And the black bell became invisible, And the red tower looked gray, and all between The churches, ships and palaces were seen Huddled in gloom ;-into the purple sea Which break a teachless nature to the yoke : Mine is another faith "-thus much I spoke And noting he replied not, added: "See free, The orange hues of heaven sunk silently. This lovely child, blithe, innocent and way. She spends a happy time with little care The following morn was rainy, cold While we to such sick thoughts sub and dim, Ere Maddalo arose, I called on him, And whilst I waited with his child I played; A lovelier toy sweet Nature never made, A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being, Graceful without design and unforeseeing, With eyes-Oh speak not of her eyes! -which seem Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet gleam jected are As came on you last night-it is our will Which thus enchains us to permitted ill We might be otherwise- we might be all We dream of, happy, high, majestical. Where is the love, beauty, and truth we seek But in our mind? and if we were not weak With such deep meaning, as we never Should we be less in deed than in desire ?" "Aye, if we were not weak-and we aspire How vainly to be strong!" said Maddalo : "You talk Utopia." "It remains to know," I then rejoined, "and those who try may find How strong the chains are which our spirit bind; straw . . . We Brittle perchance as are assured Much may be conquered, much may be endured Of what degrades and crushes us. We know That we have power over ourselves to do A darkness on my spirit-if man be Much harm in the religions and old But something nobler than to live and (Tho' I may never own such leaden So taught those kings of old philosophy laws) And laughter where complaint had merrier been, Moans, shrieks, and curses, and blaspheming prayers To your opinion, tho' I think you Accosted us. might Make such a system refutation-tight As far as words go. I knew one like you stairs We climbed the oozy Into an old courtyard. I heard on high, Then, fragments of most touching melody, Who to this city came some months But looking up saw not the singer there. We'll visit him, and his wild talk will Into strange silence, and looked forth 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 bowed His being there are some by nature proud, and smiled Hearing sweet sounds.-Then I: "Methinks there were A cure of these with patience and kind care, If music can thus move... ... but what is he Whom we seek here?" "Of his sad history I know but this," said Maddalo, "he came To Venice a dejected man, and fame Who patient in all else demand but Said he was wealthy, or he had been To love and be beloved with gentle- Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe; And being scorned, what wonder if But he was ever talking in such sort ness; they die Some living death? this is not destiny But man's own wilful ill." As thus I spoke Servants announced the gondola, and we Through the fast-falling rain and highwrought sea Sailed to the island where the madhouse stands. As you do-far more sadly; he seemed 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 These words we called the keeper, and Poor fellow but a humourist in his To an apartment opening on the sea- "9 way mournfully Near a piano, his pale fingers twined One with the other, and the ooze and wind Rushed through an open casement, and did sway His hair, and starred 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 pressed 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 His sad meek face and eyes lustrous and glazed And spoke-sometimes as one who wrote and thought And those are his sweet strains which His words might move some heart that charm the weight Hell appear heeded not From madmen's chains, and make this If sent to distant lands: and then as one his speech "Nay, this was kind of you-he had no Was lost in grief, and then his words came each "None-but the Unmodulated, cold, expressionless,- very same Which I on all mankind were I as he Fallen to such deep reverse ;— his melody Is interrupted-now we hear the din Of madmen, shriek on shriek again begin ; Let us might guess | It was despair made them so uniform: And all the while the loud and gusty storm Hissed thro' the window, and we stood now visit him; after this Stealing his accents from the envious He ever communes with himself again, And sees nor hears not any." Having said wind Unseen. I yet remember what he said Distinctly: such impression his words made. "Month after month," he cried, "to I have not as some do, bought penitence With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet 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 "O Thou, my spirit's mate Who, for thou art compassionate and wise, Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle Alas! no scorn or pain or hate could be cold embraces, eyes see More misery, disappointment, and mis- My secret groans must be unheard by To own me for their father . . . Would Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood the dust Were covered in upon my body now! That the life ceased to toil within my brow! And then these thoughts would at the least 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, tho' in part I may. Alas none strewed sweet flowers upon the way to know Thy lost friend's incommunicable woe. "Ye few by whom my nature has been weighed 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 tho' subdued-and I may well Where wandering heedlessly, I met pale Say that I am subdued-that the full My shadow, which will leave me not Within me would infect the untainted If I have erred, there was no joy in Of sacred nature with its own unrest; As some perverted beings think to find But pain and insult and unrest and In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind error, terror; Which scorn or hate hath wounded—O | Am I not wan like thee? at the grave's how vain! The dagger heals not but may rend Believe that I am ever still the same My heart, must leave the understanding Or all would sink in this keen agony- Or with my silence sanction tyranny, In any madness which the world calls gain, call I haste, invited to thy wedding-ball Thy bridal bed . . . But I beside your Will lie and watch ye from my winding sheet Thus . . . wide awake tho' dead. . . yet stay, O stay! I am mad, I Go not so soon-I know not what I Ambition or revenge or thoughts as stern thou art but thou art gone, work is finished . . . I am left alone! Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breast And Poverty and Shame may meet and Which, like a serpent thou envenomest As in repayment of the warmth it lent? Didst thou not seek me for thine own say Halting beside me on the public way— 'That love-devoted youth is ours-let's sit Beside him he may live some six months yet.' That thou wert she who said You kiss me not Or the red scaffold, as our country bends, May ask some willing victim, or ye Ever, I fear you do not love me friends now' May fall under some sorrow which this In truth I loved even to my overthrow Her, who would fain forget these words: but they heart "I must remove Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away. "You say that I am proud--that when I speak My lip is tortured with the wrongs which break A veil from my pent mind. 'Tis torn The spirit it expresses .. Never one Thou mockery which art sitting by my Even the instinctive worm on which we side, |
