Italia! as she was in days of power Revived in Dante: such a spirit stirr'd In old republics: bard and warrior too, He lit the fire of action 'mid the dead, Till e'en his shadows had more vigorous life Than real existence; still were they pursued By earthly memories; passions without aim Gnaw'd at their heart, still fever'd by the past; Yet less irrevocable seem'd that past, Than their eternal future. Methinks that Dante, banish'd his own soil, Bore to imagined worlds his actual grief, Ever his shades inquire the things of life, And ask'd the poet of his native land; And from his exile did he paint a hell. In his eyes Florence set her stamp on all; The ancient dead seem'd Tuscans like himself: Not that his power was bounded, but his strength; And his great mind forced all the universe Within the circle of its thought. A mystic chain of circles and of spheres Led him from Hell to Purgatory; thence From Purgatory into Paradise: Faithful historian of his glorious dream, He fills with light the regions most obscure; The world created in his triple song Is brilliant, and complete, and animate, Like a new planet seen within the sky. All upon earth doth change to poetry Beneath his voice: the objects, the ideas, The laws, and all the strange phenomena, Seem like a new Olympus with new gods-- Fancy's mythology--which disappears Like Pagan creeds at sight of Paradise, That sea of light, radiant with shining stars, And love, and virtue. The magic words of our most noble bard Are like the prism of the universe;-- Her marvels there reflect themselves, divide, And recreate her wonders; sounds paint hues, And colors melt in harmony. The rhyme-- Sounding or strange, and rapid or prolong'd-- That charm of genius, triumph of high art; Poetry's divination, which reveals All nature's secrets, such as influence The heart of man. From this great work did Dante hope the end Of his long exile: and he call'd on Fame To be his mediator; but he died Too soon to reap the laurels of his land. Thus wastes the transitory life of man In adverse fortunes; and it glory wins, If some chance tide, more happy, floats to shore. The grave is in the port; and destiny, In thousand shapes, heralds the close of life By a return of happiness. Thus the ill-fated Tasso, whom your praise, O Romans! 'mid his wrongs, could yet console-- The beautiful, the chivalric, the brave, Dreaming the deeds, feeling the love he sung-- With awe and gratitude approached your walls, As did his heroes to Jerusalem. They named the day to crown him; but its eve Death bade him to his feast, the terrible! The Heaven is jealous of the earth; and calls Its favorites from the stormy waves of time.