That Son Of Italy Who Tried To Blow, Ere Dante Came, The Trump Of Sacred Song, In His Light Youth Amid A Festal Throng Sate With His Bride To See A Public Show. Fair Was The Bride, And On Her Front Did Glow Youth Like A Star; And What To Youth Belong, Gay Raiment, Sparkling Gauds, Elation Strong. A Prop Gave Way! Crash Fell A Platform! Lo, Mid Struggling Sufferers, Hurt To Death, She Lay Shuddering They Drew Her Garments Off And Found A Robe Of Sackcloth Next The Smooth, White Skin. Such, Poets, Is Your Bride, The Muse! Young, Gay, Radiant, Adorn'D Outside; A Hidden Ground Of Thought And Of Austerity Within.