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,
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,
   And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow
   No strain which shamed his country’s creaking lyre,
That whetstone of the teeth—­monotony in wire!

XXXIX.

   Peace to Torquato’s injured shade! ’twas his
   In life and death to be the mark where Wrong
   Aimed with their 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
Condensed their scattered rays, they would not form a sun.

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,
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth.

XLI.

   The lightning rent from Ariosto’s bust
   The iron crown of laurel’s mimicked leaves;
   Nor was the ominous element unjust,
   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;
   Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves,
   Know that the lightning sanctifies below
Whate’er it strikes;—­yon head is doubly sacred now.

XLII.

   Italia!  O 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 ploughed by shame,
   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;