Should we be less in deed than in desire ?"— -"Ay, if we were not weak,-and we aspire, How vainly to be strong," said Maddalo : "You talk Utopian "-
"It remains to know," I then rejoined, "and those who try, may find How strong the chains are which our spirit bind: Brittle perchance as straw. We are assured Much may be conquered, much may be endured, Of what degrades and crushes us. We know 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 the kings of old philosophy, Who reigned before religion made men blind; And those who suffer with their suffering kind, Yet feel this 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."-
"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 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."
As thus I spoke, 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, Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairs Into an old court-yard. I heard on high, Then, fragments of most touching melody, But looking up saw not the singer there.Thro' 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 on a sudden who 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?"
But he was ever talking in such sort As you do, but 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 In some respects, you know) which carry through The excellent impostors of this earth When they outface detection. He had worth, Poor fellow but a humourist in his way."-
-"Alas, what drove him mad?"
A lady came with him from France, and when She left him and returned, he wandered then About yon lonely isles of desert sand,
Till he grew wild. He had no cash nor land Remaining the police had brought him here→ Some fancy took him, and he would not bear Removal, so I fitted up for him
Those rooms beside the sea, to please his 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
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 appear A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear."
"Nay, this was kind of you,-he had no claim, As the world says."
"None but the very same 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 and hears not any."
Having said These words, we called the keeper, and he led To an apartment opening on the sea- There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully Near a piano, his pale fingers twined
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, 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
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 Was lost in grief, and then his words came each Unmodulated and 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,
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-0, not to dare To give a human voice to my despair;
Believe that I am ever still the same In creed as in resolve; and what may tame My heart, must leave the understanding free, Or all would sink under this agony.- Nor dream that I will join the vulgar eye, Or with my silence sanction tyranny, Or seek a moment's shelter from my pain In any madness which the world calls gain; Ambition, or revenge, or thoughts as stern As those which make me what I am, or turn To avarice, or misanthropy, or lust: Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust! Till then the dungeon may demand its prey; And Poverty and Shame may meet and say,
But live, and move, and, wretched thing! smile on, Halting beside me in the public way,
As if I never went aside to groan,
And wear this mask of falsehood even to those Who are most dear-not for my own repose. Alas! no scorn, nor pain, nor 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 last be fled: Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead.
"What Power delights to torture us? I know That to myself I do not wholly owe What now I suffer, though in part I may. Alas! none strewed fresh flowers upon the way Where, wandering heedlessly, I met pale Pain, My shadow, which will leave me not again. If I have erred, there was no joy in error, But pain, and insult, and unrest, and terror; I have not, as some do, bought penitence With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence; For then if love, and tenderness, and truth, Had overlived Hope's momentary youth, My creed should have redeemed me from repenting; But loathed scorn and outrage unrelenting Met love excited by far other seeming
Until the end was gained:--as one from dreaming Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my state Such as it is
"O thou, my spirit's mate! Who, for thou art compassionate and wise, Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see; My secret groans must be unheard by thee; Thou wouldst weep tears, bitter as blood, to know Thy lost friend's incommunicable woe.
Ye few by whom my nature has been weighed In friendship, let me not that name degrade, By placing on your hearts the secret load Which crushes mine to dust. There is one road To peace, and that is truth, which follow ye! Love sometimes leads astray to misery. Yet think not, though subdued (and I may well Say that I am subdued)—that the full hell Within me would infect the untainted breast Of sacred nature with its own unrest; As some perverted beings think to find In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind Which scorn or hate hath wounded.-O, how vain! The dagger heals not, but may rend again.
That love-devoted youth is ours: let's sit Beside him he may live some six months yet.'— Or the red scaffold, as our country bends, May ask some willing victim; or ye, friends, May fall under some sorrow, which this heart Or hand may share, or vanquish, or avert;
I am prepared, in truth, with no proud joy, To do or suffer aught, as when a boy I did devote to justice, and to love, My nature, worthless now.
A veil from my pent mind. "Tis torn aside! O! pallid as death's dedicated bride, Thou mockery which art sitting by my side, Am I not wan like thee? At the grave's call I haste, invited to thy wedding-ball, To meet the ghastly paramour, for whom Thou hast deserted me,-and made the tomb Thy bridal bed. But I beside thy feet Will lie, and watch ye from my winding-sheet Thus-wide awake though dead-Yet stay, O, stay! Go not so soon-I know not what I say- Hear but my reasons-I am mad, I fear, My fancy is o'erwrought-thou art not here, Pale art thou 'tis most true- -but thou art gone- Thy work is finished; I am left alone.
"You say that I am proud; that when I speak, My lip is tortured with the wrongs, which break The spirit it expresses.-Never one Humbled himself before, as I have done; Even the instinctive worm on which we tread Turns, though it wound not-then, with prostrate head,
Sinks in the dust, and writhes like me-and dies: No:-wears a living death of agonies;
As the slow shadows of the pointed grass Mark the eternal periods, its pangs pass, Slow, ever-moving, making moments be As mine seem,-each an immortality;
"That you had never seen me! never heard My voice! and more than all had ne'er endured The deep pollution of my loathed embrace; That your eyes ne'er had lied love in my face! That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root With mine own quivering fingers! so that ne'er Our hearts had for a moment mingled there, To disunite in horror! These were not With thee like some suppressed and hideous thought, Which flits athwart our musings, but can find No rest within a pure and gentle mind- Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad word, And sear❜dst my memory o'er them, for I heard And can forget not-they were ministered, One after one, those curses. Mix them up Like self-destroying poisons in one cup; And they will make one blessing, which thou ne'er Didst imprecate for on me-death!
"It were A cruel punishment for one most cruel, If such can love, to make that love the fuel Of the mind's hell-hate, scorn, remorse, despair: But me, whose heart a stranger's tear might wear As water-drops the sandy fountain stone; Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan For woes which others hear not, and could see The absent with the glass of phantasy, And near the poor and trampled sit and weep, Following the captive to his dungeon deep; Me, who am as a nerve o'er which do creep The else-unfelt oppressions of this earth, And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth, When all beside was cold:-that thou on me Should rain these plagues of blistering agony- Such curses are from lips once eloquent With love's too partial praise! Let none relent Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name Henceforth, if an example for the same
They seek for thou on me lookedst so and so, And didst speak thus and thus. I live to show How much men bear and die not.
With the grimace of hate, how horrible It was to meet my love when thine grew less; Thou wilt admire how I could e'er address Such features to love's work . . . . This taunt, though true,
(For indeed Nature nor in form nor hue Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship) Shall not be thy defence: for since thy life Met mine first, years long past,-since thine eye kindled
With soft fire under mine,-I have not dwindled, Nor changed in mind, or body, or in aught But as love changes what it loveth not After long years and many trials.
Are words; I thought never to speak again, Not even in secret, not to my own heart- But from my lips the unwilling accents start, And from my pen the words flow as I write, Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears-my sight
Is dim to see that charactered in vain, On this unfeeling leaf, which burns the brain And eats into it, blotting all things fair, And wise and good, which time had written there. Those who inflict must suffer, for they see The work of their own hearts, and that must be Our chastisement or recompense.—O child! I would that thine were like to be more mild For both our wretched sakes,-for thine the most, Who feel'st already all that thou hast lost, Without the power to wish it thine again. And, as slow years pass, a funereal train, Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend No thought on my dead memory?
Fear me not: against thee I'd not move A finger in despite. Do I not live That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve? I give thee tears for scorn, and love for hate; And, that thy lot may be less desolate Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain. Then-when thou speakest of me-never say, 'He could forgive not.'-Here I cast away All human passions, all revenge, all pride; I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide Under these words, like embers, every spark Of that which has consumed me. Quick and dark The grave is yawning:-as its roof shall cover My limbs with dust and worms, under and over, So let oblivion hide this grief.-The air Closes upon my accents as despair Upon my heart-let death upon my care!”
He ceased, and overcome, leant back awhile; Then rising, with a melancholy smile, Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept, And muttered some familiar name, and we Wept without shame in his society.
I think I never was impressed so much! The man, who was not, must have lacked a touch Of human nature.-Then we lingered not, Although our argument was quite forgot; But, calling the attendants, went to dine At Maddalo's;-yet neither cheer nor wine Could give us spirits, for we talked of him, And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim. And we agreed it was some dreadful ill Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable, By a dear friend; some deadly change in love Of one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of; For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot, Of falsehood in his mind, which flourished not But in the light of all-beholding truth;
And having stamped this canker on his youth, She had abandoned him:-and how much more Might be his woe, we guessed not;-he had store Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess From his nice habits and his gentleness: These now were lost-it were a grief indeed If he had changed one unsustaining reed For all that such a man might else adorn. The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn; For the wild language of his grief was high- Such as in measure were called poetry. And I remember one remark, which then Maddalo made: he said-" Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong: They learn in suffering what they teach in song."
If I had been an unconnected man,
I, from the moment, should have formed some plan
Never to leave sweet Venice: for to me It was delight to ride by the lone sea: And then the town is silent-one may write Or read in gondolas, by day or night, Having the little brazen lamp alight, Unseen, uninterrupted:-books are there, Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair Which were twin-born with poetry !-and all We seek in towns, with little to recall Regret for the green country:-I might sit In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit And subtle talk would cheer the winter night, And make me know myself:-and the fire light Would flash upon our faces, till the day Might dawn, and make me wonder at my stay. But I had friends in London too. The chief Attraction here was that I sought relief From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought Within me 'twas perhaps an idle thought, But I imagined that if, day by day,
I watched him, and seldom went away, And studied all the beatings of his heart With zeal, as men study some stubborn art For their own good, and could by patience find An entrance to the caverns of his mind, I might reclaim him from his dark estate. In friendships I had been most fortunate, Yet never saw I one whom I would call More willingly my friend :—and this was all Accomplished not;-such dreams of baseless good Oft come and go, in crowds or solitude, And leave no trace!-but what I now designed Made, for long years, impression on my mind. The following morning urged by my affairs, I left bright Venice.
And many changes, I returned: the name Of Venice, and its aspect was the same; But Maddalo was travelling, far away, Among the mountains of Armenia. His dog was dead: his child had now become A woman, such as it has been my doom To meet with few; a wonder of this earth, Where there is little of transcendent worth,— Like one of Shakspeare's women. Kindly she, And with a manner beyond courtesy, Received her father's friend; and, when I asked, Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked, And told, as she had heard, the mournful tale: "That the poor sufferer's health began to fail Two years from my departure: but that then The lady, who had left him, came again, Her mien had been imperious, but she now Looked meek; perhaps remorse had brought her low.
Her coming made him better; and they stayed Together at my father's,-for I played, As I remember, with the lady's shawl; I might be six years old:-But, after all, She left him."
"Why her heart must have been tough; How did it end?"
"And was not this enough?
"Child, is there no more?"
"Something within that interval which bore The stamp of why they parted, how they met ;— Yet, if thine aged eyes disdain to wet Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered Ask me no more; but let the silent years [tears, Be closed and cered over their memory,
As yon mute marble where their corpses lie." I urged and questioned still: she told me how
All happened-but the cold world shall not know.
THE WOODMAN AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
A WOODMAN, whose rough heart was out of tune (I think such hearts yet never came to good), Hated to hear, under the stars or moon,
One nightingale in an interfluous wood Satiate the hungry dark with melody ;- And, as a vale is watered by a flood,
Or as the moonlight fills the open sky Struggling with darkness-as a tuberose Peoples some Indian dell with scents which lie
Like clouds above the flower from which they rose, The singing of that happy nightingale In this sweet forest, from the golden close
Of evening till the star of dawn may fail, Was interfused upon the silentness; The folded roses and the violets pale
Heard her within their slumbers, the abyss Of heaven with all its planets; the dull ear Of the night-cradled earth; the loneliness
Of the circumfluous waters,-every sphere And every flower and beam and cloud and wave, And every wind of the mute atmosphere,
And every beast stretched in its rugged cave, And every bird lulled on its mossy bough, And every silver moth, fresh from the grave,
Which is its cradle-ever from below Aspiring like one who loves too fair, too far, To be consumed within the purest glow
Of one serene and unapproached star, As if it were a lamp of earthly light, Unconscious as some human lovers are,
Itself how low, how high, beyond all height The heaven where it would perish !-and every form That worshipped in the temple of the night
Was awed into delight, and by the charm Girt as with an interminable zone, Whilst that sweet bird, whose music was a storm
Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivion Out of their dreams; harmony became love In every soul but one. . . .
And so this man returned with axe and saw At evening close from killing the tall treen, The soul of whom by nature's gentle law
Was each a wood-nymph, and kept ever green The pavement and the roof of the wild copse, Chequering the sunlight of the blue serene
With jagged leaves,—and from the forest tops Singing the winds to sleep-or weeping oft Fast showers of aërial water drops,
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