Soars at his loftiest pitch. In the north, before
The travellers the Erbasian mountains rise,
Bounding the land beloved, their native land.
How then, Alphonso, did thy eager soul
Chide the slow hours and painful way, which seem’d
Lengthening to grow before their lagging pace!
Youth of heroic thought and high desire,
’Tis not the spur of lofty enterprize
That with unequal throbbing hurries now
The unquiet heart, now makes it sink dismay’d;