.This change from bliss to ruin who could bear?Oh wearied heart! in this thy dark estateOf wretchedness be vigorous and elate,—Calms follow storms, and frowning ends in fair.By force of arm myself will undertake,Though fraught with danger and alarming ill,To break a barrier none beside would break;Death—durance—nought shall countervail my will,To come to thee, my Beauty, saved or lost,Or as a living form, or naked ghost!

Lady, thy face is written in my soul,And whensoe'er I wish to chant thy praise,On that illumined manuscript I gaze,Thou the sweet scribe art, I but read the scroll.In this dear study all my days shall roll;And though this book can ne'er the half receiveOf what in thee is charming, I believeIn that I see not, and thus see the wholeWith faith's clear eye; I but received my breathTo love thee, my ill Genius shaped the rest;'Tis now that soul's mechanic act to love thee,I love thee, owe thee more than I confessed;I gained life by thee, cruel though I prove thee;In thee I live, through thee I bleed to death.

By rugged ways I reach towards a bournWhich awes me not, and if I strive to slackMy usual pace, or for a change draw back,There am I dragged with cruel unconcern;But still, with death at hand, for life I yearn,And seek fresh means my footsteps to reverse;I know the better, I approve the worse,Either from evil custom, or the sternFatality of woe. Yet, my brief time—The wandering process of my wayward yearsAlike in manhood as in early prime,—My will (with which I war not now) in fact,Sure Death, whose peaceful slumber dries all tears,Make me not care the harm to counteract.

He who has lost so much, stern Deity,Can lose no more! oh Love, let what has pastSuffice thee—let it profit me at lastNe'er to have shrunk from thy supreme decree.On the white walls of thy pure sanctuaryMy pictured tablets and dank robes I hung,Ev'n as a shipwrecked solitary, flungSafely ashore from thy tempestuous sea.Then vowed I never more to trust the bliss,At my command and option, to the guileOf such another syren, but from thisHow shall vows save me? in the risk I runI break no vow, for neither is her smileLike others' smiles, nor in my power to shun.

From that illumined face, pure, mild, and sweet,A living spirit in keen lightning flies;And by perception of my eager eyes,I feel it stays not till their orbs repeatIts ardour; blandly on the track they meet,Which my charmed spirit, winged with warmth, pursues,Undone, and clamouring for the good it views:When absent, Memory in her holy heatPaints its passed beauty, till my soul will glow,Thinking it real, and divinely stirred,On tiptoe fly to its embrace, but meetingNought but repulse from its angelic foe,Whose aspect guards the gate, it dies with beatingIts heart against it, like a captive bird.

If I live on, dear Lady, in the voidCaused by your absences, I seem to' offendHim who adores you, and to discommendThe bliss that in your presence I enjoyed.Soon by another thought am I annoyed—If I of life despair, I forfeit tooThe good I hope for in beholding you;By ills so varying is my peace destroyed.My feelings in this variance all take partSo fiercely, that I know not what decreedMe to such grievances—I never lookOn their dissensions without swift rebuke,But night and day they war with nicest art.And in my ruin are alone agreed.

Oh lovely gifts, by me too fatal found!Lovely and dear indeed whilst Heaven was kind;In mine immortal memory ye are joined,And sworn with her to give my dying wound;Who would have said, sweet seasons past, when crownedWith the ecstatic hope your emblems lent,That one day you would have to representDespair so dark, affliction so profound?Since in an hour ye made unpitying theftOf those Elysian dreams, do not denyTo take as well the sorrow you have left;Else, can I but suspect ye raised so highMy youthful joys, to wish that I should dieMidst mournful memories of the bliss bereft!

In order to restrain this mad desire,Impossible and rash, and thus to missThe fall from danger's crag, ah, if for thisMy proud thoughts, blind with what they most admire,Still fail to see what safety would require,Me as I am, too timid or too bold,In such confusion that I dare not holdThe reins of that which sets my soul on fire;What can it serve to see the pictured taleOf him who, falling with scorched wings, gave nameAnd celebration to the Icarian seas;Or that where (poplars now) seven maids bewailTheir Phaëton's past frenzy, and the flameWhose rage the' Italian waves could scarce appease?

Strange icy throes the arms of Daphne bind,Which shoot, and spread, and lengthen into boughs;And into green leaves metamorphosed showsThe head whose locks, wooed by the summer wind,Made the fine gold seem dim; the rigorous rindClothes the soft members that still pant; her feet,Snowy as swift, in earth fast rooted meet,By thousand tortuous fibres intertwined.The author of an injury so great,With virtue of his tears this laurel fed,Which flourished thus, perpetual greenness keeping;Oh fatal growth! oh miserable estate!That from his weeping each fresh day should spreadThe very cause and reason of his weeping.

As a fond mother, whose sick infant liesWeeping, importunate for what she knowsIf giv'n will double all his pangs and woes,In tenderest mercy his desire denies;Till, moved to pity by his streaming eyes,She can withstand no longer, but in hasteSubmits the flavourous mischief to his taste,And seals his ruin, though she stills his cries;So to my sick and frenzied thoughts that yearnAnd plead to me for thee, I would denyThe fatal fruit with merciful concern;But night and day they murmur, weep, and pine,Till I, alas, consent to soothe their cry,Forgetful of their death, and ev'n of mine!

If lamentations and complaints could reinThe course of rivers as they rolled along,And move on desert hills, attired in song,The savage forests, if they could constrainFierce tigers and chill rocks to entertainThe sound, and with less urgency than mine,Lead tyrant Pluto and stern Proserpine,Sad and subdued with magic of their strain;Why will not my vexatious being, spentIn misery and in tears, to softness sootheA bosom steeled against me? with more ruthAn ear of rapt attention should be lentThe voice of him that mourns himself for lost,Than that which sorrowed for a forfeit ghost!

Who died of the Pestilence at Naples, in the twentieth year of his age, serving in the army of the Emperor against the French.

Neither the odious weapons of the Gaul,In anger brandished at my breast, nor sleetOf poisonous arrows, than the winds more fleet,Shot by the warders of the mounted wall,Nor skirmish, nor the roaring thunderball—The dreadful counterpart of those above,Forged by Vulcanian artifice, when JoveIn wrath would the rebellious world appal—Could for a single moment haste my death,Though much I braved the risks of cruel war;But 'twas the fatal air bereaved my breath,In one short day, and to thine urnless hand,Parthenope, consigned my ashes—far,Alas! so far from my dear native land!

Fate! in my griefs sole agent, how have IFelt thy harsh rule! my vine, with hurtful hand,Thou hast cut down, and scattered on the sandBoth flower and fruit; in little compass lieMy loves—the joys of summers far-flown by—And every happier expectation turnedTo scornful ashes, which, though scarce inurned,Hear not the wrath and clamour of my cry.The tears which thou to-day hast seen me showerOn this lone sepulchre, receive, receive!Though there they may be fruitless, till the hourWhen the brown shadows of an endless eveShall shroud these eyes, which saw on earth thy power,Leaving me others which thou canst not grieve.

Thinking the path I journeyed led me right,I have fallen on such mishap, that not the pleasOf fancy, nor the wildest imagesCan for an instant minister delight.The green field seems a desert,—starry nightObscure—the sprightliest conversation dead—Sweet music harsh, and my most favourite bedOf odorous violets, the hard field of fight.Of sleep—(if sleep I have) that part aloneVisits my weary soul, which surely isThe frightful synonym of death, and last,I deem, whate'er may be my spirit's tone,—Ere half run out its sands of weariness,Each passing hour still heavier than the past.

If I am wax to thy sweet will, and henceSun myself only in thy sight, (and heWho views thy radiance uninflamed, must beVoid of all feeling) whence, Señora, whenceRises a circumstance, whose strange offenceAgainst the laws of reason, had it beenLess seldom proved on me—less seldom seen,Had led me to mistrust my very sense—Whence comes it, that far-off I am inflamedAnd kindled by thy aspect, even untilMy melting heart its fervour scarce sustains,Whilst if encountered near by thine untamed,Untameably bright eye, an instant chillMakes the blood curdle in my crimson veins?

Julio! when weeping I have left the friendThat never leaves my thought, the better partOf my cleft soul, that like another heartDid life and strength to my existence lend,After my sum of bliss I seem to sendAn eye of strict inquiry, and so fastFind it consuming, that I fear at lastPeace must depart, and ev'n existence end.And in this fear my tongue strives to converseWith thee, dear friend, of that remembered day,When I began, sad wanderer to thy shrineOf beauty, from my own far, far away,News of thy soul to send in plaintive verse,And learn from thee intelligence of mine.

So strongly are the cruel winds combinedMy ruin to concert, that they disperseMy tender fancies soon as framed, and worse,Leave all my keen anxieties behind,That like tenacious ivies darkly twinedRound some old ruin, fix their vigorous rootDeep in my heart, and their wild branches shootO'er all the fond affections of my mind.Yet on the other hand I murmur not,Now that the winds in their tempestuous strifeHave stolen my bliss, that thus my sorrows stay;I rather gather comfort from the thought;For in the process of so hard a life,They lessen the long toil and weary way.

Illustrious Marquis, on whom Heaven showers downAll the bliss this world knows! if to the lightOf thy resplendent valour—to the heightWhereto the voice of thy sublime renownCalls me, I climb, as to the flaming crownOf some stupendous mountain, thou shalt beEternal, peerless, sole, and I through theeScornful of winged Time's destructive frown.All that we wish from heaven, and gain on earth,Are in thy high perfections met; in short,Thou art the unique wonder, at whose birthHer world of bright conceptions Nature scanned,Singled the best, and with Dædalian hand,Thrice livelier than her cast the statue wrought.

With keen desire to see what the fine swellOf thy white bosom in its core keeps shrined,If the interior graces of the mindIts outward shape and loveliness excel,I have my sight fixed on it; but the spellOf its voluptuous beauty holds mine eyesIn such enchantment, that their curious spiesPass not to mark the spirit in its cell,And thus stay weeping at the portal, madeTo grieve me by that hiding hand which evenHolds its own bosom's beauty unforgiven;So I behold my hope to death betrayed,And love's sharp lances, rarely known to fail,Serve not to pierce beyond its muslin mail.

As, love, the lily and purpureal roseShow their sweet colours on thy chaste warm cheek,Thy radiant looks, angelically meek,Serene the tempest to divine repose,And as thy hair, which for its birthright choseThe opal's dye, upon the whitest neckWaved by the winds of heaven without a check,In exquisite disorder falls and flows;Gather the rich fruit of thy mirthful spring,Ere angry Time around thy temples shedThe snows of hasting age; his icy wingWill wither the fresh rose, however red;And changing not his custom, quickly changeThe glory of all objects in his range.

Prostrate on earth the lofty column lies,That late sustained my life; oh how much joy,How many hopes did one dark day destroy!And on the wind each blest idea flies.How sure to fail is Fancy, when she triesTo build aught durable for me! fresh woesCome with the force of persecuting foes,And like abandoned things my hopes chastise:Oft times I yield, yet oft my tyrants face,With a new fury that might break in twainA mountain placed to bar my way—impell'dBy the desire some day to turn again—Turn to behold her loveliness and grace,Whom it were better ne'er to have beheld.

Love! I have dressed myself in robes of white,Shaped by thy scissors; as I put them on,I find them loose and easy, but anonThey grow uneasy, cumbersome, and tight.After consenting with a child's delightTo wear them, such repentance has possessedMy soul, that oft, by pure impatience pressed,I try to tear them off in thy despite.But who can free himself from such a suit,When his thwart nature has become theretoConformed? if of my reason any partRemains unparalyzed, it has not heartTo abet my cause, for in this stern disputeOf circumstance, it knows it would not do.

Boscán, you are now revenged upon my playOf past severe unkindness, who reprovedThe tenderness of that soft heart which lovedWith such excessive warmth; now, not a dayPasses, but for the things I used to sayWith so much rudeness, I myself chastise;Still, times there are when I at heart despise,And blush for the abasement I betray.Know that, full grown, and armed against desire,With my eyes open I have vailed my plumeTo the blind boy you know,—but soft, my lute,Never, oh never did man's heart consumeIn so divine and beautiful a fire;If you her name solicit, I am mute.

Wild doubts, that floating in my brain delightTo war with my fond feelings, tempestingIn your suspicious flight with angry wingMy melancholy bosom, day and night!Now is my force of mind extinguished quite,And all resistance, vain is my lamenting,—Vanquished, I yield myself at length, repenting,—E'er to have striven in such a hopeless fight.Bear me to that lone tower whose gate alarmsThe quick,—my death I saw not graven there,Blindness has sealed my eyes till now; my armsI cast aside; since their misfortunes barHelp from the unhappy—the proud pomp prepare,And hang my spoils on your triumphal car!

Within my spirit was conceived in trainOf amiable esteem a love most sweet,Whose birth, with all the joy with which men greetTheir first-born's birth, long wished for, but in vain,I hailed,—but soon from it was born a baneWhich has entirely conquered that fond flightOf feeling, and transformed my first delightInto sharp rigour and tormenting pain.O cruel grandson, that to thy meek sireGiv'st life, yet strik'st thy mournful grandsire dead,Why so unlike thy parent! what black scowlWear'st thou, stern Jealousy, beneath thy cowl,When ev'n thine own fierce mother, Envy dire,Shrieks to behold the monster which she bred!

I am for ever bathed in tears, I rendThe air with sighs, and suffer more from dreadTo tell thee 'tis through thee I have been ledTo such a state that, seeing where I tend,And the long distance I have come, sweet friend,In following thee, if I desire to leaveThe vain pursuit, my heart sinks to perceiveThe way behind me lengthening without end.And if I wish to reach the onward height,Sad thoughts of those who in the wildernessHave fallen, at every step awake my fear;Now above all things then I need the lightOf hope, by which I have been wont to steerThrough the dim tract of thy forgetfulness.

Past now the countries of the Midland Main,Wretched—I lose the bliss of former times,Borne farther every day from Christian climes,Realms, customs, tongues, and from my native Spain.And now despairing to return again,I muse on remedies of fancied power;The most assured one is the fatal hourThat will conclude at once my life and pain.I should be charmed from whate'er ills close o'er me,With seeing you, Lady, or might hope to be,If I could hope without the certaintyOf losing what I hope; but not seeing you,Save death, I see no remedy before me,And if death be one, it will fail me too.

Boscán! the sword, the shout, and trumpet shrillOf Mars, who, watering with his own red bloodThe Lybian soil in this tremendous feud,Makes our green Roman laurel flourish still,—Have to my memory brought the ancient skill,And old Italian valour, by whose forceAll Africa was shook, from the coy sourceOf Nile's young fountain to far Atlas' hill.Here, where the steady Roman's conquering brandAnd fiery torch tipt with licentious flame,Have left poor Carthage nothing but a name,Love with his whirling thoughts on every handWounds and inflames me in his fearful sway,And I in tears and ashes waste away.

I thank thee, Heaven, that I have snapt in twainThe heavy yoke that on my neck I wore,And that at length I can behold from shore,Void of all fear, the black tempestuous main;Can see, suspended by a slender chain,The life of lovers who enchanted restIn error, slumbering upon Beauty's breast,To warning deaf, and blinded to their bane.So shall I smile when mortals are undone,Nor yet be found so cruel to my kindAs may appear,—I shall but smile as oneTo health restored, whom sickness long confined,Not to see others suffering, but to seeMyself from similar afflictions free.

WRITTEN FROM GOLETTA.

My friend, ungrateful Love, who well must knowWith what pure constancy my faith I keep,Exerting his base pride, which is to heapUpon his dearest friend his heaviest woe,—Fearing that if I write, and publish soHis deeds, his grandeur I abate, his forceNot equalling his spite, has had recourseTo the fierce intervention of my foe;And in the noble part with which I wieldThe sword, and that which gives intelligenceOf our conceptions, I have wounded been;But I will take good care that the offenceShall cost the offender dear, now I am healed,Offended, free, and for repayment keen.

My tongue goes as grief guides it, and I strayAlready in my grief without a guide;We both must go, howe'er dissatisfied,With hasty step in an unwished-for way.I, but companioned by the dark arrayOf images that frenzy does create,And that, as forced along by grief to stateA thousand things it never wished to say.The law to me is most severe—it knowsMy innocence, yet makes not mine alone,But others' faults, my torturers! why should ISmart for the madness of my tongue, when woesBeyond endurance lift the lash on high,And Reason trembles on her tottering throne?

Entering a valley in a sandy wasteWhich none was journeying save myself alone,A dog I noticed, which with piteous toneIn disconcerted grief the wild sands paced;Now to the sky it howled, its way now tracedSnuffing the dew, now ran, now turned, now stayed,And its concern by every mark betrayedOf desolate delay or restless haste.It was that it had missed its lord that morn,And felt the separation; mark the painOf absence! Much did its distraction moveMy pity, and 'have patience, poor forlorn,'I cried—'I, thy superior, from my loveAm absent too, yet my regret restrain.'

Loud blew the winds in anger and disdain,And raged the waves, when to his Sestian maid,Leander, ardent of her charms, essayedFor the last time to swim the stormy main.Conquered with toil, o'erwearied, and in pain,More for the bliss which he should lose by death,Than sorrowful to breathe out his sweet breathOn the vext surge he buffeted in vain,—Feebly, 'twas all he could, the dying boyCalled to the waves, (but never word of woeWas heard by them) "if me you must destroy,This melancholy night, look not so stern;Vent as you will your rage on my return,But spare, kind waters, spare me as I go!"

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