Sonnet V. the Tomb of Petrarch

Ye venerable marbles that inclose The reliques of the lord of Tuscan song, To whom in ages past no equal rose, Nor shall, I deem, all future bards among; For that to me the blessed powers expose No gift that to his worth might well belong, No part of rich Arabia's fragrant throng Of herbs or gums, my worship to disclose; Despise not ye, that, modest tho' of skill, To you my reverential vows I scan. So spoke the swain, as with the Spring's best bloom Of odorous flowers he strewed the honoured tomb; While thro' the circling hills soft voices ran, 'Tho' poor thy gift, O shepherd, rich thy will!'