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 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;
" 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 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,
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