XXVII.
The Moon is up, and yet it is not night-
Sunset 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. A single star is at her side, and reigns (14) With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Rollid o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill, As Day and Night contending were, until Nature reclaim'd her order :-gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil

The odorous purple of a new born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd with

in it glows,

XXIX. Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse: And now they change ; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o’er the mountains : parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues

With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till 'tis gone-and all is

gray.''

XXX. There is a tomb in Arqua ;-rear'd in air, Pillard in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover : here repair Many familiar with his well-sung' woes, The pilgrims of his genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : Watering the tree which bears his lady's name

(15) With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.

XXXI. They keep his dust in Arquà, where he died ;

(16)
The mountain-village where his latter days
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride,
An honest pride and let it be their praise,
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze
His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain
And venerably simple, such as raise.

A feeling more accordant with his strain
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fame.

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,
Whose symmetry was not for solitude,
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood
Of Este, which for many an age made good
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood

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. Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! And see how dearly earn's Torquato’s fame, And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell; The miserable despot could not quell 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 at

tend

XXXVII. The tears and praises of all time ; while thine Would rot in its oblivion--in the sink Or worthless dust, which from thy boasted line Is shaken into nothing ; but the link Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scornAlfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink

From thee! if in another station born, Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to

Vos mourn:

XXXVIII. Thou ! formd to eat, and be despised, and die, Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty : He! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, Which emanated then, and dazzles now In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow (18) No strain which shamed his country's creaking

lyre, That whetstone of the teeth--monotony in wire !

XXXIX. 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 generation shall roll on, 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.

throng

XL. 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, [worth Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly

The lightning' rent from Ariosto's bust (19)
The iron crown of laurel's mimic d leaves ;
Nor was the ominous element'unjust, [(20)
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 (21) Whate'er it strikes; yon head is doubly sacred now.