Wrought on him bodily, 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 on 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 were now 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 this moment, should have formed some pla
Never to leave sweet Venice, for to me

It was delight to ride by the lone sea;

137

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
Regrets 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 firelight
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 but 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 this 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 and 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.

After many years

And many changes I returned; the name
Of Venice, and it's 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 transcendant worth,
Like one of Shakespeare'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 low.

"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:

"How did it end?" "And was not this enough?

"They met they parted"-"Child, is there no more?"

Something within that interval which bore

"The stamp of why they parted, how they met : "Yet if thine agèd eyes disdain to wet

"Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears,

"Ask me no more, but let the silent years
"Be closed and cered over their memory

66 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.

SONG,

ON A FADED VIOLET.

I.

THE odour from the flower is gone, Which like thy kisses breathed on me ; The colour from the flower is flown, Which glowed of thee, and only thee!

II.

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,

It lies on my abandoned breast, And mocks the heart which yet is warm With cold and silent rest.

I weep

III.

my tears revive it not!

I sigh it breathes no more on me; Its mute and uncomplaining lot

Is such as mine should be.