Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet gleam
With such deep meaning as we never see
But in the human countenance.
She was a special favourite: I had nursed
Her fine and feeble limbs, when she came first
To this bleak world; and she yet seemed to know
On second sight, her ancient playfellow,
Less changed than she was by six months or so.
For, after her first shyness was worn out,
We sate there, rolling billiard balls about,
When the Count entered. Salutations past:
"The words you spoke last night might well have cast
A darkness on my spirit:-if man be
The passive thing you say, I should not see
Much harm in the religions and old saws,
(Though I may never own such leaden laws)
Which break a teachless nature to the yoke:
Mine is another faith."-Thus much I spoke,
And, noting he replied not, added" See
This lovely child; blithe, innocent and free;
She spends a happy time, with little care;
While we to such sick thoughts subjected 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 minds? And, if we were not weak,
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"-
I then rejoined," and those who try, may find
How strong the chains are which our spirit bind :
Brittle perchance as straw. We 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
And suffer what, we know not till we try;
But something nobler than to live and die:
So taught the kings of old philosophy,
Who reigned 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
Who to this city came some months ago,
With whom I argued in this sort,-and he
Is now gone mad—and so he answered me,
Poor fellow!-But if you would like to go,
We'll visit him, and his wild talk will shew
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 scorned, 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
Sailed to the island where the madhouse stands.
We disembarked. The clap of tortured hands,
Fierce yells, and howlings, and lamentings keen,
And laughter where complaint had merrier been,
Accosted us. We climbed 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.--
Thro' 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 looked forth and smiled,
Hearing sweet sounds. Then I :—
A cure of these with patience and kind care,
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 thro'
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!"
A lady came with him from France, and when
She left him and returned, he wander'd then
About yon lonely isles of desart 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 adorned his life in happier hours,
And instruments of music. You may guess
A stranger could do little more or less
For oneso gentle and unfortunate—
And those are his sweet strains which charm the weight From madmen's chains, and make this hell appear
A heaven of sacred silence, hushed 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 called 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
Rushed thro' 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.
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,-
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