SONNET XII. TO BOCCACCIO.
[_]
The attribution of this poem is questionable.
Not for thy Gothic trumpet's martial rage,
Not for thy Latian bays, nor that 'twas thine
The Tuscan's rugged period to refine,
Nor yet, Boccaccio, that thy faithful page
Reflects the genuine manners of thy age;
Nor that, enliven'd at thy sprightlier style,
Pale Sorrow's victims smooth the brow and smile;
For nought of work like this, immortal Sage,
Haste I to twine this garland round thy tomb:
But that I oft have heard Nastagio's fears
At his dread vision, oft have wept the doom
Of fair Ghismonda sunk in early years,
I crown thee with this chaplet's simple bloom;
The Bard sublime of Terror and of Tears.