Classic Poem

To B OCCACCIO

Not for thy Gothic Trumpet's martial rage,
 Not for thy Latin Bays, nor that 'twas thine
 The Tuscan's rugged period to refine,
 Nor yet, Boccaccio , that thy faithful page
Reflects the genuine manners of thy Age,
 Nor that, enliven'd at thy sprightlier style,
 Pale Sorrow's Victims smooth the brow, and smile;
 For noughTof worth like this, immortal Sage,
Haste I to twine this garland round thy tomb;
 But that I oft have shar'd Nastagio's fears
 At his dread Vision, oft have wept the doom
Of fair Ghismonda , sunk in early years,
 I crown thee with this chaplet's simple bloom,
 The Bard sublime of Terror, and of Tears.