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164
SONNET. WRITTEN AFTER PERUSING PETRARCH.
And thus it was the warm Italian sungHis sense of Beauty, in the olden time,
As bright she mov'd along in that sweet clime,
By skies of one unclouded blue o'erhung,
Where nature seems just born, so pure, and young;
Fair Europe's garden, stamp'd with marks sublime
Of all with which succeeding times have rung,
Of classic grace and greatness! Ah! among
Such glorious scenes, and in that witching tongue,
That in the rudest mouth will turn to rhyme,
165
To woman, as a worship, and at prime
Of morn hath beads of adoration strung,
From mortal longings free—till latest Vespers chime!
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