Vincenzo Monti

When burst thy rapid songs from out a brain A god had struck, his ready kindred knowing, In mighty flood like that which from the plain Of Eridanus to the sea is going,

Then rose the immortal siren whose domain Holds Virgil's ashes, and her breath bestowing As from an ancient urn disturbed again, Sweet harmonies as of lyres and reeds were flowing.

Along the circling shores its measures flinging Came as of bees hid in Ravenna's gloom The Tuscan verse of Dante softly ringing; The Po sent back its trumpet note of doom. Thou ceased. No more was heard the holy singing, Virgil was still, and Allighieri's tomb.

JUVENILIA.