Albanio

Relief is certain with a friend so sure, When such the sickness as admits of cure; But this, this pierces to my marrow! Still, Our shared pursuits by fountain, grove, and hill, And our vowed friendship to thy wishes win My else-sealed lips;—yet, how shall I begin? My soul, my brain, with clouds is overcast, At but the mere remembrance of the past— The alarm, the mortal wound, the sudden pain, Then every earlier feeling felt again, Linked with the blighted present, all prevail, And, like a spectre, scare me from the tale. But yet, methinks, 'twere wisdom to obey, Lay bare the wound, and sorrowing bleed away From anguish and from life; and thus, dear friend, From the commencement to the fatal end, My woes will I relate, without disguise, Though the sad tale my soul reluctant flies. Well have I loved, well shall love, whilst the ray Of life celestial lights this coil of clay, The maid for whom I die! No free-will choice, No thoughtless chase at Folly's calling voice Led me to love, nor, oft as others aim, With flattering fancies did I feed the flame; But from my tenderest infancy, perforce, Some fatal star inclined me to its course. Thou know'st a maiden, beautiful and young, From my own ancestors remotely sprung, Lovelier than Love himself; in infancy Vowed to Diana of the woods, with glee, Amidst them, skilled the sylvan war to wage, She passed the rosy April of her age: I, who from night till morning, and from morn Till night, to challenge of the sprightly horn, Followed the inspiring chase without fatigue, Came by degrees in such familiar league With her, by like pursuits and tastes allied, I could not stir an instant from her side. Hour after hour this union stricter grew, Joined with emotions precious, pure, and new: What tangled mountain has been left untraced By our swift feet? What heath, or leafy waste Of forests, has not heard our hunting cry? What babbling echo not been tired thereby? Ever with liberal hands, when ceased our toils, To the chaste patron who decreed our spoils, We heaped the holy altars, talking o'er Past risks, now offering of the grisly boar The grim and tusked head, and nailing now The stag's proud antlers on the sacred bough Of some tall pine; and thus when evening burned, With grateful, happy hearts, we home returned; And when we shared the quarry, never went From us one word or look of discontent. Hunting of all kinds charmed, but that the most Of simple birds, snared ever with least cost Of toil; and when desired Aurora showed Her rosy cheeks, and locks like gold that glowed, With dew impearling all the forest flowers, Away we passed to unfrequented bowers, In the most secret valley we could find, Shut from the tread and talk of humankind; Then, binding to two lofty trees, unseen, Our tinctured webs of very perfect green, Our voices hushed, our steps as midnight still, We netted off the vale from hill to hill; Then, fetching a small compass, by degrees We turned toward the snares, and shook the trees, And stormed the shadiest nooks with shout and sling, Till the whole wood was rustling on the wing: Blackbirds, larks, goldfinches, before us flew, Distracted, scared, not knowing what to do. Who shunned the less, the greater evil met, Confusedly taken in the painted net; And curious then it was to hear them speak Their griefs with doleful cry and piercing shriek; Some—for the swarms were countless—you might see Fluttering their wings and striving to get free, Whilst others, far from showing signs of rage, In dumb affliction drooped about the cage; Till, drawing tight the cords, proud of the prey Borne at our backs, we took our homeward way. But when moist autumn came, and yellow fell The wild-wood leaves round bowerless Philomel; When August heats were past, a different sport, But no less idle, we were wont to court, To pass the day with joy; then, well you know, Black clouds of starlings circle to and fro: Mark now the craft that we employed to snare These birds that go through unobstructed air. One straggler first from their vast companies, Alive we captured, which was done with ease; Next, to its foot a long limed thread we tied, And when the passing squadron we descried, Aloft we tossed it; instantly it mixed Amongst the rest, and our success was fixed; For soon, as many as the tangling string, Or by the head, or leg, or neck, or wing, In its aërial voyage twined around, Flagged in their strength, and fell towards the ground, Yet not without long strugglings in their flight, Much to their mischief, and to our delight. Useless to it was the prophetic croak Of the black rook in the umbrageous oak; When one of them alive, as oft occurred, Fell in our hands, we made the captive bird Decoy to many a captive; to a plain Spacious, and sowed perchance with winter grain, Where flocks of rooks in company resort, Our prize we took, and instant to the sport. By the extreme points of its wings, to ground, But without breaking them, the bird we bound; Then followed what you scarce conceive; it stood With eyes turned upward, in the attitude Of one that contemplates the stars; from sight Meanwhile we drew, when, frantic with affright, It pierced the air with loud, distressful cries, And summoned down its brethren from the skies. Instant a swift swarm which no tongue could name, Flew to its aid, and round it stalking came. One, of its fellow's doom more piteous grown Than cautious or considerate of its own, Drew close—and on the first exertion made, With death or sad captivity it paid For its simplicity; the pinioned rook So fast clung to it with the grappling-hook Of its strong claws, that without special leave It could not part: now you may well conceive What our amusement was to see the twain, That to break loose and this fresh aid to gain, Wrestling engage; the quarrel did not cool Till finished by our hand, and the poor fool Was left at mournful leisure to repent Of the vain help its thoughtless pity lent. What would'st thou say, if, standing centinel With upraised leg when midnight shadows fell, The crane was snared betwixt us? Of no use Was its sagacious caution to the goose, Or its perpetual fame for second-sight Against the snares and stratagems of night. Nought could its strength or sleight at swimming save The white swan, dwelling on the pathless wave, Lest it by fire, like Phaëton, should die, For whom its shrill voice yet upbraids the sky. And thou, sad partridge, think'st thou that to flee Straight from the copse secures thy life to thee? Thy fall is in the stubble! On no bird, No beast, had nature for defence conferred Such cunning, but that by the net or shaft It fell, subdued by our superior craft. But were I each particular to tell Of this delightful life, the vesper bell Would sound ere it was done: enough to know That this fond friendship, this divine-faced foe, So pure from passion, undisturbed by fears, To different colour changed my rising years. My ill star shone; the spirit of unrest, And love, excessive love, my soul possessed; So deep, so absolute, I no more knew Myself, but doubted if the change were true. Then first I felt to mingle with the stir Of sweet sensations in beholding her, Fearful desires that on their ardent wings Raised me to hope impracticable things. Pain for her absence was not now a pain, Nor even an anguish brooding in the brain, But torment keen as death—the ceaseless smart Of fire close raging in the naked heart. To this sad pass I gradually was brought By my ill star, and ne'er could I have thought Its baneful power reached farther, were it not Proved but too surely by my present lot, That, when compared with these, my former woes Might be considered as a sweet repose. But here 'tis fit the hated tale that swells My soul with grief, and thrills the tongue that tells, Should find a close, nor sadden, though it sears Albanio's memory, kind Salicio's ears. Few words will speak the rest;—one hour, but one— Wrecked my last joy, and left me quite undone.