The Works of Lord Byron Volume IV Part 27

THE LAMENT OF Ta.s.sO.

INTRODUCTION TO _THE LAMENT OF Ta.s.sO_.

The MS. of the _Lament of Ta.s.so_ is dated April 20, 1817. It was despatched from Florence April 23, and reached England May 12 (see _Memoir of John Murray_, 1891, i. 384). Proofs reached Byron June 7, and the poem was published July 17, 1817.

"It was," he writes (April 26), "written in consequence of my having been lately in Ferrara." Again, writing from Rome (May 5, 1817), he asks if the MS. has arrived, and adds, "I look upon it as a 'These be good rhymes,' as Pope's papa said to him when he was a boy" (_Letters_, 1900, iv. 112-115). Two months later he reverted to the theme of Ta.s.so's ill-treatment at the hands of Duke Alphonso, in the memorable stanzas x.x.xv.-x.x.xix. of the Fourth Canto of _Childe Harold_ (_Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 354-359; and for examination of the circ.u.mstances of Ta.s.so's imprisonment in the Hospital of Sant' Anna, _vide ibid._, pp. 355, 356, note 1).

Notices of the _Lament of Ta.s.so_ appeared in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, August, 1817, vol. 87, pp. 150, 151; in _The Scot's Magazine_, August, 1817, N.S., vol. i. pp. 48, 49; and a eulogistic but uncritical review in _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_, November, 1817, vol. ii. pp.

142-144.

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT

At Ferrara, in the Library, are preserved the original MSS. of Ta.s.so's Gierusalemme[173] and of Guarini's Pastor Fido, with letters of Ta.s.so, one from t.i.tian to Ariosto, and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and the house, of the latter. But, as misfortune has a greater interest for posterity, and little or none for the cotemporary, the cell where Ta.s.so was confined in the hospital of St. Anna attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or the monument of Ariosto--at least it had this effect on me. There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is much decayed and depopulated: the castle still exists entire; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon.[174]

THE LAMENT OF Ta.s.sO.[175]

I.

Long years!--It tries the thrilling frame to bear And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song-- Long years of outrage--calumny--and wrong; Imputed madness, prisoned solitude,[176]

And the Mind's canker in its savage mood, When the impatient thirst of light and air Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate, Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain, With a hot sense of heaviness and pain; 10 And bare, at once, Captivity displayed Stands scoffing through the never-opened gate, Which nothing through its bars admits, save day, And tasteless food, which I have eat alone Till its unsocial bitterness is gone; And I can banquet like a beast of prey, Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave Which is my lair, and--it may be--my grave.

All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, But must be borne. I stoop not to despair; 20 For I have battled with mine agony, And made me wings wherewith to overfly The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall; And revelled among men and things divine, And poured my spirit over Palestine,[177]

In honour of the sacred war for Him, The G.o.d who was on earth and is in Heaven, For He has strengthened me in heart and limb.

That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 30 I have employed my penance to record How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored.

II.

But this is o'er--my pleasant task is done:--[178]

My long-sustaining Friend of many years!

If I do blot thy final page with tears,[179]

Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none.

But Thou, my young creation! my Soul's child!

Which ever playing round me came and smiled, And wooed me from myself with thy sweet sight, Thou too art gone--and so is my delight: 40 And therefore do I weep and inly bleed With this last bruise upon a broken reed.

Thou too art ended--what is left me now?

For I have anguish yet to bear--and how?

I know not that--but in the innate force Of my own spirit shall be found resource.

I have not sunk, for I had no remorse, Nor cause for such: they called me mad--and why?

Oh Leonora! wilt not thou reply?[180]

I was indeed delirious in my heart 50 To lift my love so lofty as thou art; But still my frenzy was not of the mind: I knew my fault, and feel my punishment Not less because I suffer it unbent.

That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind; But let them go, or torture as they will, My heart can multiply thine image still; Successful Love may sate itself away; The wretched are the faithful; 't is their fate 60 To have all feeling, save the one, decay, And every pa.s.sion into one dilate, As rapid rivers into Ocean pour; But ours is fathomless, and hath no sh.o.r.e.

III.

Above me, hark! the long and maniac cry Of minds and bodies in captivity.

And hark! the lash and the increasing howl, And the half-inarticulate blasphemy!

There be some here with worse than frenzy foul, Some who do still goad on the o'er-laboured mind, 70 And dim the little light that's left behind With needless torture, as their tyrant Will Is wound up to the l.u.s.t of doing ill:[181]

With these and with their victims am I cla.s.sed, 'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pa.s.sed; 'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close: So let it be--for then I shall repose.

IV.

I have been patient, let me be so yet; I had forgotten half I would forget, But it revives--Oh! would it were my lot 80 To be forgetful as I am forgot!-- Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell In this vast Lazar-house of many woes?

Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind; Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, And each is tortured in his separate h.e.l.l-- For we are crowded in our solitudes-- Many, but each divided by the wall, Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods; 90 While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call-- None! save that One, the veriest wretch of all, Who was not made to be the mate of these, Nor bound between Distraction and Disease.

Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here?

Who have debased me in the minds of men, Debarring me the usage of my own, Blighting my life in best of its career, Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear?

Would I not pay them back these pangs again, 100 And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan?

The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, Which undermines our Stoical success?

No!--still too proud to be vindictive--I Have pardoned Princes' insults, and would die.

Yes, Sister of my Sovereign! for thy sake I weed all bitterness from out my breast, It hath no business where _thou_ art a guest: Thy brother hates--but I can not detest; Thou pitiest not--but I can not forsake. 110

V.

Look on a love which knows not to despair, But all unquenched is still my better part, Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, As dwells the gathered lightning in its cloud, Encompa.s.sed with its dark and rolling shroud, Till struck,--forth flies the all-ethereal dart!

And thus at the collision of thy name The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, And for a moment all things as they were Flit by me;--they are gone--I am the same. 120 And yet my love without ambition grew; I knew thy state--my station--and I knew A Princess was no love-mate for a bard;[182]

I told it not--I breathed it not[183]--it was Sufficient to itself, its own reward; And if my eyes revealed it, they, alas!

Were punished by the silentness of thine, And yet I did not venture to repine.

Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, Worshipped at holy distance, and around 130 Hallowed and meekly kissed the saintly ground; Not for thou wert a Princess, but that Love Had robed thee with a glory, and arrayed Thy lineaments in beauty that dismayed-- Oh! not dismayed--but awed, like One above!

And in that sweet severity[184] there was A something which all softness did surpa.s.s-- I know not how--thy Genius mastered mine-- My Star stood still before thee:--if it were Presumptuous thus to love without design, 140 That sad fatality hath cost me dear; But thou art dearest still, and I should be Fit for this cell, which wrongs me--but for _thee_.

The very love which locked me to my chain Hath lightened half its weight; and for the rest, Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain, And look to thee with undivided breast, And foil the ingenuity of Pain.

VI.

It is no marvel--from my very birth My soul was drunk with Love,--which did pervade 150 And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth: Of objects all inanimate I made Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, And rocks, whereby they grew, a Paradise, Where I did lay me down within the shade Of waving trees, and dreamed uncounted hours, Though I was chid for wandering; and the Wise Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said Of such materials wretched men were made, And such a truant boy would end in woe, 160 And that the only lesson was a blow;[185]-- And then they smote me, and I did not weep, But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt Returned and wept alone, and dreamed again The visions which arise without a sleep.

And with my years my soul began to pant With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain; And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, But undefined and wandering, till the day I found the thing I sought--and that was thee; 170 And then I lost my being, all to be Absorbed in thine;--the world was past away;-- _Thou_ didst annihilate the earth to me!

VII.

I loved all Solitude--but little thought To spend I know not what of life, remote From all communion with existence, save The maniac and his tyrant;--had I been Their fellow, many years ere this had seen My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave.[bh]

But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave? 180 Perchance in such a cell we suffer more Than the wrecked sailor on his desert sh.o.r.e; The world is all before him--_mine_ is _here_, Scarce twice the s.p.a.ce they must accord my bier.

What though _he_ perish, he may lift his eye, And with a dying glance upbraid the sky; I will not raise my own in such reproof, Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof.

VIII.

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline,[186]

But with a sense of its decay: I see 190 Unwonted lights along my prison shine, And a strange Demon,[187] who is vexing me With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below The feeling of the healthful and the free; But much to One, who long hath suffered so, Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, And all that may be borne, or can debase.