What to thy broken Spirit can atone, Unhappy victim of the Tyrant's fears; Or who to thee recal thy perish'd years, Nature's sweet gift destroy'd: — when one by one, The blossoms of thy vernal life were strown Upon that dungeon floor: — Ungentle ears Heard not, poor Tasso, thy lament; nor tears Unlock'd Ferrara's sepulchre of stone. Like Captive, my own Bard, art thou: yet he Had thought, time, feeling free to count his chain, While thine is heavier thraldom, double pain, Prisoner at once, and Slave. — Oh! thoughtless ye, Who make the gifted mind, that should be free, A monumental lamp to burn in vain. Benhall, March 31, 1823.
