My brother has been kind indeed to send us
Thus early to this dear retreat, where truly
We live unto ourselves, and, undisturbed,
Dream back the golden days of poesy.
Youth's brightest hours I passed at Belriguardo,
And May-time here gives them to me again.

Yes; all here smiles in tender youthful beauty; The warm airs woo us, and the plashing fountains; The heavy shadows of the evergreens

Are not unwelcome. The young trees and shrubs
Put forth new leaves with each day's warmer sun;
And now from every bed flowers turn up to us
Their loving, childish eyes. The gardener
Released the citron and the orange trees

To-day from their confinement. The wide heavens
Are curtained o'er with one soft sleepy blue,
Save that the now dissolving snows have edged
The horizon with their vapors as a border.

Ah! why must a regret mar all this beauty?
This lovely spring removes thee from my side.
Remind me not, dear princess, in this hour,
That I so soon must leave thy gentle presence.
The city soon shall give thee other pleasures,
And we shall be forgot.

Florence is great but through the people's wealth; Ferrara through her princess.

Say rather through those wise men

Whom chance brought hither and good luck detained.

Chance scatters that which she alone collected: Only the noble can attract the noble,

And hold them firinly bound as you have done.

You and your brother have assembled round you
Men worthy of yourselves and your great father,
Who kindled in this palace the twin lights

Of wisdom and of mental freedom, when
Our other realms were sleeping in the night
Of barbarous ignorance. To my childish ear,
Hippolytus and Hercules d'Esti

Were names of magic power. My parents loved
Florence and Rome; my heart turned to Ferrara,
Where Petrarch found a home, and Ariosto models.
Here the great inen whom Italy reveres
Have all been entertained with honor due,
And honorably have repaid your kindness,
Sounding abroad the praises of your house.
Your grandchildren will glory in these days
Of splendid hospitality.

Yes, if they feel like thee;

I envy thee such happy sensibility.

Nay, thine is happier. How pure and tranquil
Are thy enjoyments. My full heart impels me
At once to speak what I so lively feel;

Thou feel'st it deeper, better, and art silent.

No meteoric lights can dazzle thee;
Wit bribes thee not, and flattery wooes in vain,
Still with fine taste, and as unerring judgment,

Stands first amid the women of our day.

'Tis true, Leonora, flattery could never
So swell our hearts if we would call to mind
How piece by pieco we thankless have received
Our all from others. All that I have learned

Of ancient lore and speech is from my mother;
And if in wisdom or in manners either
Lucretia or myself can be compared
With such a model, surely 'tis my sister.
My rank, my name are gifts of a kind fate;

I joy that I may hear when wise men speak,
And understandingly receive those words
Breathed to instruct and elevate their kind.
Delighted listen I when eloquence
Pours forth the mingled treasures of the breast
Obedient to its glowing impulses. And whether

The poet tunes his lyre to eulogize

The deeds of princes, or philosophers

Refine upon the simplest, obscure action,

My ear is ready, and my mind can follow;
And this indeed is happiness!

Prin.

Prin

I too love The poet's gentle yet inspiring influence,

That arrow glanced aside. The jest doth touch me, But goes not home. To all I would be just,

And admiration is the due of Tasso.

His inspired eye which roves from earth to heaven,

His ear which drinks the harmonics of Nature;

The past and present have enriched his mind,
And much that Nature scattered far apart
Combines there to a new and beauteous being.
The dead and mute find life and voice,

And daily glow with colors not their own,
And all false pomps fade to their native dulness.
He draws us to him in his magic circle,
Then he seems near, and yet again so far,
And oft appears to gaze on us when shapes
From other worlds stand betwixt us and him.
Thou givest a faithful picture of the poet
Enthroned above his shadowy world; but yet
There are realities that can attract him.

Tell me, those sonnets we so often find
Upon these trees, breathing to us the perfume
Of new Hesperian fruits, dost thou not deem them
Formed fron the blossoms of true love?

The songs

Must charm the hearer; sweetly do they celebrate
His lovely one; whether the poet raising her
To heavenly height bows down before his angel,

Or leads her through the fields of our poor planet,
Wreathing her brow with earth-born flowers, or when
As she departs he consecrates the turf

Her delicate foot has trod, a very nightingale

He fills each thicket with his soft complaining.

A mischiercus, spoiled child. A manly youth,
Husband to Psyche, counsellor to the gods!

No longer skips he with unseemly haste

From heart to heart. With mien and mind sedate

He chooses now his lodging, nor need fear

To repent his whims in sadness and disgust.
Here comes my brother. Let us not provoke,
By talking on this theme, more of the jests
Our quaint array already has called forth.

And when he warbles forth his beauty's name, Is it not Leonora ?

Thy name also!

A happy ambiguity for him;

And I am well content that he must thus
Remember mo in such sweet moments. This
Is not a common love, whose only aim
Is to possess its object and exclude

All other worshippers from the chosen shrine.
His love for thee need not forbid the poet
From joying in my lighter mode of being.
Neither of us he loves, if, as I think,

He clusters fancies born in other spheres
Around the chosen name of Leonora.
And even so with us, for we too love
Not Tasso, not the man, but the embodying
Of the soaring and impassioned in our nature.
Thou art learned in these matters, Leonora
Much thou hast said has only touched my ear,
And links not with my thoughts.

How say'st thou ?
The scholar of Plato cannot understand
A novice like myself. I meant but this-
In modern days Cupid no longer sports

SCENE 11.

The former persons and Alphonso.

Is't possible that here I seek in vain For Tasso? Where, fair ladies, is the poet? To-day we have not seen him.

He retains then

His ancient love for solitude. But though
We cannot marvel that he would escape
The empty babble of a crowd of worldlings

To seek still converse with his secret spirit,
It is not well that he should feel impatient,
And thus transgress the boundary of a circle
Drawn at the spell of friendship.

If I mistake not
Thou wilt soon lay aside all thought of blame.
To-day I saw him walking in the garden,
Carrying his book, and writing in his tablets.
From something that escaped him yester-eve

I think his work is finished, and to-day
He probably is giving the last touches,