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.

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 be 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

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, “Senor, to remove that doubt I should tell you that when the unhappy man wrote this lay he was away from Marcela, from whom be had voluntarily separated himself, to try if absence would act with him as it is wont; and as everything distresses and every fear haunts the banished lover, so imaginary jealousies and suspicions, dreaded as if they were true, tormented Chrysostom; and thus the truth of what report declares of the virtue of Marcela remains unshaken, and with her envy itself should not and cannot find any fault save that of being cruel, somewhat haughty, and very scornful.”

“That is true,” said Vivaldo; and as he was about to read another paper of those he had preserved from the fire, he was stopped by a marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly presented itself to their eyes; for on the summit of the rock where they were digging the grave there appeared the shepherdess Marcela, so beautiful that her beauty exceeded its reputation. Those who had never till then beheld her gazed upon her in wonder and silence, and those who were accustomed to see her were not less amazed than those who had never seen her before. But the instant Ambrosio saw her he addressed her, with manifest indignation:

“Art thou come, by chance, cruel basilisk of these mountains, to see if in thy presence blood will flow from the wounds of this wretched being thy cruelty has robbed of life; or is it to exult over the cruel work of thy humours that thou art come; or like another pitiless Nero to look down from that height upon the ruin of his Rome in embers; or in thy arrogance to trample on this ill-fated corpse, as the ungrateful daughter trampled on her father Tarquin’s ? Tell us quickly for what thou art come, or what it is thou wouldst have, for, as I know the thoughts of Chrysostom never failed to obey thee in life, I will make all these who call themselves his friends obey thee, though he be dead.”

“I come not, Ambrosia for any of the purposes thou hast named,” replied Marcela, “but to defend myself and to prove how unreasonable are all those who blame me for their sorrow and for Chrysostom’s death; and therefore I ask all of you that are here to give me your attention, for will not take much time or many words to bring the truth home to persons of sense. Heaven has made me, so you say, beautiful, and so much so that in spite of yourselves my beauty leads you to love me; and for the love you show me you say, and even urge, that I am bound to love you. By that natural understanding which God has given me I kn............