As a sample of Marino's style, I subjoin the beautiful opening stanza of the seventh canto of the _Adone._
"Musica e Poesia son due sorelle, Ristoratrici delle afflitte genti, De' rei pensier le torbide procelle Con liete rime a serenar possenti. Non ha di queste il mondo arti più belle, O più salubri all' affannate menti, Nè cor la Scizia ha barbaro cotanto, Se non è tigre, a cui non piaccia il canto."
As Marino aspired to be the first epic poet of his age, GABRIELLO CHIABRERA, of Savona, aspired to be its first lyric poet, and he took Pindar for his model. He obtained much applause, but it may be doubted whether he was quite so successful as his contemporary. He has nothing like Marino's teeming wealth of imagination, and his more ambitious Odes are often turgid and heavy. On the other hand, it must be allowed that his most successful passages are splendid and sonorous. The _Adone_ is the best of the long-winded Italian epics with the exception of the two unapproachable masterpieces, the _Orlando Furioso_ and the _Gerusalemme Liberata._ But it cannot be said that Chiabrera comes as near to Petrarch as Marino does to his two illustrious predecessors. He is full of those hackneyed mythological allusions which encumbered poetry up to the end of the Eighteenth Century, nor has he the excuse of indulging in them for the purpose of conjuring up gorgeous and romantic visions. His powers of description are but slight, a remarkable circumstance, as his powers of versification were beyond doubt very extensive. Some of his lighter poems are gay and vivacious, and he wrote a series of epitaphs known to English readers by Wordsworth's noble translation. Not often did Chiabrera indulge in a strain so natural and impassioned as the following:
"Not without heavy grief of heart did he On whom the duty fell (for at that time The father sojourned in a distant land) Deposit in the hollow of this tomb A brother's child most tenderly beloved! Francesco was the name the youth had borne, Pozzobonelli his illustrious house; And when beneath this stone the corse was laid, The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears. Alas! the twentieth April of his life Had scarcely flowered; and at this early time By genuine virtue he inspired a hope That greatly cheered his country; to his kin He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts His friends had in their fondness entertained, He suffered not to languish or decay. Now is there not great reason to break forth Into a passionate lament? O Soul! Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world, Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air; And round this earthly tomb let roses rise, An everlasting spring! in memory Of that delightful fragrance which was once From thy mild manners quietly exhaled."