Albanio

Now then, Salicio, hear what I disclose; And you, the Dryads of this leafy grove, Where'er you be, attend my tale of love! I have already told the prosperous part, And if in peace I could have fixed my heart, How happy had I been; but the desire, The constant striving to conceal my fire From her, alas! whose sweet and gentle breath But fanned it, brought me to the gates of death. A thousand times she begged, implored to know What secret something vexed my spirit so; In my pale aspect she too plainly read Grief of some sort, and gaiety was fled; Thus would she say, thus sue to me, but sighs And tears of anguish were my sole replies. One afternoon, returning from the chase Fatigued and fevered, in the sweetest place Of this wide forest, even where now we sit, We both resolved our toil to intermit. Under the branches of this beech we flung Our limbs at ease, and our bent bows unstrung. Thus idly lying, we inspired with zest The sweet, fresh spirit breathing from the west. The flowers with which the mosses were inlaid, A rich diversity of hues displayed, And yielded scents as various; in the sun, Lucid as glass, this clear, shrill fountain shone, Revealing in its depth the sands like gold, And smooth, white pebbles whence its waters rolled; Nor goat, nor stag, nor hermit, nor the sound Of distant sheepbells, broke the stillness round. When with the water of the shaded pool We had assuaged our thirst, and grew more cool, She, who with kind solicitude still kept The' intent to know why I so often wept, With solemn prayers adjured me to confess The cause or object of my sore distress; And if 'twas love, not to be swayed by shame, But own it such, and write the lady's name; Vowing that as she always from her youth Had shown me an affection full of truth, So in this instance she with pure good-will Would aid my views, and prove a sister still. I, who no longer could my soul contain, Yet dared not openly the truth explain, Told her that in the fountain she might read Her name whose beauty made my bosom bleed. Her eager mind was instant on the wing, She rose, she ran, and looked into the spring, But seeing only her own face there, blushed With maiden shame, and from the water rushed, Swift as if touched with madness, not a look She deigned me, but her way disdainful took, And left me murmuring here, till life shall fail, My rash resolve for ever to bewail. My folly I accused—all, all engrossed In vain reflections on the' advantage lost. Thus grew my grief; thus fatally misled, What sighs did I not breathe, what tears not shed; For countless hours stretched here I lay, with eyes Rigidly fixed upon the vacant skies; And as one grief in hand another brought, The ceaseless tear, the phantasies of thought, The frequent swoon, remorse for felt offence, Regret, despair, the senselessness of sense, And a benumbing consciousness of pain Perpetual, almost, almost whirled my brain. I know not how I found my friends, nor what Led my stray footsteps homeward to my cot; I only know four suns had risen and past, Since fasting, sleepless, motionless, aghast, I had lain here; my herds too had been left All this long time, of wonted grass bereft; The calves that lately frisked it o'er the field, Finding their udders no refreshment yield, Lowing complained to the unheeding skies; The woods, alone considerate of their cries, Rebellowing loudly, gave back the lament, As though condoling with their discontent. These things yet moved me not; the many—all In fact, that now upon me came to call, Were frightened with my weeping; rumour led, And curious wonder, numbers to my shed; The shepherds, herdsmen, pruners of the vines, Anxious to serve me, with sincerest signs Of pity, pleaded, prayed me to declare The cause of my mad grief and deep despair; Stretched on the earth, to them my sole replies Were broken groans, fast tears, and fiery sighs; Or if at times I spoke, one answer came From my wild lips—the same, and still the same: "Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore, Soon will you sing, 'Albanio is no more!' This little comfort I at least shall have, Though I be laid within the wormy grave, Sad you will sing, 'Albanio is no more,' Swains of the Tagus, on its flowery shore!" The fifth night came: my ill star then inspired My brain to dare what had been long desired— The shuffling off life's load, and out I rushed With wild resolve—creation all was hushed; Through the dusk night I hurried to descry Some lonely spot where I might fitly die. As chance would have it, my faint footsteps drew To a high cliff which yet far off I knew, As pendant o'er the flood, scooped into caves By constant sapping of the restless waves. There, as I sate beneath an elm, o'erspent, A sudden ray returning memory lent: I once, with her, had to the neighbouring trees Come at midnoon to take the cooling breeze. On this my fancy fixed; the thought like balm Assuaged my frenzy, and I grew more calm. And now the dawn with roses had begun To pave the path of the resplendent sun, To which the green trees bowed, and, woke from rest, The smiling Ocean bared her heaving breast; When, as the melancholy swan, that feeling Life's latest anguish o'er her spirit stealing, Sings with her quivering bill and melting breath, Sad, but most sweet, the lullaby to death; So I, in equal pain and sickness lying, The immortal passing, and the mortal dying, Took my last farewell of the skies and sun, In passionate laments that thus might run: "Oh! fierce as Scythian bears in thy disdain, And as the howling of the stormy main Deaf to my plaints, come, conqueress, take thy prey, A wretched frame fast hastening to decay! I faint—I die, and thus will put an end To thy dislike; no longer shall offend The' enamoured breast where thy dear beauty lies, My mournful face, rash lips, or weeping eyes. Then thou, who in my lifetime scorned to move One step to comfort me, or even reprove, Stern to the last,—then thou wilt come, perchance, And as thine eyes on my cold relics glance, Repent thy rigour, and bewail my fate; But the slow succour will have come too late. Canst thou so soon my long, long love forget, And in a moment break without regret The bond of years? hast thou forgotten too Childhood's sweet sports, whence first my passion grew, When from the bowery ilex I shook down Its autumn fruit, which on the crag's high crown We tasted, sitting, chattering side by side? Who climbed trees swinging o'er the hoarse deep tide, And poured into thy lap, or at thy feet, Their kernelled nuts, the sweetest of the sweet? When did I ever place my foot within The flowery vale, brown wood, or dingle green, And culled not thousand odorous flowers to crest Thy golden curls, or breathe upon thy breast? You used to swear, when I was absent far, There was no brightness in the morning star, For you no sweetness in the noon's repose, Taste in the wave, nor fragrance in the rose. Whom do I wail to? Not a single word Is heard by her by whom it should be heard. Echo alone in pity deigns to hear me, And with her mimic answers strives to cheer me, Remembering sweet Narcissus, and the pain Which she herself endured from shy disdain; But ev'n kind Echo pity deems a fault, Nor stands revealed within her hollow vault. Spirits! if such there be, that take the care Of dying lovers, and attend their prayer, Or personal genius of my life! receive The words I utter, ere my soul takes leave Of its frail tenement! oh Dryades! Peculiar guardians of these verdant trees, And you, swift-swimming Naiads who reside In this my native river! from the tide Upraise your rosy heads, if there be one That sighs, and weeps, and loves as I have done; That I, white Goddesses, may have to say— Though my weak plaints and unmelodious lay Moved not one human eye to pitying tears, The mournful dirge could touch diviner ears. Oh fleet-foot Oreads of the hills! who go Chasing through chestnut groves the hart and roe, Leave wounding animals, draw near, and scan The last convulsions of a wounded man! And you, most gracious Maidens, that amid The night of woods till summer noons lie hid, Then, crowned with roses, issue from your oaks, Your white breasts covered with your golden locks; Sweet Hamadryads! hear my plaints forlorn, And if with angry Fate ye are not sworn Against me, to the causes of my death Give celebration and perpetual breath. Oh wolves! oh bears! that in the deep descents Of these o'ershaded caves to my laments Are listening now, as oft my flute could move Your shaggy ears, and lull you into love, Repose in peace! farewell each high-browed mountain! Green crofts, farewell! Adieu thou fatal fountain! Still waters, foaming streams, and you, ye strong Sonorous cataracts, farewell! live long, Long ages after me, and as ye sweep To pay rich tribute to the hoary deep, Oft sound my sad voice through the stony vales; Oft to the traveller tell autumnal tales Of him whose tuneful ditties charmed of old Your living waves, rejoicing as ye rolled; Who watered here his heifers, day by day, And crowned with wreaths of laurel and of bay, The brows of his strong bulls:"—and saying this, I rose, from that tremendous precipice To fling myself, and clambered up the hill With hasty strides, and a determined will; When lo! a blast sufficient to displace The huge sierra from its stable base, Arose and smote me to the earth, where long I lay astonished from a stroke so strong. But when at length I came to recollect, And on the marvel seriously reflect, I blamed my impious rashness, and the crime That sought to end before the destined time, By means so terrible, my life of grief, Though harsh, determinate, though bitter, brief. I have since then been steadily resigned To wait for death, when mercilessly kind It comes to free me from my pangs; and now, See how it comes! Though heav'n did not allow Me to find death, the assassin is left free To find, and shake his fatal dart o'er me.— I have now told thee the true cause, the cross Occurrence, pain, and process of my loss; Fulfil thy promise now, and if thou art Indeed my friend, as I believe, depart; Nor give disturbance to a grief so deep— Its only solace is the wish to weep.