- Performer Name:
- Performance Venue:
- Performance Date:
- Author:
- Rogers, Samuel
- Date Written:
- Language:
- English
- Publication Title:
- Italy, A Poem
- Article Title:
- Page Numbers:
- 43
- Additional Info:
- Publisher:
- Moxon
- Place of Publication:
- London
- Date Published:
- 1842
Text:
But who comes,
Brushing the floor with what was once, methinks,
A hat of ceremony? On he glides,
Slip-shod, ungartered; his long suit of black
Dingy, thread-bare, tho', patch by patch, renewed
Till it has almost ceased to be the same.
At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads
' 'Tis my necessity!' he stops and speaks,
Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face.
'Blame not a Poet, Signor, for his zeal —
When all are on the wing, who would be last?
The splendour of thy name has gone before thee;
And ITALY from sea to sea exults,
As well indeed she may! But I transgress.
He, who has known the weight of Praise himself,
Should spare another.' Saying so, he laid
His sonnet, an impromptu, at my feet,
(If his, then PETRARCH must have stolen it from him)
And bowed and left me; in his hollow hand
Receiving my small tribute, a zecchine,
Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees.
Notes:
- Collected by:
- DP