In Santa Croce's holy precincts lieAshes which make it holier, dust which isEven in itself an immortality,Though there were nothing save the past, and this,The particle of those sublimitiesWhich have relapsed to chaos: here reposeAngelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his,The starry Galileo, with his woes;Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose.These are four minds, which, like the elements,Might furnish forth creation:—Italy!Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rentsOf thine imperial garment, shall deny,And hath denied, to every other sky,Spirits which soar from ruin: thy decayIs still impregnate with divinity,Which gilds it with revivifying ray;Such as the great of yore Canova is to-day.