The riders in advance-ay, there they go

E'en to the very place from whence I came !
And now they're gone estrang'd from me they're gone.
Oh that I once again had kiss'd his hand!
That I had still to take a last farewell!

That I could only falter out forgive!'

That I could hear him say, 'go, thou'rt forgiven !
Alas! I hear it not; - I ne'er shall hear it
Yes, I will go! Let me but say farewell,
Only farewell! Give me, oh give me back
Their long'd-for presence for a single moment !
Perchance I might recover! Never more!
I am rejected, doom'd to banishment!
Alas! I am self-banished, never more
To hear that gentle voice, that tender glance
To meet no more-

ANTONIO.

Yet hear the voice of one,

Who, not without emotion, stands beside thee!
Thou'rt not so wretched, Tasso, as thou thinkest.
Collect thyself! too much thou art unmann'd.

TASSO.

And am I then as wretched as I seem?

Am I as weak as I do show myself?

Say, is all lost? Has sorrow's direful stroke,

As with an earthquake's sudden shock, transform'd

The stately pile into a ruin'd heap?

Is all the genius flown that did erewhile

So richly charm, and so exalt my soul?

Is all the power extinguish'd which of yore
Stirr'd in my bosom's depths? Am I become
A nothing? A mere nothing? No, all's here!
I have it still, and yet myself am nothing!
I from myself am sever'd, she from me!

ANTONIO.

Though to thyself thou seemest so forlorn,

Be calm, and bear in mind what still thou art !

TASSO.

Ay, in due season thou remindest me!

Hath history no example for mine aid ?
Before me doth there rise no man of worth
Who hath borne more than I, that with his fate
Mine own comparing, I may gather strength.
No, all is gone! But one thing still remains;
Tears, balmy tears, kind nature has bestow'd.
The cry of anguish, when the man at length
Can bear no more—yea, and to me beside,
She leaveth melody and speech, that I
May utter forth the fulness of my woe.

Though in their mortal anguish men are dumb,
To me a God hath given to tell my grief.

[Antonio approaches him and takes his hand.

TASSO.

Oh, noble friend, thou standest firm and calm,
While I am like the tempest-driven wave.
But be not boastful of thy strength. Reflect!
Nature, whose mighty power hath fix'd the rock,
Gives to the wave its instability.

She sends her storm, the passive wave is driven,
And rolls and swells and falls in billowy foam.
Yet in this very wave the glorious sun
Mirrors his splendor, and the quiet stars
Upon its heaving bosom gently rest.

Dimm'd is the splendor, vanished is the calm!
In danger's hour I know myself no longer.
Nor am I now ashamed of the confession.
The helm is broken, and on every side

The reeling vessel splits. The riven planks,
Bursting asunder, yawn beneath my feet!
Thus with my outstretch'd arms I cling to thee!
So doth the shipwreck'd mariner at last,
Cling to the rock whereon his vessel struck.

Even in this inadequate analysis the reader will perceive the ground there is for Madame de Stael's remark, that

'les couleurs du Midi ne sont pas assez prononcées.' The piece is indeed thoroughly German; and whatever the amount of historical detail woven into it, the spirit is throughout unlike that of Italy in the days of Tasso. The Princess is a purely German figure, analyzing her feelings more than she indulges in them; and Tasso, with his vacillations and reflections, would have astonished no one more than the real Torquato, whose wayward, passionate, impetuous nature would have despised the reflective, self-interrogating German. Nor would he have at all understood the German's conception of poetry as the urn wherein are contained the ashes of past sufferings, the confidant of secret thoughts. Obliged to employ a thin disguise in the expression of his sentiments for the Princess, Tasso employed a disguise as transparent as possible; and in other matters employed no disguise at all.

CHAPTER X.

THE POET AS A MAN OF SCIENCE.

TASSO was completed shortly after the rupture with the Frau von Stein. He then began the study of Kant. The Kritik der reinen Vernunft is written in an esoteric language he was quite unable to follow; and could he have followed it, the matter was more metaphysical than suited his tendencies; but he read in it, as he read in Spinoza ; and the Kritik der Urtheilskraft, especially in its æsthetical sections, greatly interested him. Kant was a means of bringing him nearer to Schiller, who still felt the difference between them to be profound; as we see in what he wrote to Körner: His philosophy draws too much of its material from the world of the senses, where I only draw from the soul. His mode of presentation is altogether too sensuous for me. But his spirit works and seeks in every direction, striving to create a whole, and that makes him in my eyes a great man.'

Remarkable indeed is the variety of his strivings. After completing Tasso, we find him writing on the Roman Carnival, and on Imitation of Nature, and studying with strange ardor the mysteries of botany and optics. In poetry it is only necessary to name the Roman Elegies, to show what productivity in that direction he was capable of; although, in truth, his poetical activity was then in subordination to his activity in science. He was, socially,

in an unpleasant condition; and, as he subsequently confessed, would never have been able to hold out, had it not been for his studies of Art and Nature. In all times these were his refuge and consolation.

On Art, the world listened to him attentively. On Science, the world would not listen; but turned away in silence, sometimes in derision. In both he was only an Amateur. He had no practical superiority in Painting or Sculpture to give authority to his opinions, yet his word. was listened to with respect, often with enthusiasm.* But while artists and the public admitted that a man of genius might speak with some authority, although an Amateur, men of science were not willing that a man of genius should speak on their topics, until he had passed College Examinations and received his diploma. To this day, the veriest blockhead who has received a diploma, considers himself entitled to sneer at the poet' who'dabbled in comparative anatomy.' Nevertheless that poet made discoveries and enunciated laws, the importance of which our professional sneerer cannot even appreciate, so far do they transcend his professional knowledge.

The men of science scorned Goethe in his own day; and all but the best informed scorn him still. Nor is this unintelligible. Professional men have a right to be suspicious of facile amateurs, for they know how arduous a training is required by Science. But while it is just that they should be suspicious, it is absurd for them to shut their eyes. When the amateur brings forward crudities, which he announces to be discoveries, their scorn may be legitimate enough; but when he happens to bring forward

*

Rauch, the sculptor, told me that among the influences of his life, he reckons the enthusiasm which Goethe's remarks on Art excited in him. Many others would doubtless say the same.