XXXVI. And Tasso is their glory and their shame. The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend XXXVII. The tears and praises of all time; while thine Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line From thee! if in another station born, Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou madest to mourn : XXXVIII. Thou! formed 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 No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, That whetstone of the teeth-monotony in wire! Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his And not the whole combined and countless throng 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, Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. XLI. The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves; For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, Know, that the lightning sanctifies below 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 mightest thou more appal; or, less desired, Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 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. XLIV. Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight; XLV. For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 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! Rome Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. |