Читать книгу Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain - James Kennedy - Страница 10

Cruel Enarda! all in vain,

In vain, thou view’st with joyful eyes

The tears that show my grief and pain,

Thyself exulting in my sighs.

The burning tears that bathe my cheek,

With watching shrunk, with sorrow pale,

Thy lightness and caprice bespeak,

Thy guilt and perfidy bewail.

Those signs of sorrow, on my face,

Are not the obsequies portray’d

Of a lost good, nor yet the trace

Of tribute to thy beauties paid.

They are the evidence alone

There fix’d thy falsehood to proclaim;

Of thy deceits the horror shown,

Of my delirium the shame.

I weep not now thy rigours o’er,

Nor feel regret, that lost to me

Are the returns, which false before

Thou gavest, or favours faithlessly.

I weep o’er my delusions blind;

I mourn the sacrifices made,

And incense to a god unkind

On an unworthy altar laid.

I weep the memory o’er debased

Of my captivity to mourn,

And all the weight and shame disgraced

Of such vile fetters to have borne.

Ever to my lorn mind return’d

Are thoughts of homage offer’d ill,

Disdains ill borne, affection spurn’d,

And sighs contemn’d, recurring still.

Then, ah, Enarda! all in vain

Thou think’st to please thee with my grief:

Love, who now looks on me again

With eyes of pity and relief,

A thousand times has me accost,

As thus my tears to censure now,

“To lose them thou hast nothing lost;

Poor creature! why then weepest thou?”