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With all its clouds in burning glory piled,
Had been shut out by long captivity ;
Such, freedom was to Tasso.—As a child
Is to the mother, whose foreboding eye
In its too radiant glance, from day to day,
Reads that which calls the brightest first away.

And he became a wanderer-in whose breast
Wild fear, which, e'en when every sense doth sleep,
Clings to the burning heart, a wakeful guest,
Sat brooding as a spirit, raised to keep
Its gloomy vigil of intense unrest
O'er treasures, burthening life, and buried deep
In cavern-tomb, and sought, through shades and

stealth,
By some pale mortal, trembling at his wealth.

But woe for those who trample o'er a mind!
A deathless thing.-They know not what they do,
Or what they deal with !—Man perchance may bind
The flower his step hath bruised ; or light anew
The torch he quenches ; or to music wind
Again the lyre-string from his touch that flew-
But for the soul !-oh! tremble, and beware
To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there !

For blindness wraps that world-our touch may turn
Some balance, fearfully and darkly hung,
Or put out some bright spark, whose ray should burn
To point the way a thousand rocks among

Or break some subtle chain, which none discern,
Though binding down the terrible, the strong,
Th' o'ersweeping passions—which to loose on life
Is to set free the elements for strife!

Who then to power and glory shall restore
That which our evil rashness hath undone ?
Who unto mystic harmony once more
Attune those viewless chords ?- There is but One!
He that through dust the stream of life can pour,
The Mighty and the Merciful alone!
-Yet oft His paths have midnight for their shade--
He leaves to man the ruin man hath made !

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."

Corinne.

She sat, where on each wind that sigh'd

The citron's breath went by;
While the deep gold of eventide

Burn'd in the Italian sky.
Her bower was one where daylight's close

Full oft sweet laughter found,
As thence the voice of childhood rose

To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful, at her knee,

Her children stood that hour,
Their bursts of song, and dancing glee,

Hush'd as by words of power.
With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes that gazed

Up to their mother's face ;
With brows through parting ringlets raised,

They stood in silent grace.

While she-yet something o'er her look

Of mournfulness was spread
Forth from a poet's magic book

The glorious numbers read;
The proud, undying lay, which pour'd

Its light on evil years ;
His of the gifted Pen and Sword,*

The triumph and the tears.

She read of fair Erminia's flight,

Which Venice once might hear
Sung on her glittering seas at night,

By many a gondolier;
Of him she read, who broke the charm

That wrapt the myrtle grove ;
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,

That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd,

Young holy hearts were stirr'd;
And the meek tears of woman flow'd

Fast o’er each burning word.
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,

Came sweet each pause between;
When a strange voice of sudden grief

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

men

The mother turn'd-a way-worn man,

In pilgrim garb stood nigh,
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,

Of proud, yet restless eye.
But drops that would not stay for pride,

From that dark eye gush'd free,
As pressing his pale hrow, he cried,

“Forgotten! e'en by thee!

“Am I so changed ?---and yet we two

Oft hand in hand have play'd-
This brow hath been all bathed in dew,

From wreaths which thou hast made.
We have knelt down and said one prayer,

And sung one vesper strain-
My thoughts are dim with clouds of care-

Tell me those words again!

“Life hath been heavy on my head ;

I come, a stricken deer,
Bearing the heart, ʼmidst crowds that bled,

To bleed in stillness here."
-She gazed—till thoughts that long had slept,

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 ?

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