Nemoroso

Hark then for a space To what I say; a singular strange case Will I relate, of which—but let that pass— I both the witness and the subject was. On Tormes' banks, the sweetest stream of Spain, Mild, sacred, clear, extends a spacious plain, Green in mid-winter, green in autumn, green In sultry summer as in spring serene; At the far end of which, the eye's delight, Charming in form, and of a pleasing height, A hill o'erlooks the scene, whose wood-crowned crest Fair towers surmount, whereon heaven seems to rest: Towers of strange beauty, not so much admired For their fine structure, although Toil has tired Thereon his curious chisel, as renowned For their grand Lords by glory haloed round. All that is deemed desirable and great May there be found, rank, wisdom, virtue, state, The gifts of Nature, and the stores of Art, Whatever Taste can wish, or Power impart. There, dwells a man of genius, whose rare touch Of the melodious lyre and pipe is such As ne'er to satiate with its notes of grace And flavourous tones, the Spirit of the place. On Trebia's field stood his paternal home, Trebia the red, the' Aceldama of Rome, And still, though numerous years have intervened, The favourite refuge of the same fierce fiend— Of war, whose crimson sword its turf has stained, Its green bowers ravaged, its pure waves profaned. He, seeing this, abandoned it to find Some scene more suited to his gentle mind: Good fortune led his footsteps to the hall Of ALBA, so that splendid seat they call, SEVERO him; the God of wit and light Pours all his rays on his sciential sight. He, when he wills, by signs and murmured spells, Can curb the swiftest, mightiest stream that swells; Change storms to golden calms, change night to noon, Bid thunders bellow, and pluck down the moon, If to his signals she will not reply, And check the car that whirls her through the sky. I fear, should I presume to speak in praise Of all his power and wisdom, I should raise His wrath, but this I must declare, above All other things, the pangs of slighted love He in an instant cures, removes the pain, Converts impassioned frenzy to disdain, Sadness to smiles, and on the soul's tuned keys Rewakes its old familiar melodies. I shall not know, Salicio, I am sure, To tell the means and method of my cure, But this I know, I came away quite sound, Pure from desire, and vigorous from my wound. I well remember that by Tormes' stream I found him rapt in some pathetic theme, Singing in strains whose sweetness might imprint The soul of feeling in a heart of flint: When me he saw, divining my desire, He changed the mode, and rectified his lyre; The praise of liberty from love he sings, And with a sprightlier spirit smites the strings; Reflected in his song, I stand confest The slave of sense, and alien from all rest, Shamed and surprised, till—how shall I explain That strange effect?—the fascinating strain The tincture takes of medicine, which, in brief, Flows through my veins, and, grappling with my grief, Roots out the venom: then was I as one Who all night long o'er break-neck crags has run, Not seeing where the path leads, till at last Light dawns, and looking back, the perils passed Rush on his sight, now so distinctly kenned, The mere idea sets his hair on end: So thunderstruck stood I, nor to this day Can I, without a shudder of dismay, Eye my past danger; my new scope of sight Presented all things in their proper light, And showed what I before with such a gust Had grasped for gold, to be but worthless dust. Such was the talisman, and such the skill With which that ancient sage uncharmed my will; My mind its native liveliness regained, And my heart bounded as from bonds unchained.