XXXIX.

Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his In life and death to be the mark where Wrong Aimed with her poisoned arrows,--but to miss. Oh, Victor unsurpassed in modern song! Each year brings forth its millions--but how long The tide of Generations shall roll on, And not the whole combined and countless throng Compose a mind like thine? though all in one[ml] Condensed their scattered rays--they would not form a Sun.[mm]