Ferrara. PRISON OF TASSO. FERRARA! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, Whose symmetry was not for solitude, There seems as 't were a curse upon the seats Of petty power impelled, of those who wore And Tasso is their glory and their shame. The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend Where he had plunged it. Glory without end Scattered the clouds away, and on that name attend The tears and praises of all time, while thine Of worthless dust which from thy boasted line Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn: From thee! if in another station born, Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn: Thou! formed to eat, and be despised, and die, Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty; He! with a glory round his furrowed brow, Which emanated then, and dazzles now, In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, That whetstone of the teeth, monotony in wire! Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 't was his Each year brings forth its millions; but how long The tide of generations shall roll on, And not the whole combined and countless throng Compose a mind like thine? Though all in one Condensed their scattered rays, they would not form a sun. TASSO'S DUNGEON. Lord Byron. OW might the goaded sufferer in this cell, HOW With nothing upon which his eyes might fall, Except this vacant court, that dreary wall, How might he live? 1 asked. Here doomed to dwell, I marvel how at all he could repel Thoughts which to madness and despair would call. Thy spirit, even as mine within me fell, Had stood, 't was something that this iron grate There must have been then here, to calm his brain, Richard Chenevix Trench. TO THE DUKE ALPHONSO, ASKING TO BE LIBERATED. A NEW Ixion upon fortune's wheel, Whether I sink profound, or rise sublime, One never-ceasing martyrdom I feel, The same in woe, though changing all the time. The vines, and through their foliage sighs the breeze, Torquato Tasso. Tr. Richard Henry Wilde. TO THE PRINCESSES OF FERRARA. AIR daughters of Rénée! my song FAIR Is not of pride and ire, Fraternal discord, hate, and wrong, That even the flames divided long But you I sing, of royal birth, Two flowers, both lovely, blooming forth Cherished by heaven, beloved by earth, To you I speak in whom we see Compassion to the misery. And sufferings of your friend. O, let me in your hearts renew, The scenes, the thoughts, o'er which I sigh, And what, I ask, and where am I, Daughters of heroes and of kings, Allow me to recall These and a thousand other things, Sad, sweet, and mournful all! From me few words, more tears, grief wrings, Tears burning as they fall. For royal halls and festive bowers Where, nobly serving, I Shared and beguiled your private hours, Studies, and sports I sigh; And lyre, and trump, and wreathed flowers; Nay more, for freedom, health, applause, And even humanity's lost laws! Why am I chased from human kind? Of brutes, thus keeps me spell-confined? The very beasts in caverns find At least kind nature's gifts and laws, I merit punishment, I own; |