Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his And not the whole combined and countless throng XL. Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those, The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 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, And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; Know, that the lightning sanctifies below 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, Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 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, 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. XLVII. Yet, Italy! through every other land Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side; Was then our guardian, and is still our guide; Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, XLVIII. But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps XLIX. There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills The air around with beauty; we inhale The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 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 |