XXVII. The Moon is up, and yet it is not nightSunset divides the sky with her a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the Day joins the past Eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air-an island of the blest! XXVIII. (14) A single star is at her side, and reigns Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows, XXIX. Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, And now they change; a paler shadow strews The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone-and all is gray. XXX. There is a tomb in Arqua;-rear'd in air, (15) With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. XXXI. They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; (16) The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride, A feeling more accordant with his strain XXXII. And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt Is one of that complexion which seems made For those who their mortality have felt, And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 'Which shows a distant prospect far away Of busy cities, now in vain display'd, For they can lure no further; and the ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday. XXXIII. Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours With a calm langour, which, though to the eye Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. If from society we learn to live, 'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone-man with his God must strive: XXXIV. Or, it may be, with demons, who impair (17) The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey In melancholy bosoms, such as were Of moody texture from their earliest day, And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, Deeming themselves predestined to a doom Which is not of the pangs that pass away; Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. XXXV. Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before. XXXVI. And Tasso is their glory and their shame. The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell Where he had plunged it. Glory without end Scatter'd the clouds away-and on that name attend XXXVII. The tears and praises of all time; while thine Or worthless dust, which from thy boasted line From thee! if in another station born, Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn: XXXVIII. Thou! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, That whetstone of the teeth-monotony in wire! 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, 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, [worth. Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly XLI. The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust (19) Know, that the lightning sanctifies below (21) Whate'er it strikes; yon head is doubly sacred now. |