At length they die, and their souls take the road
Of the great fount of light whence first they flow’d;
And then, in spite of envy, o’er their tomb
A sterile laurel buds, ay, buds and grows,
And thus protects the ashes in the gloom,
’Neath its immortal shade; but vainly shows
To teach men justice. Ages onward fleet
The lamentable drama to repeat,
Without regret or shame. Homer! thou divine,
Milton sublime, unhappy Tasso thine,