The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - To Telesius Of Cosenza.
Telesio, il telo. Telesius, the arrow from thy bow Midmost his band of sophists slays that high Tyrant of souls that think; he cannot fly: While Truth soars free, loosed by the self-same blow. Proud lyres with thine immortal praises glow, Smitten by bards elate with victory: Lo, thine own Cavalcante, stormfully Lightning, still strikes the fortress of the foe! Good Gaieta bedecks our saint serene With robes translucent, light-irradiate, Restoring her to all her natural sheen; The while my tocsin at the temple-gate Of the wide universe proclaims her queen, Pythia of first and last ordained by fate.
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"Telesio, il telo...."
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