With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in ItalyEdited by Anna Benneson McMahan . ich hath wrongd thee with ten thousand rentsOf thine imperial garment, shall deny,And hath denied, to every other skySpirits which soar from ruin : — thy decayIs still impregnate with divinity,Which gilds it with revivifying ray ;Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. LVI But where repose the all Etruscan three —Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they,The Bard of Prose, creative spirit, heOf the Hundred Tales of love — where did they layTheir bone
With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in ItalyEdited by Anna Benneson McMahan . ich hath wrongd thee with ten thousand rentsOf thine imperial garment, shall deny,And hath denied, to every other skySpirits which soar from ruin : — thy decayIs still impregnate with divinity,Which gilds it with revivifying ray ;Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. LVI But where repose the all Etruscan three —Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they,The Bard of Prose, creative spirit, heOf the Hundred Tales of love — where did they layTheir bones, distinguished from our common clayIn death as life? Are they resolved to dust,And have their countrys marbles nought to say ?Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust?Did they not to her breast their filial earth intrust ? LVII Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar,1Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore;Thy factions, in their worse than civil war,Proscribed the bard whose name for evermoreTheir childrens children would in vain adore 1 Dante, buried at Ravenna; the elder Scipio Africanus, at Liternum. [ ™ ]. so w a :5 33 — - -i ,^ ?*«a g * 5C ^ s i s* -^ -c i«S2 53 ?*£ ?*a »C s oc s -^ ^ S3 * pSj Ji r^ bi 0 W W»V-i jjf* THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 With the remorse of ages; and the crownWhich Petrarchs laureate brow supremely wore,Upon a far and foreign soil had grown,His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine own. LVIII Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathdHis dust; and lies it not her Great among,With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathedOer him who formed the Tuscans siren tongue ?That music in itself, whose sounds are song,The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tombUptorn must bear the hysena bigots wrong,No more amidst the meaner dead find room,Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! 2 LIX And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust, —Yet for this want more noted, as of yoreThe Caesars pageant, shorn of Brutus bu
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