« ForrigeFortsett »
Peace to Torquato's injured shade 'twas his
| Aim'd with her poison’d arrows, but to miss.
Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song !
Each year brings forth its millions; but how long
The tide of generations shall roll on,
| And not the whole combined and countless throng
t Compose a mind like thine though all in one
Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a
Great as thou art, yet parallel’d by those,
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth.
The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust”
The iron crown of laurel's mimic'd leaves;
Nor was the ominous element unjust,
| For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves
| Whate'er it strikes;–yon head is doubly sacred now.
Italia' oh Italia ; thou who hast
Then might'st thou more appal; or, less desired,
For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, Which only make more mourn’d and more endear'd The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, These sepulchres of cities, which excite Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage.
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm.
Yet, Italy through every other land Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side “ Mother of Arts as once of arms; thy hand Was then our guardian, and is still our guide; Parent of our Religion whom the wide Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven Europe, repentant of her parricide, Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven.
But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A softer feeling for her fairy halls. Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps To laughing life, with her redundant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn.
There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills” The air around with beauty; we inhale The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils Part of its immortality; the veil Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale We stand, and in that form and face behold What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail; And to the fond idolaters of old Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould :
We gaze and turn away, and know not where,
Blood, pulse, and breast confirm the Dardan Shepherd's
Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise ;
Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an
Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, Their full divinity inadequate That feeling to express, or to improve, The gods become as mortals, and man's fate Has moments like their brightest; but the weight Of earth recoils upon us;–let it go We can recall such visions, and create, -From what has been, or might be, things which grow Into thy statue’s form, and look like gods below.
I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, The artist and his ape,” to teach and tell How well his connoisseurship understands The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell: Let these describe the undescribable: I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream Wherein that image shall for ever dwell; The unrufiled mirror of the loveliest dream That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam.