THE HOLY CROSS. 'Sad and ailing, spirit mine, So fond to flit o'er sea and sky And con this strange earth wistfully,* Seek not above, With curious glance, where Bear and Dragon shine, Heroic form or Zodiac sign; From thy sad thought all vain deceits remove. Heavy with sense of doom, Here let us come, Where there is saving grace and endless love, To-day, while feebly gleam This languid light, this tearful beam. Dark and dolent, spirit mine, In pain and penitence look up; Look in His face who drank the cup Of mortal suffering; Think on His sorrow, not on thine; Think, o'er this earth, how wide His trophies shine; Behold the mount whence heavenward He took wingThe head in anguish bent, And thorns with blood besprent, Crowned on the Cross behold the Eternal King! To-day, while sadly gleam This languid light, this tearful beam. Weeps not the Sun this day? Weeps not the World, weeps Nature not with Him? Thou, spirit, more than all? What tide of tears, what sun with darken'd ray, Or moan of gathering storm, in sighs, shall pay Enough of brine, of gloom, of sobs? Who would not pall His heart in sorrow now, Before that awful brow, And sights and signs of grief around him call? Who but of Heaven will deem This languid light, this tearful beam? It is this wistful longing for the joyous and beautiful things of earth, dashed by a conviction that some deadly venom is inherent in them, that gives the prevailing tone to this later work. An age steeped in what Ruskin calls the venom of the Renaissance'-when the worship of the beautiful became at times hideously orgiastic-could hardly fail to produce this effect on a temperament like Tasso's. List to the impious din, The shout, the jeer, the hammer-stroke of guilt; Even yet resound around thee and within The words of anguish that redeem thy sin; His Cross, His Tomb, caused by thy guilt to be. Of those who make this choice, Who share His Crown, His painful Majesty- This languid light, this tearful beam. Soul, let us also die With Him, and nail our faults upon this tree, The Vine, the Figtree and the Palm supply Is in man's heart, bear fruit Most fair, whereon all living things shall feed, And blossom best where gleam This languid light, this tearful beam? God's perfect med'cine this, Which gives from sickness and sick thoughts release; The health, strength, hope and comfort that are His, And shall be ours when all infirmities Are washed from us away, as His Word telleth. Thy wounds, and share The healing stream that from His substance welleth; Is passed, light shall be thine, A tearless beam.' (Good Friday, 1590, Monte Oliveto, Siena.) During the following August, while still at Florence, news arrived that Sixtus V was dead. His successor also died a few days after election; the college of Cardinals seemed in no hurry to elect a new Pope; and, some months later, during the course of the following autumn, we find Tasso, who had returned to Rome, sternly rebuking the assembled Fathers for their delay in appointing a new head to the Church. The sonnet that contains this fearless expression of opinion concerning the writer's ecclesiastical patrons compares not unfavourably with a similar passage* in Lycidas (1, 110/130); and we give it as an indication of the undiminished sanity and vigour of the mind that produced such fruit, together with Solerti's comment thereon: To the Cardinals on their delay in electing a Pope: 'What! still in consecrated mantles wrapt, Dyed with the blood of Christ this crimson hue, "This boldness on Tasso's part is unusual, especially at that time; but, in addition to the general feeling and ill-humour aroused by the extraordinary duration of the interregnum, we detect in this sonnet an expression of personal annoyance in the poet at seeing retarded the probability of a support or of a protector in the new pope.' (Vita,' p. 665.) Rare indeed may have been the courage at that epoch to address Princes of the Church so bluntly; but the imputation of an unworthy motive in a matter which the writer would have placed above personal considerations seems entirely gratuitous. Unfortunately, the * 'Cieca voglia' seems to correspond with Blind mouths.' St Peter is referred to in his quality of pilot or sailor. Church dignitaries, after having been soundly rated for neglect of duty, are threatened with a mystical engine of punishment. In addition to the above resemblances (to the passage in Lycidas) the word 'scrannel,' which appears here and has puzzled philologists, may have been coined by Milton to reproduce the sound value of 'scrannio' (a mean seat or stool), used occasionally by Tasso as a term of contempt. remark is also typical (and for this reason we make the quotation) of an otherwise excellent biography. For thoroughness, sincerity, and an intimate knowledge of the period, Solerti's 'Life of Tasso' is quite on a par with the monument to Milton's fame erected by Masson, and our indebtedness to him for assistance in unravelling the truth is so great that one hardly likes to hint a fault; but it will constantly occur to a careful student of these pages that possibly because he is disgusted at Manso's romance,' and therefore inclined to fall into the other extreme-this very able man of letters is more in sympathy with the literary dovecots of the Cinquecento than with the man of genius, the strange Bird of Paradise who took this stormy period to come and dwell among them. Surely, Tasso deserves the same loving and reverential treatment that English biographers have lavished on Milton; but readers of Masson who take up Solerti expecting to find similar regard for an equally splendid and pathetic figure in the history of devotional poetry will be disappointed. They will also be pained to find mingled with the natural feeling of pity proper in such a case, a certain measure of undeserved contempt for the 'povero amalato' when the strangeness and incoherence, the restlessness and vacillation of these closing years are being considered. We say 'undeserved,' because the nine years which followed the imprisonment are distinguished by a literary output, of prose as well as poetry, equal in quality and quantity to that of any writer who has already produced his magnum opus; also by a struggle with misfortune steadfastly and not unsuccessfully maintained. With unflagging industry and zeal, and considerable adroitness, this literary agonist kept himself till the last hour of his life well in the eye of the intellectual public of that day. He had trials, of course, but they never exceeded his powers of endurance, and were frequently relieved by magnificent entertainment in the seats of learning he visited-religious foundations and princes vying for the honour of having provided the environment in which even his shorter pieces were produced, and his briefest halt in a provincial town being considered a sufficient distinction to appear in the municipal archives. Finally, in recognition of his lofty character and unrivalled faculties, the authorities in Rome granted him an annuity sufficient for his needs, and were about to present him, in his fifty-first year, and in a ceremony that would have taken place before representatives of every civilised state in Europe, with the laurel of Petrarch. Fate willed that this outward token should only be laid upon his brow after death; but, though called away at this supreme hour, his case seems hardly one for disdainful pity: 'O selig der, dem er im Siegesglanze * Die blut'gen Lorbeern um die Schläfe windet.' The long imprisonment had conferred on Tasso a crown like that of martyrdom; and his chief glory on the side of character is that, vaguely aware of this, he suffered no meanness or lapse in conduct to strip him of the right to wear the painful honour thrust upon him. Early in 1591, and with some misgiving, Tasso consented to accompany Costantini to Mantua, where he stayed the greater part of the year, but where he was so unhappy that on one occasion, refusing to eat, he seems to have determined so to end his days. This is the only attempt on his life he is known to have made, and, as it admitted of reconsideration, need not be taken very seriously. The incident is of some importance in relation to the sufferer's supposed madness, of which, had the attempt been more resolute, it would have furnished the confirmation which is still lacking. This question, or the allied one of the origin of the Duke's anger, cannot here be discussed. We may, however, suggest that a clue to the bitter personal resentment shown by the Duke, which in the closing years of his life prevented him from writing a line of consolation to the poet when appealed to shortly before the latter's death, might be found in the following madrigal, if the name of the lady concerned were known. The matter referred to must have appeared of supreme importance, or Tasso would not have made it the subject of an address to the Divinity. O happy he for whom, in victory's hour, Death winds the blood-stained laurels round his brow. ('Faust,' 1, 1573-4.) |