Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Italy: Vols. XI–XIII. 1876–79.
To the Princesses of Ferrara
By Torquato Tasso (15441595)F
Is not of pride and ire,
Fraternal discord, hate, and wrong,
Burning in life and death so strong,
From rule’s accurst desire,
That even the flames divided long
Upon their funeral pyre.
But you I sing, of royal birth,
Nursed on one breast like them;
Two flowers, both lovely, blooming forth
From the same parent stem,—
Cherished by heaven, beloved by earth,
Of each a treasured gem!
With wondrous concord blend
Sense, worth, fame, beauty, modesty,
Imploring you to lend
Compassion to the misery
And sufferings of your friend.
The memory of years gone by,
O, let me in your hearts renew,—
The scenes, the thoughts, o’er which I sigh,
The happy days I spent with you,—
And what, I ask, and where am I,
And what I was, and why secluded;
Whom did I trust, and who deluded?
Allow me to recall
These and a thousand other things,—
Sad, sweet, and mournful all!
From me few words, more tears, grief wrings,—
Tears burning as they fall.
For royal halls and festive bowers
Where, nobly serving, I
Shared and beguiled your private hours,
Studies, and sports I sigh;
And lyre, and trump, and wreathed flowers;
Nay more, for freedom, health, applause,
And even humanity’s lost laws!
What Circe in the lair
Of brutes, thus keeps me spell-confined?
Nests have the birds of air,
The very beasts in caverns find
Shelter and rest, and share
At least kind nature’s gifts and laws,
For each his food and water draws
From wood and fountain, where,
Wholesome and pure and safe, it was
Furnished by heaven’s own care;
And all is bright and blest, because
Freedom and health are there!
I erred, I must confess it; yet
The fault was in the tongue alone,
The heart is true. Forgive! forget!
I beg for mercy, and my woes
May claim with pity to be heard;
If to my prayers your ears you close,
Where can I hope for one kind word
In my extremity of ill?
And if the pang of hope deferred
Arise from discord in your will,
For me must be revived again
The fate of Metius and the pain.
The charm that made you doubly fair,
In sweet and virtuous harmony
Urging, resistlessly, my prayer;
With him for whose loved sake, I swear
I more lament my fault than pains,
Strange and unheard of as they are.