XXXIX. Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his Each year brings forth its millions; but how long And not the whole combined and countless throng Compose a mind like thine? though all in one Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a sun. XL. Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those, The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth And, like the Ariosto of the North, 21 Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. XLI. The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 22 The iron crown of laurel's mimic'd leaves; Nor was the ominous element unjust, For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 23 And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; Know, that the lightning sanctifies below?4 Whate'er it strikes ;-yon head is doubly sacred now. XLII, Italia! oh Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty, which became A funeral dower of present woes and past, On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, And annals graved in characters of flame. Oh, God! that thou wert in thy nakedness Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; XLIII. Then might'st thou more appal; or, less desired, For thy destructive charms; then, still untired, Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. 25 XLIV. Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 26 And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined T XLV. For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. XLVI. That page is now before me, and on mine Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, Of then destruction is; and now, alas! Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. XLVIL Yet, Italy! through every other land Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side ;28 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 Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, XLVIII. But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps XLIX. There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 29 The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 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: L. We gaze and turn away, and know not where, tand as captives, and would not depart. Away!-there need no words, nor terms precise, The paltry jargon of the marble mart, Where Pedantry gulls Folly-we have eyes: Blood, pulse, and breast confirm the Dardan Shepherd's prize. LI. Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise? Feeding on thy sweet cheek!31 while thy lips are With lava kisses melting while they burn, Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn! LII. 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 Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. grow LIIL I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, 32 How well his connoisseurship understands The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell: I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. |