On the Death of His Brother, Don Bernardino De Toledo

Although this heavy stroke has touched my soulWith such regret, that I myself requireSome friend my deep depression to console,That my spent fancy may afresh respire;Yet would I try, if chance the' Aonian choirGive me the requisite assistance, justTo strike a little comfort from the lyre,Thy frenzy to assuage, revive thy trust,And raise once more thy head and honours from the dust.

At thy distress the pitying Muses weep;For neither, as I hear, when suns arise,Nor when they set, giv'st thou thy sorrows sleep,Rather by brooding o'er them as one dies,Creat'st another, with disordered eyesStill weeping, that I fear to see thy mindAnd spirit melt away in tears and sighs,Like snows on hill-tops, which the rainy windMoaning dissolves away, and leaves no trace behind.

Or if by chance thy wearied thought finds restFor a few moments in desired repose,'Tis to return to grief with added zest;In that short slumber thy poor brother showsPallid as when he swooned away in throesFrom his sweet life, and thou, intent to liftHis dear delusive corse, dost but encloseThe vacant air; then Sleep revokes her gift,And from thy waking eye the mimic form flies swift.

Yet cherishing the dream, with sense at strife,Thyself no more, thou anxiously look'st roundFor that beloved brother, who through lifeThe better portion of thy soul was found,Which, dying, could not leave it wholly sound;And thus, forlorn, distracted, dost thou go,Invoking him in shrieks and groans profound,How changed in aspect! hurrying to and fro,As mad Lampecia erst beside the fatal Po.

With the like earnest exclamations, sheHer Phaëton bewailed; "wild waves, restoreMy poor lost brother, if you would not seeMe too die, watering with my tears your shore!"Oft, oh how oft, did she the stream implore!How oft, revived by grief, her shrieks renew!And oh, as oft, that active frenzy o'er,Whispering, 'twas all she could, green earth adieu,Pale on the poplar shore her faded foliage strew.

Yet, I confess, if any accidentIn this for-ever shifting state should bendThe noble soul so loudly to lament,It were the present, since a mournful endHas thus deprived thee of so dear a friend,(Not a mere brother) one who not aloneShared thy deep counsels, taught thee to unbend,And knew each secret that to thee was known;But every shade of thought peculiarly thine own.

In him reposed thy honourable, discreet,And wise opinions, used but as the caseChimed with his own; in him were seen to meetThy every virtue, excellence, and grace,With lovely light, as in a crystal vaseOr glassy column, whose transparence showsAll things reflected in its lucid face,--Sunlight, gem, flower, the rainbow, and the rose,Clear in its vivid depth plays, sparkles, smiles, or glows.

Oh the dark doom, the miserable lotOf human life, that through such trouble flies!One storm comes threatening ere the last's forgot,Fast as one ill departs, severer rise;Whom has not war snatched from our weeping eyes!Whom has not toil worn out! who has not lavedIn blood his foeman's sword! who not seen riseA thousand times the phantom he has braved,But by hair-breadth escapes miraculously saved!

To many, oh how many, will be lostHome, son, wife, memory, undistracted brain,And fortune unincumbered! of this cost,What rich returns, what vestiges remain?Fortune? 'tis nought; fame? glory? victory? gain?Distinction? would'st thou know, our history read;Thou wilt there find that our fatigue and pain,Like dust upon the wind is driven with speed,Long ere our bright designs successfully proceed.

Invidious Death oft from the unripe earGathers the grain; but in this cruel turn,Not satisfied with being but so severe,Has neither spared his youth, nor our concern;Who could have prophesied a stroke so stern!Whom had not hope deceived, alas, to vowThat one so virtuous from the dreary urnWas surely charmed by that ingenuous brow,O'er which the furrowing years had not yet driven their plough!

Yet is it not his losses, but our ownThat we should weep; remorseless Death has madeA thousand clear discoveries, he has shownLong life a torment, joy a posting shade,And youth, grace, beauty, gems but to be paid,Poor Nature's tax, at his tyrannic shrine;Yet could not Death so far thy form degrade,But that, when life itself was past, each lineShould yet of beauty speak, and workmanship divine.

'Tis true, it was a beauty unattendedBy the rose-hues which Nature with such skillHad with the virgin lily's whiteness blendedDuring thy life; the Spoiler had turned chillThe flame that tempered its chaste snows, but still'Twas beauty most emphatic! thou didst restCalm and composed, as though 'twas but thy willTo sleep; a smile upon thy lips impressedTold of the life to come, and spoke thy spirit blest.

What will the mother of thy love do now,Who loved thee as her soul? ah me, I hearThe sound of her laments! what shrieks avowHer agony! shrieks ringing far and near,Which thy four sisters echo back, whose drearDistress augments her grief; I see them go,Forlorn, distracted, scattering o'er thy bierOf their long ravished locks the golden flow,Outraging every charm in concord with her woe.

I see old Tormes, full of sad concern,With his white choir of nymphs forsake the waves,And water earth with tears; not o'er his urnCouched in the sweet cool of moist shady caves,But on hot summer sands outstretched, he bravesThe flaring sunbeams; flung abandoned down,He with hoarse groans for Bernardino raves;The yellow daffodils his locks that crown,Tears with his tangled beard, and rends his sea-green gown.

His weeping Nymphs stand round him, unadorned,Uncombed their yellow tresses; weep no more,Your radiant eyes sufficiently have mourned,Beauteous frequenters of the reedy shore!With more availing sympathy restoreThe mother, standing on distraction's verge;Soon shall the dear chaste relics you deplore,Inurned in marble, sleep beside your surge,And your melodious waves prolong my funeral dirge.

And you, Nymphs, Satyrs, Fauns, that in green bowersLive free from care, search each Sicilian steepFor salutary herbs and virtuous flowers,To cure Fernando of a grief so deep;Search every secret shade, as when you peepAfter the lightfoot nymphs, and bounding goO'er vales and rocks, so may they when asleepYou in their solitudes surprise them, showKind as yourselves can wish, and with like fervour glow.

But thou, Fernando, thou whose deeds both pastAnd recent, deeds which to a loftier aimOblige thee to aspire, such splendour cast,Consider where thou art! for if the nameWhich thou, the great and glorified of Fame,Hast gained among the nations, find its date,Thy virtue somewhat must relax, and blameBe thine; and not to brave the storms of fateWith a serene resolve consists not with the Great.

Not thus the shaft, shot by some fatal starIn its due course, should pierce the noble soul;Ev'n if the heavens should in the dreadful jarOf maddening elements together roll,And fall in fragments like a shrivelled scroll,It should be crushed rather than entertainDejection; crags conduct to the high goalOf immortality, and he whom painLeads to decline the' ascent, can ne'er the crown attain.

Call it not stern: for nature's due relief,To human weakness freely I concedeThe natural tears of overflowing grief,But the excess which would delight to feedOn its own vitals, and indulged proceedTo all eternity, I must assail;And Time at least, who lessens in his speedAll mortal things beside, if reason fail,Should o'er thy grief at length be suffered to prevail.

Hector was not for ever so lamentedBy his sad mother, or his more sad sire,But when the fierce Achilles had relentedTo his submissive tears, at his desireYielding the corse, and when funereal fireThose dear devoted relics had possessed,The shrieks they silenced of the Phrygian choir,Their own acute soliloquies suppressed,Stifled the rising groan, and soothed their sighs to rest.

Venus, in this point human, what did sheNot feel, perceiving forest, field, and flower,Flushed with her darling's blood! but taught to seeThat clouding her bright eyes with shower on showerOf tears, might harm herself, but had no powerTo purchase her beloved boy's returnFrom ruthless Proserpine's Cimmerian bower,She dried her eyes, subdued her vain concern,And with calm hand entwined her myrtles round his urn.

And soon with light and graceful steps once moreIdalia's verdurous paradise she pressed,Her usual ornaments and garlands wore,And round her clasped her beauty-breathing cest;The winds in wanton flights her locks caressed,And with fresh joy her looks and rosy bloomAll ocean, earth, and sky divinely blessed:So look I forward to see thee resumeWisely thy firmness past, and banish fruitless gloom.

Let thy desire to reach the skies, where care,And death, and sorrow lose their dues, sufficeWithout fresh instance; thou wilt notice thereHow little Death has hurt the memoriesOf his illustrious victims; cast thine eyesWhither Faith calls thee, where the ransomed soulRests purified by fire, not otherwiseThan was Alcides, to its heavenly goalWhen his purged spirit flew from Oeta's topmost knowl.

Thus he for whom such thousand tears are shed,Who by a difficult and arduous wayWas from his mortal stains refined, is fledTo realms of glory, whence in broad surveyHe sees blind mortals in the dark, astray,And pitying, musing on these pangs of ours,Joys to have spread his wings abroad, where day,Day without night, leads on immortal hours,And Bliss his sapphire crown wreathes round with amaranth flowers.

He Heaven's pure crystalline walks hand in handWith his brave grandsire and his sire renowned,The image of their virtues; to the bandOf angels, pleased they point each radiant wound;This high reward his heroism has found,The only vengeance granted in the skiesTo earthly foes; the ocean flowing roundThis globe of ours--the globe itself he eyes,And learns its petty toys and trifles to despise.

He there beholds the mystic glass which showsThe past, the present, and the future joined;He sees the period when thy life shall close;He sees the place to thee in heaven assigned;Thrice happy soul, freed from the affections blindWith which on earth so fruitlessly we yearn!Who liv'st in peace and blessedness enshrined,And shalt live long as, lit at love's bright urn,With fire of joy divine celestial spirits burn.

And if kind heaven the wished duration lendTo this my sorrowing Elegy, I vowWhilst shade and sunlight o'er the world extendTheir robes of gloom or glory, whilst winds bowThe woods, whilst lions haunt the mountain's brow,Or fish the ocean, long as oceans roll,The world shall sing of thee; since all allowThat one so young, enriched with such a soul,Will ne'er again be seen from Pole to sparkling Pole.