Sonnet LXXV

He found her not;—yet much the Poet found,

To swell Imagination's golden store,

On Arno's bank, and on that bloomy shore,

Warbling Parthenope; in the wide bound,

Where Rome's forlorn Campania stretches round

Her ruin'd towers and temples;—classic lore

Breathing sublimer spirit from the power

Of local consciousness.—Thrice happy wound,

Given by his sleeping graces, as the Fair

“Hung over them enamour'd,” the desire

Thy fond result inspir'd, that wing'd him there,

Where breath'd each Roman and each Tuscan Lyre,

Might haply fan the emulative flame,

That rose o'er Dante's song, and rival'd Maro's fame.