How oft when slumbering in the forest brown, (Deeming it fancy's mystical deceit) Have I beheld my fate in dreams foreshown! One day, methought that from the noontide heat I drove my flocks to drink of Tagus' flood, And, under the curtain of its bordering wood Take my cool siesta; but, arrived, the stream, I know not by what magic, changed its track, And in new channels, by an unused way, Rolled its warped waters back; Whilst I, scorched, melting with the heat extreme, Went ever following in their flight astray, The wizard waves: in gentleness of woe, Flow forth, my tears!'t is meet that ye should flow. In the charmed ear of what beloved youth, Sounds thy sweet voice? On whom revolvest thou Thy beautiful blue eyes? On whose proved truth Anchors thy broken faith? Who presses now Thy laughing lip, and takes thy heaven of charms Locked in the embraces of thy two white arms? Say thou, for whom hast thou so rudely left My love, or stolen, who triumphs in the theft? I have not got a bosom so untrue To feeling, nor a heart of stone, to view My darling ivy, torn from me, take root Against another wall, or prosperous pine,-- To see my virgin vine Around another elm in marriage hang Its curling tendrils and empurpled fruit, Without the torture of a jealous pang, Ev'n to the loss of life: in gentle woe, Flow forth, my tears; 't is meet that ye should flow. * * * * Over my griefs the mossy stones relent Their natural durity, and break; the trees Bend down their weeping boughs without a breeze; And full of tenderness the listening birds, Warbling in different notes, with me lament. And warbling prophesy my death; the herds That in the green meads hang their heads at eve, Wearied, and worn, and faint, The necessary sweets of slumber leave, And low, and listen to my wild complaint. Thou only steel'st thy bosom to my cries, Not even once turning thy angelic eyes On him thy harshness kills: in gentle woe Flow forth, my tears! 'tis meet that ye should flow. But though thou wilt not come for my sad sake, Leave not the landscape thou hast held so dear, Thou may'st come freely now, without the fear Of meeting me, for though my heart should break, Where late forsaken, I will now forsake. Come then, if this alone detain thee, here Are meadows full of verdure, myrtles, bays, Woodlands and lawns, and running waters clear, Beloved in other days, To which, bedewed with many a bitter tear, I sing my last of lays. These scenes, perhaps, when I am far removed, At ease thou wilt frequent With him who rifled me of all I loved: Enough, my strength is spent; And leaving thee in his desired embrace, It is not much to leave him this sweet place." The impatience natural to the resentment of inconstancy ruffles though it does not distort these sweet stanzas. But there is more of soft melancholy in Nemoroso, more of the entire melting of the heart in sad unavailing regret.