I saw, and god-like Buonarroti’s powers,
And Dante, gravest poet, her much-wrong’d son.
Is all this glory, I said, another’s praise?
Are these heroic triumphs things of old,
And do I dead upon the living gaze?
Or rather doth the mind, that can behold
The wondrous beauty of the works and days,
Create the image that her thoughts enfold?
19
Rejoice, ye dead, where’er your spirits dwell,