XLVI.

Eve of the land which still is Paradise! Italian Beauty didst thou not inspire Raphael,[217] who died in thy embrace, and vies With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, In what he hath bequeathed us?--in what guise, Though flashing from the fervour of the Lyre, Would _words_ describe thy past and present glow, While yet Canova[218] can create below?[219]