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 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: XXXVIII. Thou! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, XXXIX. Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his Each year brings forth its millions; but how long 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 (19) The iron crown of laurel's mimic'd leaves; Nor was the ominous element unjust, For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves (20) 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. XLII. Italia! oh Italia! thou who hast (22) The fatal gift of beauty, which became On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, XLIII. Then might'st 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, (23) The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim 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 Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. X |