XLI.

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust[11.H.] The iron crown of laurel's mimicked leaves; Nor was the ominous element unjust, For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves[12.H.] Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, Know, that the lightning sanctifies below[13.H.] Whate'er it strikes;--yon head is doubly sacred now.