University of Virginia Library

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.