Of objects all inanimate I made
Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, And rocks whereby they grew, a paradise, Where I did lay me down within the shade Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, Though I was chid for wandering; and the Wise Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said Of such materials wretched men were made, And such a truant boy would end in woe, And that the only lesson was a blow; And then they smote me, and I did not weep, But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again The visions which arise without a sleep. And with my years my soul began to pant With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain; And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, But undefined and wandering, till the day
I found the thing I sought — and that was thee.
And then I lost my being all to be
Absorb'd in thine; the world was past away,
Thou didst annihilate the earth to me!
I loved all Solitude; but little thought To spend I know not what of life, remote From all communion with existence, save The maniac and his tyrant. Had I been Their fellow, many years ere this had seen My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave,-
But who hath seen me writhe or heard me rave? Perchance in such a cell we suffer more
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore;
The world is all before him mine is here,
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. What though he perish, he may lift his eye And with a dying glance upbraid the sky- I will not raise my own in such reproof, Although 't is clouded by my dungeon roof.
Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, But with a sense of its decay: I see
Unwonted lights along my prison shine, And a strange demon, who is vexing me With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below The feeling of the healthful and the free; But much to One, who long hath suffer'd so, Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, And all that may be borne, or can debase. I thought mine enemies had been but Man, But Spirits may be leagued with them—all Earth Abandons, Heaven forgets me; in the dearth Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, It may be, tempt me further, and prevail Against the outworn creature they assail. Why in this furnace is my spirit proved Like steel in tempering fire? because I loved? Because I loved what not to love, and see, Was more or less than mortal and than me.
I once was quick in feeling-that is o'er; My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd My brain against these bars, as the sun flash'd In mockery through them. If I bear and bore The much I have recounted, and the more
Which hath no words, 't is that I would not die And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie Which suared me here, and with the brand of shame Stamped Madness deep into my memory, And woo Compassion to a blighted name, Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. No- it shall be immortal! and I make A future temple of my present cell, Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. While thou, Ferrara! when no longer dwell The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls, — A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls! And thou, Leonora! thou - who wert ashamed That such as I could love, who blush'd to hear To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear Go! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed By grief, years, weariness and it may be A taint of that he would impute to me From long infection of a den like this,
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss,
Adores thee still; - and add, that when the towers And battlements which guard his joyous hours Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot, Or left untended in a dull repose,
This this shall be a consecrated spot!
But Thou — when all that Birth and Beauty throws Of magic round thee is extinct
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. No power in death can tear our names apart, As none in life could rend thee from my heart. Yes, Leonora! it shall be our fate
To be entwined for ever but too late!
To-day, or rather yesterday, for it is past midnight, I have been up to the battlements of the highest tower in Venice, and seen it and its view, in all the glory of a clear Italian sky. I also went over the Manfrini Palace, famous for its pictures. Amongst them, there is a portrait of Ariosto by Titian, surpassing all my anticipation of the power of painting or human expression: it is the poetry of portrait, and the portrait of poetry. There was also one of some learned lady, centuries old, whose name I forget, but whose features must always be remembered. I never saw greater beauty, or sweetness, or wisdom: it is the kind of face to go mad for, because it cannot walk out of its frame. There is also a famous dead Christ and live apostles, for which Buonaparte offered in vain five thousand
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