205
His being—­there are some by nature proud,
Who patient in all else demand but this—­
To love and be beloved with gentleness;
And being scorned, what wonder if they die
Some living death? this is not destiny 210
But man’s own wilful ill.’ 
As thus I spoke
Servants announced the gondola, and we
Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea
Sailed to the island where the madhouse stands. 
We disembarked.  The clap of tortured hands, 215
Fierce yells and howlings and lamentings keen,
And laughter where complaint had merrier been,
Moans, shrieks, and curses, and blaspheming prayers
Accosted us.  We climbed the oozy stairs
Into an old courtyard.  I heard on high, 220
Then, fragments of most touching melody,
But looking up saw not the singer there—­
Through the black bars in the tempestuous air
I saw, like weeds on a wrecked palace growing,
Long tangled locks flung wildly forth, and flowing, 225
Of those who on a sudden were beguiled
Into strange silence, and looked forth and smiled
Hearing sweet sounds.  Then I:  ’Methinks there were
A cure of these with patience and kind care,
If music can thus move...but what is he 230
Whom we seek here?’ ’Of his sad history
I know but this,’ said Maddalo:  ’he came
To Venice a dejected man, and fame
Said he was wealthy, or he had been so;
Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe; 235
But he was ever talking in such sort
As you do—­far more sadly—­he seemed hurt,
Even as a man with his peculiar wrong,
To hear but of the oppression of the strong,
Or those absurd deceits (I think with you 240
In some respects, you know) which carry through
The excellent impostors of this earth
When they outface detection—­he had worth,
Poor fellow! but a humorist in his way’—­
‘Alas, what drove him mad?’ ’I cannot say:  245
A lady came with him from France, and when
She left him and returned, he wandered then
About yon lonely isles of desert sand
Till he grew wild—­he had no cash or land
Remaining,—­the police had brought him here—­ 250
Some fancy took him and he would not bear
Removal; so I fitted up for him
Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim,
And sent him busts and books and urns for flowers,
Which had adorned his life in happier hours, 255
And instruments of music—­you may guess
A stranger could do little more or less
For one so gentle and unfortunate: 
And those are his sweet strains which charm the weight
From madmen’s chains, and make this Hell appear 260