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With all its clouds in burning glory piled,
And he became a wanderer-in whose breast
But woe for those who trample o'er a mind!
For blindness wraps that world-our touch may turn
Or break some subtle chain, which none discern,
Who then to power and glory shall restore
TASSO AND HIS SISTER.
“Devant vous est Sorrente ; là démeuroit la sæur de Tasse, quand il vint en pélérin demander à cette obscure amie, un asile contre l'injustice des princess-Ses longues douleurs avoient presque égaré sa raison ; il ne lui restoit plus que dų génie."
She sat, where on each wind that sigh'd
The citron's breath went by;
Burn'd in the Italian sky.
Full oft sweet laughter found,
To the high vineyards round.
But still and thoughtful, at her knee,
Her children stood that hour,
Hush'd as by words of power.
Up to their mother's face ;
They stood in silent grace.
While she-yet something o'er her look
Of mournfulness was spread
The glorious numbers read;
Its light on evil years ;
The triumph and the tears.
She read of fair Erminia's flight,
Which Venice once might hear
By many a gondolier;
That wrapt the myrtle grove ;
That slew his Paynim love.
Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd,
Young holy hearts were stirr'd;
Fast o’er each burning word.
Came sweet each pause between;
Burst on the gentle scene.
* It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all
The mother turn'd-a way-worn man,
In pilgrim garb stood nigh,
Of proud, yet restless eye.
From that dark eye gush'd free,
“Forgotten! e'en by thee!
“Am I so changed ?---and yet we two
Oft hand in hand have play'd-
From wreaths which thou hast made.
And sung one vesper strain-
Tell me those words again!
“Life hath been heavy on my head ;
I come, a stricken deer,
To bleed in stillness here."
Shook all her thrilling frameShe fell upon his neck, and wept,
And breathed her brother's name.
Her rother's name!-and who was he,
The weary one, th' unknown, That came, the bitter world to flee,
A stranger to his own ?