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"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 those kings of old philosophy "Who reigned, before Religion made men blind;

"And those who suffer with their suffering

kind

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"Yet feel their faith, religion." "My dear friend,"

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 answered 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."

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"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

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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."

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As thus I spoke1

1 Although Shelley copied this poem with unusual care, I cannot but think the want of a rhyme here is the result of mechanical accident. If we read "As thus spoke I" instead of "As thus I spoke," there would be nothing further to say than that Shelley had used once more an inversion to which

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,

Moans, shrieks, and curses, and blaspheming prayers

Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairs
Into an old court-yard. I heard on high, 220
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 wrecked 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: "Methinks there were

"A cure of these with patience and kind care, "If music can thus move.

"Whom we seek here?"

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but what is he 230 "Of his sad history

"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 ears object, but which would accord with his practice. Perhaps the best instance to adduce is that in the Letter to Maria Gisborne, a poem which has much in common with Julian and Maddalo, especially as regards diction and metre:

And here like some weird Archimage sit I, Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery.-ED.

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Some thought the loss of fortune wrought

him woe;

"But he was ever talking in such sort

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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 240 In some respects you know) which

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through

carry

"The excellent impostors of this earth "When they outface detection--he had worth, "Poor fellow! but a humourist in his way

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Alas, what drove him mad ?" "I cannot say; A lady came with him from France, and when "She left him and returned, he wandered then About yon lonely isles of desert sand

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Till he grew wild-he had no cash or land Remaining, the police had brought him

here

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"Some fancy took him and he would not bear Removal; so I fitted up for him

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"Those rooms beside the sea, to please his

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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

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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 madmen's chains, and make this Hell

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appear

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"A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear."-Nay, this was kind of you-he had no claim, "As the world says"

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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 now visit him; after this strain "He ever communes with himself again, "And sees nor hears not any." Having said These words we called the keeper, and he led To an apartment opening on the seaThere the poor wretch was sitting mournfully Near a piano, his pale fingers twined

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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 280
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

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Was lost in grief, and then his words came each Unmodulated, cold, expressionless;

But that from one jarred accent you might

guess

It was despair made them so uniform:

And all the while the loud and gusty storm Hissed 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

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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,

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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 altered faces
Than needs must be, more changed and cold

embraces,

More misery, disappointment and mistrust
To own me for their father . . . Would 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.

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That to myself I do not wholly owe
What now I suffer, though in part I may.
Alas! none strewed sweet flowers upon the way
Where wandering heedlessly I met pale Pain,
My shadow, which will leave me not again—

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