XXVIII. A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still (14) As Day and Night contending were, until The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within 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 The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone-and all is gray. XXX. There is a tomb in Arqua;-rear'd in air, The bones of Laura's lover: here repair 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 Arqua, where he died; (16) The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their prideAn 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 fane. XXXII. And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd For they can lure no further; and the ray XXXIII. Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 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 Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 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 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 Would rot in its oblivion—in the sink Of 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 scorn- From thee! if in another station born, Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn: |