May brave the pangs of Fate's severest hour!
Turn from such conflicts, and enraptur'd gaze,
On scenes where Painting all her skill displays:
Landscapes, by colouring drest in richer dyes,
More mellow'd sunshine, more unclouded skies;
Or dreams of bliss, to dying Martyrs given,
Descending Seraphs, robed in beams of heaven.
Oh! sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might,
Its depth of Shadow, and its blaze of Light,
Ye, whose bold thought disdaining every bound,
Explor'd the worlds above, below, around,
Children of Italy! who stand alone,
And unapproach'd, midst regions all your own;
What scenes, what beings, blest your gifted sight,
Profoundly grand, unutterably bright!
Triumphant Spirits! your exulting eye,
Could meet the noontide of eternity,
