re　unquestionably　the　masters　of　the　Florentine。　　But　they　wrote　in　an　age　which　could　not　appreciate　their　merits；　and　their　imitator　lived　at　the　very　period　when　composition　in　the　vernacular　language　began　to　attract　general　attention。　　Petrarch　was　in　literature　what　a　Valentine　is　in　love。　　The　public　preferred　him；　not　because　his　merits　were　of　a　transcendent　order；　but　because　he　was　the　first　person　whom　they　saw　after　they　awoke　from　their　long　sleep。
  Nor　did　Petrarch　gain　less　by　comparison　with　his　immediate　successors　than　with　those　who　had　preceded　him。　　Till　more　than　a　century　after　his　death　Italy　produced　no　poet　who　could　be　compared　to　him。　　This　decay　of　genius　is　doubtless　to　be　ascribed；　in　a　great　measure；　to　the　influence　which　his　own　works　had　exercised　upon　the　literature　of　his　country。　　Yet　it　has　conduced　much　to　his　fame。　　Nothing　is　more　favourable　to　the　reputation　of　a　writer　than　to　be　succeeded　by　a　race　inferior　to　himself；　and　it　is　an　advantage；　from　obvious　causes；　much　more　frequently　enjoyed　by　those　who　corrupt　the　national　taste　than　by　those　who　improve　it。
  Another　cause　has　co…operated　with　those　which　I　have　mentioned　to　spread　the　renown　of　Petrarch。　　I　mean　the　interest　which　is　inspired　by　the　events　of　his　lifean　interest　which　must　have　been　strongly　felt　by　his　contemporaries；　since；　after　an　interval　of　five　hundred　years；　no　critic　can　be　wholly　exempt　from　its　influence。　　Among　the　great　men　to　whom　we　owe　the　resuscitation　of　science　he　deserves　the　foremost　place；　and　his　enthusiastic　attachment　to　this　great　cause　constitutes　his　most　just　and　splendid　title　to　the　gratitude　of　posterity。　　He　was　the　votary　of　literature。　　He　loved　it　with　a　perfect　love。　　He　worshipped　it　with　an　almost　fanatical　devotion。　　He　was　the　missionary；　who　proclaimed　its　discoveries　to　distant　countries　the　pilgrim；　who　travelled　far　and　wide　to　collect　its　reliques　the　hermit；　who　retired　to　seclusion　to　meditate　on　its　beauties…　…the　champion；　who　fought　its　battlesthe　conqueror；　who；　in　more　than　a　metaphorical　sense；　led　barbarism　and　ignorance　in　triumph；　and　received　in　the　Capitol　the　laurel　which　his　magnificent　victory　had　earned。
  Nothing　can　be　conceived　more　noble　or　affecting　than　that　ceremony。　　The　superb　palaces　and　porticoes；　by　which　had　rolled　the　ivory　chariots　of　Marius　and　Caesar；　had　long　mouldered　into　dust。　　The　laurelled　fascesthe　golden　eaglesthe　shouting　legionsthe　captives　and　the　pictured　citieswere　indeed　wanting　to　his　victorious　procession。　　The　sceptre　had　passed　away　from　Rome。　　But　she　still　retained　the　mightier　influence　of　an　intellectual　empire；　and　was　now　to　confer　the　prouder　reward　of　an　intellectual　triumph。　　To　the　man　who　had　extended　the　dominion　of　her　ancient　languagewho　had　erected　the　trophies　of　philosophy　and　imagination　in　the　haunts　of　ignorance　and　ferocitywhose　captives　were　the　hearts　of　admiring　nations　enchained　by　the　influence　of　his　songwhose　spoils　were　the　treasures　of　ancient　genius　rescued　from　obscurity　and　decaythe　Eternal　City　offered　the　just　and　glorious　tribute　of　her　gratitude。　　Amidst　the　ruined　monuments　of　ancient　and　the　infant　erections　of　modern　art；　he　who　had　restored　the　broken　link　between　the　two　ages　of　human　civilisation　was　crowned　with　the　wreath　which　he　had　deserved　from　the　moderns　who　owed　to　him　their　refinementfrom　the　ancients　who　owed　to　him　their　fame。　Never　was　a　coronation　so　august　witnessed　by　Westminster　or　by　Rheims。
  When　we　turn　from　this　glorious　spectacle　to　the　private　chamber　of　the　poet；when　we　contemplate　the　struggle　of　passion　and　virtue；the　eye　dimmed；　the　cheek　furrowed；　by　the　tears　of　sinful　and　hopeless　desire；when　we　reflect　on　the　whole　history　of　his　attachment；　from　the　gay　fantasy　of　his　youth　to　the　lingering　despair　of　his　age；　pity　and　affection　mingle　with　our　admiration。　　Even　after　death　had　placed　the　last　seal　on　his　misery；　we　see　him　devoting　to　the　cause　of　the　human　mind　all　the　strength　and　energy　which　love　and　sorrow　had　spared。　　He　lived　the　apostle　of　literature；he　fell　its　martyr：he　was　found　dead　with　his　head　reclined　on　a　book。
  Those　who　have　studied　the　life　and　writings　of　Petrarch　with　attention；　will　perhaps　be　inclined　to　make　some　deductions　from　this　panegyric。　　It　cannot　be　denied　that　his　merits　were　disfigured　by　a　most　unpleasant　affectation。　　His　zeal　for　literature　communicated　a　tinge　of　pedantry　to　all　his　feelings　and　opinions。　　His　love　was　the　love　of　a　sonnetteer：his　patriotism　was　the　patriotism　of　an　antiquarian。　　The　interest　with　which　we　contemplate　the　works；　and　study　the　history；　of　those　who；　in　former　ages；　have　occupied　our　country；　arises　from　the　associations　which　connect　them　with　the　community　in　which　are　comprised　all　the　objects　of　our　affection　and　our　hope。　　In　the　mind　of　Petrarch　these　feelings　were　reversed。　　He　loved　Italy；　because　it　abounded　with　the　monuments　of　the　ancient　masters　of　the　world。　　His　native　citythe　fair　and　glorious　Florencethe　modern　Athens；　then　in　all　the　bloom　and　strength　of　its　youth；　could　not　obtain；　from　the　most　distinguished　of　its　citizens；　any　portion　of　that　passionate　homage　which　he　paid　to　the　decrepitude　of　Rome。　　These　and　many　other　blemishes；　though　they　must　in　candour　be　acknowledged；　can　but　in　a　very　slight　degree　diminish　the　glory　of　his　career。　　For　my　own　part；　I　look　upon　it　with　so　much　fondness　and　pleasure　that　I　feel　reluctant　to　turn　from　it　to　the　consideration　of　his　works；　which　I　by　no　means　contemplate　with　equal　admiration。
  Nevertheless；　I　think　highly　of　the　poetical　powers　of　Petrarch。　He　did　not　possess；　indeed；　the　art　of　strongly　presenting　sensible　objects　to　the　imagination；and　this　is　the　more　remarkable；　because　the　talent　of　which　I　speak　is　that　which　peculiarly　distinguishes　the　Italian　poets。　　In　the　Divine　Comedy　it　is　displayed　in　its　highest　perfection。　　It　characterises　almost　every　celebrated　poem　in　the　language。　　Perhaps　this　is　to　be　attributed　to　the　circumstance；　that　painting　and　sculpture　had　attained　a　high　degree　of　excellence　in　Italy　before　poetry　had　been　extensively　cultivated。　　Men　were　debarred　from　books；　but　accustomed　from　childhood　to　contemplate　the　admirable　works　of　art；　which；　even　in　the　thirteenth　century；　Italy　began　to　produce。　　Hence　their　imaginations　received　so　strong　a　bias　that；　even　in　their　writings；　a　taste　for　graphic　delineation　is　discernible。　　The　progress　of　things　in　England　has　been　in　all　respects　different。　　The　consequence　is；　that　English　historical　pictures　are　poems　on　canvas；　while　Italian　poems　are　pictures　painted　to　the　mind　by　means　of　words。　　Of　this　national　characteristic　the　writings　of　Petrarch　are　almost　totally　destitute。　　His　sonnets　indeed；　from　their　subject　and　nature；　and　his　Latin　Poems；　from　the　restraints　which　always　shackle　one　who　writes　in　a　dead　language；　cannot　fairly　be　received　in　evidence。　　But　his　Triumphs　absolutely　required　the　exercise　of　this　talent；　and　exhibit　no　indications　of　it。
  Genius；　however；　he　certainly　possessed；　and　genius　of　a　high　order。　　His　ardent；　tender；　and　magnificent　turn　of　thought；　his　brilliant　fancy；　his　command　of　expression；　at　once　forcible　and　elegant；　must　be　acknowledged。　　Nature　meant　him　for　the　prince　of　lyric　writers。　　But　by　one　fatal　present　she　deprived　her　other　gifts　of　half　their　value。　　He　would　have　been　a　much　greater　poet　had　he　been　a　less　clever　man。　　His　ingenuity　was　the　bane　of　his　mind。　　He　abandoned　the　noble　and　natural　style；　in　which　he　might　have　excelled；　for　the　conceits　which　he　produced　with　a　facility　at　once　admirable　and　disgusting。　　His　muse；　like　the　Roman　lady　in　Livy；　was　tempted　by　gaudy　ornaments　to　betray　the　fastnesses　of　her　strength；　and；　like　her；　was　crushed　beneath　the　glittering　bribes　which　had　seduced　her。
  The　paucity　of　his　thoughts　is　very　remarkable。　　It　is　impossible　to　look　without　amazement　on　a　mind　so　fertile　in　combinations；　yet　so　barren　of　images。　　His　amatory　poetry　is　wholly　made　up　of　a　very　few　topics；　disposed　in　so　many　orders；　and　exhibited　in　so　many　lights；　that　it　reminds　us　of　those　arithmetical　problems　about　permutations；　which　so　much　astonish　the　unlearned。　　The　French　cook；　who　boasted　that　he　could　make　fifteen　different　dishes　out　of　a　nettle…top；　was　not　a　greater　master　of　his　art。　The　mind　of　Petrarch　was　a　kaleidoscope。　　At　every　turn　it　presents　us　with　new　forms；　always　fantastic；　occasionally　beautiful；　and　we　can　scarcely　believe　that　all　these　varieties　have　been　produced　by　the　same　worthless　fragments　of　glass。　　The　sameness　of　his　images　is；　indeed；　in　some　degree；　to　be　attributed　to　the　sameness　of　his　subject。　　It　would　be　unreasonable　to　expect　perpetual　variety　from　so　many　hundred　compositions；　all　of　the　same　length；　all　in　the　same　measure；　and　all　addressed　to　the　same　insipid　and　heartless　coquette。　　I　cannot　but　suspect　also　that　the　perverted　taste；　which　is　the　blemish　of　his　amatory　verses；　was　to　be　attributed　to　the　influence　of　Laura；　who；　probably；　like　most　critics　of　her　sex；　preferred　a　gaudy　to　a　majestic　style。　　Be　this　as　it　may；　he　no　sooner　changes　his　subject　than　he　changes　his　manner。