Epistle to Boscán

Who loves like me for his friend's eye to frame Thoughts even on things that have no Spanish name, Can never want materials for his sheet, Clothed in a style brief, simple, easy, neat, And chaste in ornament, as best befits The chitchat writing of familiar wits. Amidst the' advantage which with other things To minds like ours perfected friendship brings, Is this same careless freedom which one gains From the nice pomp of ceremonial chains. Thus free, thus easy, I proceed to tell In the first place, that I'm arrived—and well As one can be, who in a time so brief Has rid the distance noted over-leaf. A looser rein I give, as I proceed, To my winged fancy than my trotting steed; At times it bears me onward by a way So smooth and pleasant, with a step so gay, As makes me quite forget my past fatigues; At times o'er ruts so rough, by such long leagues, That in the present pain I lose no less The vexing thought of undergone distress; But times there are again, when I create A middle course, both temperate and sedate, When taste and temper, scene and season suit With the ingenious thought and nice dispute. Thus as I musing rode one day, and thought On his endowments who so well has taught The paths to friendship,[AR] almost instantly My thoughts, beloved Boscán, recurred to thee, And feelings rose, which singular appear, At least to me, which therefore thou shalt hear. Whilst much reflecting on the sacred tie Of our affection which I hold so high, The' exchange of talent, taste, intelligence, Shared gifts and multiplied delights which thence Refresh our souls in their perpetual flow— There nothing is that makes me value so The sweetness of this compact of the heart, Than the affection on my own warm part. Such force it has, that (not disparaging The other pleasures that from friendship spring) The aid—the advantage each to each has dealt, With this alone my soul has seemed to melt, And I well know that I am otherwise Influenced in this than by the joys that rise From things as useful; seeing then the' effect So strong within me, led me to reflect And search into the cause; I have thus traced The pleasure, profit, ornament, and taste Which the blest chain of love to me imparts, (The chain some Angel tangled round our hearts) To their true source, as things that do not mount From me, but tell alone to my account; But love itself (whence all things may have birth) When it is seen to furnish aught of worth To thee, dear friend, joy, taste, or benefit, Is the grand reason of my valuing it Above all selfish interests, as it is More godlike to bestow imparted bliss, Than to receive it; thus the loving makes My good—a good that of no ill partakes. Such were my thoughts. But oh, how shall I set Fully to view my shame and my regret, For having praised so at a single glance The roads, the dealings, and hotels of France! Shame—that with reason now thou may'st pronounce Myself a fabler, and my praise a bounce; Regret—my time so much to have misused In rashly lauding what were best abused; For here, all fibs apart, you find but jades Of hacks, sour wines, and pilfering chambermaids, Long ways, long bills, no silver, fleecing hosts, And all the luxury of lumbering posts. Arriving too from Naples by the way, Naples,—the choice, the brilliant, and the gay! I left no treasure buried there, except You say that's buried which I might have kept; Embrace Durál for me, nor rate my Muse: October twelfth, given forth from sweet Vaucluse, Where the fine flame of Petrarch had its birth, And where its ashes yet irradiate earth.