Sonnet to Goldoni

O Terence of the Adria, to whose pen
Italia's land did give such vengeful power
That, as from rebel soil a noble flower,
So rose alive the Latin soul again.

See! where should rule a race of noble men,
Sharing in righteous deal their bounteous dower,
There art, beshadowed with base passion's glower,
Goes reeling to the jeering harlot's den!

Laugh! and drive out these Goths, and of their shame
Tear down the altars, and to the muse impart
The laurel crown the ancients loved to view.
But no! To-day thou hast no dower but blame;
And the base crowd proclaims in vileness new
How low has fallen our Italian art!