The
lightning
rent from Ariosto's bust[11.
Byron
if in another station born,[mi]
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st 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 furrowed brow,
Which emanated then, and dazzles now,
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire,[418][10. H. ]
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow[mj]
No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre,
That whetstone of the teeth--Monotony in wire! [mk][419]
XXXIX.
Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong
Aimed with her poisoned arrows,--but to miss.
Oh, Victor unsurpassed in modern song!
Each year brings forth its millions--but how long
The tide of Generations shall roll on,
And not the whole combined and countless throng
Compose a mind like thine? though all in one[ml]
Condensed their scattered rays--they would not form a Sun. [mm]
XL.
Great as thou art, yet paralleled 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 called forth
A new creation with his magic line,
And, like the Ariosto of the North,[420]
Sang Ladye-love and War, Romance and Knightly Worth.
XLI.
The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust[11. H. ]
The iron crown of laurel's mimicked leaves;
Nor was the ominous element unjust,
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves[12. H. ]
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[13. H. ]
Whate'er it strikes;--yon head is doubly sacred now.
XLII.
Italia! oh, Italia! thou who hast[421]
The fatal gift of Beauty, which became
A funeral dower of present woes and past--
On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame,[mn]
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 might'st thou more appal--or, less desired,
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored[mo]
For thy destructive charms; then, still untired,
Would not be seen the armed torrents poured
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde
Of many-nationed spoilers from the Po
Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword
Be thy sad weapon of defence--and so,
Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe.
XLIV.
Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,
The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind,[422]
The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind,
Came Megara before me, and behind
AEgina lay--Piraeus on the right,
And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined
Along the prow, and saw all these unite
In ruin--even as he had seen the desolate sight;
XLV.
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st 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 furrowed brow,
Which emanated then, and dazzles now,
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire,[418][10. H. ]
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow[mj]
No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre,
That whetstone of the teeth--Monotony in wire! [mk][419]
XXXIX.
Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong
Aimed with her poisoned arrows,--but to miss.
Oh, Victor unsurpassed in modern song!
Each year brings forth its millions--but how long
The tide of Generations shall roll on,
And not the whole combined and countless throng
Compose a mind like thine? though all in one[ml]
Condensed their scattered rays--they would not form a Sun. [mm]
XL.
Great as thou art, yet paralleled 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 called forth
A new creation with his magic line,
And, like the Ariosto of the North,[420]
Sang Ladye-love and War, Romance and Knightly Worth.
XLI.
The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust[11. H. ]
The iron crown of laurel's mimicked leaves;
Nor was the ominous element unjust,
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves[12. H. ]
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[13. H. ]
Whate'er it strikes;--yon head is doubly sacred now.
XLII.
Italia! oh, Italia! thou who hast[421]
The fatal gift of Beauty, which became
A funeral dower of present woes and past--
On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame,[mn]
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 might'st thou more appal--or, less desired,
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored[mo]
For thy destructive charms; then, still untired,
Would not be seen the armed torrents poured
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde
Of many-nationed spoilers from the Po
Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword
Be thy sad weapon of defence--and so,
Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe.
XLIV.
Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,
The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind,[422]
The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind,
Came Megara before me, and behind
AEgina lay--Piraeus on the right,
And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined
Along the prow, and saw all these unite
In ruin--even as he had seen the desolate sight;
XLV.
