University of Virginia Library

TASSO'S SPIRIT:

A SKETCH.

SCENE I.

A Room in the Palace of Bisaccio.
MANSO—TASSO.
MANSO.
Thou dream'st, Torquato!—thou but dream'st, I say;
And the bright Spirit which, thou fondly think'st,
Comes from the skies, sweet converse here with thee,
Of divers strange and lofty things, to hold,
Is the creation of thy mind alone,—
Deck'd with a Poet's coloring, and array'd
In Fancy's splendid garb.

TASSO.
Bisaccio! no:
'Tis all reality; tho' most sublime.
But yestereven, as I watch'd the Sun
Bidding farewell to our Italian skies,
(Blue as the eyes of angels!) whilst the Moon
Grew joyful at his setting, she appear'd—
My own unrivall'd Spirit—beautiful!
Oh! hadst thou look'd on her immortal visage,
And to her language listen'd, then wouldst thou
Have thought henceforth of her alone, and deem'd
Earth's loveliest maidens, if with her compar'd,
Mean as the rainbow's copy in the Heavens,
Arch'd near the rainbow's self. Renew thy scoffs
Of jeering unbelief, in merry mood;—
But still 'tis so.

MANSO.
Or comes she mounted high
On prancing steed, or sailing thro' the air?
Couch'd on a moon-beam, or a falling star?
Comes she array'd in naked Beauty's glow,
Or cloth'd in purple? Comes she gravely forth,
Or laughing blithely at my Tasso's dreams?
Comes she in silence, or in music shrin'd?
Flush'd as the red cheek'd rose, or meek and pale
As its white sister? Prithee, tell me this,
That I may know when Spirits cross my path.

TASSO.
Smiling and bright, at eventide she comes,
Like sun-beams o'er the hills, and walketh forth
In such deep silence, that where'er she treads
The earth seems turn'd to velvet: long she stays,
Light o'er my chamber sheds, and we do speak
In most unearthly fashion.

MANSO.
Excellent!
A kind, good Sprite, forsooth.—What talk ye of?

TASSO.
Of what e'en Manso could not comprehend.

MANSO.
That were a pity, were I near to listen.
But then—her voice! like summer winds, no doubt,
Divinely gentle:—thunder it is not,
Or I ere this had heard the lofty sounds.

TASSO.
Of this, I do beseech thee, speak no more:
'Tis profanation thus to think of beings
So far ourselves above.

MANSO.
Now, tell me, Tasso
Dost really deem that thou art favor'd so
Of Heaven, that one of its immortal race
Doth leave its glories to converse with thee
On this low earth?

TASSO.
Angels love Poesy,
And with my friendly Spirit I converse
In language, not as with my fellow men,
But, all poetical: what we speak of
Is nothing earthly; nor feel I of the earth
In our sublime communion, but her words
Lift me to Heaven—and we expatiate there!

MANSO.
God help thee, Poet! thou art craz'd, for sure.
[aside.
Thy tale is wondrous, Tasso—and so wondrous,
That, till I witness this encounter strange,
I cannot give it credence.

TASSO.
That thou shalt:
Unto my chamber, at the sunset, come;
And thou shalt see such things, and listen to
Converse so wild—impassion'd, that thy doubts
To much astonishment will all give way.

MANSO.
At sunset, then?

TASSO.
At sunset—in my chamber.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

Tasso's Bedchamber.
Tasso is seen gazing intently towards the Window.
Enter Manso.
MANSO.
Now do I look for wonders! 'Tis the hour
When thou, Torquato, step'st into the clouds—
Hath she already been, that thou dost stare
At yonder window thus?

TASSO.
Dost thou not see her there,
More beautiful than beauteous flow'rs?—there—there!

MANSO.
I see the beams of the departing Sun
Gleam faintly o'er the chamber—nothing more.

[Tasso continues to gaze stedfastly at the window, without regarding Manso's last words, and, after a pause, appears to converse with an invisible being.]
TASSO.
Kind Spirit! thou art gracious thus to bless
My sight with thy bright presence, and uplift
My soul from all that's earthly, unto things
Eternal as thyself. Oh! I could live
On the enchantment which thy lips give forth,
As those who dwelt on Ganges' verdant banks
Fed on the perfume which the wild flowers breath'd
On all around them—and were satisfied.
When thou art near, my veins no longer feel
To have their usual current; in its stead,
Music seems floating thro' them, and converts
Each thought to inspiration.

MANSO
Thou dost rave,
Speaking to air, as if—

TASSO.
(continuing to address the imaginary spirit)
And is it really thus?—
That Ocean's bed is but a hidden realm
Which fairies sport in, and that mirthful revels
Prevail beneath the water, whilst its face
Is one wide scene of terror? Sleep they so—
In shells—gay, painted shells; whilst dolphins watch
Their placid slumbers?—True! 'tis said, that once,
As a young Fairy and his bride repos'd
Upon the pearl-deck'd bottom of the sea,
From out the sand a small, still current rose
And bore them to the shore:—they waken'd then,
To look upon a new and unknown world,
(More beauteous than their own) which seem'd so fair
That they did dwell therein, and soon each grove,
Deep cave and valley felt their bosoms prest
By tiny feet at midnight, and the Earth
Vied with old Ocean in its fairy realms!

MANSO.
Oh, Poesy! thou art a dangerous gift;
Making the soul of thy possessor sad
With dreams—sweet dreams, which, whensoe'er they vanish,
(As oft they will) leave discontent behind,
And make what's real hardly to be borne.

TASSO.
Nay, nay—sweet Spirit! they are all divine.
Painting is Poetry struck mute, and dash'd
Upon the ready canvass, to delight
The eyes of men. The ear doth Music fill
With strains of wondrous melody, and makes
Our bosoms seem etherial. Both of these
Take birth from Poesy, which is the source
Of each high feeling;—bids deep passion rise,
Or lulls it into tears; decks all around
With its rare magic;—from each little flower
It catches eloquence; each blasted tree
Gives it a moral lesson to hold out,
And the wide Ocean and the mighty Sky
Display a volume to its searching eyes,
Fraught with a multitude of scenes and sounds
That speak sublimity—whether the Moon
Walk thro' the grandeur of a clouded Heaven,
As might a fair girl in a wilderness;
Whether she roll unclouded, with the stars
Companions of her journey; or the Sun
Burn in his glory there; or skies and seas
Be calm, or ruffled by the Tempests' breath.
Yes, Spirit! Painting, Poetry, and sound
Of Music's various notes are all divine!

MANSO.
'Tis madness this; but madness wonderful,
And more to be admir'd than scoff'd withal:
I will e'en tarry 'till the vision end.

TASSO.
(with a burst of admiration)
It must, indeed, be grand—too grand for thought!
Oh, Heaven! the finest things of Earth, the Skies,
The depths of Ocean, when to thee compar'd,
Are far more insignificant than sparks,
Given from a taper, seen beneath the Sun:
And Earth's inhabitants as mean to thine
As flies unto the birds that love to mount
And gaze undazzled on the Orb of Day.
The Spirits of the Blest that enter there
Must feel that even their eternity
Can ne'er bring all thy glories to their view,
Nor shew them all thy wonders—Spirit! say
If it be thus:—it is!—o'erspread with meteors,
Boundless, e'erlasting—Earth! thou art a shade—
[In an altered tone.
The Ghosts of those departed—do they rise
To gaze upon their tombs; walk o'er the world;
Revisit scenes endear'd to them thro' life,
And watch the living whom they cherish still?
Or sleep their spirits with the mould'ring clay
Which once encompass'd them, till they be call'd
To other mansions than the cold, dark grave,
Nor deign to look upon Earth's face again?
Thou knowst not? thou—an Angel! and not know
These secrets of our being?—sure thou do'st,
But art forbidden to disclose them here:
'Tis well—and I presume upon thy love.—
Nay, tarry yet awhile, and let me still
Look on thy matchless beauty—Wilt thou go?
Give me thy blessing, Spirit!—She is gone!
[Tasso here pauses, and continues with his eyes fixed on the window: then turns suddenly towards Manso, who stands in an attitude of astonishment.
Bisaccio! now, thou canst no longer doubt
Of my celestial visitant—What say'st thou?

MANSO.
That thou art mad, or that thy friend is blind:
But thy strange parley with this thing of nought
Was framed so quaintly, that it sounded well,
And set me dreaming, too. No more of this—
I'll wait on your next vision. Walk we forth!

[Exeunt.