On returning to Ferrara in January, 1576, a new tie was created to the reigning family, by his appointment as its historiographer, on the death of Pigna. This was the turning point of his existence, whence the symptoms of mental disease gradually and fatally advanced until June, 1577, when, after that outbreak of insanity in presence of the Duchess of Urbino, to which we have already alluded, he was interdicted by Alfonso from corresponding with her. This command she observed, but Leonora occasionally consoled him by letters during his flight to Naples, of which we have spoken in tracing the progress of his lipemania. It was in the autumn of 1578 that he arrived at Pesaro, after his second flight; and, in this melodious but unfinished _canzone_, bespoke shelter under the mighty oak [della Rovere] watered by the Metauro:-- "TO THE RIVER METAURO. "O thou illustrious child Of mighty Apennine, humble though you lie, In story brighter than thy silver tide; O stranger fleet and wild, To this thy friendly and protecting side, Well pleased, for safety and repose I fly. The lofty OAK, with mantling branches wide, Bathed by thy stream, and from thy cisterns fed, Shadowing the mountains and the seas between,-- Embower me with its screen! Inviolate screen, and hospitably spread, Thy cool recesses undisturbed and sweet Shroud me in deepest covert, thick entwined, So hid from blind and cruel fortune; blind, But not for me, whom still she sees to meet, Though far by hill or valley I should stray, Or in the lonely way Have passed at midnight, and with noiseless feet; And by this bleeding side well understood, Her aim unerring, as her shaft is good. "Since first I breathed this air, Ah me! since first I met the glorious light, Which never to these eyes unclouded shone, I was her fatal care, Chosen to be her mark and her despite; Nor yet those early hurts by time outgrown. Well to that spirit pure my words are known, Beside whose sainted tomb my cradle stood. Might they have laid me in the peaceful ground When I received the wound! Me from my mother's bosom fortune rude Tore while a child: O yet I feel those last Kisses and burning tears upon my cheek, With sighs remembered; still I hear that weak And ardent prayer, caught by the rising blast, Then parted ever; no more face to face Folded in strict embrace And held by close and loving arms so fast, Ah! but like Ilus or Camilla hied, With steps unequal, by my father's side.