Analysis of The Lament Of Tasso
George Gordon Lord Byron 1788 (London) – 1824 (Missolonghi, Aetolia)
I.
Long years!--It tries the thrilling frame to bear
And eagle-spirit of a child of Song--
Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong;
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude,
And the mind's canker in its savage mood,
When the impatient thirst of light and air
Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate,
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade,
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain,
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain;
And bare, at once, Captivity display'd
Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate,
Which nothing through its bars admits, save day,
And tasteless food, which I have eat alone
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone;
And I can banquet like a beast of prey,
Sullen and lonely, crouching in the cave
Which is my lair, and--it may be--my grave.
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear,
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair;
For I have battled with mine agony,
And made me wings wherewith to overfly
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall,
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall,
And revell'd among men and things divine,
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine,
In honour of the sacred war for Him,
The God who was on earth and is in heaven,
For He has strengthen'd me in heart and limb.
That through this sufferance I might be forgiven,
I have employ'd my penance to record
How Salem's shrine was won and how adored.
II.
But this is o'er--my pleasant task is done:--
My long-sustaining friend of many years!
If I do blot thy final page with tears,
Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none.
But thou, my young creation! my soul's child!
Which ever playing round me came and smiled,
And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight,
Thou too art gone--and so is my delight:
And therefore do I weep and inly bleed
With this last bruise upon a broken reed.
Thou too art ended--what is left me now?
For I have anguish yet to bear--and how?
I know not that--but in the innate force
Of my own spirit shall be found resource.
I have not sunk, for I had no remorse,
Nor cause for such: they call'd me mad — and why?
O Leonora! wilt not thou reply?
I was indeed delirious in my heart
To lift my love so loft as thou art;
But still my frenzy was not of the mind;
I knew my fault, and feel my punishment
Not less because I suffer it unbent.
That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind,
Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind;
But let them go, or torture as they will,
My heart can multiply thine image still;
Successful love may sate itself away,
The wretched are the faithful; 'tis their fate
To have all feeling save the one decay,
And every passion into one dilate,
As rapid rivers into ocean pour;
But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore.
III.
Above me, hark! the long and maniac cry
Of minds and bodies in captivity,
And hark! the lash and the increasing howl,
And the half-inarticulate blasphemy!
There be some here with worse than frenzy foul,
Some who do still goad on the o'erlabour'd mind,
And dim the little light that's left behind
With needless torture, as their tyrant will
Is wound up to the lust of doing ill:
With these and with their victims am I class'd,
'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have passed;
'Mid sounds and sights like these my life may close:
So let it be--for then I shall repose.
IV.
I have been patient, let me be so yet;
I had forgotten half I would forget,
But it revives--oh! I would it were my lot
To be forgetful as I am forgot!--
Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell
In this vast lazar-house of many woes?
Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind,
Nor words a language, nor even men mankind;
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows,
And each is tortured in his separate hell--
For we are crowded in our solitudes--
Many, but each divided by the wall,
Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods;--
While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call--
None! save that One, the veriest wretch of all,
Who was not made to be the mate of these,
Nor bound between Distraction and Disease.
Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here?
Who have debased me in the minds of men,
Debarring me the usage of my own,
Blighting my life in best of its career,
Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear?
Would I not pay them back these pangs again,
And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan?
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress,
Which und
Scheme | ABCCDDBEFGGFEHIXHJJBBKALLMMNONOPP AOQXORRSSTTUUVVVAAWWXXDXXYYHEHEZZ AAK1 K1 XXYY2 2 X3 J4 4 5 5 6 3 XX3 6 QLXLL7 7 X8 I9 9 8 IXX |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1 1111010111 0101010111 111110001 010101010 0011001101 1001011101 10100011 1001111001 110101101 10111101 0111010001 111010101 1101110111 0101111101 11110011 0111010111 1001010001 1111011111 1111111011 1111111101 1111011100 01111101 0101011101 01010111 010110101 011101010 011010111 01111101010 1111010101 1111111010 1101110101 1101110101 1 11110110111 1101011101 1111110111 1111011111 1111010111 1101011101 011111111 1111011101 01111011 1111010101 1111011111 1111011101 1111100011 1111011110 1111111101 1111111101 101011101 11010100011 111111111 1111011101 1111011100 110111011 1111000111 1101111111 1111110111 111101101 0101110101 0101010111 1111010101 01001001101 1101001101 110110111 1 0111010101 1101000100 0101000101 00100100100 1111111101 111111011 0101011101 1101011101 1111011101 1101110111 1101111111 1101111111 1111111101 1 1111011111 1101011101 11011111011 1101011101 1111111111 0111011101 1101111101 11010110111 1101110111 0111001101 111100101 1011010101 11010001001 111111111 111101111 1111110111 1101010001 1111111111 1101100111 11010111 111011101 1011111101 1111111101 011101101 0101110101 11 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,348 |
Words | 812 |
Sentences | 35 |
Stanzas | 4 |
Stanza Lengths | 33, 33, 14, 27 |
Lines Amount | 107 |
Letters per line (avg) | 31 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 839 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 202 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 11, 2023
- 4:09 min read
- 141 Views
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"The Lament Of Tasso" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 13 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/15239/the-lament-of-tasso>.
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