Childe Harold's pilgrimage, a romaunt . thoughts, and seek their preyIn melancholy bosoms, such as wereOf moody texture from their earliest day,And loved to dwell in darkness and themselves predestined to a doomWhich is not of the pangs that pass away;Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb,The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. XXXV. Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets,Whose symmetry was not for solitude,There seems as twere a curse upon the seatsOf former sovereigns, and the antique broodOf Este, which for many an age made goodIts strength within thy wa
Childe Harold's pilgrimage, a romaunt . thoughts, and seek their preyIn melancholy bosoms, such as wereOf moody texture from their earliest day,And loved to dwell in darkness and themselves predestined to a doomWhich is not of the pangs that pass away;Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb,The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. XXXV. Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets,Whose symmetry was not for solitude,There seems as twere a curse upon the seatsOf former sovereigns, and the antique broodOf Este, which for many an age made goodIts strength within thy walls, and was of yorePatron or tyrant, as the changing moodOf petty power impelled, of those Avho woreThe wreath which Dantes brow alone had worn before. XXXVI. And Tasso is their glory and their shame. Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell! And see how dearly earned Torquatos fame, And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell: The miserable despot could not quell The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend ANTO IV. PILGPJMAGE. 179. With the surroimdino; maniacs, in the hellWhere he had pkinged it. Glory without endScattered the clouds away — and on that name attend XXXVIT. The tears and praises of all time; while thineWould rot in its oblivion — in the sinkOf worthless dust, which from thy boasted lineIs shaken into nothing; but the linkThou formest in his fortunes bids us thinkOf thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn —Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrinkFrom thee! if in another station born,Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou madst to mourn 180 CHILDE HAROLDS canto iv. XXXYIII. Thou! formed to eat, and be despised, and as the beasts that perish, save that thouHadst a more splendid trough and wider sty :He! with a glory round his furrowed emanated then, and dazzles nowIn face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire,And Boileau, whose rash envy could allowNo strain which shamed his countrys creaking lyre,That whetstone of the teeth — monotony
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