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VIII.

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline,
But with a sense of its decay: I see
Unwonted lights along my prison shine,
And a strange demon, 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.
I thought mine enemies had been but Man,
But Spirits may be leagued with them-all Earth
Abandons-Heaven forgets me,-in the dearth
Of such defence the Powers of Evil can,
It may be, tempt me further, and prevail
Against the outworn creature they assail.
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved,
Like steel in tempering fire? because I loved?
Because I loved what not to love, and see,
Was more or less than mortal, and than me.

IX.

I once was quick in feeling-that is o'er;
My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd
My brain against these bars, as the sun flash'd
In mockery through them;-if I bear and bore
The much I have recounted, and the more
Which hath no words,'-tis that I would not die,
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie
Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame
Stamp madness deep into my memory,
And woo Compassion to a blighted name,
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim.
No-it shall be immortal!-and I make
A future temple of my present cell,
Which nations yet shall visit for my sake.
While thou, Ferrara! when no longer dwell
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down,
And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls,
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,-
A poet's dungeon thy most far renown,
While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls!
And thou, Leonora! thou-who wert ashamed
That such as I could love - who blush'd to hear
To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear,
Go! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed
By grief, years, weariness-and it may be
A taint of that he would impute to me-
From long infection of a den like this,
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss,--
Adores thee still; and add-that when the towers
And battlements which guard his joyous hours
Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot,
Or left untended in a dull repose,
This-this-shall be a consecrated spot!

But Thou-when all that Birth and Beauty throws
Of magic round thee is extinct-shalt have
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave.
VOL. III.

No power in death can tear our names apart, As none in life could rend thee from my heart. Yes, Leonora! it shall be our fate

To be entwined for ever-but too late!

THE GARDENS OF ARMIDA.1

BY TORQUATO TASSO.

Still lakes of silver, streams that murm'ring crept,
Hills, on whose sloping brows the sunbeams slept,
Luxuriant trees, that various forms display'd,
And valleys, grateful with refreshing shade,
Herbs, flow'rets gay with many a gaudy dye,
And woods, and arching grottoes met their eye.
What more than all enhanc'd those beauties rare,
Though art was all in all, no signs of art were there:
Seem'd as if nature reign'd in every part,
Such easy negligence was mixed with art;
Nature herself, in frolic, might appear
To imitate her imitator here.

'Twas magic's spell call'd forth the genial breeze,
That fill'd with pregnant life the bursting trees;
Eternal bloom they yield, eternal fruit,
The fruitage rip'ning while the blossoms shoot.
The self-same tree on one o'erloaded twig
Bears the full ripen'd and the nascent fig;
The apple hanging on one bow is seen
In ev'ry shade of golden and of green.
Where most the genial sun the garden cheer'd
Creeping aloft, the luscious vine appear'd;
Here clusters crude, there yellower grapes it bore,
Or ruby-red, and rich with nectar'd store.
Unnumber'd birds, the leafy boughs among,
Trill'd the wild music of their wanton song.
Murmur'd the undulating air around;
The rills, the leafy grots return'd the sound,
As loud or low the quiv'ring zephyrs rung:
When ceas'd the birds, an echo deep they flung,
But when the feather'd choir restored their lay,
The echo, gently whisp'ring, died away:
Or chance the concert made, or art design'd,
Each swelling song the music-breathing wind
Alternate answer'd, and alternate join'd.
Amid the rest one beauteous warbler flew
With purple bill, and plumes of various hue,
His pliant voice assum'd the human tone,
Each note, the shrill, the soft, the deep, his own.
With wond'rous skill, mellifluous, loud, and long,
Surpassing all belief, he pour'd his song.
Their meaner strains his list'ning fellows clos'd;
The whisp'ring winds grew silent, and repos'd:
"Behold how, bursting from its covert, blows
With virgin blushes deck'd, the modest rose;

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With half her beauties hid, and half reveal'd
More lovely still she seems, the more conceal'd.
Grown bolder soon, her bosom she displays
All naked to the winds; then soon decays,
And seems the same enchanting flow'r no more,
Which youths and virgins fair admir'd before.
Thus transient and ephem'ral fades away

The flow'r, the verdure, of man's short-lived day;
And though the year bring back the vernal hour,
No more his verdure blooms, no more his flow'r.
Cull we the rose, while laughs the auspicious morn
Of that bright day, which must no more return:
Cull we the rose; love's transports let us prove,
While love may answer and reward our love.'
He ceas'd; with one accord the feather'd throng
Join'd in applausive chorus to his song,
The playful doves renew'd their am'rous kiss;
Each living thing was melted into bliss.
Seem'd as th' unbending oak, the laurel chaste,
And ev'ry tree amid that flow'ry waste,
Seem'd as the earth, the waves, imbib'd the charm,
And lifeless Nature's self with love grew warm."

A POET'S ROMANCE.

[James Sheridan Knowles, born at Cork, Ireland, 1784; died 1st December, 1862. Actor, lecturer, drama

tist, novelist, and Baptist minister. It is as a drama

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"And yet," resumed the other, "her form and countenance are the very mould of sweetness!"

"You read her to admiration, signor," replied the courtier. "Till the age of sixteen she was the soul of frankness and simple bearing; then, however, a mood came on, the fruit of which you see. Upon that face, which used to be nothing but sun, the cloud which then settled has remained for the last three years without moving. Observe the cavalier who approaches her with a basket of fruit. He is the son of the Duke of Milan, and a candidate for the honour of her hand. Mark, I pray you, how she will receive him:-there are wages for a prince to play the lacquey for!"

"Wages, indeed! Methinks the haughty bow with which she declines his attentions should be sufficient to extinguish his love."

Nay, signor," resumed the courtier, "frost, you know, makes the fire burn brighter."

"And yet, if, after all," exclaimed the other, as if a thought had suddenly struck him-" if, after all, that very suitor should be the object of her choice! I have met with as strange a thing. He hath a truly princely presence!"

tist his fame will live longest. He wrote upwards of twenty plays, of which the best known are:-Virginius (see Casquet, vol. ii. p. 253); William Tell: The Hunchback: The Love Chase; The Wife, a tale of Mantua; and Love. His novels are: Fortescue; George Lovell; The Rock of Rome; and The Idol Demolished by its own Priest. He contributed largely to the annuals and other periodicals. "His strength lies in home bred affections," wrote Allan Cunningham; "his Virginius, his Beggar's Daughter, and his Wife of Mantua, all bear evidence of this, and contain scenes of perfect truth and reality, such as no modern dramatist surpasses. He touches the heart and is safe." The following little romance has been evidently suggested by incidents in the life of the poet lifts her eyes nor gives any other notice of re

Tasso.]

Bright was the saloon of the ducal palace. It had been a fete-day. At the head of the apartment sat its princely master; around it were distributed in groups the shining company; the buzz of satisfaction filled it. A Frenchman and one of the courtiers held each other in converse. Surprise was painted upon

the countenance of the former.

"The fairest woman in Padua," he exclaimed, "without a lover!-I mean an accepted one, for all Italy rings with the praises of the lovely Victoria-Tis very strange! Has she not a heart?"

"If she has, signor, it is yet to be found; nor is the search an easy one-at least if we

"And a princely heart and mind, signor! with endowments of a corresponding quality. He is every way her match, saving that the lady is not more haughty than the gentleman is affable. The youth who approaches her now is the bearer, I suspect, of a message to her from the duke, with whom I remarked him a moment ago conversing. Observe how she will receive him-as I expected, she neither

cognition. Ha! she rises and approaches her harp; the duke has doubtless desired her to sing. Now shall you hear music, signor! If she freezes you with her looks she will melt you with her voice."

A prelude arose from the harp, such as one would imagine a seraph in adoration to awaken. The strain which that prelude introduced was accompanied by the lady in the following

verses:

"She lived a nun !-no convent wall
Entomb'd her; she was woman-all
That man in woman seeks !-not one
More fond; and yet she lived a nun!
"She lived a nun for love! Her soul
Had met a kindred one-her whole
Of wishes-hopes-the maid had given
To him who own'd that soul-and Heaven.

"And was the maid beloved again? She was!-alas! beloved in vain. Unbless'd, he died; unwed, though won, The maid for love who lived a nun!" "Lorenzo," cried the duke, when the strain was over, "I like your verses the better the oftener I hear them. I requested you yesterday evening, when the countess tried them first, to transcribe for me the legend which suggested them. Have you done so?"

"I have, so please you, my liege," replied the young man, presenting a paper.

Read it for us," said the duke.

The young poet obeyed. His story was one of unfortunate love, the hero being vowed to the altar before he discovered his passion for the heroine. When he had first awakened to a consciousness of his attachment, Theodore had struggled against it; but being alone with her one day, love conquered: he told Amelia all that he had suffered, and how he lived only in her. He learned, then, that her heart was devoted to him. But he was a priest; his vows were irrevocable-their union was impossible. They bowed to their fate with sad but true hearts. He tried honestly to fulfil the duties to which he had pledged himself; she resolved to be faithful to him, took the veil, and to her last hour cherished the hope of union hereafter with her first love.

The duke applauded the legend, and directed Lorenzo to present it to the countess. She took it without the slightest acknowledgment, and handed it to one of her ladies who stood near her.

"Hard treatment for the poor poet," remarked the Frenchman.

It

"Yes; she treats him the worst of all. is not pride, but absolute aversion with which she appears to regard him. His humble fortunes for though he is distantly related to the duke, he is merely a dependent-seem to convert his merits into offences, as things he has no right to. Praise him to her, and you will learn to estimate the value of a gracious look."

"A most ungenerous and contradictory nature," exclaimed the Frenchman; " yet the poor poet is in love-and the object of his passion is the haughty countess! I never saw adoration if I do not see it now. Her frowns -her spurnings are lost upon him. He sees nothing but her charms!"

On the following morning Lorenzo was summoned to a private interview with the duke.

On this occasion the duke seemed to partake more of his niece's spirit than he was wont to

do. There was a frigid distance in his manner of addressing the young man.

"Lorenzo," said the duke, "which of my niece's ladies could you fancy for a wife?"

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'My liege!" ejaculated Lorenzo, gazing upon the duke with a countenance in which astonishment and incredulity were blended. The duke repeated his question.

"None of them, my lord," replied Lorenzo. "I shall never marry."

"You shall marry to-night," coolly rejoined the duke. "Lorenzo," continued he, "I have reasons for wishing you to take a wife-reasons which justify me in enforcing obedience to my wish. The daughter of the Chevalier de Barré, I know, admires you. Her father, with whom I had a conversation last night, approves of you the match is agreeable to me. It is necessary for purposes of state, with the nature of which I may probably make you acquainted hereafter. Be acquiescence your only reply; I shall take no other-listen to no other. Give me that, and you shall bind me to the making of your fortune; refuse it, and thank yourself for the consequences. You are not a stranger to the extent of my power-you have witnessed what it is to feel the weight of my resentment. Beware that you do not experience it in your own person-reply not now." The duke guessed what Lorenzo was going to say—it was written on the young man's face. "Reply not now; but, mark me. I shall give orders for the nuptials to take place at nine to-night; for a quarter of an hour I shall wait in the library the result of your deliberations; at the expiration of that time, your presence or your absence be your answer.

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The duke strode from the closet, leaving Lorenzo motionless and speechless. It was several minutes before the astounded poet recovered himself.

Marry the daughter of the Chevalier de Barré!" he exclaimed aloud. "Never!" he added, turning to leave the apartment: the countess was standing at the door-What a moment to encounter the haughty glance and stately carriage of the scornful lady! It was true the poet loved her;-for many a year had he cherished his passion in secret; against the hope-against the probability of its being blessed-not always though. She had been kind to him when she used to be courteous to all; but once being accidentally alone with him when his overfraught heart was throbbing full and quick-bursting as it were for vent-in an unguarded moment-without premeditation-almost without being conscious of what he did, he had snatched her to his

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