Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO BAPTISTA TURRIANO, ON THE DEATH OF HIS SONS, by GIROLAMO FRACASTORO


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO BAPTISTA TURRIANO, ON THE DEATH OF HIS SONS, by                    
First Line: Since with sweet balm the muse alone can heal
Last Line: Together rush'd to form th' emerging world.
Alternate Author Name(s): Fracastorius, Hieronnymus
Subject(s): Creation; Death; Grief; Mourning; Nature; Parents; Sons; Dead, The; Sorrow; Sadness; Bereavement; Parenthood


SINCE with sweet Balm the Muse alone can heal
Sad Sorrow's Wound, and sooth the troubled Mind,
Listen a While my Battus, nor refuse
Her grateful Gift of grief-beguiling Verse;
Which to thy much-lov'd Sons, whom dreary Death
Has wrap'd in Stygian Shade, she weeping pays.
At least her Song, if e'er her Song avail'd,
From their fair Names may snatch the Veil of Night.
E'er yet oppress'd by Fate's untimely Stroke
My tender Care inform'd their helpless Age;
This, yet with lisping Accent scarce could frame
Th'imperfect Word, while This in early Dawn
Cropt the first Flow'rs of Knowledge, and began
To give glad Promise of a fertile Spring.

If Fortune e'er had blest my blooming Hopes
When to firm Manhood grew their ripen'd Age,
My Hand had led them to the mossy Grotts,
Of Cirrha's Vale, their Father's much-lov'd Haunts,
And on their Shoulder hung Euterpe's Lute.
Thence, when their soaring Minds had trac'd the Stars,
The golden Sun, broad Deep, and dædal Globe,
While thy sage Mind disclos'd the dubious Way;
To the fair Gardens of Philosophy
Had bore them wond'ring, which eternal Spring
And mild Favonius feed with balmy Dews
Of Nectar; then to crop purpureal Flowers,
Sweet Solace of their hoary Parent's Age;
Oft too to chear thy pensive Eve of Life
Their skilful Hands had strung the Thracian Lyre
To Notes like Thine, that on the daisied Marge
Of Athesis, beneath the Poplar Shade,
They heard thee sing, of Nature's infant Dawn,
The wild Wave hushing with thy magic Strain.

O how thine Age, my much lov'd Friend, had smil'd
If e'er thou could'st have heard thy Sons declare,
How Matter first from shapeless Chaös born
With Beauty long'd to joyn; how Discord rose
At length to Texture and to Shape confin'd;
How to th'ethereal Vault the purer Fire
Aspir'd, and to the starry Reign upflew,
While Air diffusive fill'd the spacious Void.
How o'er the Globe a Desert waste and wild
Of Sea was roll'd, 'till from the watry Scene
At length emerg'd broad Plains and oozy Fields,
And high to Heav'n the Mountains heav'd their Backs
Horrid with many a Cliff; while cloath'd in Green
Tall Forests from the wondering Waters rose;
And from the rocky Caves and Caverns dank
Sprung forth the Nymphs in naked Beauty bright,
And dry'd their Tresses on the verdant Shore.

O thrice had Fortune blest my blissful Life,
If ne'er the Gods had cropt these blooming Hopes
And kept them still inviolate; but Death
Just when they promis'd in the rising Dawn
Of Infancy so fair a Spring of Flowers,
With baleful Breath forbad the Bud to bloom,
And buried all beneath the dismal Shade
Of Tartarus; nor could my anxious Care
Lead them to glowing Youth, and Manhood firm,
And see them run the weary Length of Life.
Nor could their Parent's earnest Prayers or Art
Save them, tho'loud they call'd with moving Voice
Hls medicinal Aid!——O cruel Death,
O say what God, my Paulus, stopt thy Breath,
And tore thee ruthless from my cold Embrace?
You first dear Youth your weeping Father left
No more to view the Beam of chearful Heav'n.
Thy Fate alone had plung'd my lab'ring Soul
In Woe too deep, then wherefore, heav'nly Pow'rs,
Add ye fresh Cause of Grief, and bid new Tears,
New kindred Tears for sweet Iülus flow?
How thy mad Mother every God accus'd,
As o'er thy Coarse reclin'd, her Hair she rent,
And beat with pityless Hand her bleeding Breast.
O cease, fond Mother, to sollicit thus
The Gods with fruitless Cries! as the fair Flower
Whom yet in infant Bloom the shining Share
Cuts from the Parent Glebe, Iülus lies
Deaf to thy loud Complaints; no more embrace
His clay-cold Limbs with unavailing Arms!
Ev'n now, sad Follower of his sable Herse
She faints—ye Matrons lift the drooping Dame,
Rouse struggling Life, and bear to soft Repose!

Ye pure, unspotted Shades! receive this Hail!
This last Adieu, Remembrance of my Love,
And Friendship's Pledge sincere! where'er ye dwell,
Whether ye wander in Elysian Vales,
Or triumph in the Star-bespangled Skies,
Still grateful will I pay the duteous Tear
And Rite of sacred Song, nor yearly fail
To crown with freshest Wreaths your honour'd Urns.

Mean time, my Battus, let the Muse relieve
Our Sorrow-lab'ring Breasts and sooth our Cares;
Since All is frail and built on Mortal Base.
The Days will come, when at the tardy Plow
The Steer shall pant, and thro' the stubborn Mold
The Share shall pass, where now the winged Bark
Cleaves the blue Deep, and skims the glassy Plain.
Nor shall the Fountains fam'd in ancient Song
Still stream exhaustless; tho' the mighty Po
Devolves so full a Tide, and Ister laves
Unnumber'd Channels, with enormous Flood.
The cloud-capt Mountains, proud Taygetus,
Tall Sypilus, and crown'd with woody Cliffs
Cymbotus, thro' the Course of endless Years
Have from their deep Foundations felt the Force
Of gradual Dissolution and Decay:
Since Matter first embrac'd the smiling Form
Of Order, and the warring Elements
Together rush'd to form th' emerging World.





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