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AT Ferrara (in the library) are preserved the original MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Guarini's Pastor Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto; and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and the house of the latter. But as misfortune has a greater interest for posterity, and little or none for the cotemporary, the cell where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or the monument of Ariosto-at least it had this effect on me. There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is much decayed, and depopulated; the castle still exists entire; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon.

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G years!-It tries the thrilling frame to bear 1 eagle-spirit of a Child of Songg years of outrage, calumny, and wrong; puted madness, prison'd solitude,

the mind's canker in its savage mood, en the impatient thirst of light and air ches the heart; and the abhorred grate, ring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, rks through the throbbing eyeball to the brain h a hot sense of heaviness and pain;

I bare, at once, Captivity display'd

nds scoffing through the never-open'd gate, ich nothing through its bars admits, save day

And tasteless food, which I have eat alone
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone;

And I can banquet like a beast of prey,
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave

Which is my lair, and—it may be—my grave.
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear,
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair;
For I have battled with mine agony,
And made me wings wherewith to overfly
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall,
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall;
And revell'd among men and things divine,
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine,
In honour of the sacred war for him,

The God who was on earth and is in heaven,
For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb.
That through this sufferance I might be forgiven,
I have employ'd my penance to record

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored.

II.

But this is o'er-my pleasant task is done:-
My long-sustaining friend of many years!
If I do blot thy final page with tears,

Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none.
But thou, my young creation! my soul's child!

Which ever playing round me came and smiled,

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d woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight,
ou too art gone-and so is my delight:

d therefore do I weep and inly bleed
ith this last bruise upon a broken reed.
ou too art ended-what is left me now?
r I have anguish yet to bear-and how?
know not that-but in the innate force
my own spirit shall be found resource.
have not sunk, for I had no remorse,

or cause for such: they call'd me mad-and why? a Leonora! wilt not thou reply?

was indeed delirious in my heart

lift my love so lofty as thou art;ng at still my frenzy was not of the mind; knew my fault, and feel my punishment ot less because I suffer it unbent.

hat thou wert beautiful, and I not blind,
ath been the sin which shuts me from mankind;
at let them go, or torture as they will,
y heart can multiply thine image still;
ccessful love may sate itself away,

he wretched are the faithful; 'tis their fate.
o have all feeling save the one decay,
nd every passion into one dilate,

rapid rivers into ocean pour;

at ours is fathomless, and hath no shore.

JII.

Above me, hark! the long and maniac cry
Of minds and bodies in captivity.

And hark! the lash and the increasing howl,
And the half-inarticulate blasphemy!

There be some here with worse than frenzy foul,
Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd mind,
And dim the little light that's left behind
With needless torture, as their tyrant will

Is wound up to the lust of doing ill:

With these and with their victims am I class'd,

'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have

pass'd;

'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close: So let it be for then I shall repose.

IV.

I have been patient, let me be so yet;

I had forgotten half I would forget,
But it revives-oh! would it were my lot

To be forgetful as I am forgot!

Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell
In this vast lazar-house of many, woes?

Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind,
Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind;
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows,

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