Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 046.djvu/446

434 My faults are more than I have breath to utter; Seven weary years of sad imprisonment Are but the just atonement of my sins— God lays the load on me, and I will bear. But my tormentors may not be my judges, To their tribunal I will never bend; For were I black—black as a stormy night— Yet, placed beside them, I were pure as snow.
 * Keep. Shall I admit the messenger?
 * Tas.The what

The whisperer, the calumniator—him Who still has been my bitterest enemy!— Oh! had he been an open foe, who face To face, and sword to sword confronted me, Though I had felt his steel within my breast, I could have press'd his hand and pardon'd him: But when I think how he has ever labour'd To steal from me my honourable name, By poison'd sneer, by malice, and by cunning— No! by the devil! No!—I will not see him— I will not, though ten Dukes had sent him thither.
 * Ang. Torquato!
 * Tas.Well?
 * Ang.Be calm, I pray. Is this

The promise that you made me yesterday?
 * Tas. Sweet creature! I am wrong. But be not angry

It was my ancient waywardness o'ertook me. Angioletta, you are right: I will be calm, Were it for nothing but my promise to thee. Now go—and let the—scoundrel come. [The Keeper retires.
 * Ang. (rising and approaching Tasso.) Tasso! with patience bear this stranger's visit:

Remember, hate you as he may—he bears His master's message. Then receive him well.
 * Tag. Thou gentle flower! sure some propitious being

Sent thee to be my prison's comforter; Looking on thee, I seem to breathe again The mountain air fresh blowing—see once more The wood, the fount, the field, the flower, the sunshine; While the soft echo of thy gentle voice Sounds to me like the wood-note of a bird, That through the forest's verdant covering rings, And "Freedom! Freedom!" is the song it sings.

You made me wait a little, worthy sir— A friend like me might enter unannounced.
 * Tas. Your pardon: I am sickly, as you know—

So it is said at least—and it is possible A visit may be unexpected—even From friends like you. But to the point, so please you: What happy chance confers on me the honour Of seeing you within my prison walls?
 * Mont. Your prison walls!—there now is another

Of your diseased imaginations. Prison! The Duke, believe me, is your wellwisher; And seeing that your present sickly state Strict survey needs, and even present aid, Has sent you hither to promote your cure, Moved by the best advice of all your friends, And wishing but your good.