Peace to Torquato's injured shade 'twas his
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong

| 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


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Great as thou art, yet parallel’d by those,
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine,
The Bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose
The Tuscan father's comedy divine ;
Then, not unequal to the Florentine,
The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth
A new creation with his magic line,
And, like the Ariosto of the North,”

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
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves,”
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow;
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves,
Know, that the lightning sanctifies below”

| Whate'er it strikes;–yon head is doubly sacred now.

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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;


Then might'st thou more appal; or, less desired,
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored
For thy destructive charms; then, still untired,
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour’d
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po
Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so,
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe.*

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,”
The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind,
The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind,
Came Megara before me, and behind
AEgina lay, Piraeus on the right,
And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined
Along the prow, and saw all these unite
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight;

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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.

That page is now before me, and on mine
His country's ruin added to the mass
Of perish’d states he mourn’d in their decline,
And I in desolation: all that was
Of then destruction is ; and now, alas !
Rome—Rome imperial, bows her to the storm,
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass
The skeleton of her Titanic form,”

Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm.

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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.

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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 :

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We gaze and turn away, and know not where,
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart”
Reels with its fulness; there—for ever there—
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, \
Wotand as captives, and would not depart.
Away!—there need no words, nor terms precise,
Théopaltry jargon of the marble mart,
Where Pedantry gulls Folly—we have eyes:

Blood, pulse, and breast confirm the Dardan Shepherd's



Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise ;
Or to more deeply blest Anchises or,
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies
Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of War
And gazing in thy face as toward a star,
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn,
Feeding on thy sweet cheek (* while thy lips are
With lava kisses melting while they burn,

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.

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