a warning in ages to come to all men to shun and avoid falling into like danger; or I and all of us who have come here know already the story of this your love-stricken and heart-broken friend, and we know, too, your friendship, and the cause of his death, and the directions he gave at the close of his life; from which sad story may be gathered how great was the cruelty of Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, and the loyalty of your friendship, together with the end awaiting those who pursue rashly the path that insane passion opens to their eyes. Last night we learned the death of Chrysostom and that he was to be buried here, and out of curiosity and pity we left our direct road and resolved to come and see with our eyes that which when heard of had so moved our compassion, and
in consideration of that compassion and our desire to prove it if we might by condolence, we beg of you, excellent Ambrosia, or at least I on my own account entreat you, that instead of burning those papers you allow me to carry away some of them."
And without waiting for the shepherd's answer, he stretched out his hand and took up some of those that were nearest to him; see-ing which Ambrosio said, "Out of courtesy, senor, I will grant your request as to those you have taken, but it is idle to expect me to abstain from burning the remainder."
Vivaldo, who was eager to see what the papers contained, opened one of them at once, and saw that its title was "Lay of Despair." Ambrosio hearing it said, "That is the last paper the unhappy man wrote; and that you may see, senor, to what an end his misfor-
tunes brought him, read it so that you may be heard, for you will have time enough for that while we are waiting for the grave to be
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dug."
"I will do so very willingly," said Vivaldo; and as all the bystanders were equally eager they gathered round him, and he, reading in a loud voice, found that it ran as follows.
CHAPTER XIV.
WHEREIN ARE INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED FOR
THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM
Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire
The ruthless rigour of thy tyranny
From tongue to tongue, from land to land proclaimed, The very Hell will I constrain to lend
This stricken breast of mine deep notes of woe
To serve my need of fitting utterance. And as I strive to body forth the tale Of all I suffer, all that thou hast done,
Forth shall the dread voice roll, and bear along Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain. Then listen, not to dulcet harmony,
But to a discord wrung by mad despair Out of this bosom's depths of bitterness, To ease my heart and plant a sting in thine.
The lion's roar, the fierce wolf 's savage howl,
The horrid hissing of the scaly snake,
The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed, The crow's ill-boding croak, the hollow moan Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea, The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull, The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove, The envied owl's sad note, the wail of woe That rises from the dreary choir of Hell, Commingled in one sound, confusing sense, Let all these come to aid my soul's complaint,
For pain like mine demands new modes of song. No echoes of that discord shall be heard
Where Father Tagus rolls, or on the banks
Of olive-bordered Betis; to the rocks
Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told, And by a lifeless tongue in living words;
Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores,
Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls; Or in among the poison-breathing swarms
Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile. For, though it be to solitudes remote
The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound
Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate
Shall carry them to all the spacious world. Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies Slain by suspicion, be it false or true;
And deadly is the force of jealousy;
Long absence makes of life a dreary void; No hope of happiness can give repose
To him that ever fears to be forgot; And death, inevitable, waits in hall.
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But I, by some strange miracle, live on A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain; Racked by suspicion as by certainty; Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone.
And while I suffer thus, there comes no ray Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom; Nor do I look for it in my despair;
But rather clinging to a cureless woe, All hope do I abjure for evermore.
Can there be hope where fear is? Were it well, When far more certain are the grounds of fear? Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy,
If through a thousand heart-wounds it appears? Who would not give free access to distrust, Seeing disdain unveiled, and--bitter change!-- All his suspicions turned to certainties,
And the fair truth transformed into a lie? Oh, thou fierce tyrant of the realms of love, Oh, Jealousy! put chains upon these hands, And bind me with thy strongest cord, Disdain. But, woe is me! triumphant over all,
My sufferings drown the memory of you. And now I die, and since there is no hope Of happiness for me in life or death,
Still to my fantasy I'll fondly cling.
I'll say that he is wise who loveth well,
And that the soul most free is that most bound
In thraldom to the ancient tyrant Love. I'll say that she who is mine enemy
In that fair body hath as fair a mind, And that her coldness is but my desert, And that by virtue of the pain he sends Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway. Thus, self-deluding, and in bondage sore,
And wearing out the wretched shred of life
To which I am reduced by her disdain, I'll give this soul and body to the winds, All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.
Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause
That makes me quit the weary life I loathe, As by this wounded bosom thou canst see How willingly thy victim I become,
Let not my death, if haply worth a tear,
Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes; I would not have thee expiate in aught
The crime of having made my heart thy prey; But rather let thy laughter gaily ring
And prove my death to be thy festival. Fool that I am to bid thee! well I know Thy glory gains by my untimely end.
And now it is the time; from Hell's abyss Come thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus Heaving the cruel stone, come Tityus
With vulture, and with wheel Ixion come, And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil; And all into this breast transfer their pains, And (if such tribute to despair be due) Chant in their deepest tones a doleful dirge
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Over a corse unworthy of a shroud.
Let the three-headed guardian of the gate, And all the monstrous progeny of hell, The doleful concert join: a lover dead Methinks can have no fitter obsequies.
Lay of despair, grieve not when thou art gone Forth from this sorrowing heart: my misery Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth; Then banish sadness even in the tomb.
The "Lay of Chrysostom" met with the approbation of the listeners, though the reader said it did not seem to him to agree with what he had heard of Marcela's reserve and propriety, for Chrysostom complained in it of jealousy, suspicion, and absence, all to the prejudice of the good name and fame of Marcela; to which Ambrosio replied as one who knew well his friend's most secret
thoughts,