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TORQUATO TASSO.

his great work, the "Jerusalem Delivered;" and after some time he was called on to accompany the Cardinal Luigi D'Este, who was sent as legate to the court of France. Here his fame had prepared the way for his reception with peculiar honor, by Charles IX, himself both a lover of verse and a versifier. The king offered the poet some splendid presents, which the latter declined to accept, though he was so scantily provided with a wardrobe, that he left the kingdom at the end of twelve months in the same suit of clothes in which he entered it.

During his sojourn in Paris, being asked one day by Charles, "Whether men most resembled God in happiness, in sovereign power, or in the ability to do good?" Tasso replied, "Men resemble God only by their virtue." At another time, in a conversation held before the king by several learned men, it was disputed what condition in life was the most unfortunate. "In my opinion," said Tasso, "the most deplorable condition is that of an impatient old man, borne down by poverty, who has neither fortune to preserve him from want, nor philosophy to support him under suffering."

Through the mediation of Leonora and the Duchess of Urbino, Alfonso's eldest sister, Tasso, soon after his return from France, was formally admitted into the service of the duke, with a pension of a hundred and eighty crowns a year. His chain was a golden one, yet it galled the poet's soul, which would fain have been free as the winds of heaven; and, in the year 1574, he was seized with a violent fever, from which he recovered only to be tortured by the most severe and unjust criticisms on his great work. He found himself, on the one hand, charged with heresy against Aristotle and good taste, and, on the other, with having sinned against the Church and good morals. Fevers, headaches, strange dreams, waking suspicions, restlessness, disappointment, dissatisfaction with his patron, to whom he had dedicated his poem, and in honor of whom he had created his imaginary hero, Rinaldo, perhaps, too, the bitterness of desponding passion, suggested to him the idea of leaving Ferrara, and taking refuge at Rome, where he purposed to bring out the Gerusalemme," at his own pleasure, and hoped to reap a considerable pecuniary benefit from the sale. Alfonso, however, was not willing to lose the glory of the dedication to himself, though he seems to have wanted the generosity and the justice to deal with the author, except as an impotent creature in his power, who could do him much honor by flattering his pride, but to whom he showed at best a scant measure of kindness.

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To secure his selfish object, he made the poet a prisoner near his own person, both at Ferrara and at his palace at Belriguardo, in the country; a prisoner at large, indeed, but under perpetual observation. Of this the sufferer was aware; and the very idea of a human eye for ever upon him, restraining his looks, words, and actions, watching him while he slept, haunting his dreams, and entering into his very thoughts-for so he must have felt as though it did—this alone was enough to madden him.

The restless bard at length fled to Rome; but after spending six weeks there in the luxury of literary intercourse with his friends, he returned to Ferrara. There a circumstance occurred which proved that he could emulate deeds of prowess as well as laud them. Tasso had reason to suspect that one of his acquaintances, named Maddalo, a notary, had been guilty of opening his trunks with false keys, to pry into his secrets among his papers. Meeting the offender in the court of the palace, he gently remonstrated with him.

"You lie in your throat," was the reply.

Torquato, in a sudden transport of anger, gave him a blow upon the face, and the cowardly aggressor walked away, meditating revenge. Accordingly, having enlisted three of his kindred in the quarrel, they sallied forth, armed, to assail the poet; and finding him abroad in the streets, they fell upon him from behind. Tasso promptly turned round, drew his sword, and handled it so bravely, that he succeeded in wounding two of the ruffians, and in putting them all to flight. The circumstance gained him no small reputation, and gave rise to a couplet which has often been repeated:-

"Con la penna e con la spada,
Nessun val quanto Torquate."

"With the pen and with the sword,
None can equal Torquato."

This encounter, of a nature very common in Italy, was made a pretext by the Duke for placing Tasso in confinement. Much obscurity hangs over the true reason of this, his first imprisonment; but the general impression seems to be, that Alfonso's resentment at his daring to love Leonora, prompted the punishment, and that the poet's frenzy was the effect of hopeless passion and impotent resentment against oppression. The restraint to which he was subjected was not very strict, yet it sorely chafed his unquiet spirit; and, after about a year's detention at Ferrara, he secretly effected his escape.

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TORQUATO TASSO.

Italian sunset. In a nook of the shore, apart from other dwellings, stood a neat cottage surrounded by a garden. There, in a vine-covered arbor, was seated a matron, still fair, though nearly forty summers had passed over her head. Her features were beautiful, but a shade of sadness hung on her brow, which was dissipated at times as she watched the merry play and listened to the ringing laughter of her two boys, who were sporting among the vines and flowers, as light, and gay, and lovely as the butterflies they pursued. Suddenly a man appeared in the garden; he was tall, and enveloped in a large cloak, with his hat drawn over his forehead so as entirely to conceal his face. Advancing toward the bower, and speaking in a hollow voice-“ Lady,” he said, “I bring you tidings of one you love.” "From whom, and what mean you!" "From your brother, lady, from Torquato, who is ill in body, and sore pained in spirit, and would fain seek comfort from you, his only sister. I bear a letter from him, which will tell you all."

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My brother! my beloved one! what of him?" Cornelia took the letter, but her agitation would not allow her to read it. "Speak!" she said, fixing her eyes on the messenger,-" tell me all."

A broken, hollow voice responded, pouring forth a touching tale of sorrow. "Thy brother, lady, is sick and weak, friendless and oppressed; surrounded by enemies to whom the sound of his death-knell would be as sweet music. He has tried the friendship of princes, and found it unstable as the wave, uncertain as the wind. He has lived to see the eyes that he worshiped look coldly on him-in all this dark and bitter world he can turn to no faithful breast save yours. Do you remember the fond early days, when ye lived but for each other? the thrilling verses breathed at sunset, the soft music sung together in your mother's ears; all the employments which were pleasant to Cornelia, because Torquato shared them?"

The deep voice grew faint-the broken tones filled with unutterable tenderness, and the lady, whose earnest gaze was fixed on the speaker, suddenly gave a wild cry, and clasping him in her arms, exclaimed, "Mine own Torquato!" It was indeed he. Sad and spirit-broken, he found rest, and peace, and refreshment in the tranquil shades of Sorrento; where, enjoying his sister's affection, and the youthful companionship of his nephews, he passed the happiest period of his days. But his was not a mind to content itself with the quiet routine of every-day life. Once more he sighed for Ferrara, preferring the rest

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less excitement of a stormy existence to that repose which he already found monotonous.

He therefore left his sister's pleasant home, and returned to the scene of his former sufferings. At the court he was coldly received-worse than coldly and unworthily repulsed when he sought an audience. Fiercely did he vent the anguish of his disappointment in bitter invectives against the duke. Alfonso was at this time immersed in wedding festivities, having espoused his third wife, a daughter of the Duke of Mantua. "Away with this madman," was his cry; "put him in safe custody, and let me hear no more of his ravings." Accordingly, in March, 1579, Tasso was committed to St. Anne's hospital as a lunatic.

Dark shadows passed over the troubled mind of Tasso. Every poet loves the free winds of heaven, the blessed sunshine, and the glorious face of nature; but these beamed no more on the thoughtful eye which had erewhile reveled amid the fabled beauties of Armida's garden; and the eloquent lips that had breathed undying music, paled and grew silent in the dim cold chamber of captivity. The balance of his mighty mind was shaken; myriads of wayward fancies thronged his brain. He believed himself haunted by a malicious spirit, whose delight it was to vex and harass him; and of the acts of this demon, he gives an account doubly melancholy, as proving both his actual state of suffering, and the lamentable hallucination of his intellect. At length this passed away, his thoughts grew calm, and after more than seven years' confinement, he was liberated in 1586, at the special intercession of the Prince of Mantua. This nobleman received him kindly at his court; for Tasso was still under the law of the inexorable Alfonso, whose enmity, indeed, endured to the end of his victim's life, and he therefore dared not return to Ferrara.

Several years of tedious, profitless wandering, succeeded. He visited Bergamo, Florence, Rome, and Naples, being well received by princes whose vanity was flattered by his presence at their courts, but finding nowhere that loving, sympathizing friendship, which could alone "minister to a mind diseased." The Della Cruscan Academy wounded him in the tenderest point by depreciating his poetry, and giving an undue preference to that of Ariosto. His last great poetical attempt was a work on the creation, entitled the "Sette Giornate," (the Seven Days,) which he left unfinished. It is a magnificent fragment, and many portions of it appear to have been imitated by Milton.

In his latter years he became acquainted with Manso, Marquis of Villa, who afterward wrote his biography. This nobleman received Tasso

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into his house, and treated him with the tender consideration which his state required.

One of the most remarkable circumstances of the poet's last days, was the imagination that he was occasionally visited by a spirit; not the mischievous imp of his prison, but a being of far higher dignity, with whom, alone or in company, he could hold sublime and preternatural discourse, though of the two interlocutors none present could see or hear more than the poet himself, rapt into ecstasy, and uttering language and sentiments worthy of one who, with his bodily, yet marvelously enlightened eyes and purged ears, could distinguish the presence and the voice of his mysterious visitant. Manso gives a strange account of such an interview, when he himself stood by, yet perceived nothing but the half-part which the poet acted in the scene.

The habitual restlessness which tormented Tasso, did not permit him long to enjoy the quiet retirement of his friend's residence, at Monte Oliveto. He left it, and returned to Rome, where Sixtus V., but little disposed in general to befriend poets, yet received him with honor and distinction. In return, Tasso, both in prose and verse, celebrated the munificence of that pontiff. At Rome, he met the Duke of Florence, whom he had formerly known as a cardinal. This prince invited him to settle in Tuscany; and engaged the pope to procure the poet's consent.

Tasso, however, breathed not freely in the atmosphere of courts; and his sojourn at Florence was very brief. He returned to Naples, near to which Manso resided, and once more visited his friend, whose affectionate solicitude did much toward dispelling the dark melancholy that oppressed him. Here he reviewed and corrected his great poem, altering parts of it in conformity to the judgment of his critics. More than this, he completely remodeled its structure and details, giving it to the world under the title of Gerusalemme Conquistata. But genius has its own laws, and will not tamely submit to the cold regulations of criticism. For this reason, "Jerusalem Conquered" has never taken the place of "Jerusalem Delivered."

About this period Clement VIII. was raised to the pontificate; and his nephew, Cardinal St. George, a friend to science and literature, summoned around him most of the celebrated men of Italy. He had formerly known Tasso, and now invited him to come to Rome. The poet could not resist, although he felt keen regret at aban

doning his peaceful retreat, where he had begun to recover a little from the horrors of his long imprisonment.

On the 10th of November, 1594, Tasso (to use his own words), "oppressed by years and woe," arrived at Rome. The years were not very many, but the woe was great, and had blanched the manly cheek, dimmed the clear blue eye, and wrinkled the noble forehead, so as to give him the appearance of advanced age. He was introduced to the Pope, who received him with the most gracious courtesy. "Sir," said his holiness, "I would fain confer on you the laurel crown, that it may receive as much honor as, in times past, it has bestowed on others." The poet bowed, and gently intimated his willingness to comply. But his spirit was broken within him; what could earthly honors avail to one on the borders of the grave? The winter proving very tempestuous, the ceremonial was deferred till the succeeding spring. As the time approached, Tasso drooped daily: he removed to the monastery of St. Anuphrius, where he was received with the utmost tenderness. On the 10th of April he was seized with a violent fever, and his life appeared in imminent danger. Renaldini, the pope's physician, came to visit him. Tasso asked him of his state:

"Your earthly troubles, dear friend, will soon be over," was the reply. Tasso embraced him tenderly. "I thank you," he said, “a thousand times I thank you for such welcome tidings." Then looking up to heaven, "I acknowledge thy goodness, O God! in bringing me at last safe into port after so long a storm."

On the fourteenth day of his illness, and the eve of that appointed for his triumphal coronation, Cardinal Cynthio came to visit him, bringing the benediction of the Pope. Tasso bowed his head with devout humility, exclaiming"This is the crown which I came to receive at Rome!" He continued tranquil through the night, and about the middle of the next day he found himself fainting. Feebly embracing his crucifix, he uttered the words, "Into thy hands, O Lord! I commend my spirit," and expired with the last syllable on his lips. Thus died Torquato Tasso, on the 25th of April, 1595, at the age of fifty-one years; leaving to the world a work which will live in its chivalrous beauty, unscathed by the cold utilitarianism of modern days; and a name which survives as a mournful token, that the gift of song is often but a gift of

sorrow.

"THIS IS NOT YOUR REST."

(MICAH, II., 10.)

BY E. W. B. CANNING,

'Twas whispered in the morning of her prime, To one whose picture pensive memory

Loved, in the storied chambers of the past,

To gaze upon. The freshness of her youth

Was still, like morning's mantle, on her. Bright
And beautiful within her lustrous eye

Looked girlish gladness, laughing from behind
The chastened gayety of womanhood;
And on her cheek, unsullied still by time,
Sat beauty, tempered, dignified, subdued.
The cares of life, though haply not unknown,
Told of no visit on her seamless brow;
And in her heart, the light of hope was not
Like the uncertain, halo flush of dawn,
But the soft splendor of the risen day.

That heart had loved-had the full gushing tide
Of all its priceless treasures unrestrained,
Poured upon one whose brimming soul returned
No stinted measure. Oh, what love was there!
The past was like the memory of a star
In her sweet musings; and the present lay,
A web of golden tissue, round; beyond,
Hope's magic light revealed a path of flowers.
All that in health is buoyant, dear in friends,
And blest in love-all, all were doubly hers.
Amid the range of paradisal sweet,

What wonder that the soul awhile forgot

That life hath shadows, sorrows, and that Death

The mask of Happiness doth oft put on,

Smothering his foot-falls with her uncrushed flowers!

The summous came. The angel minist'ring
Spake, as though faltering and reluctantly,
In the mild phase of lingering disease,
“Arise, depart; for this is not your rest.”
Unheeded long, and long misunderstood,
That gentle monitor. The cheek grew wan,
The light step feeble, rarer the glad smile,

And dim the lustre of the radiant eye.

Grieved at the change, still he that loved her saw
But a brief trial of his heart therein,
And nursed, and sympathized, and suffered too.
Long were the days, and wearisome the nights,
That led the march of slow disease along.
At times, in tokens of returning strength,

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THE WISH.

In hope's bright reassurance both rejoiced.
In wasted features, now and then returned
With wonted brightness, saw, through grateful tears,
His heart, the promise of restored delight.
And when succeeding languor bade him know
A spectral health before his anxious eye
Alone had danced, he, sighing, chid his heart,
And-lent it straight to like deceit again.

It could not thus be alway; and at length,
At midnight hour, him, waked from fitful sleep-
(The watcher knoweth-taken at her side)—
She, in love's blandest tones, unwillingly,
Assured that he must trust Hope's dream no more.
That from the blessed fellowship of hearts

So long, so tenderly, so deeply bound,

A spirit voice had called her, and she knew

The heaven-oped summons might not be foregone.
Soft fell her gentle accents, soft and sweet,
As when, in other days, she sought his side,
To pour the tale of warm, confiding love.
The solemn hour, the darkness, and the throb
Of his own boding heart, prophetic made
The declaration, and such agony,

He prayeth he may never know again.
They wept; while she, with holy eloquence,
That almost lit the gloom, dwelt rapturously
On the undying glories that were stored
For love refined, perfected, crowned in heaven.
There would she meet him-thither lead the way,
And with precession, bright with Christian hope,
Illume for him the portals of the tomb.

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