Elegy II. to Boscán, Written at the Foot of Mount Etna

Boscán! here, where the Mantuan has inurnedAnchises' ashes to eternal fame,We, Cæsar's hosts, from conquest are returned,Some of their toils the promised fruits to claim--Some who make virtue both the end and aimOf action, or would have the world supposeAnd say so, loud in public to declaimAgainst such selfishness; whilst yet, heaven knows,They act in secret all the meanness they oppose.

For me, a happy medium I observe;For never has it entered in my schemeTo strive for much more silver than may serveTo lift me gracefully from each extremeOf thrifty meanness, thriftless pride; I deemThe men contemptible that stoop to useThe one or other, that delight to seemToo close, or inconsiderate in their views:In error's moonlight maze their way both worthies lose.

But whither rove I? I stand pledged to sendAn elegy, and find my language fastSliding toward satire; I correct, sweet friend,My wandering course; and prosecute at lastMy purpose, whither thou must know the pastHas ever led, and where the present stillLeads Garcilasso: on the green turf cast,Here, midst the woods of this stupendous hill,On various things I brood, not unperplexed by ill.

Yet leave I not the Muses, but the moreFor this perplexity with them commune,And with the charm of their delicious loreVary my life, and waste the summer noon;Thus pass my hours beguiled; but out of tuneThe lyre will sometimes be, when trials proveThe anxious lyrist: to the country soonOf the sweet Siren shall I hence remove,Yet, as of yore, the land of idlesse, ease, and love.

There once before my troubled heart found restWith the sad turtle; but it is not nowSo much by sadness as chill fear possessed,Which, shooting through my veins, I know not howTo' endure and still exist; did sadness bowMy spirit but as then, 'twere a mere name;Short absence from one's love, I even allow,Enlivens life; slight water poured on flameBrightens its blaze--in love short absence does the same.

But if much water on the flame is shed,It fumes, it hisses, and the splendid fireDecays into dark ashes; absence spreadInto great length, so deals with the desireKindled by love, and o'er the smouldering pyreOf passion coldness creeps: I only wrongThis one result; the love that would expireWith all else lives in me, and, short or long,Absence augments my ills, and makes desire more strong.

And reason, it might almost be presumed,Confirms the paradox thus made of me,And me alone; for doomed, as I was doomedBy heaven to love's sweet fires eternally,Absence to quench the flame should also beInfinite without end, unlimitedIn its duration--a most startling plea,True though it is, for absence can but spreadThrough life, which finite is--it not disturbs the dead.

But how, oh how shall I be sure, that hereMy evil Genius, in the change I seek,Is not still sworn against me? this strong fearIt is that chills my heart, and renders weakThe wish I feel to visit that antiqueItalian city, whence my eyes deriveSuch exquisite delight, with tears they speakOf the contrasting griefs my heart that rive,And with them up in arms against me here I strive.

Oh fierce--oh rigorous--oh remorseless Mars!In diamond tunic garmented, and soSteeled always in the harshness that debarsThe soul from feeling! wherefore as a foeForce the fond lover evermore to goOnward from strife to strife, o'er land and sea?Exerting all thy power to work me woe,I am so far reduced, that death would beAt length a blessed boon, my refuge, fiend, from thee!

But my hard fate this blessing does deny--I meet it not in battle; the strong spear,Sharp sword, and piercing arrow pass me by,Yet strike down others in their young career,That I might pine away to see my dearSweet fruit engrossed by aliens who derideMy vain distress; but whither does my fearAnd grief transport me without shame or pride?Whither I dread to think, and grieve to have descried?

Where the seen evil (from despair's revealingsBeing already lost) can ne'er augmentMy pain a tittle; such are now my feelings--Yet if, when come, it should unveiled presentIts face of horror, what I now lamentWould gain in brightness; I should always feelGrateful to Fortune, if she would consentMerely on what my anxious fears revealOf pictured ills in store, to' affix her final seal.

It is, I know, the way to soothe the heartWith self-deceit, and dwell alone thereon,As the sick man to whom true friends impartHis hopeless state, and warn him that anonHis failing, fluttering spirit must be gone,Soothed by his wife's fond clamours that his caseIs not so bad, to fresh assurance won,Casts at the word his eyes on her dear face,And glad at heart expires, endeavouring her embrace.

'Tis wise--'tis well; thus Garcilasso tooWill leave each dark reflection, and relyOn Hope's gay dreams, no matter false or true,And in his dear deceit contented die.Since the clear knowledge that my end is nighCan never cure the ill, I too will playWith death, and as lost patients when they tryWarm baths, and perish in unfelt decay,From love and life alike most sweetly faint away.

But thou, who in thy villa, blest with allThat heart can wish, look'st on the sweet sea-shore,And undistracted, listening to the fallAnd swell of the loud waves that round thee roar,Gatherest to thy already rich scrutoire,Fresh living verses for perpetual fame,Rejoice! for fires more beauteous than of yoreWere kindled by the Dardan prince, inflameThy philosophic breast, and light thy laurelled name.

Fear not that Fortune with thwart blast will e'erVex thee--these lucid fires will calmness shedOn her wild winds; for me, I well see whereShe forces me along, not to the dead,For that is my desire; my hope is fedBy a deceit most slight, which does but justEndure, whilst if I weave not the thin threadDay after day, it breaking leaves my trustPast fresh revival fallen, and darkening into dust.

This sole return my servitude obtainsFrom stepdame Fortune, that she should denyHer common changes in the griefs and painsThat vex my being; whither shall I fly,A moment to shake off the miseryThat loads my heart? alas, it is decreedThat distance to my anguish should supplyNo rest, no ease, but that where'er I speed,My arm from cankering chains should never more be freed!

If where the burning sun his splendour flingsOn the scorched sands of Africa the wild,Nurse of all venomous and savage things,Or where his fire is quenched by ices piledOn ices to the clouds, where flower ne'er smiled,Nor save the hoarse blast aught endured the clime,I by imperious Fortune were exiled,There to consume my melancholy time,Smit by the' unshadowed blaze, or rained on by the rime;--

There, with his icy hand Fear still would seizeOn my sad heart, and here, mid silent snows,Where the sharp wind seems ev'n the stars to freeze,Curdling to ice the flood that swiftest flows;Ev'n here, I know that I could interposeNo screen to shield me from the vivid fireWherein chastised my ardent spirit glows,Wasting away I trust by slow desire,And thus 'twixt clashing ills distractedly expire.