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But altogether a diviner thing,
Fit for the Queen of Europe's second spring,
With fancies of her own, and finer powers
Not to enslave these mere outsides of ours,
But bend the godlike mind, and crown it with her
Thus did she reign, bright-eyed, with that sweet
Long in her ears; and right before her throne
Have sat the intellectual Graces three,
Music, and Painting, and wing'd Poetry,
Of whom were born those great ones, thoughtful-
That led the hierarchy of modern taste ;-
Heavenly Composers, that with bow symphonious
Drew out, at last, music's whole soul harmonious ;
Poets, that knew how Nature should be wooed,
With frank address, and terms heart-understood;
And Painters, worthy to be friends of theirs,
Hands that could catch the very finest airs
Of natural minds, and all that soul express
Of ready concord, which was made to bless,
And forms the secret of true amorousness.
Not that our English clime, how sharp soe’er,
Yields in ripe genius to the warmest sphere;
For what we want in sunshine out of doors,
And the long leisure of abundant shores,
By freedom, nay by sufferance, is supplied,
And each man's sacred sunshine, his fire-side.
But all the four great Masters of our Song,
Stars that shine out amidst a starry throng,
Have turned to Italy for added light,
As earth is kissed by the sweet moon at night ;-
Milton for half his style, Chaucer for tales,
Spenser for flowers to fill his isles and vales,
And Shakspeare's self for frames already done
To build his everlasting piles upon.
Her genius is more soft, harmonious, fine ;
Our's bolder, deeper; and more masculine ::.
In short, as woman's sweetness to man's force,
Less grand, but softening by the intercourse,
So the two countries are, --so may they be,+
England the high-souled man, the charmer Italy.
But I must finish, and shall chatter less
On Greece, for reasons which yourself may guess.
Only remember what you promised me
About the flask from dark-welled Castaly,
A draught, which but to think of, as I sit, i
Makes the room round me almost turn with wit.
Gods! What may not come true, what dream divinę,
If thus we are to drink the Delphic wine!
Remember too elsewhere a certain town,
Whose fame, you know, Cæsar will not hand down.
And pray, my Lord, in Italy take care,
You that are poet, and have pains to bear,
Of lovely girls, that step across the sight,
Like Houris in a heaven of warmth and light,
With rosy-cushioned mouths, in dimples set,
And ripe dark tresses, and glib eyes of jet.
The very language, from a woman's tongue,
Is worth the finest of all others sung.
And so adieu, dear Byron,--dear to me
For many a cause, disinterestedly ;
First, for unconscious sympathy, when boys,
In friendship, and the Muse's trying joys ;-
Next for that frank surprise, when Moore and
you Came to my cage, like warblers kind and true, And told me, with your arts of cordial lying, How well I looked, when you both thought me
dying ;Next for a rank worn simply, and the scorn Of those who trifle with an age free-born ;For early storms, on Fortune's basking shore, That cut precocious ripeness to the core ;For faults unhidden, other's virtues owned ; Nay, unless Cant's to be at once enthroned, For virtues too, with whatsoever blended, And e'en were none possessed, for none pretended ;Lastly, for older friends,-fine hearts, held fast Through every dash of chance, from first to last ;For taking spirit as it means to be,