1.

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 courtyard. I heard on high
Then fragments of most touching melody;
But, looking up, saw not the singer there.
Through 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 who on a sudden 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 what is he

"Of his sad history

I know but this," said Maddalo.

"He came

To Venice a dejected man, and fame

Said he was wealthy, or he had been so :

Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe.

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?"

"I cannot say:

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 or 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 thought
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-Oh not to dare
To give a human voice to my despair!

But live, and move, and, wretched thing! smile on,
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 or pain or 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,