Classic Poem

P URSU'D by terrors, worn with secret pain,
From great Alphonso, Tasso bent his flight;
For him was pale the sun's all-gladd'ning light;
Nor Rome's proud tow'rs, nor warm Calabrian plain,
Nor where glad Naples overlooks the main,
Nor Arno's fragrant vale, could charm his sight:
His day was gloomy, and the peaceful night
Saw him alike with downcast head complain.
Now fiercer Frenzy whirl'd his senses round,
And now he bore the ideot's vacant stare:
Sad fate! for who, to be like him renown'd,
The pain of feelings so refin'd would bear?
Who for long years endure the wakeful wound
Of hopeless love, and slow-consuming care?