Salicio, Nemoroso

The sweet lament of two Castilian swains, Salicio's love and Nemoroso's tears, In sympathy I sing, to whose loved strains Their flocks, of food forgetful, crowding round, Were most attentive: Pride of Spanish peers! Who, by thy splendid deeds, hast gained a name And rank on earth unrivalled,—whether crowned With cares, ALVANO, wielding now the rod Of empire, now the dreadful bolts that tame Strong kings, in motion to the trumpet's sound, Express vicegerent of the Thracian God; Or whether, from the cumbrous burden freed Of state affairs, thou seek'st the echoing plain, Chasing, upon thy spirited fleet steed, The trembling stag that bounds abroad, in vain Lengthening out life,—though deeply now engrossed By cares, I hope, so soon as I regain The leisure I have lost, To celebrate, with my recording quill, Thy virtues and brave deeds, a starry sum, Ere grief, or age, or silent death turn chill My poesy's warm pulse, and I become Nothing to thee, whose worth the nations blaze, Failing thy sight, and songless in thy praise. But till that day, predestined by the Muse, Appears to cancel the memorial dues Owed to thy glory and renown—a claim Not only upon me, but which belongs To all fine spirits that transmit to fame Ennobling deeds in monumental songs,— Let the green laurel whose victorious boughs Clasp in endearment thine illustrious brows, To the weak ivy give permissive place, Which, rooted in thy shade, thou first of trees, May hope by slow degrees To tower aloft, supported by thy praise; Since Time to thee sublimer strains shall bring, Hark to my shepherds, as they sit and sing. The sun, from rosy billows risen, had rayed With gold the mountain tops, when at the foot Of a tall beech romantic, whose green shade Fell on a brook, that, sweet-voiced as a lute, Through lively pastures wound its sparkling way, Sad on the daisied turf Salicio lay; And with a voice in concord to the sound Of all the many winds, and waters round, As o'er the mossy stones they swiftly stole, Poured forth in melancholy song his soul Of sorrow with a fall So sweet, and aye so mildly musical, None could have thought that she whose seeming guile Had caused his anguish, absent was the while, But that in very deed the unhappy youth Did, face to face, upbraid her questioned truth.