Lady, whose name to high Cardona bringsFresh praise, whose talents and fair deeds requireImmortal accents from Minturno's lyre,Tansillo's harp, and polished Tasso's strings;If force, if fire, if spirit whilst he sings,Fail not at need thy Lasso's Spanish lute,Through thee I shall arrive, with daring foot,At Helicon's steep crown and sky-born springs,By dulcet sounds that might the waves command,Accomplishing with ease the ambitious aim:By ways a wilderness till now, the landOf storied valour, of romantic fame,And Tagus, rolling o'er a golden sand,Pay happy tribute to thy noble name.
Lady, whose name to high Cardona bringsFresh praise, whose talents and fair deeds requireImmortal accents from Minturno's lyre,Tansillo's harp, and polished Tasso's strings;If force, if fire, if spirit whilst he sings,Fail not at need thy Lasso's Spanish lute,Through thee I shall arrive, with daring foot,At Helicon's steep crown and sky-born springs,By dulcet sounds that might the waves command,Accomplishing with ease the ambitious aim:By ways a wilderness till now, the landOf storied valour, of romantic fame,And Tagus, rolling o'er a golden sand,Pay happy tribute to thy noble name.
Lady, whose name to high Cardona bringsFresh praise, whose talents and fair deeds requireImmortal accents from Minturno's lyre,Tansillo's harp, and polished Tasso's strings;If force, if fire, if spirit whilst he sings,Fail not at need thy Lasso's Spanish lute,Through thee I shall arrive, with daring foot,At Helicon's steep crown and sky-born springs,By dulcet sounds that might the waves command,Accomplishing with ease the ambitious aim:By ways a wilderness till now, the landOf storied valour, of romantic fame,And Tagus, rolling o'er a golden sand,Pay happy tribute to thy noble name.
Fair Naiads of the river, that resideHappy in grottos of rock crystal veinedWith shining gems, and loftily sustainedOn columns of pure glass! if now ye glideOn duteous errands, or weave side by sideWebs of fine net-work, or in groups removeTo hear and tell romantic tales of love,Of Genii, Fays, and Tritons of the tide,—Awhile remit your labours, and upraiseYour rosy heads to look on me—not longWill it detain you. Sweet'ners of my song!For pity hear me, watering as I goWith tears your borders, and for such short space,In heavenly notes sing solace to my woe!
Fair Naiads of the river, that resideHappy in grottos of rock crystal veinedWith shining gems, and loftily sustainedOn columns of pure glass! if now ye glideOn duteous errands, or weave side by sideWebs of fine net-work, or in groups removeTo hear and tell romantic tales of love,Of Genii, Fays, and Tritons of the tide,—Awhile remit your labours, and upraiseYour rosy heads to look on me—not longWill it detain you. Sweet'ners of my song!For pity hear me, watering as I goWith tears your borders, and for such short space,In heavenly notes sing solace to my woe!
Fair Naiads of the river, that resideHappy in grottos of rock crystal veinedWith shining gems, and loftily sustainedOn columns of pure glass! if now ye glideOn duteous errands, or weave side by sideWebs of fine net-work, or in groups removeTo hear and tell romantic tales of love,Of Genii, Fays, and Tritons of the tide,—Awhile remit your labours, and upraiseYour rosy heads to look on me—not longWill it detain you. Sweet'ners of my song!For pity hear me, watering as I goWith tears your borders, and for such short space,In heavenly notes sing solace to my woe!
1.To love thee, after what thy vow,Slighting my truth, has made thee now,Must be a crime, but one, false fair,Which thou wilt have to expiate, whereNone will know thee for having knownSo ill the heart thou leavest lone.2.Loving so passionately thy freeSeducing smile, I thought to beLost, but not guilty; but, alas,By all I am, by all I was,'Tis proved too surely, to my cost,I guilty am, as well as lost!3.Oh that I loved not with the zealThou'rt but too well assured I feel!That I exultingly might say,'Tis joy to think that thou wilt pay,In unknown modes of future woe,For what none save ourselves shall know.
1.
To love thee, after what thy vow,Slighting my truth, has made thee now,Must be a crime, but one, false fair,Which thou wilt have to expiate, whereNone will know thee for having knownSo ill the heart thou leavest lone.
To love thee, after what thy vow,Slighting my truth, has made thee now,Must be a crime, but one, false fair,Which thou wilt have to expiate, whereNone will know thee for having knownSo ill the heart thou leavest lone.
2.
Loving so passionately thy freeSeducing smile, I thought to beLost, but not guilty; but, alas,By all I am, by all I was,'Tis proved too surely, to my cost,I guilty am, as well as lost!
Loving so passionately thy freeSeducing smile, I thought to beLost, but not guilty; but, alas,By all I am, by all I was,'Tis proved too surely, to my cost,I guilty am, as well as lost!
3.
Oh that I loved not with the zealThou'rt but too well assured I feel!That I exultingly might say,'Tis joy to think that thou wilt pay,In unknown modes of future woe,For what none save ourselves shall know.
Oh that I loved not with the zealThou'rt but too well assured I feel!That I exultingly might say,'Tis joy to think that thou wilt pay,In unknown modes of future woe,For what none save ourselves shall know.
1.I will now cease, nor ruffle moreThy beauteous cheek with speech so free;My silent dying shall restoreIts peace, and mutely speak for me.2.I have already deeply erredIn saying what were best unsaid,Thy gentle heart I have but stirred,Not staunched a single wound that bled.3.Henceforth I heave no fruitless sighs,No tears but unseen tears I shed;The injured heart that silent dies,Has that which speaks in Injury's stead!
1.
I will now cease, nor ruffle moreThy beauteous cheek with speech so free;My silent dying shall restoreIts peace, and mutely speak for me.
I will now cease, nor ruffle moreThy beauteous cheek with speech so free;My silent dying shall restoreIts peace, and mutely speak for me.
2.
I have already deeply erredIn saying what were best unsaid,Thy gentle heart I have but stirred,Not staunched a single wound that bled.
I have already deeply erredIn saying what were best unsaid,Thy gentle heart I have but stirred,Not staunched a single wound that bled.
3.
Henceforth I heave no fruitless sighs,No tears but unseen tears I shed;The injured heart that silent dies,Has that which speaks in Injury's stead!
Henceforth I heave no fruitless sighs,No tears but unseen tears I shed;The injured heart that silent dies,Has that which speaks in Injury's stead!
1.Perhaps the youth who seemed so coldIn leaving thee so soon, to seekScenes where he will no more beholdThy lustrous eye and smiling cheek,Yet loved thee much,—the hope to meetOnce more, makes ev'n departure sweet.2.It is not possible that oneLike him considerate—Love forbid!Thinking he knew thee, could have known,Enchanted mortal, what he did,When he empowered thee thus to weaveHis joy and grief the self-same eve.3.He took perhaps the readiest wayHe could have done thy worth to know;From thy fine face and finer playOf wit he could not, could not go,And seeing thee but once, remainContent to see thee ne'er again.
1.
Perhaps the youth who seemed so coldIn leaving thee so soon, to seekScenes where he will no more beholdThy lustrous eye and smiling cheek,Yet loved thee much,—the hope to meetOnce more, makes ev'n departure sweet.
Perhaps the youth who seemed so coldIn leaving thee so soon, to seekScenes where he will no more beholdThy lustrous eye and smiling cheek,Yet loved thee much,—the hope to meetOnce more, makes ev'n departure sweet.
2.
It is not possible that oneLike him considerate—Love forbid!Thinking he knew thee, could have known,Enchanted mortal, what he did,When he empowered thee thus to weaveHis joy and grief the self-same eve.
It is not possible that oneLike him considerate—Love forbid!Thinking he knew thee, could have known,Enchanted mortal, what he did,When he empowered thee thus to weaveHis joy and grief the self-same eve.
3.
He took perhaps the readiest wayHe could have done thy worth to know;From thy fine face and finer playOf wit he could not, could not go,And seeing thee but once, remainContent to see thee ne'er again.
He took perhaps the readiest wayHe could have done thy worth to know;From thy fine face and finer playOf wit he could not, could not go,And seeing thee but once, remainContent to see thee ne'er again.
Who threw to Garcilasso whilst walking with a friend, her spindle, and the net she had begun to weave, saying it was all the work she had done that day.1.Lady! from this net and coilWe must gather, that you castFrom you, in an hour, the toilOf the four and twenty past.2.If at passers-by you sendThe fair work your fingers do,How think you to discommendThat which others weave for you!
Who threw to Garcilasso whilst walking with a friend, her spindle, and the net she had begun to weave, saying it was all the work she had done that day.
1.
Lady! from this net and coilWe must gather, that you castFrom you, in an hour, the toilOf the four and twenty past.
Lady! from this net and coilWe must gather, that you castFrom you, in an hour, the toilOf the four and twenty past.
2.
If at passers-by you sendThe fair work your fingers do,How think you to discommendThat which others weave for you!
If at passers-by you sendThe fair work your fingers do,How think you to discommendThat which others weave for you!
1.Since I have lost my bridal name,Sichæan Dido, when the gloomOf death has quenched my vital flame,Be this the legend on my tomb:2."The worst of Trojans gave, alas,The cruel cause—the sword unjust;Poor Dido, brought to life's last pass,Could furnish nothing but the thrust!"
1.
Since I have lost my bridal name,Sichæan Dido, when the gloomOf death has quenched my vital flame,Be this the legend on my tomb:
Since I have lost my bridal name,Sichæan Dido, when the gloomOf death has quenched my vital flame,Be this the legend on my tomb:
2.
"The worst of Trojans gave, alas,The cruel cause—the sword unjust;Poor Dido, brought to life's last pass,Could furnish nothing but the thrust!"
"The worst of Trojans gave, alas,The cruel cause—the sword unjust;Poor Dido, brought to life's last pass,Could furnish nothing but the thrust!"
"Why, what calumnious charge is thisThat you against him would advance?All that the good knight did amissWas, that he ever joined the dance."Count they then this a great offence?I do not think it such; his sinIs quite excused by the defenceThat 'twas the woman drew him in.She, she it was that caused his fallMore, much more than the having setHis mind upon surpassing allIn the fantastic pirouette.[12]
"Why, what calumnious charge is thisThat you against him would advance?All that the good knight did amissWas, that he ever joined the dance."Count they then this a great offence?I do not think it such; his sinIs quite excused by the defenceThat 'twas the woman drew him in.She, she it was that caused his fallMore, much more than the having setHis mind upon surpassing allIn the fantastic pirouette.[12]
"Why, what calumnious charge is thisThat you against him would advance?All that the good knight did amissWas, that he ever joined the dance."
Count they then this a great offence?I do not think it such; his sinIs quite excused by the defenceThat 'twas the woman drew him in.She, she it was that caused his fallMore, much more than the having setHis mind upon surpassing allIn the fantastic pirouette.[12]
Whilst thou, Fernando, strikest from thy stringsThe illustrious deeds of heroes and of kings,Whilst men, whilst Gods stand spellbound at thy strainOf barbarous nations tamed by sceptred Spain,—From Pindus' sacred crown and tuneful falls,Thee with sweet words Calliope thus calls:"Hail, youth, whose temples, late alone entwinedBy Mars' red hand, now bays Phœbean bind!This grants Apollo, this the God of wine,The lightfoot Nymphs, and whole harmonious Nine,That with the kings that to thy lyric fireOwe half their fame, thyself that smit'st the lyre,Shall unborn nations join—admire, and praise,And no dark night succeed thine endless days."[13]
Whilst thou, Fernando, strikest from thy stringsThe illustrious deeds of heroes and of kings,Whilst men, whilst Gods stand spellbound at thy strainOf barbarous nations tamed by sceptred Spain,—From Pindus' sacred crown and tuneful falls,Thee with sweet words Calliope thus calls:"Hail, youth, whose temples, late alone entwinedBy Mars' red hand, now bays Phœbean bind!This grants Apollo, this the God of wine,The lightfoot Nymphs, and whole harmonious Nine,That with the kings that to thy lyric fireOwe half their fame, thyself that smit'st the lyre,Shall unborn nations join—admire, and praise,And no dark night succeed thine endless days."[13]
Whilst thou, Fernando, strikest from thy stringsThe illustrious deeds of heroes and of kings,Whilst men, whilst Gods stand spellbound at thy strainOf barbarous nations tamed by sceptred Spain,—From Pindus' sacred crown and tuneful falls,Thee with sweet words Calliope thus calls:"Hail, youth, whose temples, late alone entwinedBy Mars' red hand, now bays Phœbean bind!This grants Apollo, this the God of wine,The lightfoot Nymphs, and whole harmonious Nine,That with the kings that to thy lyric fireOwe half their fame, thyself that smit'st the lyre,Shall unborn nations join—admire, and praise,And no dark night succeed thine endless days."[13]
I wish to make my preaching short, as all good things should be,For I was always fond, I own, of a short homily;Of little women, and in courts of law a most brief plea;Little well said makes wise, as sap most fructifies the tree.His head who laughs and chatters much, the moon I'm sure must sway,There's in a little woman love—nor little, let me say;Some very tall there are, but I prefer the little,—nay,Change them, they'd both repent the change, and quarrel night and day.Love prayed me to speak well of all the little ones—the zestThey give, their noble qualities, and charms:—I'll do my best;Iwillspeak of the little ones, but don't think I'm in jest;That they are cold as snow, and warm as fire, is manifest.They're cold abroad, yet warm in love; shy creatures in the street;Good-natured, laughing, witty, gay, and in the house discreet,—Well-doing, graceful, gentle, kind, and many things more sweetYou'll find where you direct your thoughts,—yes, many I repeat.Within a little compass oft great splendour strikes the eyes,In a small piece of sugar-cane a deal of sweetness lies;So to a little woman's face a thousand graces rise,And large and sweet's her love; a word's sufficient for the wise.The pepper-corn is small, but yet, the more the grain you grind,The more it warms and comforts; so, were I to speak my mind,A little woman, if (all love) she studies to be kind,There's not in all the world a bliss you'll fail in her to find.As in a little rose resides great colour, as the bellOf the small lily yields a great and most delightful smell,As in a very little gold exists a precious spell,Within a little woman so exceeding flavours dwell.As the small ruby is a gem that clearly does outshineFor lustre, colour, virtues, price, most children of the mine,In little women so worth, grace, bloom, radiancy divine,Wit, beauty, loyalty, and love, transcendently combine.Little's the lark, the nightingale is little, yet they singSweeter than birds of greater size and more resplendent wing;So little women better are, by the same rule,—they bringA love more sweet than sugar-plums or primroses of spring.The goldfinch and Canary-bird, all finches and all pies,Sing, scream, or chatter passing well—there's quaintness in their cries;The brilliant little paroquet says things extremely wise;Just such a little woman is, when she sweet love outsighs.There's nothing that with her should be compared—'tis profanation;—She is a walking Paradise, a smiling consolation,A blessing, pleasure, of all joys a sparkling constellation,In fact—she's better in the proof than in the salutation!Small women do no harm, kind things, though theymaysometimes callUs angry names, hard to digest; men wise as was Saint PaulSay, of two evils choose the least,—by this rule it must fall,The least dear woman you can find will be the best of all!
I wish to make my preaching short, as all good things should be,For I was always fond, I own, of a short homily;Of little women, and in courts of law a most brief plea;Little well said makes wise, as sap most fructifies the tree.His head who laughs and chatters much, the moon I'm sure must sway,There's in a little woman love—nor little, let me say;Some very tall there are, but I prefer the little,—nay,Change them, they'd both repent the change, and quarrel night and day.Love prayed me to speak well of all the little ones—the zestThey give, their noble qualities, and charms:—I'll do my best;Iwillspeak of the little ones, but don't think I'm in jest;That they are cold as snow, and warm as fire, is manifest.They're cold abroad, yet warm in love; shy creatures in the street;Good-natured, laughing, witty, gay, and in the house discreet,—Well-doing, graceful, gentle, kind, and many things more sweetYou'll find where you direct your thoughts,—yes, many I repeat.Within a little compass oft great splendour strikes the eyes,In a small piece of sugar-cane a deal of sweetness lies;So to a little woman's face a thousand graces rise,And large and sweet's her love; a word's sufficient for the wise.The pepper-corn is small, but yet, the more the grain you grind,The more it warms and comforts; so, were I to speak my mind,A little woman, if (all love) she studies to be kind,There's not in all the world a bliss you'll fail in her to find.As in a little rose resides great colour, as the bellOf the small lily yields a great and most delightful smell,As in a very little gold exists a precious spell,Within a little woman so exceeding flavours dwell.As the small ruby is a gem that clearly does outshineFor lustre, colour, virtues, price, most children of the mine,In little women so worth, grace, bloom, radiancy divine,Wit, beauty, loyalty, and love, transcendently combine.Little's the lark, the nightingale is little, yet they singSweeter than birds of greater size and more resplendent wing;So little women better are, by the same rule,—they bringA love more sweet than sugar-plums or primroses of spring.The goldfinch and Canary-bird, all finches and all pies,Sing, scream, or chatter passing well—there's quaintness in their cries;The brilliant little paroquet says things extremely wise;Just such a little woman is, when she sweet love outsighs.There's nothing that with her should be compared—'tis profanation;—She is a walking Paradise, a smiling consolation,A blessing, pleasure, of all joys a sparkling constellation,In fact—she's better in the proof than in the salutation!Small women do no harm, kind things, though theymaysometimes callUs angry names, hard to digest; men wise as was Saint PaulSay, of two evils choose the least,—by this rule it must fall,The least dear woman you can find will be the best of all!
I wish to make my preaching short, as all good things should be,For I was always fond, I own, of a short homily;Of little women, and in courts of law a most brief plea;Little well said makes wise, as sap most fructifies the tree.
His head who laughs and chatters much, the moon I'm sure must sway,There's in a little woman love—nor little, let me say;Some very tall there are, but I prefer the little,—nay,Change them, they'd both repent the change, and quarrel night and day.
Love prayed me to speak well of all the little ones—the zestThey give, their noble qualities, and charms:—I'll do my best;Iwillspeak of the little ones, but don't think I'm in jest;That they are cold as snow, and warm as fire, is manifest.
They're cold abroad, yet warm in love; shy creatures in the street;Good-natured, laughing, witty, gay, and in the house discreet,—Well-doing, graceful, gentle, kind, and many things more sweetYou'll find where you direct your thoughts,—yes, many I repeat.
Within a little compass oft great splendour strikes the eyes,In a small piece of sugar-cane a deal of sweetness lies;So to a little woman's face a thousand graces rise,And large and sweet's her love; a word's sufficient for the wise.
The pepper-corn is small, but yet, the more the grain you grind,The more it warms and comforts; so, were I to speak my mind,A little woman, if (all love) she studies to be kind,There's not in all the world a bliss you'll fail in her to find.
As in a little rose resides great colour, as the bellOf the small lily yields a great and most delightful smell,As in a very little gold exists a precious spell,Within a little woman so exceeding flavours dwell.
As the small ruby is a gem that clearly does outshineFor lustre, colour, virtues, price, most children of the mine,In little women so worth, grace, bloom, radiancy divine,Wit, beauty, loyalty, and love, transcendently combine.
Little's the lark, the nightingale is little, yet they singSweeter than birds of greater size and more resplendent wing;So little women better are, by the same rule,—they bringA love more sweet than sugar-plums or primroses of spring.
The goldfinch and Canary-bird, all finches and all pies,Sing, scream, or chatter passing well—there's quaintness in their cries;The brilliant little paroquet says things extremely wise;Just such a little woman is, when she sweet love outsighs.
There's nothing that with her should be compared—'tis profanation;—She is a walking Paradise, a smiling consolation,A blessing, pleasure, of all joys a sparkling constellation,In fact—she's better in the proof than in the salutation!
Small women do no harm, kind things, though theymaysometimes callUs angry names, hard to digest; men wise as was Saint PaulSay, of two evils choose the least,—by this rule it must fall,The least dear woman you can find will be the best of all!
1.As by Tagus' billowy bedKing Rodrigo, safe from sight,With the Lady Cava fedOn the fruit of loose delight;From the river's placid breastSlow its ancient Genius broke;Of the scrolls of Fate possessed,Thus the frowning prophet spoke:2."In an evil hour dost thou,Ruthless spoiler, wanton here!Shouts and clangours even now,Even now assail mine ear;Shout, and sound of clashing shield,Shivered sword and rushing car,—All the frenzy of the field!All the anarchy of war!3.Oh what wail and weeping springForth from this, thine hour of mirth,From yon fair and smiling thing,Who in evil day had birth!In an evil day for SpainPlighted is your guilty troth!Fatal triumph! costly gainTo the sceptre of the Goth!4.Flames and furies, griefs and broils,Slaughter, ravage, fierce alarms,Anguish and immortal toilsThou dost gather to thine arms,—For thyself and vassals—thoseWho the fertile furrow break,Where the stately Ebro flows,Who their thirst in Douro slake!5.For the throne—the hall—the bower—Murcian lord and Lusian swain,For the chivalry and flowerOf all sad and spacious Spain!Prompt for vengeance, not for fame,Even now from Cadiz' halls,On the Moor, in Allah's name,Hoarse the Count—the Injured calls.6.Hark, how frightfully forlornSounds his trumpet to the stars,Citing Afric's desert-bornTo the gonfalon of Mars!Lo, already loose in airFloats the standard, peals the gong;They shall not be slow to dareRoderick's wrath for Julian's wrong.7.See, their spears the Arabs shake,Smite the wind, and war demand;Millions in a moment wake,Join, and swarm o'er all the sand:Underneath their sails the seaDisappears, a hubbub runsThrough the sphere of heaven alee,Clouds of dust obscure the sun's.8.Swift their mighty ships they climb,Cut the cables, slip from shore;How their sturdy arms keep timeTo the dashing of the oar!Bright the frothy billows burnRound their cleaving keels, and galesBreathed by Eolus astern,Fill their deep and daring sails.9.Sheer across Alcides' straitHe whose voice the floods obey,With the trident of his state,Gives the grand Armada way.—In her sweet, subduing arms,Sinner! dost thou slumber still,Dull and deaf to the alarmsOf this loud inrushing ill?10.In the hallowed Gadite bayMark them mooring from the main;Rise, take horse, away! away!Scale the mountain, scour the plain!Give not pity to thy hand,Give not pardon to thy spur,Dart abroad thy flashing brand,Bare thy fatal scimeter!11.Agony of toil and sweatThe sole recompense must beOf each horse and horseman yet,Plumeless serf and plumed grandee.Sullied in thy silver flow,Stream of proud Sevilla, weep!Many a broken helm shalt thouHurry to the bordering deep.12.Many a turban and tiar,Moor and Noble's slaughtered corse,Whilst the Furies of the warGore your ranks with equal loss!Five days you dispute the field;When 'tis sunrise on the plains—Oh loved land! thy doom is sealed,Madden, madden in thy chains!"
1.
As by Tagus' billowy bedKing Rodrigo, safe from sight,With the Lady Cava fedOn the fruit of loose delight;From the river's placid breastSlow its ancient Genius broke;Of the scrolls of Fate possessed,Thus the frowning prophet spoke:
As by Tagus' billowy bedKing Rodrigo, safe from sight,With the Lady Cava fedOn the fruit of loose delight;From the river's placid breastSlow its ancient Genius broke;Of the scrolls of Fate possessed,Thus the frowning prophet spoke:
2.
"In an evil hour dost thou,Ruthless spoiler, wanton here!Shouts and clangours even now,Even now assail mine ear;Shout, and sound of clashing shield,Shivered sword and rushing car,—All the frenzy of the field!All the anarchy of war!
"In an evil hour dost thou,Ruthless spoiler, wanton here!Shouts and clangours even now,Even now assail mine ear;Shout, and sound of clashing shield,Shivered sword and rushing car,—All the frenzy of the field!All the anarchy of war!
3.
Oh what wail and weeping springForth from this, thine hour of mirth,From yon fair and smiling thing,Who in evil day had birth!In an evil day for SpainPlighted is your guilty troth!Fatal triumph! costly gainTo the sceptre of the Goth!
Oh what wail and weeping springForth from this, thine hour of mirth,From yon fair and smiling thing,Who in evil day had birth!In an evil day for SpainPlighted is your guilty troth!Fatal triumph! costly gainTo the sceptre of the Goth!
4.
Flames and furies, griefs and broils,Slaughter, ravage, fierce alarms,Anguish and immortal toilsThou dost gather to thine arms,—For thyself and vassals—thoseWho the fertile furrow break,Where the stately Ebro flows,Who their thirst in Douro slake!
Flames and furies, griefs and broils,Slaughter, ravage, fierce alarms,Anguish and immortal toilsThou dost gather to thine arms,—For thyself and vassals—thoseWho the fertile furrow break,Where the stately Ebro flows,Who their thirst in Douro slake!
5.
For the throne—the hall—the bower—Murcian lord and Lusian swain,For the chivalry and flowerOf all sad and spacious Spain!Prompt for vengeance, not for fame,Even now from Cadiz' halls,On the Moor, in Allah's name,Hoarse the Count—the Injured calls.
For the throne—the hall—the bower—Murcian lord and Lusian swain,For the chivalry and flowerOf all sad and spacious Spain!Prompt for vengeance, not for fame,Even now from Cadiz' halls,On the Moor, in Allah's name,Hoarse the Count—the Injured calls.
6.
Hark, how frightfully forlornSounds his trumpet to the stars,Citing Afric's desert-bornTo the gonfalon of Mars!Lo, already loose in airFloats the standard, peals the gong;They shall not be slow to dareRoderick's wrath for Julian's wrong.
Hark, how frightfully forlornSounds his trumpet to the stars,Citing Afric's desert-bornTo the gonfalon of Mars!Lo, already loose in airFloats the standard, peals the gong;They shall not be slow to dareRoderick's wrath for Julian's wrong.
7.
See, their spears the Arabs shake,Smite the wind, and war demand;Millions in a moment wake,Join, and swarm o'er all the sand:Underneath their sails the seaDisappears, a hubbub runsThrough the sphere of heaven alee,Clouds of dust obscure the sun's.
See, their spears the Arabs shake,Smite the wind, and war demand;Millions in a moment wake,Join, and swarm o'er all the sand:Underneath their sails the seaDisappears, a hubbub runsThrough the sphere of heaven alee,Clouds of dust obscure the sun's.
8.
Swift their mighty ships they climb,Cut the cables, slip from shore;How their sturdy arms keep timeTo the dashing of the oar!Bright the frothy billows burnRound their cleaving keels, and galesBreathed by Eolus astern,Fill their deep and daring sails.
Swift their mighty ships they climb,Cut the cables, slip from shore;How their sturdy arms keep timeTo the dashing of the oar!Bright the frothy billows burnRound their cleaving keels, and galesBreathed by Eolus astern,Fill their deep and daring sails.
9.
Sheer across Alcides' straitHe whose voice the floods obey,With the trident of his state,Gives the grand Armada way.—In her sweet, subduing arms,Sinner! dost thou slumber still,Dull and deaf to the alarmsOf this loud inrushing ill?
Sheer across Alcides' straitHe whose voice the floods obey,With the trident of his state,Gives the grand Armada way.—In her sweet, subduing arms,Sinner! dost thou slumber still,Dull and deaf to the alarmsOf this loud inrushing ill?
10.
In the hallowed Gadite bayMark them mooring from the main;Rise, take horse, away! away!Scale the mountain, scour the plain!Give not pity to thy hand,Give not pardon to thy spur,Dart abroad thy flashing brand,Bare thy fatal scimeter!
In the hallowed Gadite bayMark them mooring from the main;Rise, take horse, away! away!Scale the mountain, scour the plain!Give not pity to thy hand,Give not pardon to thy spur,Dart abroad thy flashing brand,Bare thy fatal scimeter!
11.
Agony of toil and sweatThe sole recompense must beOf each horse and horseman yet,Plumeless serf and plumed grandee.Sullied in thy silver flow,Stream of proud Sevilla, weep!Many a broken helm shalt thouHurry to the bordering deep.
Agony of toil and sweatThe sole recompense must beOf each horse and horseman yet,Plumeless serf and plumed grandee.Sullied in thy silver flow,Stream of proud Sevilla, weep!Many a broken helm shalt thouHurry to the bordering deep.
12.
Many a turban and tiar,Moor and Noble's slaughtered corse,Whilst the Furies of the warGore your ranks with equal loss!Five days you dispute the field;When 'tis sunrise on the plains—Oh loved land! thy doom is sealed,Madden, madden in thy chains!"
Many a turban and tiar,Moor and Noble's slaughtered corse,Whilst the Furies of the warGore your ranks with equal loss!Five days you dispute the field;When 'tis sunrise on the plains—Oh loved land! thy doom is sealed,Madden, madden in thy chains!"
"The king fortified his camp according to the rules of art, and in a single night a town was built, consisting of four streets in the form of a cross, with as many gates; and from the centre, where the streets crossed each other, all the town might be viewed at the same time. The plan was undertaken and completed by four Grandees of Castile, every one furnishing his share, and the whole was encircled with wooden bulwarks covered with waxen cloth, which resembled a strong wall. Towers and bastions were also fabricated, to appear as if built by regular machinery. In the morning, the Moors were prodigiously astonished to see a town so near Granada, fortified in so formidable a manner. When it was finished, the king granted it the rights of a city, naming it Santa Fé, and endowed it with many privileges, which it enjoys to the present day. It is recorded in the next ballad:—
Built is Santa Fé; its bulwarksWith much waxen cloth o'erlaid,And within shine tents unnumbered,Tents of silk and gold brocade.Dukes, and lords, and noble captains,Famed for valour, heroes all,Here are brought by King Fernando,To effect Granada's fall.When, behold, a Moor at daybreak,Of tall stature meets their sight,Mounted on a noble charger,Spotted o'er with flakes of white.On it comes with cleft lips chafingHigh against the rider's rein,Whilst the Moor at all the ChristiansGrinds his teeth in fell disdain.Underneath his robes of scarlet,White, and blue, a shirt of mailFortifies his heart most strongly,Should a thousand darts assail.Two strong swords of tempered metalGrace his thigh, his hands a spearAnd tough target in MoroccoMade, and purchased passing dear.This gruff dog, in dreadful mockery,To his horse's tail had tiedThe adoredAve Maria,As was but too soon descried.At the camp arrived, he shouted,"Who will so fool-hardy beAs to fight me? I defy youAll,—come one, come two, come three!"Out the Alcayde of Los Doncelos,Out the Count of Cabra stept,Both brave men, whose active falchionsIn the scabbard seldom slept.Out came Gónzalo Fernandez,Out Martin Galindo came,With the bold Portocarrero,Palma's lord of mickle fame.Out he stept too who so franklyFetched the glove midst lions thrown,Frankly fetched it forth, the gallantManuel Ponce de Leon.With them ev'n King Don FernandoRides, exclaiming, "Forward, ho!Soon we'll teach the ruffian whetherWe dare fight with him or no!"On they rode, rejoiced to hear himPraise his vassals so, and eachBegged that he that useful lessonTo the infidel might teach.Garcilasso too, a striplingBrave and daring, with great gleeRode with them, and begged the battle,Begged it on his bended knee."You're too young, good Garcilasso,You're yet much too young to die;There are numbers in my kingdomFitter far the fight to try."Deeply vexed at this refusal,Much confused the youth withdrew,But put on strange arms in secret,So that none his person knew.On a coal-black steed, with ventailDown, he pricks to meet the Moor,And says to him—"Level lancesQuickly; thou shalt see, be sure,"If our noble king has gentlesBold enough to tilt with thee;I'm the least of all, yet beard thee,Beard thee by that king's decree."Soon as seen, the bluff Moor scorned him,Saying, "Pray go back again;I'm accustomed to do battle,Not with boys, but bearded men:"Pray go back, and let some otherWho has passed his teens, advance!"Garcilasso, stung with fury,Spurred his steed, and couched his lance.He a glorious stroke has dealt him!On his helm red sparkles burn;Like a thunderbolt the PaynimWheels, the insult to return.Striking, stricken; stricken, striking;Thus the round of combat ran;Garcilasso, though an infant,Showed the metal of a man.He at length beneath the armpitDealt the Moor a mortal wound:From his saddle fell the giant,Pale and groaning to the ground.Garcilasso, quick alightingFrom his horse, approached the foe,Cut his head off, and in triumphHung it at his saddle-bow.Tore away the sacredAveFrom its former place of shame,On his knees devoutly kissed it,Kissed the blessed Mary's name.On his lance's point he bears itFor a pendant, mounts his steed,With the Moor's in hand, returning,All the court applaud the deed.Lords, and dukes, and noble captains,All were struck with great amaze,Whilst the king and queen, with plauditsCheerly urged, repeat his praise.Wonder some, and some amazement,Kept quite dumb, to see a ChildeSo exceeding young, triumphantO'er that big-boned Paynim vilde.Garcilasso de la VegaThey the youth thenceforward call,For his duel in the VegaOf Granada chanced to fall.
Built is Santa Fé; its bulwarksWith much waxen cloth o'erlaid,And within shine tents unnumbered,Tents of silk and gold brocade.Dukes, and lords, and noble captains,Famed for valour, heroes all,Here are brought by King Fernando,To effect Granada's fall.When, behold, a Moor at daybreak,Of tall stature meets their sight,Mounted on a noble charger,Spotted o'er with flakes of white.On it comes with cleft lips chafingHigh against the rider's rein,Whilst the Moor at all the ChristiansGrinds his teeth in fell disdain.Underneath his robes of scarlet,White, and blue, a shirt of mailFortifies his heart most strongly,Should a thousand darts assail.Two strong swords of tempered metalGrace his thigh, his hands a spearAnd tough target in MoroccoMade, and purchased passing dear.This gruff dog, in dreadful mockery,To his horse's tail had tiedThe adoredAve Maria,As was but too soon descried.At the camp arrived, he shouted,"Who will so fool-hardy beAs to fight me? I defy youAll,—come one, come two, come three!"Out the Alcayde of Los Doncelos,Out the Count of Cabra stept,Both brave men, whose active falchionsIn the scabbard seldom slept.Out came Gónzalo Fernandez,Out Martin Galindo came,With the bold Portocarrero,Palma's lord of mickle fame.Out he stept too who so franklyFetched the glove midst lions thrown,Frankly fetched it forth, the gallantManuel Ponce de Leon.With them ev'n King Don FernandoRides, exclaiming, "Forward, ho!Soon we'll teach the ruffian whetherWe dare fight with him or no!"On they rode, rejoiced to hear himPraise his vassals so, and eachBegged that he that useful lessonTo the infidel might teach.Garcilasso too, a striplingBrave and daring, with great gleeRode with them, and begged the battle,Begged it on his bended knee."You're too young, good Garcilasso,You're yet much too young to die;There are numbers in my kingdomFitter far the fight to try."Deeply vexed at this refusal,Much confused the youth withdrew,But put on strange arms in secret,So that none his person knew.On a coal-black steed, with ventailDown, he pricks to meet the Moor,And says to him—"Level lancesQuickly; thou shalt see, be sure,"If our noble king has gentlesBold enough to tilt with thee;I'm the least of all, yet beard thee,Beard thee by that king's decree."Soon as seen, the bluff Moor scorned him,Saying, "Pray go back again;I'm accustomed to do battle,Not with boys, but bearded men:"Pray go back, and let some otherWho has passed his teens, advance!"Garcilasso, stung with fury,Spurred his steed, and couched his lance.He a glorious stroke has dealt him!On his helm red sparkles burn;Like a thunderbolt the PaynimWheels, the insult to return.Striking, stricken; stricken, striking;Thus the round of combat ran;Garcilasso, though an infant,Showed the metal of a man.He at length beneath the armpitDealt the Moor a mortal wound:From his saddle fell the giant,Pale and groaning to the ground.Garcilasso, quick alightingFrom his horse, approached the foe,Cut his head off, and in triumphHung it at his saddle-bow.Tore away the sacredAveFrom its former place of shame,On his knees devoutly kissed it,Kissed the blessed Mary's name.On his lance's point he bears itFor a pendant, mounts his steed,With the Moor's in hand, returning,All the court applaud the deed.Lords, and dukes, and noble captains,All were struck with great amaze,Whilst the king and queen, with plauditsCheerly urged, repeat his praise.Wonder some, and some amazement,Kept quite dumb, to see a ChildeSo exceeding young, triumphantO'er that big-boned Paynim vilde.Garcilasso de la VegaThey the youth thenceforward call,For his duel in the VegaOf Granada chanced to fall.
Built is Santa Fé; its bulwarksWith much waxen cloth o'erlaid,And within shine tents unnumbered,Tents of silk and gold brocade.
Dukes, and lords, and noble captains,Famed for valour, heroes all,Here are brought by King Fernando,To effect Granada's fall.
When, behold, a Moor at daybreak,Of tall stature meets their sight,Mounted on a noble charger,Spotted o'er with flakes of white.
On it comes with cleft lips chafingHigh against the rider's rein,Whilst the Moor at all the ChristiansGrinds his teeth in fell disdain.
Underneath his robes of scarlet,White, and blue, a shirt of mailFortifies his heart most strongly,Should a thousand darts assail.
Two strong swords of tempered metalGrace his thigh, his hands a spearAnd tough target in MoroccoMade, and purchased passing dear.
This gruff dog, in dreadful mockery,To his horse's tail had tiedThe adoredAve Maria,As was but too soon descried.
At the camp arrived, he shouted,"Who will so fool-hardy beAs to fight me? I defy youAll,—come one, come two, come three!"
Out the Alcayde of Los Doncelos,Out the Count of Cabra stept,Both brave men, whose active falchionsIn the scabbard seldom slept.
Out came Gónzalo Fernandez,Out Martin Galindo came,With the bold Portocarrero,Palma's lord of mickle fame.
Out he stept too who so franklyFetched the glove midst lions thrown,Frankly fetched it forth, the gallantManuel Ponce de Leon.
With them ev'n King Don FernandoRides, exclaiming, "Forward, ho!Soon we'll teach the ruffian whetherWe dare fight with him or no!"
On they rode, rejoiced to hear himPraise his vassals so, and eachBegged that he that useful lessonTo the infidel might teach.
Garcilasso too, a striplingBrave and daring, with great gleeRode with them, and begged the battle,Begged it on his bended knee.
"You're too young, good Garcilasso,You're yet much too young to die;There are numbers in my kingdomFitter far the fight to try."
Deeply vexed at this refusal,Much confused the youth withdrew,But put on strange arms in secret,So that none his person knew.
On a coal-black steed, with ventailDown, he pricks to meet the Moor,And says to him—"Level lancesQuickly; thou shalt see, be sure,
"If our noble king has gentlesBold enough to tilt with thee;I'm the least of all, yet beard thee,Beard thee by that king's decree."
Soon as seen, the bluff Moor scorned him,Saying, "Pray go back again;I'm accustomed to do battle,Not with boys, but bearded men:
"Pray go back, and let some otherWho has passed his teens, advance!"Garcilasso, stung with fury,Spurred his steed, and couched his lance.
He a glorious stroke has dealt him!On his helm red sparkles burn;Like a thunderbolt the PaynimWheels, the insult to return.
Striking, stricken; stricken, striking;Thus the round of combat ran;Garcilasso, though an infant,Showed the metal of a man.
He at length beneath the armpitDealt the Moor a mortal wound:From his saddle fell the giant,Pale and groaning to the ground.
Garcilasso, quick alightingFrom his horse, approached the foe,Cut his head off, and in triumphHung it at his saddle-bow.
Tore away the sacredAveFrom its former place of shame,On his knees devoutly kissed it,Kissed the blessed Mary's name.
On his lance's point he bears itFor a pendant, mounts his steed,With the Moor's in hand, returning,All the court applaud the deed.
Lords, and dukes, and noble captains,All were struck with great amaze,Whilst the king and queen, with plauditsCheerly urged, repeat his praise.
Wonder some, and some amazement,Kept quite dumb, to see a ChildeSo exceeding young, triumphantO'er that big-boned Paynim vilde.
Garcilasso de la VegaThey the youth thenceforward call,For his duel in the VegaOf Granada chanced to fall.
"The king, and the queen, and all the court, were, as the ballad says, most astonished at this valiant deed of Garcilasso, and the king commanded him to place on his arms the wordsAve Maria, with just reason, for having quitted himself so well upon that ruffian Moor, and for having cut off his head."—Hist. de las Guerras Civiles de Granada, fol. 454-9.
A manuscript in the Bodleian Library—ofRawlinson's Collection, No.43,—says that Garcilasso, at the time this combat took place, was but eighteen years of age. The manuscript bears this title, 'Armas de los mas nobles Señores de Castilla, sus nombres, apellidos, casas y rentas; con algunos puntos de sus hazañas; los Arcobispos, Obispos, Visoreyes y Embaxadores, Consejos y Inquisiciones, y otras cosas curiosas de aquel Reyno: en Paris, y compuesto por Ambrosio de Salazar, Secretario Interprete del Rey Cristianissimo. 1623.' This writer, however, follows the general error of imputing the action to the father of the poet. His account of the family arms differs also from Imhof's: according to his account, they bear,or, a castle on a fieldvert, with the wordsAve Maria, Gracia Plena, in lettersazure: but as this association of tinct would be false heraldry, it has seemed preferable to follow the authority of Imhof. It may not be amiss to mention in this place, that although Garcilasso is said to have been dignified with the cross of the Order of St. James, the badge represented in paintings of him is that of the Order of Alcantara.
The volume of Navagero's writings being but rarely met with, and his poetical compositions exhibiting much delicacy of thought and elegance of style, I shall perhaps be doing an acceptable thing in presenting to the reader a few of his smaller verses. His longer pieces, the pastoral entitled 'Iolas,' the sapphics 'In Auroram,' and the lines 'In Vancium vicum Patavinum amænissimum,' are perhaps yet more beautiful in imagery than those I have selected; but short as these are, they may serve to show the grounds which his cotemporaries had for the praises they bestowed upon him.
VOTA AD AURAS.Auræ, quæ levibus percurritis aëra pennis,Et strepitis blando per nemora alta sono:Serta dat hæc vobis, vobis hæc rusticus IdmonSpargit odorato plena canistra croco.Vos lenite æstum, et paleas sejungite inanes,Dum medio fruges ventilat ille die.TO THE AIRS.Gentle airs, that on light wingThrough the high woods softly singIn low murmurs! these sweet wreaths,Violets, blue-bells, woodbines, heaths,Rustic Idmon loves to throwTo you thus in handfuls, soTemper you the heat of day,And the thin chaff blow away,When at noon his van againWinnows out the golden grain.THYRSIDIS VOTA VENERI.Quòd tulit optata tandem de Leucade ThyrsisFructum aliquem, has violas dat tibi, sancta Venus!Post sepem hanc sensim obrepens, tria basia sumsi:Nil ultra potui, nam propè mater erat.Nunc violas; sed plena feram si vota, dicaboInscriptam hôc myrtum carmine, Diva, tibi:'Hanc Veneri myrtum Thyrsis quòd amore potitusDedicat, atque unà seque suosque greges.'THYRSIS' VOW TO VENUS.These violets, holy Power, to theeWith grateful mind does Thyrsis cast,For that from long-loved Leuca, heHas gained some fruit of love at last.Creeping behind the lilach trees,I snatched three kisses, sweet and choice;I could no more, for in the breezeWe surely heard her mother's voice.Blue violets now; but, should'st thou grantAll my heart beats for, Power Divine,Engraved with this rude rhyme, a plantOf deathless myrtle shall be thine.'This myrtle, faithful to his vow,Thyrsis to Venus gives, and more,Himself and flocks, as tasting nowLove's gracious sweets, but wished before.'THYRSIDIS VOTA ET QUERCUI ET SYLVÆ.Et quercum, et silvam hanc ante omnia Thyrsis amabit,Et certo feret his annua vota die:Dum potuit memor esse, quod hâc primum ille sub umbrâUltima de carâ Leucade vota tulit.THYRSIS TO THE OAK AND GROVE.This green oak and sapling groveBefore all will Thyrsis love,And to them, each May-day, rareTributes of sweet incense bear,Long as memory lives to say,'Twas upon that happy dayHe first gained, beneath their boughs,His dear Leuca's marriage vows.QUUM EX HISPANICA LEGATIONE IN ITALIAM REVERTERETUR.Salve, aura Deûm, mundi felicior ora,Formosæ Veneris dulces salvete recessus;Ut vos post tantos animi, mentisque laboresAspicio, lustroque libens! ut munere vestroSollicitas toto depello e pectore curas!Non aliis Charites perfundunt candida lymphisCorpora; non alios contexunt serta per agros!ON HIS RETURN TO ITALY FROM THE SPANISH EMBASSY.Hail, dear region of my birth,Care of Heaven and pride of earth,Sweetest seats of Venus, vale,Rock, wood, mountain, hail, all hail!Oh with what deep joy I view,Gaze at, traverse, talk to you,After such laborious hours,Mental toils and wasted powers!How at sight of you each careAnd vexation melts in air!Never may the virgin GracesLook in other shady placesFor shy streams to bathe in, ne'erBraid with other flowers their hair,Than the ones so sweet and dearWhich I taste so freshly here!INVITATIO AD AMÆNAM FONTEM.Et gelidus fons est, et nulla salubrior unda,Et molli circum gramine terra viret;Et ramis arcent soles frondentibus alni,Et levis in nullo gratior aura loco est;Et medio Titan nunc ardentissimus axe est,Exustusque gravi sidere fervet ager.Siste, viator, iter: nimio jam torridus æstu,Jam nequeunt lassi longius ire pedes.Accubitu languorem, æstum aurâ, umbrâque virenti,Perspicuo poteris fonte levare sitim.INVITATION TO A PLEASANT FOUNTAIN.Cold the fountain is, no waveMore salubrious, green herbs paveAll its margin; its thick roof—Leaves and boughs—is sunshine proof;No where does the Zephyr blowHalf so pleasantly, and nowTitan on his mid-day towerScorches forest, field, and flower;Rest thee, Traveller, rest thy feet,Thou art fainting with the heat,And canst walk no farther! here,In this babbling fountain clear,Thou may'st slake thy thirst, beneathThese green branches; in the breathOf the fresh breeze, dry the dewsOff thy throbbing brows, and loseAll thy languor on the bedGadding thyme and mosses spread.DE CUPIDINE ET HYELLA.Florentes dum fortè vagans mea Hyella per hortosTexit odoratis lilia cana rosis,Ecce rosas inter latitantem invenit Amorem,Et simul annexis floribus implicuit.Luctatur primò, et contrà nitentibus alisIndomitus tentat solvere vincla puer;Mox ubi lacteolas, et digna matre papillasVidit, et ora ipsos nata movere Deos,Impositosque comæ ambrosios ut sensit odores,Quosque legit diti messe beatus Arabs:"I," dixit, "mea, quære novum tibi, mater, Amorem,Imperio sedes hæc erit apta meo!"CUPID AND HYELLA.[AT]As my Hyella chanced to roveOf late her garden grounds, and there,Of roses and white lilies woveSweet wreaths to bind her flowing hair;Amidst the roses clustering thick,She spied young Cupid slumbering sound,And with strong chains of woodbine, quick,The rosy infant, laughing, bound.At first his radiant wings he flappedRebelliously, and strove—in vain—Indignant to be so entrapped,To break the verdant bonds in twain.But when within a little whileBreasts white as Venus's he saw,And looked in her sweet face, whose smileThe Gods themselves might languish for:And when from every braided tressThe' ambrosial odours he perceived,—Rose-odours rich as those which blessThe Arab when his harvest's sheaved:"Go, go," he cried, "Mamma, and seekAnotherLove,—my only shrineHenceforth shall be this lady's cheekAnd laughing eyes: good b'ye to thine."AL SONNO.Sonno, che all' affannate, e stanche meutiD'ogni fatica lor riposo sei,Deh moviti a pietà de' dolor miei,E porgi qualche pace a miei tormenti!Lasso, le notti mie son sì dolenti,Che quando più riposo aver devrei,Allor più piango, e mi doglio di lei,Che sprezza gli angosciosi miei lamenti.Tu ch' acqueti ogni pena acerba e rea,Vien, Sonno, ad acquetar i miei martiri;E vinci quel ch' ogni altro vince, Amore,Così sempre sian lieti i tuoi desiri;E il sen della tua bella PasiteaSempre spiri d' ambrosia un dolce odore!TO SLEEP.Slumber, blest balm for all the cares that teaseSad spirits weary and o'ertoiled, oh deignTo bring, in kind compassion of my pain,A little interval of rest and ease!My nights are such, that when I most should seizeOn soft repose, then most I have to weepThat it disdains to lull my pangs asleep,Deaf to my murmured prayers and earnest pleas.Come thou who calm'st all agony and woe,Come now, calm mine, and conquer him whose powerOppresses all beside, fierce Cupid,—soHappy be thy desires in bed and bower;And wreaths of breathed ambrosia without end,Thy beauteous Pasithea's steps attend!
VOTA AD AURAS.
Auræ, quæ levibus percurritis aëra pennis,Et strepitis blando per nemora alta sono:Serta dat hæc vobis, vobis hæc rusticus IdmonSpargit odorato plena canistra croco.Vos lenite æstum, et paleas sejungite inanes,Dum medio fruges ventilat ille die.
Auræ, quæ levibus percurritis aëra pennis,Et strepitis blando per nemora alta sono:Serta dat hæc vobis, vobis hæc rusticus IdmonSpargit odorato plena canistra croco.Vos lenite æstum, et paleas sejungite inanes,Dum medio fruges ventilat ille die.
TO THE AIRS.
Gentle airs, that on light wingThrough the high woods softly singIn low murmurs! these sweet wreaths,Violets, blue-bells, woodbines, heaths,Rustic Idmon loves to throwTo you thus in handfuls, soTemper you the heat of day,And the thin chaff blow away,When at noon his van againWinnows out the golden grain.
Gentle airs, that on light wingThrough the high woods softly singIn low murmurs! these sweet wreaths,Violets, blue-bells, woodbines, heaths,Rustic Idmon loves to throwTo you thus in handfuls, soTemper you the heat of day,And the thin chaff blow away,When at noon his van againWinnows out the golden grain.
THYRSIDIS VOTA VENERI.
Quòd tulit optata tandem de Leucade ThyrsisFructum aliquem, has violas dat tibi, sancta Venus!Post sepem hanc sensim obrepens, tria basia sumsi:Nil ultra potui, nam propè mater erat.Nunc violas; sed plena feram si vota, dicaboInscriptam hôc myrtum carmine, Diva, tibi:'Hanc Veneri myrtum Thyrsis quòd amore potitusDedicat, atque unà seque suosque greges.'
Quòd tulit optata tandem de Leucade ThyrsisFructum aliquem, has violas dat tibi, sancta Venus!Post sepem hanc sensim obrepens, tria basia sumsi:Nil ultra potui, nam propè mater erat.Nunc violas; sed plena feram si vota, dicaboInscriptam hôc myrtum carmine, Diva, tibi:'Hanc Veneri myrtum Thyrsis quòd amore potitusDedicat, atque unà seque suosque greges.'
THYRSIS' VOW TO VENUS.
These violets, holy Power, to theeWith grateful mind does Thyrsis cast,For that from long-loved Leuca, heHas gained some fruit of love at last.Creeping behind the lilach trees,I snatched three kisses, sweet and choice;I could no more, for in the breezeWe surely heard her mother's voice.Blue violets now; but, should'st thou grantAll my heart beats for, Power Divine,Engraved with this rude rhyme, a plantOf deathless myrtle shall be thine.'This myrtle, faithful to his vow,Thyrsis to Venus gives, and more,Himself and flocks, as tasting nowLove's gracious sweets, but wished before.'
These violets, holy Power, to theeWith grateful mind does Thyrsis cast,For that from long-loved Leuca, heHas gained some fruit of love at last.Creeping behind the lilach trees,I snatched three kisses, sweet and choice;I could no more, for in the breezeWe surely heard her mother's voice.Blue violets now; but, should'st thou grantAll my heart beats for, Power Divine,Engraved with this rude rhyme, a plantOf deathless myrtle shall be thine.'This myrtle, faithful to his vow,Thyrsis to Venus gives, and more,Himself and flocks, as tasting nowLove's gracious sweets, but wished before.'
THYRSIDIS VOTA ET QUERCUI ET SYLVÆ.
Et quercum, et silvam hanc ante omnia Thyrsis amabit,Et certo feret his annua vota die:Dum potuit memor esse, quod hâc primum ille sub umbrâUltima de carâ Leucade vota tulit.
Et quercum, et silvam hanc ante omnia Thyrsis amabit,Et certo feret his annua vota die:Dum potuit memor esse, quod hâc primum ille sub umbrâUltima de carâ Leucade vota tulit.
THYRSIS TO THE OAK AND GROVE.
This green oak and sapling groveBefore all will Thyrsis love,And to them, each May-day, rareTributes of sweet incense bear,Long as memory lives to say,'Twas upon that happy dayHe first gained, beneath their boughs,His dear Leuca's marriage vows.
This green oak and sapling groveBefore all will Thyrsis love,And to them, each May-day, rareTributes of sweet incense bear,Long as memory lives to say,'Twas upon that happy dayHe first gained, beneath their boughs,His dear Leuca's marriage vows.
QUUM EX HISPANICA LEGATIONE IN ITALIAM REVERTERETUR.
Salve, aura Deûm, mundi felicior ora,Formosæ Veneris dulces salvete recessus;Ut vos post tantos animi, mentisque laboresAspicio, lustroque libens! ut munere vestroSollicitas toto depello e pectore curas!Non aliis Charites perfundunt candida lymphisCorpora; non alios contexunt serta per agros!
Salve, aura Deûm, mundi felicior ora,Formosæ Veneris dulces salvete recessus;Ut vos post tantos animi, mentisque laboresAspicio, lustroque libens! ut munere vestroSollicitas toto depello e pectore curas!Non aliis Charites perfundunt candida lymphisCorpora; non alios contexunt serta per agros!
ON HIS RETURN TO ITALY FROM THE SPANISH EMBASSY.
Hail, dear region of my birth,Care of Heaven and pride of earth,Sweetest seats of Venus, vale,Rock, wood, mountain, hail, all hail!Oh with what deep joy I view,Gaze at, traverse, talk to you,After such laborious hours,Mental toils and wasted powers!How at sight of you each careAnd vexation melts in air!Never may the virgin GracesLook in other shady placesFor shy streams to bathe in, ne'erBraid with other flowers their hair,Than the ones so sweet and dearWhich I taste so freshly here!
Hail, dear region of my birth,Care of Heaven and pride of earth,Sweetest seats of Venus, vale,Rock, wood, mountain, hail, all hail!Oh with what deep joy I view,Gaze at, traverse, talk to you,After such laborious hours,Mental toils and wasted powers!How at sight of you each careAnd vexation melts in air!Never may the virgin GracesLook in other shady placesFor shy streams to bathe in, ne'erBraid with other flowers their hair,Than the ones so sweet and dearWhich I taste so freshly here!
INVITATIO AD AMÆNAM FONTEM.
Et gelidus fons est, et nulla salubrior unda,Et molli circum gramine terra viret;Et ramis arcent soles frondentibus alni,Et levis in nullo gratior aura loco est;Et medio Titan nunc ardentissimus axe est,Exustusque gravi sidere fervet ager.Siste, viator, iter: nimio jam torridus æstu,Jam nequeunt lassi longius ire pedes.Accubitu languorem, æstum aurâ, umbrâque virenti,Perspicuo poteris fonte levare sitim.
Et gelidus fons est, et nulla salubrior unda,Et molli circum gramine terra viret;Et ramis arcent soles frondentibus alni,Et levis in nullo gratior aura loco est;Et medio Titan nunc ardentissimus axe est,Exustusque gravi sidere fervet ager.Siste, viator, iter: nimio jam torridus æstu,Jam nequeunt lassi longius ire pedes.Accubitu languorem, æstum aurâ, umbrâque virenti,Perspicuo poteris fonte levare sitim.
INVITATION TO A PLEASANT FOUNTAIN.
Cold the fountain is, no waveMore salubrious, green herbs paveAll its margin; its thick roof—Leaves and boughs—is sunshine proof;No where does the Zephyr blowHalf so pleasantly, and nowTitan on his mid-day towerScorches forest, field, and flower;Rest thee, Traveller, rest thy feet,Thou art fainting with the heat,And canst walk no farther! here,In this babbling fountain clear,Thou may'st slake thy thirst, beneathThese green branches; in the breathOf the fresh breeze, dry the dewsOff thy throbbing brows, and loseAll thy languor on the bedGadding thyme and mosses spread.
Cold the fountain is, no waveMore salubrious, green herbs paveAll its margin; its thick roof—Leaves and boughs—is sunshine proof;No where does the Zephyr blowHalf so pleasantly, and nowTitan on his mid-day towerScorches forest, field, and flower;Rest thee, Traveller, rest thy feet,Thou art fainting with the heat,And canst walk no farther! here,In this babbling fountain clear,Thou may'st slake thy thirst, beneathThese green branches; in the breathOf the fresh breeze, dry the dewsOff thy throbbing brows, and loseAll thy languor on the bedGadding thyme and mosses spread.
DE CUPIDINE ET HYELLA.
Florentes dum fortè vagans mea Hyella per hortosTexit odoratis lilia cana rosis,Ecce rosas inter latitantem invenit Amorem,Et simul annexis floribus implicuit.Luctatur primò, et contrà nitentibus alisIndomitus tentat solvere vincla puer;Mox ubi lacteolas, et digna matre papillasVidit, et ora ipsos nata movere Deos,Impositosque comæ ambrosios ut sensit odores,Quosque legit diti messe beatus Arabs:"I," dixit, "mea, quære novum tibi, mater, Amorem,Imperio sedes hæc erit apta meo!"
Florentes dum fortè vagans mea Hyella per hortosTexit odoratis lilia cana rosis,Ecce rosas inter latitantem invenit Amorem,Et simul annexis floribus implicuit.Luctatur primò, et contrà nitentibus alisIndomitus tentat solvere vincla puer;Mox ubi lacteolas, et digna matre papillasVidit, et ora ipsos nata movere Deos,Impositosque comæ ambrosios ut sensit odores,Quosque legit diti messe beatus Arabs:"I," dixit, "mea, quære novum tibi, mater, Amorem,Imperio sedes hæc erit apta meo!"
CUPID AND HYELLA.[AT]
As my Hyella chanced to roveOf late her garden grounds, and there,Of roses and white lilies woveSweet wreaths to bind her flowing hair;Amidst the roses clustering thick,She spied young Cupid slumbering sound,And with strong chains of woodbine, quick,The rosy infant, laughing, bound.At first his radiant wings he flappedRebelliously, and strove—in vain—Indignant to be so entrapped,To break the verdant bonds in twain.But when within a little whileBreasts white as Venus's he saw,And looked in her sweet face, whose smileThe Gods themselves might languish for:And when from every braided tressThe' ambrosial odours he perceived,—Rose-odours rich as those which blessThe Arab when his harvest's sheaved:"Go, go," he cried, "Mamma, and seekAnotherLove,—my only shrineHenceforth shall be this lady's cheekAnd laughing eyes: good b'ye to thine."
As my Hyella chanced to roveOf late her garden grounds, and there,Of roses and white lilies woveSweet wreaths to bind her flowing hair;
Amidst the roses clustering thick,She spied young Cupid slumbering sound,And with strong chains of woodbine, quick,The rosy infant, laughing, bound.
At first his radiant wings he flappedRebelliously, and strove—in vain—Indignant to be so entrapped,To break the verdant bonds in twain.
But when within a little whileBreasts white as Venus's he saw,And looked in her sweet face, whose smileThe Gods themselves might languish for:
And when from every braided tressThe' ambrosial odours he perceived,—Rose-odours rich as those which blessThe Arab when his harvest's sheaved:
"Go, go," he cried, "Mamma, and seekAnotherLove,—my only shrineHenceforth shall be this lady's cheekAnd laughing eyes: good b'ye to thine."
AL SONNO.
Sonno, che all' affannate, e stanche meutiD'ogni fatica lor riposo sei,Deh moviti a pietà de' dolor miei,E porgi qualche pace a miei tormenti!Lasso, le notti mie son sì dolenti,Che quando più riposo aver devrei,Allor più piango, e mi doglio di lei,Che sprezza gli angosciosi miei lamenti.Tu ch' acqueti ogni pena acerba e rea,Vien, Sonno, ad acquetar i miei martiri;E vinci quel ch' ogni altro vince, Amore,Così sempre sian lieti i tuoi desiri;E il sen della tua bella PasiteaSempre spiri d' ambrosia un dolce odore!
Sonno, che all' affannate, e stanche meutiD'ogni fatica lor riposo sei,Deh moviti a pietà de' dolor miei,E porgi qualche pace a miei tormenti!Lasso, le notti mie son sì dolenti,Che quando più riposo aver devrei,Allor più piango, e mi doglio di lei,Che sprezza gli angosciosi miei lamenti.Tu ch' acqueti ogni pena acerba e rea,Vien, Sonno, ad acquetar i miei martiri;E vinci quel ch' ogni altro vince, Amore,Così sempre sian lieti i tuoi desiri;E il sen della tua bella PasiteaSempre spiri d' ambrosia un dolce odore!
TO SLEEP.
Slumber, blest balm for all the cares that teaseSad spirits weary and o'ertoiled, oh deignTo bring, in kind compassion of my pain,A little interval of rest and ease!My nights are such, that when I most should seizeOn soft repose, then most I have to weepThat it disdains to lull my pangs asleep,Deaf to my murmured prayers and earnest pleas.Come thou who calm'st all agony and woe,Come now, calm mine, and conquer him whose powerOppresses all beside, fierce Cupid,—soHappy be thy desires in bed and bower;And wreaths of breathed ambrosia without end,Thy beauteous Pasithea's steps attend!
Slumber, blest balm for all the cares that teaseSad spirits weary and o'ertoiled, oh deignTo bring, in kind compassion of my pain,A little interval of rest and ease!My nights are such, that when I most should seizeOn soft repose, then most I have to weepThat it disdains to lull my pangs asleep,Deaf to my murmured prayers and earnest pleas.Come thou who calm'st all agony and woe,Come now, calm mine, and conquer him whose powerOppresses all beside, fierce Cupid,—soHappy be thy desires in bed and bower;And wreaths of breathed ambrosia without end,Thy beauteous Pasithea's steps attend!
If I had not already known the correctness of your ladyship's judgment, the value which I see you set upon this work would suffice to assure me of it. But you already stood so high in my opinion, that though I before considered it excellent on many accounts, my principal reason now for this consideration is, that you have set your stamp on it in such a manner, that we might almost say it was your own work, as it is through you we possess it in the language we best understand. For, so far from thinking of being able to prevail on Boscán to translate it, I should not even have dared to ask it of him, well knowing his constant dislike to the writers of romances, (though this he could scarcely call a romance) had I not assured myself that, being commanded by your ladyship, he could not excuse himself. With myself I am extremely well satisfied, as before the book reached your hands, I esteemed it as it deserves; whereas had I only become acquainted with its merits, now that I see you deem them great, I might imagine that I was influenced in my judgment of it by your ladyship's opinion. But now, I not merely suspect, but am convinced it is a book that deserves to be commended to your hands, that it may afterwards without danger go forth into the world. For it is a most necessary thing wherever there are gentlemen and ladies of distinction, that they should not only consult whatsoever serves to increase the point of honour, but guard against every thing that has a tendency to lessen it: both the one and the other are treated of in this performance with so much wisdom and address, that it seems to me there is nothing more to be wished for than to see the whole realized in somegentleman, and likewise in—I was going to say, some lady, but I recollected that you were in the world to take me to account for the idle words. We may moreover remark on this work of Castiglione, that as highly successful performances always go beyond their promise, so the Count has laid down the duties of a finished courtier with such absolute completeness as not to leave one of any rank unacquainted with what he ought to do and be. So that we may see how much we should have lost in not possessing it. Nor must we pass over the very essential benefit rendered to our language by having written in it things so deserving of perusal; for I know not what misfortune has ever been ours, in scarcely possessing an author that has written in Castilian any thing but what might very well be dispensed with,—though this indeed would be difficult to prove to the satisfaction of those who pore over the volumes which instruct mankind in slaughter. And well did your ladyship know what person to fix upon to be your medium in producing this benefit to all. For notwithstanding it is as difficult a matter, in my judgment, to translate a book well, as to write it in the first instance, so admirably has Boscán performed his part, that every time I sit down to read this work of his, or, to speak more accurately, of yours, it seems to me to have been written in no other language. Or if at any time I remember to have read the Italian, my thoughts immediately return to the pages in my hands. One thing he has guarded against, which very few have done; he has avoided affectation without incurring the sin of stiffness, and with great purity of style has made use of expressions especially polite and agreeable to refined ears, and of words neither novel in appearance, nor disused amongst the people: he has proved himself also a very faithful translator, and by not restricting himself to the rigour of the letter, but to the truth and spirit of the thoughts, has transfused in his version by avariety of ways, all the force and ornament of the original. He has thus given every thing so much in the manner of his author, and has found his author such, that the defenders of the work may with little trouble answer those who wish in any respect to carp at its contents. I do not address myself to men whose dainty ears, amidst a thousand elegant things contained in the volume, are offended with one or two that may not be quite so good as the rest, being inclined to think that these one or two are the only points that please them, whilst they are offended with all the rest; and this I could prove, if I were inclined, by what they approve in other cases.
We are not, however, to lose time with these captious geniuses, but referring them to him who himself answers them on these very points, let us turn to those who with some show of reason might desire satisfaction in what offends them, where the author treats of all the numerous methods of saying genteel things, and smart repartees to excite mirth. Some there are given as specimens, which do not appear to reach the excellence of others, nor deserve perhaps to be considered as very good for one who has so admirably treated of the rest; and hence they may suspect that he has not the great judgment and penetration we ascribe to him. To this we would answer, that the author's intention was to furnish a variety of modes of saying graceful things, and hence, that we might better know the difference between them, he gave an equal variety of examples: in discoursing on all these many ways, there could not possibly be so many clever flights in each; some of those therefore which he gave for examples, of necessity fall short of the merit of others, and such, I have good reason to believe, without deceiving himself in the least as to their inferiority, an author of his good sense considers them; so we see that in thisrespect also he is free from blame. I only must plead guilty and deserving of censure, for having been so tedious in my communication. But these impertinences really make me angry, and compel me to write so long a letter to so faultless a personage. I frankly confess that I so greatly envied you the thanks that are your due in the production of this book, that I wished, so far as I could, to have myself some concern in it, and for fear any one should employ himself in translating, that is to say, in spoiling the original, I earnestly entreated Boscán to print his own version without delay, in order to stop the hurry which those who write ill are accustomed to use in inflicting their performances on the public. And although this translation would give me revenge sufficient on any other that might be put forth, I am such a foe to contention, that even this, though attended with no possible danger, would yet annoy me. For this reason, almost by force, I made him put it to press with all expedition, and he chose to have me with him at the final polish, but rather as a mere man of sense than as his assistant in any emendation. Of your ladyship, I beg that as his book is under your protection, it may lose nothing for the little part I take in it, since in return for this act of goodness, I now lay it at your feet, written in a better character, wherein your name and accomplishments may be read and admired of all.
Neapolim.
Ex iis carminibus quæ ad me pridem scripsisti, et quantum me amares, libentissimè perspexi, qui neque familiarem tibi hominem, neque de facie cognitum tam honorificè appellavisses, tantisque ornares laudibus; et quantus ipse esses in lyricispangendis, quantúmque præstares ingenii luminibus amabilítatéque scribendi, facilè cognovi. Quorum alterum ejusmodi est, ut nihil mihi potuerit accidere jucundius. Quid est enim quod possit cum præstantissimi poetæ amore atque benevolentiâ comparari? Reliqua enim omnia, quæ et honesta et chara homines habent, unà cum iis qui ea possident, brevi tempore intereunt: Poetæ uni vivunt, longævique ac diuturni sunt, eandémque vitam ac diuturnitatem, quibus volunt, impartiuntur. In altero illud perfecisti, ut non solùm Hispanos tuos omneis, qui se Apollini Musisque dediderunt, longè numeris superes et præcurras tuis, sed Italis etiam hominibus stimulum addas, quo magis magisque se excitent, si modò volent in hoc abs te certamine atque his in studiis ipsi quoque non præteriri. Quem quidem meum de te sensum atque judicium, alia tua nonnulla ejusdem generis mihi Neapoli nuper missa scripta confirmaverunt. Nihil enim legi ferè hâc ætate confectum aut elegantius, aut omnino probius et purius, aut certè majori cum dignitate. Itaque quod me amas, mihi verissimè justissimèque lætor; quod egregius es vir atque magnus, cùm tibi in primis gratulor, tum verò plurimum terræ Hispaniæ, patriæ atque altrici tuæ, cui quidem est hoc nomine amplissimus bonæ laudis atque gloriæ cumulus accessurus. Tametsi est etiam aliud, quod quidem auget magnopere lætitiam ex te conceptam meam. Nam cùm nuper mecum Honoratus monachus, quem tibi famâ notum esse video, in eum sermonem esset ingressus, ut quid de tuis carminibus sentirem, me interrogavisset, ego verò illi meum judicium patefecissem, quod quidem accidit ei par, atque simillimum suo, (est autem peracri vir ingenio atque in poeticis studiis pererudito) ea mihi de tuis plurimis maximisque virtutibus, de morum suavitate, de integritate vitæ, de humanitate tuâ dixit, quæ amici ei sui per literas significavissent, ut hoc adderet, omnium Neapolitanorum qui te novissent, sermonibus attestationibusque confirmari, his temporibus, quibus maximè Italiam vestræ nationes referserunt, quem omnes planè homines te uno ardentius amaverint, cuique plus tribuerint, illam ad urbem ex Hispaniâ venisse porrò nullum. Quamobrem magnum me fecisse lucrum statuo, qui nullo meo labore in tuam benevolentiam pervenerim, tuque ita me complexus sis, ut etiam ornes Musæ tuæ præconio tam illustri. Quibus quidem fit rebus, ut nisi te contrà ipse quamplurimùm et amavero et coluero, hominem profectò esse me nequaquam putem. Sed amoris erga te mei atque observantiæ studium, testatum tibi facere hoc ab initio decrevi, ut eundem Honoratum, de quo suprà commemoravi, qui te impensè diligit, ad teque in præsentiâ proficiscitur, summâ tibi diligentiâ commendarem. Ut hinc potissimùm cognosceres, quid de me tibi ipse polliceri possis, cùm me videas id abs te audere petere, quod mihi esse maximum maximèque expetendum statuissem. Illius fratrum, hominum innocentium et planè bonorum patrimonium, quemadmodum nullâ ipsorum culpâ, in Gallici belli præda fuerit, scire te arbitror; itaque de eo nihil dicam. Nunc autem cùm hi ab Carolo Imperatore, omnium qui unquam nati sunt, regum atque principum optimo, injustè amissa repetere statuerint, si te unum ejus rei adjutorem habebunt, sperant se, quod honestè cupiunt, etiam facilè consequi posse; ea tua est et apud Imperatorem ipsum gratia, et apud illos, qui ei charissimi sunt, autoritas, familiaritas, necessitudo. Quare magnopere te rogo, ut rem suscipias, fratresque illos atque familiam in pristinum fortunæ statum tuâ curâ procurationeque restituas. Homines honestissimos tuique studiosissimos tibi in perpetuum devincies; mihi verò tam gratum feceris, ut illo ipso patrimonio me abs te iri auctum et ornatum putem. Honoratum enim tam diligo, quàm si mens esset frater; tanti facio, ut æquè perpaucos; tam illi cupio hâc in re tuo beneficio et usui et voluptati esse, ut ipse, cujus fratrum interest, magis idem cupere non possit, autmagis animo laborare, quàm ipse planè laboro. Sed hunc laborem meum tu, qui me tuâ sponte diligis, dexteritate illâ tuâ, quâ excellis, et ingenio, quo te charum et peramabilem apud omnes homines reddis, mihi, ut spero, celeriter eripies. Quod ut facias, naturæ bonitati ac lenitati confisus tuæ, non jam ut novus tibi amicus pudenter atque subtimidè, sed quemadmodum veteres necessarii solent, etiam atque etiam abs te peto. Vale.VIICalend. Septembres.M.D.XXXV.
Pet. Bemb. Epist. Famil.Lib. Sex.