Where spirits and not men were wont to range,
Still struggling on through brake and bush and hollow,
Hearing the sweet voice calling ‘Follow! follow!’
Nor were there wanting lays of other lands,
For these were all familiar in his hands:
And Dante’s dream of horror work’d its spell,—
And Petrarch’s sadness on our bosoms fell.—
And prison’d Tasso’s—he, the coldly loved,
The madly-loving! he, so deeply proved
By many a year of darkness, like the grave,