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eace to Torquato’s injured shade ! ’twas hisIn life and death to be the mark where WrongAimed with their poisoned arrows—-but fo miss.Oh, victor unsurpassed in modern song !Each year brings forth its millions ; but how longThe tide of generations shall roll on,And not the whole combined and countless throngCompose a mind like thine? Though all in oneCondensed their scattered rays, they would not forma sun.XL Great as thou art, yet paralleled by thoseThy countrymen, before thee born to shine,The bards of Hell and Chivalry : first roseThe Tuscan father’s comedy divine ;Then, not unequal to the Florentine,The Southern Scott, the minstrel who called forthA new creation with his magic line,And, like the Ariosto of the North,Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth.
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