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

Boscán! here, where the Mantuan has inurned Anchises' 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 aim Of action, or would have the world suppose And say so, loud in public to declaim Against 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 scheme To strive for much more silver than may serve To lift me gracefully from each extreme Of thrifty meanness, thriftless pride; I deem The men contemptible that stoop to use The one or other, that delight to seem Too close, or inconsiderate in their views: In error's moonlight maze their way both worthies lose.

But whither rove I? I stand pledged to send An elegy, and find my language fast Sliding toward satire; I correct, sweet friend, My wandering course; and prosecute at last My purpose, whither thou must know the past Has ever led, and where the present still Leads 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 more For this perplexity with them commune, And with the charm of their delicious lore Vary my life, and waste the summer noon; Thus pass my hours beguiled; but out of tune The lyre will sometimes be, when trials prove The anxious lyrist: to the country soon Of 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 rest With the sad turtle; but it is not now So much by sadness as chill fear possessed, Which, shooting through my veins, I know not how To' endure and still exist; did sadness bow My spirit but as then, 'twere a mere name; Short absence from one's love, I even allow, Enlivens life; slight water poured on flame Brightens 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 fire Decays into dark ashes; absence spread Into great length, so deals with the desire Kindled by love, and o'er the smouldering pyre Of passion coldness creeps: I only wrong This one result; the love that would expire With 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 doomed By heaven to love's sweet fires eternally, Absence to quench the flame should also be Infinite without end, unlimited In its duration—a most startling plea, True though it is, for absence can but spread Through life, which finite is—it not disturbs the dead.

But how, oh how shall I be sure, that here My evil Genius, in the change I seek, Is not still sworn against me? this strong fear It is that chills my heart, and renders weak The wish I feel to visit that antique Italian city, whence my eyes derive Such exquisite delight, with tears they speak Of 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 so Steeled always in the harshness that debars The soul from feeling! wherefore as a foe Force the fond lover evermore to go Onward 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 be At 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 dear Sweet fruit engrossed by aliens who deride My vain distress; but whither does my fear And grief transport me without shame or pride? Whither I dread to think, and grieve to have descried?

Where the seen evil (from despair's revealings Being already lost) can ne'er augment My pain a tittle; such are now my feelings— Yet if, when come, it should unveiled present Its face of horror, what I now lament Would gain in brightness; I should always feel Grateful to Fortune, if she would consent Merely on what my anxious fears reveal Of pictured ills in store, to' affix her final seal.

It is, I know, the way to soothe the heart With self-deceit, and dwell alone thereon, As the sick man to whom true friends impart His hopeless state, and warn him that anon His failing, fluttering spirit must be gone, Soothed by his wife's fond clamours that his case Is 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 too Will leave each dark reflection, and rely On Hope's gay dreams, no matter false or true, And in his dear deceit contented die. Since the clear knowledge that my end is nigh Can never cure the ill, I too will play With death, and as lost patients when they try Warm baths, and perish in unfelt decay, From love and life alike most sweetly faint away.

But thou, who in thy villa, blest with all That heart can wish, look'st on the sweet sea-shore, And undistracted, listening to the fall And 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 yore Were kindled by the Dardan prince, inflame Thy philosophic breast, and light thy laurelled name.

Fear not that Fortune with thwart blast will e'er Vex thee—these lucid fires will calmness shed On her wild winds; for me, I well see where She forces me along, not to the dead, For that is my desire; my hope is fed By a deceit most slight, which does but just Endure, whilst if I weave not the thin thread Day after day, it breaking leaves my trust Past fresh revival fallen, and darkening into dust.

This sole return my servitude obtains From stepdame Fortune, that she should deny Her common changes in the griefs and pains That vex my being; whither shall I fly, A moment to shake off the misery That loads my heart? alas, it is decreed That distance to my anguish should supply No 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 flings On the scorched sands of Africa the wild, Nurse of all venomous and savage things, Or where his fire is quenched by ices piled On 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 seize On 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 interpose No screen to shield me from the vivid fire Wherein chastised my ardent spirit glows, Wasting away I trust by slow desire, And thus 'twixt clashing ills distractedly expire.