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While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air-an island of the
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
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 ;
A feeling more accordant with his strain
And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt
For they can lure no further; and the ray
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
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.
Of petty power impell’d, of those who wore
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
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
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
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)
Know, that the lightning sanctifies below (21) Whate'er it strikes; yon head is doubly sacred now.