DARREL'S AISLE.* Fortè fuit juxtà tumulus, quo cornea summo I. TIME is not always what he seems; His hand though stern, his step though sure, I see before me Darrel's Aisle Its Gothic porch, and studded door; Its stain upon the sculptur'd stone, I see them still, the porch, the aisle, The tomb, the blood, and deem the while, Although swift change on change be wrought, II. Yet I am changed :-in joy, in strength, But bend with meditative brow Of Childhood's rosy-cinctured years Too spiritualized for human tears! Of Fancy, and of Feeling's flowers: Though broken from their parent-bowers: Which droop not, faint not, fall not:-see, Sweet Spirit! what I cull for thee. * See Notes to Rokeby, for the Legend of Littlecote Hall. III. Approach, Tradition!-give thy hand IV. 'Tis none of these-the gloomy tale And crown'd by Parricide the while : With fierce and unrelenting heart, And crush'd its pledge beneath his feet, A sweet pledge nipped, ere deepening day V. Of her th' unknown :-yet haply fair Rose shrill as bittern's cry forlorn, D D No record of her beauty, none VI. Here Darrel sleeps: if he can sleep, VII. Sweet Spirit of the Past!-thy song Hath paus'd in one remember'd note! As sweet as the melodious lay When Friendship sought thy rustic porch, A laughing and a happy throng, When Thought partook no deeper dye And Pleasure danced before the eye Sept. 18th, 1835. W. G. T. THOUGHTS ON THE POET TASSO. BY MRS. CRAWFORD. "Con la penna e con la spada Of all the Italian poets, nay, of all poets, Tasso appears to me the most interesting; inasmuch as that genius, though it form the chief and most attractive charm in others, was in him but a bright jewel, blending with, but never outshining, the splendour of his bosom gems, religion, and morality. That divinity that breathed in the soul of Tasso, seemed to have touched, as with holy fire, every passion of his heart, making it like the genial spring, expand into the glowing promise of a future Eden. Beyond the two characters, of a poet and a lover, Tasso has been too little appreciated for when we contemplate the picture truth presents of this great man-when we see his humility in all that regards himself, his noble concedence of the palm to others, his generous forgiveness of enemies, and trusting confidence in friends, to which was added a perfect love of God, and submissive reliance on that allwise Providence that led him on his way to heaven, while yet captive in a cell at Ferrara-when, I say, we contemplate these rare gifts of a rare virtue, do not the great poet and the adoring lover form but bright reflections of his sun of mind, and instead of crowning Tasso, make him to crown them. Some of the pleasantest excursions my fancy ever took, were to the sunny regions of poetic Italy, to accompany the melancholy Tasso from the myrtle bowers of his boyhood, to the dark precincts of his tomb-like cell. With what delight have we tarried at Sorrento, to witness the baptism of the boy Torquato, in whose fairy lineaments the all-searching eye of maternal love could not read the glory of the future man. When, disdaining ease, he follows the fortunes of his wandering sire, how sweetly do we trace the golden promise of the poet, in that early dedication of genius to nature, in which he so beautifully commemorates his first parting with that first friend, his mother. "Ma dal sen de la madre empia fortuna Preghi che sen portar l'aure fugaci, Che i' non dovea giunger più volto à volto Fra quelle braccia accolto Con nodi cosi stretti, e si tenaci, Lasso, e seguij con mal sicure piante Qual' Ascanio, o Camilla il padre errante." Amid the academic shades of Padua we next see him, with the youthful Scipio Gonzaga,* about his own age, discoursing of abstruse points, or bending an humble and attentive ear to others, older than his dear associate in mental labour. Sometimes his fair and elevated brow relaxes of its philosophic character; and light, the light of heavenly poesy, puts to flight the logic of the law and then his deep blue serious eye gathers into laughing sunshine; and anon into tears, that gush, like healthful springs, cherishing the heart that yields them. Again, what magic scenes of splendor and of gaiety have I conjured up, in my moonlight rambles to Ferrara! Its lighted halls echoing the music of a thousand dulcet strings, its paradisian gardens, storied temples, delicious fountains, and winding walks of myrtle, and of orange trees, whose golden fruitage realizes the fable of the sweet Hesperides. There Tasso sate, and loved the rosy hours away: there made close fellowship with nature, and whispered to the musky breeze that stole his sighs, the name of Leonora. There we behold him, that "prince of song," sitting at the feet of his bright lady love, who was to him "a crystal-girded shrine,"† yet who, with all her beauty, rank, and learning, owes immortality to Tasso's song. Oh, idle boast of human pride! what are all the proud array, the pageant pomp of meretricious greatness, to simple unattended genius? The mighty duke, the regal Alphonso, with all the splendour of his state-his costly palaces, gay court, and kingly banquetings--how inferior to the homeless, fortuneless, and untitled Tasso! who thinks of the prince when Tasso appears? who listens to the ducal speaker, when the eloquent lips of the bard breathe upon the ear? Or who that could be Tasso, would be the Prince of Ferrara? Immortal genius! On thy buoyant wing, When escaping from his prison at Ferrara, Tasso flies "like another Bias," with what pleasure we renew our pilgrimage; and accompany the fugitive in his flight over rugged plain and mountain steep, sometimes following the dizzy path of the wild chamois, at others traversing the rocky vale, where cloistered walls invite the bard to rest! Afterwards cardinal; with this nobleman Tasso contracted that early friendship which ended but with his life. Byron's "Lament of Tasso." Tasso's words. |