The Poems of Felicia Hemans

That from bitter words doth swerve,” has the power to shake his whole soul from its pride of place. He is thus borne down by the cold, triumphant worldliness of the courtier Antonio, from the collision with whom, and the mistaken endeavour of Tasso’s friends to reconcile natures dissimilar as the sylph and gnome of fanciful creations, the conflicting elements of the piece are chiefly derived. There are impressive lessons to be drawn from the contemplation of these scenes, though, perhaps, it is not quite thus that we could have wished _him_ delineated who “poured his spirit over Palestine;” and it is occasionally almost too painful to behold the high-minded Tasso, recognised by his country as _superior with the sword and the pen to all men_, struggling in so ignoble an arena, and finally overpowered by so unworthy an antagonist. This world is indeed “too much with us,” and but too powerful is often its withering breath upon the ethereal natures of love, devotion, and enthusiasm, which, in other regions, “May bear bright, golden flowers, but not in this soil.” Yet who has not known victorious moments, in which the lightly-armed genii of ridicule have quailed!--the conventional forms of life have shrunk as a shrivelled scroll before the Ithuriel touch of some generous feeling, some high and overshadowing passion suddenly aroused from the inmost recesses of the folded soul, and striking the electric chain which mysteriously connects all humanity? We could have wished that some such thrilling moment had been here introduced by the mighty master of Germany--something to relieve the too continuous impression of inherent weakness in the cause of the vanquished--something of a transmuting power in the soul of Tasso, to glorify the clouds which accumulate around it--to turn them into “contingencies of pomp” by the interpenetration of its own celestial light. Yet we approach with reverence the work of a noble hand; and, whilst entering upon our task of translation, we acknowledge, in humility, the feebleness of all endeavour to pour into the vase of another language the exquisitely subtle spirit of Goethe’s poetry--to transplant and naturalise the delicate felicities of thought and expression by which this piece is so eminently distinguished. The visionary rapture which takes possession of Tasso upon being crowned with laurel by the Princess Leonora d’Este, the object of an affection which the youthful poet has scarcely yet acknowledged to himself, is thus portrayed in one of the earlier scenes:-- “Let me then bear the burden of my bliss To some deep grove that oft hath veil’d my grief; There let me roam in solitude: no eye Shall then recall the triumph undeserved. And if some shining fountain suddenly On its clear mirror to my sight should give The form of one who, strangely, brightly crown’d, Seems musing in the blue reflected heaven, As it streams down through rocks and parted trees, Then will I dream that on the enchanted wave I see Elysium pictured! I will ask _Who_ is the bless’d departed one?--the youth From long past ages with his glorious wreath? Who shall reveal his name?--who speak his worth? Oh! that another and another there Might press, with him to hold bright communing! Might I but see the minstrels and the chiefs Of the old time on that pure fountain-side. For evermore inseparably link’d As they were link’d in life! Not steel to steel Is bound more closely by the magnet’s power Than the same striving after lofty things Doth bind the bard and warrior. Homer’s life Was self-forgetfulness--he pour’d it forth, One rich libation to another’s fame: And Alexander through th’ Elysian grove To seek Achilles and his poet flies. Might I behold their meeting!” But he is a reed shaken with the wind. Antonio reaches the Court of Ferrara at this crisis, in all the importance of a successful negotiation with the Vatican. He strikes down the wing of the poet’s delicate imagination with the arrows of a careless irony, and Tasso is for a time completely dazzled and overpowered by the worldly science of the skilful diplomatist. The deeper wisdom of his own simplicity is yet veiled from his eyes. Life seems to pass before him, as portrayed by the discourse of Antonio, like a mighty triumphal procession, in the exulting movements and clarion-sounds of which he alone has no share; and at last the forms of beauty, peopling his own spiritual world, seem to dissolve into clouds, even into faint shadows of clouds, before the strong glare of the external world, leaving his imagination as a desolate house, whence light and music have departed. He thus pours forth, when alone with the Princess Leonora, the impressions produced upon him by Antonio’s descriptions:-- They still disturb my heart-- Still do they crowd my soul tumultuously-- The troubling images of that vast world, Which--living, restless, fearful as it is-- Yet, at the bidding of one master-mind, E’en as commanded by a demigod, Seems to fulfil its course. With eagerness, Yea, with a strange delight, my soul drank in The strong words of the experienced; but, alas! The more I listen’d, still the more I sank In mine own eyes; I seem’d to die away As into some faint echo of the rocks-- A shadowy sound--a nothing! There is something of a very touching beauty in the character of the Princess Leonora d’Este. She does not, indeed, resemble some of the lovely beings delineated by Shakspeare--the females, “graceful without design, and unforeseeing,” in whom, even under the pressure of heaviest calamity, it is easy to discern the existence of the sunny and gladsome nature which would spring up with fawn-like buoyancy were but the crushing weight withdrawn. The spirit of Leonora has been at once elevated and subdued by early trial: high thoughts, like messengers from heaven, have been its visitants in the solitude of the sick-chamber; and looking upon life and creation, as it were, through the softening veil of remembered suffering, it has settled into such majestic loveliness as the Italian painters delight to shadow forth on the calm brow of their Madonna. Its very tenderness is self-resignation; its inner existence serene, yet sad--“a being breathing thoughtful breath.” She is worshipped by the poet as his tutelary angel, and her secret affection for him might almost become that character. It has all the deep devotedness of a woman’s heart, with the still purity of a seraphic guardian, taking no part in the passionate dreams of earthly happiness. She feels his genius with a reverential appreciation; she watches over it with a religious tenderness, for ever interposing to screen its unfolding powers from every ruder breath. She rejoices in his presence as a flower filling its cup with gladness from the morning light; yet, preferring _his_ wellbeing to all earthly things, she would meekly offer up, for the knowledge of his distant happiness, even the fulness of that only and unutterable joy. A deep feeling of woman’s lot on earth--the lot of endurance and of sacrifice--seems ever present to her soul, and speaks characteristically in these lines, with which she replies to a wish of Tasso’s for the return of the golden age:-- When earth has men to reverence female _hearts_, To know the treasure of rich truth and love, Set deep within a high-soul’d woman’s breast; When the remembrance of our summer prime Keeps brightly in man’s heart a holy place; When the keen glance that pierces through so much Looks also tenderly through that dim veil By time or sickness hung round drooping forms, When the possession, stilling every wish, Draws not desire away to other wealth-- A brighter dayspring then for _us_ may dawn, Then may _we_ solemnise our golden age. A character thus meditative, affectionate, and self-secluding, would naturally be peculiarly sensitive to the secret intimations of coming sorrow. Forebodings of evil arise in her mind from the antipathy so apparent between Tasso and Antonio; and, after learning that the cold, keen irony of the latter has irritated the poet almost to frenzy, she thus, to her friend Leonora de Sanvitale, reproaches herself for not having listened to the monitory whispers of her soul:-- Alas! that we so slowly learn to heed The secret signs and omens of the breast! An oracle speaks low within our hearts-- Low, still, yet clear, its prophet-voice forewarns What to pursue, what shun. ... Yes! my whole soul misgave me silently When he and Tasso met. She admits to her friend the necessity for his departure from Ferrara; but thus reverts, with fondly-clinging remembrance, to the time when he first became known to her:-- Oh! mark’d and singled was the hour when first He met mine eye! Sickness and grief just then Had pass’d away: from long, long suffering freed, I lifted up my brow, and silently Gazed upon life again. The sunny day, The sweet looks of my kindred, made a light Of gladness round me, and my freshen’d heart Drank the rich, healing balm of hope once more. Then onward, through the glowing world, I dared To send my glance, and many a kind, bright shape There beckon’d from afar. Then first the youth, Led by a sister’s hand, before me stood, And my soul clung to him e’en then, O friend! To cling for evermore. _Leo._ Lament it not, My princess!--to have known heaven’s gifted ones Is to have gather’d into the full soul Inalienable wealth! _Prin._ Oh, precious things! The richly graced, the exquisite, are things To fear, to love with trembling! Beautiful Is the pure flame when on thy hearth it shines, When in the friendly torch it gives thee light, How gracious and how calm!--but, once unchain’d, Lo! ruin sweeps along its fatal path! She then announces her determination to make the sacrifice of his society, in which alone her being seems to find its full completion. Alas, dear friend! my soul indeed is fix’d-- Let him depart! Yet cannot I but feel Even now the sadness of long days to come-- The cold void left me by a lost delight! No more shall sunrise from my opening eye Chase his bright image glorified in dreams; Glad hope to see him shall no longer stir With joyous flutterings my scarce-waken’d soul; And vainly, vainly, through yon garden bowers, Amidst the dewy shadows, my first look Shall seek his form! How blissful was the thought With him to share each golden evening’s peace! How grew the longing, hour by hour, to read His spirit yet more deeply! Day by day How my own being, tuned to happiness, Gave forth a voice of finer harmony!-- Now is the twilight-gloom around me fallen: The festal day, the sun’s magnificence, All riches of this many-colour’d world, What are they now?--dim, soulless, desolate! Veil’d in the cloud that sinks upon my heart. Once was each day a life!--each care was mute, Even the low boding hush’d within the soul; And the smooth waters of a gliding stream, Without the rudder’s aid, bore lightly on Our fairy bark of joy! Her companion endeavours, but in vain, to console her. _Leon._ If the kind words of friendship cannot soothe, The still, sweet influences of this fair world Shall win thee back unconsciously to peace. _Prin._ Yes! beautiful it is, the glowing world! So many a joy keeps flitting to and fro In all its paths, and ever, ever seems