Ferrara.

PRISON OF TASSO.

FERRARA! in thy wide and grass-grown streets,

Whose symmetry was not for solitude,

There seems as 't were a curse upon the seats
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood
Of Este, which for many an age made good
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood

Of petty power impelled, of those who wore
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before.

And Tasso is their glory and their shame.
Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell!
And see how dearly earned Torquato's fame,
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell.
The miserable despot could not quell

The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell

Where he had plunged it. Glory without end Scattered the clouds away, and on that name attend

The tears and praises of all time, while thine
Would rot in its oblivion, in the sink

Of worthless dust which from thy boasted line
Is shaken into nothing; but the link

Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think

Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn:
Alfonso, how thy ducal pageants shrink

From thee if in another station born,

Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn:

Thou! formed to eat, and be despised, and die, Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty; He! with a glory round his furrowed brow, Which emanated then, and dazzles now, In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, That whetstone of the teeth, monotony in wire!

Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 't was his
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong
Aimed with her poisoned arrows - but to miss.
O victor unsurpassed in modern song!

Each year brings forth its millions; but how long
The tide of generations shall roll on,

And not the whole combined and countless throng Compose a mind like thine? Though all in one Condensed their scattered rays, they would not form a Lord Byron.

sun.

TASSO'S DUNGEON.

HOW might the goaded sufferer in this cell,

With nothing upon which his eyes might fall,

Except this vacant court, that dreary wall,

How might he live? 1 asked. Here doomed to dwell, I marvel how at all he could repel

Thoughts which to madness and despair would call. Enter this vault; the bare sight will appall

Thy spirit, even as mine within me fell,

Until I learned that wall not always there

Had stood, 't was something that this iron grate
Had once looked out upon a garden fair.

There must have been then here, to calm his braiu, Green leaves, and flowers, and sunshine; and a weight Fell from me, and my heart revived again.

Richard Chenevix Trench.

TO THE DUKE ALPHONSO, ASKING TO BE LIBERATED.

A

NEW Ixion upon fortune's wheel,

Whether I sink profound, or rise sublime,

One never-ceasing martyrdom I feel,

The same in woe, though changing all the time.
I wept above, where sunbeams sport and climb
The vines, and through their foliage sighs the breeze,
I burned and froze, languished, and prayed in rhyme.
Nor could your ire, nor my own grief appease.
Now in my prison, deep and dim, have grown
My torments greater still and keener far,
As if all sharpened on the dungeon-stone :
Magnanimous Alphonso! burst the bar,
Changing my fate, and not my cell alone,
And let my fortune wheel me where you are!

Torquato Tasso. Tr. Richard Henry Wilde.

TO THE PRINCESSES OF FERRARA.

AIR daughters of Rénée! my song

FAIR

Is not of pride and ire,

Fraternal discord, hate, and wrong,
Burning in life and death so strong,
From rule's accurst desire,

That even the flames divided long
Upon their funeral pyre.

But you I sing, of royal birth,
Nursed on one breast like them;

Two flowers, both lovely, blooming forth
From the same parent stem,

Cherished by heaven, beloved by earth,
Of each a treasured gem!

To you I speak in whom we see
With wondrous concord blend
Sense, worth, fame, beauty, modesty,
Imploring you to lend

Compassion to the misery

And sufferings of your friend.

The memory of years gone by,

O, let me in your hearts renew,

The scenes, the thoughts, o'er which I sigh,
The happy days I spent with you,
And what, I ask, and where am I,
And what I was, and why secluded;
Whom did. I trust, and who deluded?

Daughters of heroes and of kings,

Allow me to recall

These and a thousand other things,

Sad, sweet, and mournful all!

From me few words, more tears, grief wrings, Tears burning as they fall.

For royal halls and festive bowers

Where, nobly serving, I

Shared and beguiled your private hours,

Studies, and sports I sigh;

And lyre, and trump, and wreathed flowers; Nay more, for freedom, health, applause, And even humanity's lost laws!

Why am I chased from human kind?
What Circe in the lair

Of brutes, thus keeps me spell-confined?
Nests have the birds of air,

The very beasts in caverns find

Shelter and rest, and share

At least kind nature's gifts and laws,
For each his food and water draws
From wood and fountain, where,
Wholesome and pure and safe, it was
Furnished by heaven's own care;
And all is bright and blest, because
Freedom and health are there!

I merit punishment, I own;
I erred, I must confess it; yet
The fault was in the tongue alone,