SOLITUDE.
11
Still Arno trembles with the minstrel's note,And fancy's strains on tardy Mincio float,As when young Maro poured his matchless lay,And sweetly carolled to the god of day.
Sweet, trembling ecstasies, which swiftly rise,Melt the full soul, and press the rich surprise!What kindling verse shall dare those charms express,Now bathed in bliss, now steeped in tenderness,When the rapt thought, by sacred fancy. led,Paints to the living, what embalms the dead.When near the tomb, where Ilion's victor lay,The Granic hero paused to weep and pray, (2)What time the pathos of the bard of fireFlowed o'er his lips to calm his wakeful ire,Ah! who shall sketch in colors bright, as life,The moving agonies, the rapturous strife,The frequent sighs, which heaved his breast, to raiseA friend to sooth him, and a bard to praise?
