though all in one[ml]
Condensed their scattered rays--they would not form a Sun.
Condensed their scattered rays--they would not form a Sun.
Byron
[417]
And see how dearly earned Torquato's fame,
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell:
The miserable Despot could not quell
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end
Scattered 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:
Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink
From thee! 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!
And see how dearly earned Torquato's fame,
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell:
The miserable Despot could not quell
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end
Scattered 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:
Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink
From thee! 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!
