Who reign'd before religion made men blind;
And those who suffer with their suffering kind,
Yet feel this faith, religion..
Said Maddalo, my judgment will not bend
To your opinion, though I think you might
Make such a system refutation-tight,
As far as words go. I knew one like you,
Who to this city came some months ago,
With whom I argued in this sort, and he
Is now gone mad-and so he answer'd me,
Poor fellow!-But if you would like to go,
We'll visit him, and his wild talk will show
How vain are such aspiring theories.>>-
■ I hope to prove the induction otherwise,
And that a want of that true theory still,
Which seeks a soul of goodness in things ill,
Or in himself or others, has thus bow'd
His being:-there are some by nature proud,
Who, patient in all else, demand but this-
To love and be beloved with gentleness:-
And being scorn'd, what wonder if they die
Some living death? This is not destiny,
But man's own wilful ill.-
Servants announced the gondola, and we
Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea
Sail'd to the island where the mad-house stands.
We disembark'd. The clap of tortured hands,
Fierce yells, and howlings, and lamentings keen,
And laughter where complaint had merrier been,
Accosted us. We climb'd the oozy stairs
Into an old court-yard. I heard on high,
Then, fragments of most touching melody,
But looking up saw not the singer there.-
Through the black bars in the tempestuous air
I saw, like weeds on a wreck'd palace growing,
Long tangled locks flung wildly forth and flowing,
Of those who on a sudden were beguiled
Into strange silence, and look'd forth and smiled,
Hearing sweet sounds. Then I :
A lady came with him from France, and when
She left him and return'd, he wander'd then
About yon lonely isles of desert sand,
Till he grew wild. He had no cash or land
Remaining: the police had brought him here--
Some fancy took him, and he would not bear
Removal, so I fitted up for him
Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim;
And sent him busts, and books, and urns for flowers,
Which had adorn'd his life in happier hours,
And instruments of music. You may guess
A stranger could do little more or less
For one so gentle and unfortunate-
And those are his sweet strains which charm the weight
From madınen's chains, and make this hell appear
A heaven of sacred silence, hush'd to hear.
■ Nay, this was kind of you, he had no claim, As the world says.»
• None but the very same
Which I on all mankind, were I, as he,
Fall'n to such deep reverse. His melody
Is interrupted now; we hear the din
Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin:
Let us now visit him: after this strain,
He ever communes with himself again,
And sees and hears not any."
These words, we call'd the keeper, and he led
To an apartment opening on the sea.-
There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully
Near a piano, his pale fingers twined
One with the other; and the ooze and wind
Rush'd through an open casement, and did sway
His hair, and starr'd it with the brackish spray;
His head was leaning on a music-book,
And he was muttering; and his lean limbs shook;
His lips were press'd against a folded leaf
In hue too beautiful for health, and grief
Smiled in their motions as they lay apart,
As one who wrought from his own fervid heart
The eloquence of passion: soon he raised
• Methinks there were His sad meek face, and eyes lustrous and glazed,
A cure of these with patience and kind care,
If music can thus move. But what is he,
Whom we seek here?,
I know but this, said Maddalo: he came
To Venice a dejected man, and fame
Said he was wealthy, or he had been so.
Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe;
But he was ever talking in such sort
As you do, but more sadly; - he seem'd hurt,
Even as a man with his peculiar wrong,
To hear but of the oppression of the strong,
Or those absurd deceits (I think with you
In some respects, you know) which carry through
The excellent impostors of this earth
When they outface detection. He had worth,
Poor fellow! but a humourist in his way.>>-
- Alas, what drove him mad?»
And spoke, sometimes as one who wrote, and thought
His words might move some heart that heeded not,
If sent to distant lands;-and then as one
Reproaching deeds never to be undone,
With wondering self-compassion;-then his speech
Was lost in grief, and then his words came each
Unmodulated and expressionless, -
But that from one jarr'd accent you might guess
It was despair made them so uniform:
And all the while the loud and gusty storm
Hiss'd through the window, and we stood behind,
Stealing his accents from the envious wind,
Unseen. I yet remember what he said
Distinctly, such impression his words made.
• Month after month, he cried, to bear this load,
And, as a jade urged by the whip and goad,
To drag life on-which like a heavy chain
Lengthens behind with many a link of pain,
And not to speak my grief-O, not to dare
To give a human voice to my despair;
But live, and move, and, wretched thing! smile on, As if I never went aside to groan,
And wear this mask of falsehood even to those
Who are most dear-not for my own repose
Alas! no scorn, or pain, or hate, could be
So heavy as that falsehood is to me
But that I cannot bear more alter'd faces
To avarice or misanthropy or lust.
Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust!
Till then the dungeon may demand its prey;
And Poverty and Shame may meet and say,
Halting beside me in the public way,-
'That love-devoted youth is ours: let's sit
Beside him: he may live some six months yet.'-
Than needs must be, more changed and cold embraces, Or the red scaffold, as our country bends,
May ask some willing victim; or ye, friends!
May fall under some sorrow, which this heart
Or hand may share, or vanquish, or avert;
I am prepared, in truth, with no proud joy,
To do or suffer aught, as when a boy
I did devote to justice, and to love,
My nature, worthless now.
More misery, disappointment, and mistrust To own me for their father. Would the dust
Were cover'd in upon my body now!
That the life ceased to toil within my brow!
And then these thoughts would at the last be fled:
Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead.
• What Power delights to torture us? I know
That to myself I do not wholly owe
What now I suffer, though in part I may.
Alas! none strew'd fresh flowers upon the way
Where, wandering heedlessly, I met pale Pain,
My shadow, which will leave me not again.
If I have err'd, there was no joy in error,
But pain, and insult, and unrest, and terror;
I have not, as some do, bought penitence
With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence;
For then if love, and tenderness, and truth
Had overlived Hope's momentary youth,
My creed should have redeem'd me from repenting;
But loathed scorn and outrage unrelenting
Met love excited by far other seeming,
Until the end was gain'd:-as one from dreaming Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my state Such as it is.
<< O, thou, my spirit's mate!
Who, for thou art compassionate and wise,
Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes,
If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see,
My secret groans must be unheard by thee;
Thou wouldst weep tears, bitter as blood, to know
Thy lost friend's incommunicable woe.
Ye few by whom my nature has been weigh'd
In friendship, let me not that name degrade,
By placing on your hearts the secret load
Which crushes mine to dust. There is one road
To peace, and that is truth, which follow ye!
Love sometimes leads astray to misery.
Yet think not, though subdued (and I may well
Say that I am subdued)-that the full hell
Within me would infect the untainted breast
Of sacred nature with its own unrest;
As some perverted beings think to find
In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind
Which scorn or hate hath wounded. O, how vain!
The dagger heals not, but may rend again.
Believe that I am ever still the same
In creed as in resolve: and what may tame
My heart, must leave the understanding free,
Or all would sink under this agony.-
Nor dream that I will join the vulgar eye,
Or with my silence sanction tyranny,
Or seek a moment's shelter from my pain
In any madness which the world calls gain;
Ambition, or revenge, or thouglits as stern
As those which make me what I am, or turn
A veil from my pent mind. 'T is torn aside!
O! pallid as Deatli's dedicated bride,
Thou mockery which art sitting by my side,
Am I not wan like thee? At the grave's call
I haste, invited to thy wedding-ball,
To meet the ghastly paramour, for whom
Thou hast deserted me, and made the tomb
Thy bridal bed. But I beside thy feet
Will lie, and watch ye from my winding-sheet
Thus-wide awake though dead--Yet stay, O, stay!
Go not so soon-I know not what I say-
Hear but my reasons-I am mad, I fear,
My fancy is o'erwrought-thou art not here.
Pale art thou, 't is most true--but thou art gone-
Thy work is finish'd; I am left alone.
<< Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breast,
Which like a serpent thou envenomest
As in repayment of the warmth it lent?
Didst thou not seek me for thine own content?
Did not thy love awaken mine? I thought
That thou wert she who said 'You kiss me not
Ever; I fear you do not love me now.'
In truth I loved even to my overthrow
Her, who would fain forget these words; but they
Cling to her mind, and cannot pass awaya
<< You say that I am proud; that when I speak,
My lip is tortured with the wrongs, which break
The spirit it expresses.-Never one
Ilumbled himself before, as I have done!
Even the instinctive worm on which we tread
Turns, though it wound not-then, with prostrate head,
Sinks in the dust, and writhes like me-and dies:
--No:-wears a living death of agonies!
As the slow shadows of the pointed grass
Mark the eternal periods, its pangs pass,
Slow, ever-moving, making moments be
As mine seem, each an immortality!
That you had never seen me! never heard My voice! and, more than all, had ne'er endured The deep pollution of my loathed embrace! That your eyes ne'er had lied love in my face! That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root
With mine own quivering fingers! so that ne'er
Our hearts had for a moment mingled there,
To disunite in horror! These were not
With thee like some suppress'd and hideous thought,
Which flits athwart our musings, but can find
No rest within a pure and gentle mind-
Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad word,
And searedst my memory o'er them, for I heard
And can forget not-they were minister'd,
One after one, those curses. Mix them up
Like self-destroying poisons in one cup;
And they will make one blessing, which thou ne'er
Didst imprecate for on me--death!
A cruel punishment for one most cruel,
If such can love, to make that love the fuel
Of the mind's hell-hate, scorn, remorse, despair:
But me, whose heart a stranger's tear might wear,
As water-drops the sandy fountain-stone;
Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan
For woes which others hear not; and could see
The absent with the glass of phantasy,
And near the poor and trampled sit and weep,
Following the captive to his dungeon deep;
Me, who am as a nerve o'er which do creep
The else-unfelt oppressions of this earth,
And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth,
When all beside was cold:-that thou on me
Shouldst rain these plagues of blistering agony-
Such curses are from lips once eloquent
With love's too partial praise! Let none relent
Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name
Henceforth, if an example for the same
They seek:-for thou on me lookedst so and so,
And didst speak thus and thus. I live to show
How much men bear and die not.
With the grimace of hate, how horrible
It was to meet my love when thine grew less;
Thou wilt admire how I could e'er address
Our chastisement or recompense.-O, child!
I would that thine were like to be more mild,
For both our wretched sakes, -for thine the most,
Who feel'st already all that thou hast lost,
Without the power to wish it thine again.
And, as slow years pass, a funereal train,
Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend
Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend
No thought on my dead memory?
Fear me not against thee I'd not move
A finger in despite. Do I not live
That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve?
I give thee tears for scorn, and love for hate;
And, that thy lot may be less desolate
Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain
From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain.
Then-when thou speakest of me-never say,
'He could forgive not'-Here I cast away
All human passions, all revenge, all pride;
I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide
Under these words, like embers, every spark
Of that which has consumed me. Quick and dark
The grave is yawning:-as its roof shall cover
My limbs with dust and worms, under and over,
So let oblivion hide this grief-The air
Closes upon my accents, as despair
Upon my heart-let death upon despair!»
He ceased, and overcome, leant back awhile;
Then rising, with a melancholy smile,
Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept
A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept,
And mutter'd some familiar name, and we
Wept without shame in his society.
I think I never was impress'd so much;
The man who were not, must have lack'd a touch
Of human nature. Then we linger'd not,
Although our argument was quite forgot;
But, calling the attendants, went to dine
Such features to love's work--This taunt, though true At Maddalo's:-yet neither cheer nor wine
(For indeed nature nor in form nor hue
Bestow'd on me her choicest workmanship),
Shall not be thy defence: for since thy life
Met mine first, years long past, since thine eye kindled
With soft fire under mine, -I have not dwindled,
Nor changed in mind, or body, or in aught,
But as love changes what it loveth not
After long years and many trials.
Are words! I thought never to speak again,
Not even in secret, not to my own heart-
But from my lips the unwilling accents start,
And from my pen the words flow as I write,
Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears-my sight
Is dim to see that character'd in vain,
On this unfeeling leaf, which burns the brain
And eats into it, blotting all things fair,
And wise and good, which time had written there.
Those who inflict must suffer, for they see
The work of their own hearts, and that must be
Could give us spirits, for we talk'd of him,
And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim.
And we agreed it was some dreadful ill
Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,
By a dear friend; some deadly change in love
Of one vow'd deeply which he dream'd not of;
For whose sake he, it seem'd, had fix'd a blot
Of falsehood in his mind, which flourish'd not
But in the light of all-beholding truth;
And having stamp'd this canker on his youth,
She had abandon'd him:--and how much more
Might be his woe, we guess'd not:-he had store
Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess
From his nice habits and his gentleness:
These now were lost it were a grief indeed
If he had changed one unsustaining reed
For all that such a man might else adorn.
The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn;
For the wild language of his grief was high
Such as in measure were called poetry.
And I remember one remark, which then
Maddalo made he said-<<< Most wretched men
• Child, is there no more?>>>
I, from this moment, should have form'd some plan
Never to leave sweet Venice: for to me
It was delight to ride by the lone sea:
And then the town is silent-one may write,
Or read in gondolas by day or night,
Having the little brazen lamp alight,
Unseen, uninterrupted :-books are there,
Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair
Which were twin-born with poetry;-and all
We seek in towns, with little to recal
Regret for the green country: -I might sit
In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit
And subtle talk would cheer the winter night,
And make me know myself:-and the fire-light
Would flash upon our faces, till the day
Might dawn, and make me wonder at my stay.
But I had friends in London too. The chief
Attraction here was that I sought relief
From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought
Within me-'t was perhaps an idle thought,
But I imagined that if, day by day,
I watch'd him, and seldom went away,
And studied all the beatings of his heart
With zeal, as men study some stubborn art
For their own good, and could by patience find
An entrance to the caverns of his mind,
I might reclaim him from his dark estate.
In friendships I had been most fortunate,
Yet never saw I one whom I would call
More willingly my friend; and this was all
Accomplish'd not;-such dreams of baseless good
Oft come and go, in crowds or solitude,
And leave no trace!-but what I now design'd,
Made, for long years, impression on my mind.
-The following morning, urged by my affairs,
I left bright Venice.-
After many years, And many changes, I return'd; the naine Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same; But Maddalo was travelling, far away, Among the mountains of Armenia. His dog was dead: his child had now become A woman, such as it has been my doom To meet with few; a wonder of this earth, Where there is little of transcendent worth,Like one of Shakspeare's women. Kindly she, And with a manner beyond courtesy, Received her father's friend; and, when I ask'd Of the lorn maniac, she her memory task'd, And told, as she had heard, the mournful tale: << That the poor sufferer's health began to fail, Two years from my departure; but that then The lady, who had left him, came again. Her mien had been imperious, but she now Look'd meek; perhaps remorse had brought her low. Her coming made him better; and they stay'd Together at my father's, -for I play'd, As I remember, with the lady's shawl; I might be six years old :-But, after all, She left him.»
• Something within that interval, which bore
The stamp of why they parted, how they met;
Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wet
Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remember'd tears,
Ask me no more; but let the silent years
Be closed and cered over their memory
As yon mute marble where their corpses lie..
I urged and question'd still: she told me how
All happen'd-but the cold world shall not know.
ROME, May, 1819.
BEFORE those cruel Twins, whom at one birth
Incestuous Change bore to her father Time,
Error and Truth, had hunted from the earth
All those bright natures which adorn'd its prime,
And left us nothing to believe in, worth
The pains of putting into learned rhyme,
A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain,
Within a cavern by a secret fountain.
Her mother was one of the Atlantides:
The all-bebolding Sun had ne'er beholden In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas
So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden In the warm shadow of her loveliness;
He kiss'd her with his beams, and made all golden
The chamber of grey rock in which she lay-
She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away.
"T is said, she was first changed into a vapour,
And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit,
Like splendour-winged moths about a taper,
Round the red west when the sun dies in it:
And then into a meteor, such as caper
On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit;
Then, into one of those mysterious stars
Which hide themselves between the Earth and Mars.
IV.
Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent
Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden
With that bright sign the billows to indent
The sea-deserted sand: like children chidden,
At her command they ever came and went :-
Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden,
Took shape and motion: with the living form
Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm.
A lovely lady garmented in light
From her own beauty-deep her eyes, as are Two openings of unfathomable night
Seen through a tempest's cloven roof-her hair Dark-the dim brain whirls dizzy with delight,
Picturing her form! her soft smiles shone afar, And her low voice was heard like love, and drew All living things towards this wonder new.
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