One of the reasons why Tasso hurt the style of his poem by a manner too lyrical was, that notwithstanding its deficiency in sweetness, he was one of the profusest lyrical writers of his nation, and always having his feelings turned in upon himself.  I am not sufficiently acquainted with his odes and sonnets to speak of them in the gross; but I may be allowed to express my belief that they possess a great deal of fancy and feeling.  It has been wondered how he could write so many, considering the troubles he went through; but the experience was the reason.  The constant succession of hopes, fears, wants, gratitudes, loves, and the necessity of employing his imagination, accounts for all.  Some of his sonnets, such as those on the Countess of Scandiano’s lip ("Quel labbro,” &c.); the one to Stigliano, concluding with the affecting mention of himself and his lost harp; that beginning

  “Io veggio in cielo scintillar le stelle,”

recur to my mind oftener than any others except Dante’s “Tanto gentile” and Filicaia’s Lament on Italy; and, with the exception of a few of the more famous odes of Petrarch, and one or two of Filicaia’s and Guidi’s, I know of none in Italian like several of Tasso’s, including his fragment “O del grand’ Apennino,” and the exquisite chorus on the Golden Age, which struck a note in the hearts of the world.

His Aminta, the chief pastoral poem of Italy, though, with the exception of that ode, not equal in passages to the Faithful Shepherdess (which is a Pan to it compared with a beardless shepherd), is elegant, interesting, and as superior to Guarini’s more sophisticate yet still beautiful Pastor Fido as a first thought may be supposed to be to its emulator.  The objection of its being too elegant for shepherds he anticipated and nullified by making Love himself account for it in a charming prologue, of which the god is the speaker: 

  “Queste selve oggi ragionar d’Amore
  S’udranno in nuova guisa; e ben parassi,
  Che la mia Deita sia qui presente
  In se medesma, e non ne’ suoi ministri. 
  Spirero nobil sensi a rozzi petti;
  Raddolciro nelle lor lingue il suono: 
  Perche, ovunque i’ mi sia, io sono Amore
  Ne’ pastori non men che negli eroi;
  E la disagguaglianza de’ soggetti,
  Come a me piace, agguaglio:  e questa e pure
  Suprema gloria, e gran miracol mio,
  Render simili alle piu dotte cetre
  Le rustiche sampogne.”

  After new fashion shall these woods to-day
  Hear love discoursed; and it shall well be seen
  That my divinity is present here
  In its own person, not its ministers. 
  I will inbreathe high fancies in rude hearts;
  I will refine and render dulcet sweet
  Their tongues; because, wherever I may be,
  Whether with rustic or heroic men,
  There am I Love; and inequality,
  As it may please me, do I equalise;
  And ’tis my crowning glory and great miracle
  To make the rural pipe as eloquent
  Even as the subtlest harp.