Eclogue I. to Don Pedro De Toledo, Viceroy of Naples

The sweet lament of two Castilian swains,Salicio's love and Nemoroso's tears,In sympathy I sing, to whose loved strainsTheir flocks, of food forgetful, crowding round,Were most attentive: Pride of Spanish peers!Who, by thy splendid deeds, hast gained a nameAnd rank on earth unrivalled,--whether crownedWith cares, ALVANO, wielding now the rodOf empire, now the dreadful bolts that tameStrong kings, in motion to the trumpet's sound,Express vicegerent of the Thracian God;Or whether, from the cumbrous burden freedOf state affairs, thou seek'st the echoing plain,Chasing, upon thy spirited fleet steed,The trembling stag that bounds abroad, in vainLengthening out life,--though deeply now engrossedBy cares, I hope, so soon as I regainThe leisure I have lost,To celebrate, with my recording quill,Thy virtues and brave deeds, a starry sum,Ere grief, or age, or silent death turn chillMy poesy's warm pulse, and I becomeNothing to thee, whose worth the nations blaze,Failing thy sight, and songless in thy praise.But till that day, predestined by the Muse,Appears to cancel the memorial duesOwed to thy glory and renown--a claimNot only upon me, but which belongsTo all fine spirits that transmit to fameEnnobling deeds in monumental songs,--Let the green laurel whose victorious boughsClasp in endearment thine illustrious brows,To the weak ivy give permissive place,Which, rooted in thy shade, thou first of trees,May hope by slow degreesTo tower aloft, supported by thy praise;Since Time to thee sublimer strains shall bring,Hark to my shepherds, as they sit and sing.The sun, from rosy billows risen, had rayedWith gold the mountain tops, when at the footOf a tall beech romantic, whose green shadeFell on a brook, that, sweet-voiced as a lute,Through lively pastures wound its sparkling way,Sad on the daisied turf Salicio lay;And with a voice in concord to the soundOf all the many winds, and waters round,As o'er the mossy stones they swiftly stole,Poured forth in melancholy song his soulOf sorrow with a fallSo sweet, and aye so mildly musical,None could have thought that she whose seeming guileHad caused his anguish, absent was the while,But that in very deed the unhappy youthDid, face to face, upbraid her questioned truth.

More hard than marble to my mild complaints,And to the lively flame with which I glow,Cold, Galatea, cold as winter snow!I feel that I must die, my spirit faints,And dreads continuing life; for, alienateFrom thee, life sinks into a weary weight,To be shook off with pleasure; from all eyesI shrink, ev'n from myself despised I turn,And left by her for whom alone I yearn,My cheek is tinged with crimson; heart of ice!Dost thou the worshipped mistress scorn to beOf one whose cherished guest thou ever art;Not being able for an hour to freeThine image from my heart?This dost thou scorn? in gentleness of woeFlow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!The sun shoots forth the arrows of his lightO'er hills and valleys, wakening to fresh birthThe birds, and animals, and tribes of earth,That through the crystal air pursue their flight,That o'er the verdant vale and craggy heightIn perfect liberty and safety feed,That with the present sun afresh proceedTo the due toils of life,As their own wants or inclinations lead;This wretched spirit is alone at strifeWith peace, in tears at eve, in tears when brightThe morning breaks; in gentleness of woe,Flow forth my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!And thou, without one pensive memoryOf this my life, without the slightest signOf pity for my pangs, dost thou consignTo the stray winds, ungrateful, every tieOf love and faith, which thou didst vow should beLocked in thy soul eternally for me?Oh righteous Gods! if from on high ye viewThis false, this perjured maidWork the destruction of a friend so true,Why leave her crime of justice unrepaid?Dying I am with hopeless, sharp concern;If to tried friendship this is the returnShe makes, with what will she requite her foe?Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!Through thee the silence of the shaded glen,Through thee the horror of the lonely mountainPleased me no less than the resort of men;The breeze, the summer wood, and lucid fountain,The purple rose, white lily of the lake,Were sweet for thy sweet sake;For thee the fragrant primrose, dropt with dew,Was wished when first it blew!Oh how completely was I in all thisMyself deceiving! oh the different partThat thou wert acting, covering with a kissOf seeming love, the traitor in thy heart!This my severe misfortune, long ago,Did the soothsaying raven, sailing byOn the black storm, with hoarse sinister cry,Clearly presage; in gentleness of woe,Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!How oft, when slumbering in the forest brown,(Deeming it Fancy's mystical deceit,)Have I beheld my fate in dreams foreshown!One day, methought that from the noontide heatI drove my flocks to drink of Tagus' flood,And, under curtain of its bordering wood,Take my cool siesta; but, arrived, the stream,I know not by what magic, changed its track,And in new channels, by an unused way,Rolled its warped waters back;Whilst I, scorched, melting with the heat extreme,Went ever following in their flight, astray,The wizard waves; in gentleness of woe,Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!In the charmed ear of what beloved youthSounds thy sweet voice? on whom revolvest thouThy beautiful blue eyes? on whose proved truthAnchors thy broken faith? who presses nowThy laughing lip, and hopes thy heaven of charms,Locked in the' embraces of thy two white arms?Say thou, for whom hast thou so rudely leftMy love, or stolen, who triumphs in the theft?I have not yet a bosom so untrueTo feeling, nor a heart of stone, to viewMy darling ivy, torn from me, take rootAgainst another wall or prosperous pine,To see my virgin vineAround another elm in marriage hangIts curling tendrils and empurpled fruit,Without the torture of a jealous pang,Ev'n to the loss of life; in gentle woe,Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!What may not now be looked for to take placeIn any certain or uncertain case?What are too adverse now to join, too wildFor love to fear, too dissonant to agree?What faith is too secure to be beguiled?Matter for all thus being given by thee.A signal proof didst thou, when, rude and cold,Thou left'st my bleeding heart to break, presentTo all loved youths and maidsWhom heaven in its blue beauty overshades,That ev'n the most secure have cause to fearThe loss of that which they as sweet or dearCherish the most; in gentleness of woe,Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!Thou hast giv'n room for hope that now the mindMay work impossibilities most strange,And jarring natures in concordance bind;Transferring thus from me to him thy handAnd fickle heart in such swift interchange,As ever must be voiced from land to land.Now let mild lambs in nuptial fondness rangeWith savage wolves from forest brake to brake;Now let the subtle snakeIn curled caresses nest with simple doves,Harming them not, for in your ghastly lovesDifference is yet more great; in gentle woe,Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!My dairies always with new milk abound,Summer and winter, all my vats run o'erWith richest creams, and my superfluous storeOf cheese and butter is afar renowned;With as sweet songs have I amused thine earAs could the Mantuan Tityrus of yore,And more to be admired; nor am I, dear,If well observed, or so uncouth or grim,For in the watery looking-glass belowMy image I can see--a shape and faceI surely never would exchange with himWho joys in my disgrace;My fate I might exchange; in gentle woe,Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!How have I fallen in such contempt, how grownSo suddenly detested, or in whatAttentions have I failed thee? wert thou notUnder the power of some malignant spell,My worth and consequence were known too well;I should be held in pleasurable esteem,Nor left thus in divorce, alone--alone!Hast thou not heard, when fierce the Dogstar smitesThese plains with heat and drouth,What countless flocks to Cuenca's thymy heightsYearly I drive, and in the winter breme,To the warm valleys of the sheltering south?But what avails my wealth if I decay,And in perpetual sorrow weep awayMy years of youth! in gentleness of woe,Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!Over my griefs the mossy stones relentTheir natural durity, and break; the treesBend down their weeping boughs without a breeze,And full of tenderness, the listening birds,Warbling in different notes, with me lament,And warbling prophesy my death; the herdsThat in the green meads hang their heads at eve,Wearied, and worn, and faint,The necessary sweets of slumber leave,And low, and listen to my wild complaint.Thou only steel'st thy bosom to my cries,Not ev'n once rolling thine angelic eyesOn him thy harshness kills; in gentle woe,Flow forth, my tears, 'tis meet that ye should flow!But though thou wilt not come for my sad sake,Leave not the landscape thou hast held so dear;Thou may'st come freely now, without the fearOf meeting me, for though my heart should break,Where late forsaken I will now forsake.Come then, if this alone detains thee, hereAre meadows full of verdure, myrtles, bays,Woodlands, and lawns, and running waters clear,Beloved in other days,To which, bedewed with many a bitter tear,I sing my last of lays.These scenes perhaps, when I am far removed,At ease thou wilt frequentWith him who rifled me of all I loved;Enough! my strength is spent;And leaving thee in his desired embrace,It is not much to leave him this sweet place.Here ceased the youth his Doric madrigal,And sighing, with his last laments let fallA shower of tears; the solemn mountains round,Indulgent of his sorrow, tossed the soundMelodious from romantic steep to steep,In mild responses deep;Sweet Echo, starting from her couch of moss,Lengthened the dirge, and tenderest Philomel,As pierced with grief and pity at his loss,Warbled divine reply, nor seemed to trillLess than Jove's nectar from her mournful bill.What Nemoroso sang in sequel, tellYe, sweet-voiced Sirens of the sacred hill!Too high the strain, too weak my groveling reed,For me to dare proceed.

Smooth-sliding waters, pure and crystalline!Trees, that reflect your image in their breast!Green pastures, full of fountains and fresh shades!Birds, that here scatter your sweet serenades!Mosses, and reverend ivies serpentine,That wreathe your verdurous arms round beech and pine,And, climbing, crown their crest!Can I forget, ere grief my spirit changed,With what delicious ease and pure contentYour peace I wooed, your solitudes I ranged,Enchanted and refreshed where'er I went!How many blissful noons I here have spentIn luxury of slumber, couched on flowers,And with my own fond fancies, from a boy,Discoursed away the hours,Discovering nought in your delightful bowers,But golden dreams, and memories fraught with joy!And in this very valley where I nowGrow sad, and droop, and languish, have I lainAt ease, with happy heart and placid brow;Oh pleasure fragile, fugitive, and vain!Here, I remember, waking once at noon,I saw Eliza standing at my side;Oh cruel fate! oh finespun web, too soonBy Death's sharp scissors clipt! sweet, suffering bride,In womanhood's most interesting prime,Cut off, before thy time!How much more suited had his surly strokeBeen to the strong thread of my weary life!Stronger than steel, since in the parting strifeFrom thee, it has not broke.Where are the eloquent mild eyes that drewMy heart where'er they wandered? where the hand,White, delicate, and pure as melting dew,Filled with the spoils that, proud of thy command,My feelings paid in tribute? the bright hairThat paled the shining gold, that did contemnThe glorious opal as a meaner gem,The bosom's ivory apples, where, ah where?Where now the neck, to whiteness overwrought,That like a column with genteelest scornSustained the golden dome of virtuous thought?Gone! ah, for ever goneTo the chill, desolate, and dreary pall,And mine the grief--the wormwood and the gall!Who would have said, my love, when late through thisRomantic valley, we from bower to bowerWent gathering violets and primroses,That I should see the melancholy hourSo soon arrive that was to end my bliss,And of my love destroy both fruit and flower?Heaven on my head has laid a heavy hand;Sentencing, without hope, without appeal,To loneliness and ever-during tearsThe joyless remnant of my future years;But that which most I feel,Is to behold myself obliged to bearThis condemnation to a life of care;Lone, blind, forsaken, under sorrow's spell,A gloomy captive in a gloomy cell.Since thou hast left us, fulness, rest, and peaceHave failed the starveling flocks; the field suppliesTo the toiled hind but pitiful increase;All blessings change to ills; the clinging weedChokes the thin corn, and in its stead arisePernicious darnel, and the fruitless reed.The enamelled earth, that from her verdant breastLavished spontaneously ambrosial flowers,The very sight of which can soothe to restA thousand cares, and charm our sweetest hours,That late indulgence of her bounty scorns,And in exchange shoots forth but tangled bowers,But brambles rough with thorns;Whilst with the tears that falling steep their root,My swollen eyes increase the bitter fruit.As at the set of sun the shades extend,And when its circle sinks, that dark obscureRises to shroud the world, on which attendThe images that set our hair on end,Silence, and shapes mysterious as the grave;Till the broad sun sheds once more from the waveHis lively lustre, beautiful and pure:Such shapes were in the night, and such ill gloomAt thy departure; still tormenting fearHaunts, and must haunt me, until death shall doomThe so much wished-for sun to re-appearOf thine angelic face, my soul to cheer,Resurgent from the tomb.As the sad nightingale in some green wood,Closely embowered, the cruel hind arraignsWho from their pleasant nest her plumeless broodHas stolen, whilst she with painsWinged the wide forest for their food, and nowFluttering with joy, returns to the loved bough,The bough, where nought remains:Dying with passion and desire, she flingsA thousand concords from her various bill,Till the whole melancholy woodland ringsWith gurglings sweet, or with philippics shrill.Throughout the silent night she not refrainsHer piercing note, and her pathetic cry,But calls, as witness to her wrongs and pains,The listening stars and the responding sky.So I in mournful song pour forth my pain;So I lament,--lament, alas, in vain--The cruelty of death! untaught to spare,The ruthless spoiler ravished from my breastEach pledge of happiness and joy, that thereHad its beloved home and nuptial nest.Swift-seizing death! through thy despite I fillThe whole world with my passionate lament,Impórtuning the skies and valleys shrillMy tale of wrongs to echo and resent.A grief so vast no consolation knows,Ne'er can the agony my brain forsake,Till suffering consciousness in frenzy close,Or till the shattered chords of being break.Poor, lost Eliza! of thy locks of gold,One treasured ringlet in white silk I keepFor ever at my heart, which, when unrolled,Fresh grief and pity o'er my spirit creep;And my insatiate eyes, for hours untold,O'er the dear pledge will, like an infant's, weep:With sighs more warm than fire anon I dryThe tears from off it, number one by oneThe radiant hairs, and with a love-knot tie;Mine eyes, this duty done,Give over weeping, and with slight reliefI taste a short forgetfulness of grief.But soon, with all its first-felt horrors fraught,That gloomy night returns upon my brain,Which ever wrings my spirit with the thoughtOf my deep loss, and thine unaided pain;Ev'n now, I seem to see thee pale reclineIn thy most trying crisis, and to hearThe plaintive murmurs of that voice divine,Whose tones might touch the earOf blustering winds, and silence their dispute;That gentle voice (now mute)Which to the merciless Lucina prayed,In utter agony, for aid--for aid!Alas, for thine appeal! Discourteous power,Where wert thou gone in that momentous hour?Or wert thou in the grey woods hunting deer?Or with thy shepherd boy entranced? Could aughtPalliate thy rigorous cruelty, to turnAway thy scornful, cold, indifferent earFrom my moist prayers, by no affliction moved,And sentence one, so beauteous and beloved,To the funereal urn!Oh, not to mark the throesThy Nemoroso suffered, whose concernIt ever was, when pale the morning rose,To drive the mountain beasts into his toils,And on thy holy altars heap the spoils;And thou, ungrateful! smiling with delight,Could'st leave my nymph to die before my sight.Divine Eliza! since the sapphire skyThou measurest now on angel-wings, and feetSandalled with immortality, oh whyOf me forgetful? Wherefore not entreatTo hurry on the time when I shall seeThe veil of mortal being rent in twain,And smile that I am free?In the third circle of that happy land,Shall we not seek together, hand in hand,Another lovelier landscape, a new plain,Other romantic streams and mountains blue,Fresh flowery vales, and a new shady shore,Where I may rest, and ever in my viewKeep thee, without the terror and surpriseOf being sundered more!Ne'er had the shepherds ceased these songs, to whichThe hills alone gave ear, had they not seenThe sun in clouds of gold and crimson richDescend, and twilight sadden o'er the green;But noting now, how rapidly the nightRushed from the hills, admonishing to rest,The sad musicians, by the blushful lightOf lingering Hesperus, themselves addressedTo fold their flocks, and step by step withdrew,Through bowery lawns and pastures wet with dew.