Bermudo, there ascend: there seek to find That truth and virtue in the heavenly mind, Which from His love and wisdom ever flow. If elsewhere thou dost seek to find them, know, That darkness only thou wilt have succeed, In ignorance and error to mislead. Thou of this love and wisdom mayst the rays Discern in all His works, His power and praise That tell around us, in the wondrous scale Of high perfection which they all detail; The order which they follow in the laws, That bind and keep them, and that show their cause, The ends of love and pity in their frame: These their Creator’s goodness all proclaim. Be this thy learning, this thy glory’s view; If virtuous, thou art wise and happy too. Virtue and truth are one, and in them bound Alone may ever happiness be found. And they can only, with a conscience pure, Give to thy soul to enjoy it, peace secure; True liberty in moderate desires, And joy in all to do thy work requires; To do well in content, and calmly free: All else is wind and misery, vanity. TO GALATEA’S BIRD. O silly little bird! who now On Galatea’s lap hast got, My unrequited love allow To envy thee thy lot. Of the same lovely mistress both Alike the captives bound are we; But thou for thy misfortune loth, Whilst I am willingly. Thou restless in thy prison art, Complaining ever of thy pains; While I would kisses, on my part, Ev’n lavish on my chains. But, ah! how different treating us, Has scornful Fate the lot assign’d! With me she’s always tyrannous, But with thee just as kind. A thousand nights of torment borne, A thousand days of martyrdom, By thousand toils and pains, her scorn I cannot overcome. Inestimable happiness, A mere caprice for thee has got; So bathed in tears, in my distress, I envy thee thy lot. And there the while, with daring heel, Thou tread’st in arrant confidence, Without a heart or hope to feel, Or instinct’s common sense. In the embraces, which my thought, Not even in its boldest vein, Could scarce to hope for have been brought, Presumptuous to attain. TO ENARDA.--I. Lovely Enarda! young and old All quarrel with me daily: Because I write to thee they scold, Perhaps sweet verses gaily. “A judge should be more grave,” they say, As each my song accuses; “From such pursuits should turn away As trifling with the Muses.” “How wofully you waste your time!” Preach others; but, all slighting, The more they scold, the more I rhyme; Still I must keep on writing. Enarda’s heart and mind to praise, All others far excelling, My rustic pipe its note shall raise, In well-toned measures telling.