TO ITALY.O thou my country! I behold the walls,The pillars and the arches of our sires,Their towers and statues old:But I do not beholdTheir glory, or their weapons, or their bays,Wherewith they were surcharged. Disarmed and fallen,Thou dost thy brow and naked bosom show.Oh! from thy deep wounds flowWhat streams of blood! What pallor meets our gaze!Where is thy beauty now? Of Heaven I ask,And of the earth: "Oh say,Who hath reduced her to this piteous plight?"And what is worse, her arms strong fetters bind,And without veil her hair floats to the wind,And she, forlorn and sad, sits on the ground,To anguish giving way.Weep, O my Italy, for thou hast cause:Born to surpass mankindIn every phase of Fortune, generous and unkind.Even though thine eyes were torrents, nevermoreCould tears enough be shedThine injuries to weep and bitter shame,O wretched slave, a glorious Queen of yore!Who writes or thinks of thee,And beareth in his mind thy vanished fame,And sayeth not: "Why is her greatness dead?What is the cause? Where is her ancient might?Where is her valour in the glorious fight?Who robbed thee of thy sword?Who hath betrayed? What science, or what wiles.Or what victorious lordDespoiled thee of the garments of thy pride?How didst thou fall, and when,To this low state from regions glorified?Doth no one fight for thee? No son of thineRise in thy cause? Bring weapons! I aloneWill fight, or perish in the fray divine.Grant, Heaven, that even like fireMy blood may rise and all Italian souls inspire."Where are thy sons? I hear a sound of arms,Of chariots and of voices and of drums:In countries far awayThy sons meet war's affray.Have patience, Italy, for comfort comes.I see a storm of warriors and of steeds,'Mid smoke, the sword, by which the foeman bleeds,Like lightning flashing wide.Is not some balm unto thy soul supplied?Wilt thou not gaze upon the doubtful field?For whom their life-blood yieldThe sons of Italy? Ah, woeful sight!For alien lord, their gore in streams doth flow!Oh! wretched he who perisheth in fight,Not for his native soil and loving wife,Not for his children's life,But slain by others' foeFor stranger race, and cannot say in death:"I give thee now the breath,My fatherland most dear, thou didst on me bestow."Oh fortunate and blessed and endearedThe olden times, when throngsUnnumbered sought to perish for their land!And ye, to whom revering praise belongs,Passes of Thessaly,Where Fate and Persia lost power to withstandThe brave, the generous, the immortal few!Methinks your mountains with mysterious voice,Your forests, and your rocks, and azure waveUnto the stranger tellHow on that plain the bodies of the braveIn dauntless legions fell,Their lives devoting glorious Greece to save.Ferocious then and wild,Did Xerxes o'er the Hellespont take flight,Laden with scorn of every future day;And on Antela's memorable height,Where the blest throng, in dying, ne'er found death,Simonides did stand,And gazed upon the sky, the ocean, and the land.With tear-worn eyes, and with deep-sighing heart,While strong emotion made his step infirm,He seized the tuneful lyre:"Oh ever blessed yeWho gave your bosoms to the hostile spearsFor love of her who led you to the sun!Ye, whom Greece loves, and nations far admire!To arms and dangers direWhat love did guide those in their early years?What love the old whose days were nearly done?Why unto ye so gayAppeared the final hour, that bright with smitesYou hurried on the hard and tearful way?It seemed as though to dance or banquet proud,And not to death, your numbers did proceed.But Hades gazed with greedUpon your valiant crowd;Nor were your spouses or your children nearWhen in the fatal frayWithout a kiss you perished, and without a tear."But not without the Persian's punishmentAnd anguish ne'er to die.Even as into a field where bulls are pentA famished lion rushes, and his fangsAnd claws make havoc wild,And give his bellowing victims fatal pangs:Thus, 'mid the Persian multitudes doth flyThe wrathful valour of the sons of Greece.Behold the horsemen and their steeds o'erturned!See how the whirl of flightEntangles cars in many a fallen tent!And of the first to run,The tyrant, pale, and with dishevelled hair!See how with crimson stainsOf barbarous blood the Grecian brave besmeared,Giving the Persians infinite despair,Fall, by their wounds exhausted, one by one,Covering each other on the gory plains!O blessed ye! for ayeTo live whilst earth preserves a chronicle or lay!"Sooner destroyed and cast into the deepFrom highest heaven the stars shall hissing fall,Rather than your renownForego its glorious crown.An altar is your tomb; and full of love,The mothers to their infants shall displayThe traces of your blood. Behold, I sink,Ye blessed, on the earth,And kiss the rocks and the most cherished soilThat shall be praised and glorious for ayeThroughout creation's girth.Would I were with you in your graves below!Would that my gore with yours combined could flow!But if our different doom forbids that IFor Greece should perish in heroic fray,And close for her mine eye:Yet may the fame, endearedTo future ages, of your poet shine;And if the Gods benignConsent, as long as yours be glorious and revered."ON THE MONUMENT OF DANTE ABOUT TOBE ERECTED IN FLORENCE.Although our race at lastBy Peace is sheltered 'neath her snowy wings,Italian spirits ne'erShall rive the chains by ancient languor cast,Unless our hapless country to the fameOf her proud sires her meditation brings.Italia! bear in mindTo honour the departed, for of suchThy provinces are empty; none can claimLike praise of those who now are drawing breath.Turn and behold the numbers unconfined,My land, of heroes whom no time can touch,And full of shame bewail thine honour's death,For without indignation grief is vain:Turn to the past, and by thy shame revive,And mindful be againOf those who are no more, of those who still do strive.Different in face, in language, and in mind,On Tuscan soil the stranger takes his way,Desirous much to learnWhere he the ashes of the bard can findWho equalled Ilion's poet in his song.And, oh inglorious day!He hears not only that the body cold,The naked bones afarAre lying in a weary exile long,But that not even within thy walls a stone,O Florence! stands for him, whose glory oldShines on thee like a star.O ye, thrice bounteous, by whose deed aloneShall this reproach be banished from our land!A noble work is thine, whence love shall flow,Renowned and courteous band,From hearts that with deep love for Italy yet glow.Yes, love for the ill-starredItalian land, ye generous, be your guide!She, to whom pity is deadIn every heart, for wretched and most hardAre now the days that follow her past joy.May you, by mercy, be with fire suppliedTo crown the works you wrought!May grief and wrath inspire you for the woeWhence Italy is weeping her annoy!But with what praise, or what immortal songShall we extol you, who not merely in thought,But with the genius whence your bosoms glow,Sublimest palms shall find in ages long,Your land adorning with so high a deed?Unto your souls what lay shall I address,That in your hearts may feedThe never dying fire, and your high thoughts express?Like torches, verily, the noble themeShall in your spirit throw the kindling blaze.Who can the wave describeOf your proud ire and patriotic dream?say, who can paint the rapture of your brow?The lightning of your gaze?What mortal utterance of celestial thingA faint reflection give?Hence, ye profane! what tears of joyaunce nowThe marble proud form Italy shall claim?Shall it e'er fall? Shall time a shadow flingOn your renown? Ye live,Wherewith the anguish of our grief we tame,Ye live for aye, O cherished arts divine!The only comfort of our hapless race.Ye round our ruins twineYour loveliness, preserving our old honour's trace.Lo! I as well with zealInspired to honour our grieved and sublimeMother, bring what I can,And with my song join in your chisel's peal,Reclining where your skill gives marble life.O lofty father of Etruscan rhyme!If of terrestrial things,And if of her whom thou hast placed so high,In thine abode the tidings can be rife:I know that not for thee thou feelest joy,That frailer than the sands the ocean brings,Likened to thy renown, which ne'er shall die,Are bronze and marble; and if years destroy,Or have destroyed, thine image in our soul,Our anguish shall even more disastrous grow,And thy race, by the wholeWide world despised, shall weep in everlasting woe.But not for thee, for this thy hapless landBe joyous, if the example of its sireCan ever give such strengthUnto the race, so sunk in slumber's hand,That for a moment it can greatly dare.Oh! by what evils direThou seest her bowed down, who so ill-starredSeemed to thine eyes when thouTo Paradise didst finally repair!Now so reduced that, to her present plight,She then was like a queen whom splendours guard.Such anguish crowns her nowThat when thou seest, thou mayst doubt thy sight.The other evils and the other foes,But not the newest and the most unkind,I shall in silence close,Whereby thy land well nigh its fatal hour did find.Thrice blessed thou, whom FateDid not condemn such horrors to behold!Who didst not see embraced,By foemen fierce, Italian wives; nor hateAnd foreign fury desolate each field,And rob the cities of their goods and gold;Nor of Italian skillThe works divine to wretched thraldom ledBeyond the Alpine snows; nor cannons wieldTheir ponderous weight along the grief-thronged road;Nor stern commands, nor haughty rule for ill;Nor didst thou hear the insults and the dreadAbuse of Freedom's name, which seemed to goadOur grief, while lashes did resound and chains.Who did not grieve? What did we not endure?What region ne'er complainsOf how those recreants sinned? What temple was secure?Why in such evil times did we appear?Why didst thou give us birth, O cruel fate?Or why not early death?Enslaved and subject is our land so dearTo strangers and blasphemers; all her prideIs fallen and desolate;No succour and no comfort can we see;All balm to ease the painThat gives her keenest anguish, is denied;No solace can our bitter quest perceive.Alas! our life blood we gave not to thee,Land, dear to us in vain!Nor have I perished; though for thee I grieve.Here wrath and pity in all hearts abound:Full many of our number fought and bled:Alas! their doom they found,Not for our Italy, but for her tyrants dread.O Father, if thine ireLies dormant, thou art other than of yore;Upon the barbarous plainsOf Scythia, the Italian brave expire,Worthy of other death; the winds and skies,The beasts and men wage on them cruel war.In mighty hosts they fell,Naked and wasted, and with gore besmeared.For their dire bed the fatal snowstorm lies.Then as they felt their last, expiring pain,To her with whom their deep affections dwell,They said: "Oh, not the clouds or winds that rearedTheir deadly force, but steel, and for thy gain,Should end our lives, dear country! From thee far,When fairest years begin to meet our gaze,We, who all unknown are,Perish for that dire race which fetters thee and slays."For their lament the Arctic desert bleakFelt pity, and the moaning forests old.Thus did they meet their end,And wild beasts their neglected bodies seekUpon that horrid ocean of deep snow,Devouring their limbs cold;And the renown of the sublime and braveShall lie with those for ayeWhom tardy vileness claimeth. Though your woeBe infinite, ye cherished souls so dear!Yet be at peace; and this console your grave,That consolation's rayShall neither now nor in a future yearBe seen by you. Rest in your sorrow vast,O ye true sons of her to whose supremeMisfortunes unsurpassed,Yours only is so great it can their equal seem!Ah! not of you complainsYour native land, but of the one who madeYour weapons 'gainst her rise,So that for evermore she mourns her pains,And with your sorrows bids her own resound.Oh! would for her, whom once Renown arrayed,Fair Pity's light were shedIn such a heart as could to her be sentTo raise her from the dark abyss profoundWhere she is lying! O! thou glorious Bard!Say, of thine Italy if love be dead?Say, if the flame that fired thee now be spent?Say, shall no more that wreath its verdure guardWherewith we did so long our ills beguile?Lie all our crowns now shattered in the dust?Nor in a little whileShall men arise like thee so generous and just?Are we for ever withered? And our shameNo boundaries can hold?I, whilst I live, shall everywhere exclaim:—"Thou evil race, turn to thine ancestors;Survey these ruins old,And all the treasures wondrous arts bestow:Think on what soil thou treadest; if thy heartFeels not the light such high examples show,Why stay? Rise and depart.To be the scene of deeds so mean and fell,This land of mighty heroes was not made:If cravens here must dwell,'Twere better it should be deserted and betrayed."TO ANGELO MAIOn His Discovering the Books of Cicero on theRepublic.Dauntless Italian! why dost thou not restFrom waking in the tombOur old forefathers? And why bid them holdDiscourse unto this age so lost in gloomOf worn exhaustion? Wherefore, voice of old,Appealest thou so often to our ears,For centuries though dumb?What is the reason of this mighty change?As rapidly as lightning's flash, the pageOf sages we discover; to these yearsThe dusty treasures come,Bearing enshrined the glorious wisdom's rangeOf those ancestral minds. What daring rageDoth Fate give to thy soul, Italia's pride?Or is it Fate who vainly human worth defied?Truly, it is by Heaven's high designThat in this hour when weAre most oblivious of our old renown,We should the ghosts of our forefathers see,Who on the baseness of their offspring frown.Kind Heaven still has mercy on our land,And seeks Italia's weal:For either this or none must be the hourTo give unto our shattered virtue strength,Which long beneath a sable shade did stand;And lo! the tombs revealThe buried who cry out; in mightier power,The long-forgotten heroes rise at length,And of this period so remote they askIf thou, my country, still must wear a coward's mask?Thou glorious throng! dost thou for us yet cherishA ray of hope? nor voidAre we of worth? To you, perchance, doth showThe future what it brings? I am destroyed,Nor have I any weapon 'gainst my woe;Dark are the years to come; and what I seeIs such that hope appearsAn idle dream. Heroic souls august!Within your homes a mob obscure and vileHath made its dwelling; by your progenyIn these disastrous yearsAll good is scorned; your old renown so justKindles nor love nor shame; and follies whileOur days away at your proud marble's base,And we to future times are patterns of disgrace.Thou noble mind! Now whilst the others heed notOur parents of the past,'Tis thine to heed, to whom Fate did inspireSuch favoured thoughts that by thy hand recastAppears the time[1]when from oblivion direTheir laurelled brows the old immortals raised,With learning long enshrined,They, to whom Nature spoke full many a wordWithout revealing where her being lay,And who in Athens and in Rome were praised.Oh times, so long declinedIn sleep eternal! Then was not yet heardOur country's final doom; nor every rayWas spent of indignation at our shame,And on the wind some sparks from this our soil yet came.Thy hallowed ashes harboured latent heat,Foe, nevermore resigned,Of Fortune, thou to whose indignant smartMuch more dark Hell than this our world was kind;[2]Hell: and where shall we fail to see a partBetter than ours? And thy sweet-toned chordsYet sounded to thy skill,O tuneful lover, in thy love much tried![3]Alas! from woe Italian song doth takeIts origin. And yet our woe affordsLess cause for grievous illThan weariness. O thou beatified,Whose life was full of sorrow! But we makeOurselves the prey of drear, fastidious scorn,Our cradles and our graves thereby become forlorn.Then was thy life with the ocean and the stars.Thou dauntless Genoese![4]When past Alcides' pillars and the shoreThat feigned to hear the hissing of the seasAs sank the sun to rest, thou, 'mid the roarOf wild waves cast, discoveredst the rayOf the declining sun,The dawn that blushes when we find the shade,And overcamest Nature's wrathful frown.An unknown mighty land was to thy wayThe matchless glory won,The perilous return! Alas! once madeThe circuit of the world, it dwindles down,And vaster far the earth, the sea, the sky,Appeareth to a child's, than to a wise man's, eye.Where is the pleasing beauty of our dreamsOf the abode unknownOf races strange, or of the stars' retreat,When glared the morn, or of the couch where shoneAurora's beauty, or where chargers fleetDid bear the chariot of the orb of day?They vanished for all time!The world is compassed in a narrow round:All things are like; the more we shades dispel,The more the void increaseth. Gone for aye,Imagining sublime,Art thou from us; though truth be scarcely found,We bid thee an eternal fare-thee-well;Thy former power is shattered by the years,And the last comfort dieth of our woes and fears.Meanwhile, for sweetest visions wast thou born,And radiance fired thine eyes,Prevailing bard[5]of valour and love's joyThat in an age less full than ours of sighsWith happy errors banished life's annoy:New hope of Italy! O halls! O towers!O ladies fair! O knights!O palaces! O gardens! Full of ye,My mind is lost within a varied mazeOf vain enchantments. Fiction's fragrant flowersAnd Fancy's daring flightsWere balm of yore to human misery:Now we have driven them from our vision's gaze,What is the end? Now that all things are plain?The certain truth to know that all, save grief, is vain.Torquato! O Torquato![6]Heaven then gaveTo us thy lofty mind,To thee nought else than agony and tears.O thou unblessed Torquato! couldst thou findSolace in song? The icy chill of fearsThat froze the daring ardour of thy soul,Which Tyranny did grieve,And Envy, nought could banish. Love betrayed,Love, last delusion of our earthly life,Thy injured heart. An empty waste the wholeVast world thou didst conceiveTo be, and Vacancy a queenly shade;Thine eyes were closed when tardy praise was rife.To thee thy final hour gave balm. He praysFor death, who knows our ills, and not for glorious bays.Return, return to us; arise from thyCold grave disconsolate,If yet thou lovest grief, O much deploredExample of deep woe. Worse is our fateThan that which did unto thy heart affordSuch cause for long lament. O thou endeared!Who would thy doom bemoan,If, save themselves, for nothing else men care?Who would not scorn on thy great sorrow cast,If all that greatness and ambition rearedBe held as Folly's own?If now obscure neglect fall to the shareOf the sublime, as envy in the past,If higher than song we sordid grasping place,Who would a second time thy brow with laurels grace?From thee, until this hour, no man arose,Thou prey to Fortune's rage,Worthy of the Italian name, save one alone,[7]Alone superior to his craven age,Ferocious Allobrogue; to whom was shownHeroic fire from regions of the skies,Not from the barren soilOf this our weary land; whence, without shield,Upon the stage on tyrants he waged war,A memorable and a rare emprise!This war, at least, be foilTo fruitless wrath, and some frail comfort yield.He stood, the only champion, to the fore:None followed him, for sloth and silence vile,More than all other things, the hearts of men defile.With scorn and indignation he pursuedHis life august and grand,And death preserved him from beholding worse.O my Vittorio! this was not a landOr age for thee; a loftier race should nurseIllustrious minds. Now we, who nothing heedSave dull repose, live boundBy mediocrity; the learned fall,The rabble rises to an equal plain,Making the world as one. Oh, still proceed,Discoverer renowned,To rouse the dead from their funereal pall,Because the living slumber; make againOld heroes speak, so that this age at lastMay rise to glorious deeds, or blush for errors past.
[1]The Renaissance.
[1]The Renaissance.
[2]Dante.
[2]Dante.
[3]Petrarch.
[3]Petrarch.
[4]Columbus.
[4]Columbus.
[5]Ariosto.
[5]Ariosto.
[6]Tasso.
[6]Tasso.
[7]Alfieri.
[7]Alfieri.
ON THE MARRIAGE OF HIS SISTER PAOLINA.Now that thy home thou leavest,Its happy silence and serene repose,And the ancient error which from Heaven flows,Adorning in thy sight this lone abode,By Fortune led upon the scene of life:Become acquainted with the evil ageWhich destiny devoteth to our years,My sister, who in timesOf strife, dismay, and fears,Proceedest to increase the ill-starred raceOf hapless Italy. Great models placeBefore thine offspring. An unswerving doomTo virtuous enterpriseUnclouded days denies,Nor in a bosom faint can lofty soul find room.Unhappy or else cravenShall be thy sons. Then nobly choose the first.A mighty gulf hath evil custom set'Twixt bravery and fortune. Ah! too slow,And in the sunset of terrestrial things,Doth man begin to suffer and to know.Heaven see'th why. The thought unto thee bringsIts first solicitude,That not in Fortune's netThy sons shall fall, nor be to terror low,Or hope the wretched tools: thence to be hailedHappy and blessed in the future far:For such the habits areOf our ignoble race,That living worth we scorn, and dead in honour place.Our fatherland, O women!Expecteth much from ye; and not to harmOur humankind, lurks in your eyes such charmThat it transcends the power of fire and steel.To gain your praise, the warrior and the sageLabour and think. Where'er the sun doth shine,We see all things your mighty influence feel.Of you the cause I askWhy sank so low our age?Did by your deed the fire of youth divineLanguish and die? By you, our nature madeSo shattered and so base? Our slumbering souls,Our will to shame betrayed,Our native valour spent:Must we for these on you our indignation vent?Love leads to mighty actions,Who knows him well; and of emotions vastIs Beauty the inspirer. Void of loveIs he who feeleth no impassioned fireWhen storms terrific raise their wrathful blast,When sable clouds are darkly seen above,And mountains tremble at their frenzy dire.O wives and virgins fair!From you scorn be his shareWho shuns the path of danger; who ignoresHis country's claim, unworthy; who adoresA lowly idol in his recreant mind;If in your hearts you findThe love of men doth glowAnd not of those who ever trivial fancy show.Scorn to be named the mothersOf an unwarlike race. The trials deepOf virtue let your offspring learn to bear,And in the bondage of contempt to keepWhate'er is honoured by this shameful age.Bid them rise to great actions. Make them knowWhat this our land doth to its fathers owe.Even as the heroes' nameWas held in honoured fameBy Sparta's sons as they increased in years,Until their spouses girded on their sword,And then their death in anguish deep deplored,And rent their hair with tearsWhen from the gory fieldThe warrior was brought home upon his faithful shield.With heavenly skill, Virginia,Did all-prevailing beauty mould thy form,And thy disdain made Rome's ignoble lordIn tempests of fierce passion rage and storm.Yes, thou wast fair, and in those happy yearsWhen pleasing dreams joy to the soul afford,What time thy father's unrelenting swordThy snowy bosom pierced,And thou to Hades darkDidst gladly sink. "May age with wrinkles markMy features, O my father! May the tombAwait me with its everlasting gloom,Ere to the tyrant's bedA victim I be led.Slay me, if Rome be rescued by the blood I shed."O maiden lofty-hearted!Though in thy days the sun more brightly shoneThan now it shines, yet honoured and consoledThy tomb becomes, bewailed by many a moan,Thy native country's sighs. Ah, now, behold!The race of Romulus with new-born ireIs fired around thy tomb. See, tyrants sinkUnto the very dust,And freedom doth inspireThe once oblivious hearts; and o'er the earthSubdued, the Latin valour doth proceedFrom the dark pole even to the torrid clime:And thus eternal Rome,Of languor deep the home,Doth Fate, by woman's hand, revive a second time.THE SOLILOQUY OF BRUTUS.After the carnage of the Thracian plain,Where in vast ruins fellThe strength of Roman freedom, whence one dayAusonia's valleys and the Tiber's banksShould tremble at barbarian foes' affrayBy Fortune's doom, and from the rugged woodsOf distant regions cold,To desolate the lofty walls of RomeShould Gothic hordes proceed:O'ercome and crimsoned with fraternal gore,Brutus, in shadow of the lonely night,Resolved by self-directed sword to bleed,The inexorable GodsAnd cruel fate defies,Filling in vain the air with his impassioned cries:"O idle virtue! In the realms of gloom,Haunt of the unquiet shades,Thy dwelling lies; thy footsteps are pursuedBy vain repentance. Ye unfeeling Gods,(If Phlegethon's dark torrents are imbuedWith knowledge of your presence, or the skies)You mock the wretched raceFrom whom you temples claim. Decrees of fraudInsult our humankind.So much the sorrow of terrestrial thingsMoves heavenly wrath? Say, Jupiter, art thouEnthroned the guardian of the evil mind?When storms terrific raveAnd thunder rumbles wide,Dost on the just and pious thou the lightning guide?"Unbending Fate! Necessity austereCrushes with heavy yokeThe slaves of death; and if without an endThey see their ills, the thought consoles them stillThat such must be. But doth woe less offendWhen without balm? Doth he feel less of painWho is despoiled of hope?An everlasting war, O ruthless Fate!On thee the brave man wagesWho knows not how to yield; thy tyrant soul,When thou, victorious, overwhelmest him,With exultation o'er thy victim rages,What time his heart augustThe fatal sword receives,And he with mockery spurns the base abode he leaves."He who to Hades takes a violent wayDoth rouse the gods to ire.Such strength lies not in soft, eternal souls.Stern Fate, perchance, our labours and our cares,Our bitter fortunes that Despair controls,Unto their leisure for amusement gave?Not amid woe and guilt,But in the woods, a free and spotless ageDid Nature to us give,Our Goddess once and Queen. Now that undoneBy impious custom is the blissful reign,And 'neath strange laws we unrejoicing live:When these disastrous daysA dauntless soul doth spurn,Should Nature, to accuse a shaft not hers, return?"Of guilt unconscious and of their distress,The happy beasts are ledBy Time serenely to the end ignored.But if 'gainst rugged trees their heads to strike,Or from the summit, where the wild winds roared,Of rocky mountains to hurl down their frame,They were by grief advised:To their desire no stern refusal harshWould laws mysterious makeOr doubtful minds. Its joys from you aloneOf all the creatures by the earth brought forth,Sons of Prometheus, did existence take:From you the shades of death,When Fate of wrath gives proof,Alone from you, ye wretched, Jove doth hold aloof."Thou art arising from the ocean-waveThat reddened with our gore,To gaze, fair moon, on the unquiet nightAnd plain so fatal to Ausonian strength.Their slaughtered kinsmen meet the conquerors' sight;The mountains tremble; from her pride's augustDoth ancient Rome decline:And thou art so unmoved? Thou didst beholdLavinia's race, the yearsOf dazzling glory, and the laurels proud;And on the Alps thy never-varying rayThou still wilt shed when 'mid the grief and tearsOf Italy enslaved,Her solitary groundUnto barbarians' tread shall mournfully resound."'Mid naked rocks, or on the verdant trees,Behold, the beasts and birds,Lost in the oblivion they forever bore,Remain unconscious of the ruin VastAnd of the shattered world; and as of yoreThe peasant's roof shall redden to the sun,And with their morning layThe birds awake the valleys, and the speedOf fiercer beasts pursueThe less resisting over hill and dale.Oh Fate! Oh idle race! an abject partWe are of nature; not the caves that knewThe sound of sighs, nor glebesDrenched in our gore, displayCompassion for our grief, nor stars endim their ray."The unheeding Kings of Heaven and HellOr of the unworthy earth,Or night, in dying I do not invoke;Nor ye, last radiance of the shades of death,Ye future ages. Who the gloom e'er brokeOf haughty tombs, with praise, and sighs, and giftsOf crowds ignoble? WorseThe years become; and in an evil guardThe honour of the braveAnd their last vindication lies, when leftTo their degenerate sons. Upon my corpseMay birds of prey in famished fury rave,And wild beasts rend my limbs,And what remains be dust,And to the air be left my name and memory just."TO SPRING;OR,THE FABLES OF ANTIQUITY.Because the sun restoresIts beauty to the sky, and airs reviveAt Zephyr's breath, whence heavy clouds retire,Divided in their shadows deep and grey:The birds their pinions trustUnto the breeze, and the diurnal rayDoth give new hope of love and new desireTo happy beasts amid the dews dissolved,Amid the forests filled with joyous light:Perchance unto the weary minds of men,In graves of woe entombed,Returns the happy age, by grief and direTorches of truth consumedBefore its time? Darkened for aye and spentAre not Heaven's rays for him to anguish doomedThrough Time's eternal flight?And, odorous Spring, art thou on firing bent,This frozen heart, to whom hath long been toldEven in the flower of life, that it is worn and old?Dost thou still live, divineNature, still live? And the unaccustomed earReceives the sound of the maternal voice?The streams were haunts of spotless nymphs erewhileAbodes and mirrors clearWere liquid springs. The secret dances strangeOf feet immortal, shook the wild ravineAnd wood remote (where now the fierce winds range,Deserted else); and the mild shepherd heard,When guiding to meridian shades besideThe flowery river bank,His thirsty flock, a piercing lay proceedFrom sylvan deities' reed,Resounding far: and witnessed with amazeThe waters quake; for veiled from mortal gaze,The Goddess of the bowSank in the warm stream of the flood below,And from the dust of the ensanguined chaseHer snowy limbs did cleanse and arms of virgin grace.In happier days of yoreThe flowers, the herbs, the forests were alive.The firmament, the Titan of the light,Were conscious of mankind; o'er hill and valeWhen shone thy silver beam,O radiant Cynthia! in the lonely nightWith orbs intent thy brow the wanderer sought,And thee his path's companion he did deem,And fancied we were cherished in thy thought.If man from factions of fierce cities fledAnd from disastrous strife,Seeking for refuge mid the mighty treesOf deepest forest lone:He thought that fire ran through their arid veins,That foliage breathed; and quivering in the embraceFull of delicious pains,Daphne and Phyllis, or the wailing moanFor him who in Eridanus was castBy fury of the Sun, he heard upon the blast.Nor piercing wail and sighsOf human woe, ye rocks of rigid height,Struck you, unfeeling, whilst lone Echo dweltIn your recesses of alarming night:No error of vain wind,But wretched spirit of a nymph in tears,Of mortal shape despoiled by ruthless FateAnd cruel Love. She, 'mid the grottos blindAnd naked crags and dwellings desolate,The loud complaining of our woes and fearsTo the imprisoned airRevealed and taught. And thee in earthly deedWell versed did Fame declare,Sweet-throated warbler in the leafy woodWho now dost praise the infant year with song,Lamenting once the wrongThat made thy spirit with deep anguish bleed,In notes sublime unto the darkening sky,At which for pity and rage light did from Heaven fly.But not to ours alliedIs now thy race; those varied notes of thinePain mellows not; and thee, unstained by guilt,Much less endeared, the dusky valleys hide.Alas! now that divineOlympus mourns its empty halls; and wideThe thunder wanders o'er the cloud-capped peaks,In sightless rage the noble and the baseAppalling with its rumbling; and our soil,Unconscious of the offspring it doth feed,Brings forth its sons for moyle:Thou the deep anguish and the fate obscureOf mortals dost endure,O wondrous Nature! Thou the ancient sparkArt kindling in my soul, if thou indeedLivest; if aught there beIn Heaven above, or on the sunny earth,Or in the bosom of the azure main,To gaze, even though unpitying, on terrestrial pain.HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS.And you the song of unrejoicing sons,Ye lofty fathers of the human race,Shall celebrate with praise; ye far more dearUnto the eternal Ruler of the stars,And much less sorrowing brought unto the lightSublime than we. Not piety and notThe laws of Heaven imposed the unceasing illsThat now afflict mankind, for sorrow born,And destined to discover greater joyIn the nocturnal shadows of the tombThan in the radiance of the orb of day.And if an ancient legend still doth tellThe story of your ancient error direThat yielded man unto the tyrannyOf suffering and grief; the guilt more fell,The more unquiet minds and frenzy fierceOf your descendants made the injured skiesAnd Nature, in return for all her caresSpumed and neglected, feel indignant wrath:From which the fire of life a curse received,And mothers trembled at the load they bore,And Hell itself was imaged on the earth.Thou first, O father of the human race,Didst see the sparkling of revolving spheres,The new-born generations of the fields,The breezes roving o'er the infant trees,When towering rocks and yet unpeopled valesHeard for the first time Alpine fury soundOf rushing torrents; when unconscious PeaceReigned o'er the destined regions of renownedNations and cities full of strife and noise;And when upon uncultivated hillsSilent and lonely did the radiance shineOf sun and moon. Oh happy then, ignoringEvents disastrous and the name of guilt,The vast abode of earth! Oh, how much griefUnto thy race, thou Father full of sorrow!How long a series of most bitter deedsThe Fates prepare! The soil, behold! is stainedWith deepest crimson of a brother's blood,By brother shed, and o'er the sky divineThe wings of Death their evil shadow throw.The fratricide with horror taketh flight,Shunning the lonely dimness of the shadesAnd secret wrath of winds in forest deep;He is the first to build proud towns, henceforthDomain and dwelling of Care's pallid form;And first Remorse despairing fixeth manIn a pent-up and undelightful home.Then from the plough the guilty hand was ta'en,And scorn was cast on labours of the field,And the evil halls became the home of sloth.All minds lay languid and of strength bereftIn weary frames; and as the last and worstOf ills, mankind by slavery was bound.And thou from pouring skies and rolling seasThat lashed the summits of the cloudy peaks,Didst save the germ of the ill-fated race,O thou to whom from sable space of airAnd from the mountains floating in the deep,A sign of hope restored by snowy doveWas brought; and from the ancient clouds emerging,The troubled sun upon the skies obscurePainted the bow of many beauteous hues.The rescued race returns unto the earth,Renewing evil deeds and ruthless thoughtsAnd their pursuing terrors. To the reignOf oceans inaccessible it showsIts vengeful might, and beareth tears and griefTo stars unknown and to remotest shores.Now thee within my heart I meditate,And of thy race the generous descendants,Thou just and valourous father of the pious!I shall relate how, seated in the calmMeridian shadows of a quiet home,Beside the meads so dear unto thy flocks,Thy soul was blest by strangers from the HeavensEthereal and disguised; and how, O sonOf wise Rebecca! in the evening hourBeside the rustic well and in the valeOf Haran, cherished by the gentle shepherdsIn their gay leisure, love inspired thy heartFor Laban's beauteous daughter: love supreme,Who to long exile and affliction long,And to the hated yoke of servitude,Made many a soul of haughty strength submit.Once, truly once (nor with mere shadows idleAonian song and legendary loreDelude mankind), this globe of ours benignAnd dear and pleasant to our race appeared,And golden was the tenour of our age.Not that with milk the fertile springs rushed forth,And from the mountains to the valleys spread;Nor with the flocks the tiger did resortIn happy peace; nor with the wolves the shepherdProceeded gaily to the crystal fount;But that our humankind lived without grief,Unconscious of the fate that o'er it hung,And of the woes impending; the sweet error,The fond delusions, and the pleasing veilAcross the laws of Heaven and Nature thrown,Were all sufficient; and our quiet barkWas led into the haven of calm Hope.Thus, in the boundless forests of the WestLiveth a happy race, whom pallid CarePursueth not, whose members are not wastedBy dire disease; to whom the trees yield fruit;Abode, the caverns kind; refreshing drink,The rivulets and brooks; and as her preyDeath claims them unforeseen. Alas! 'gainst ourUnhallowed daring, how defenceless areThe haunts of Nature wise! our dauntless furyDoth penetrate the shores and caves remoteAnd quiet forests, teaching the despoiledDesires and sorrows which they never knew,And hunting Happiness, aghast and naked,Even to the splendours of the setting sun.THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.Thou peaceful night, thou chaste and silver rayOf the declining Moon; and thou, arisingAmid the quiet forest on the rocks,Herald of day: O cherished and endeared,Whilst Fate and doom were to my knowledge closed,Objects of sight! No lovely land or skyDoth longer gladden my despairing mood.By unaccustomed joy we are revivedWhen o'er the liquid spaces of the HeavensAnd o'er the fields alarmed doth wildly whirlThe tempest of the winds; and when the car,The ponderous car of Jove, above our headsThundering, divides the heavy air obscure.O'er mountain peaks and o'er abysses deepWe love to float amid the swiftest clouds;We love the terror of the herds dispersed,The streams that flood the plain,And the victorious, thunderous fury of the main.Fair is thy sight, O sky divine, and fairArt thou, O dewy earth! Alas, of allThis beauty infinite, no slightest partTo wretched Sappho did the Gods or FateInexorable give. Unto thy reignSuperb, O Nature, an unwelcome guestAnd a disprized adorer, doth my heartAnd do mine eyes implore thy lovely forms;But all in vain. The sunny land aroundSmiles not for me, nor from ethereal gatesThe blush of early dawn; not me the songsOf brilliant feathered birds, not me the treesSalute with murmuring leaves; and where in shadeOf drooping willows doth a liquid streamDisplay its pure and crystal course, from myAdvancing foot the soft and flowing wavesWithdrawing with affright,Disdainfully it takes through flowery dell its flight.What fault so great, what guiltiness so dire,Did blight me ere my birth, that adverse grewTo me the brow of fortune and the sky?How did I sin, a child, when ignorantOf wickedness is life, that from that timeDespoiled of youth, and of its fairest flowers,The cruel Fates wove with relentless wrathThe web of my existence? Reckless wordsRise on thy lips; the events that are to be,A secret council guides. Secret is all,Our agony excepted. We were born,Neglected race, for tears; the reason liesAmid the gods on high. Oh cares and hopesOf early years! To beauty did the Sire,To glorious beauty an eternal reignGive o'er this humankind; for warlike deedFor learned lyre or song,In unadorned shape, no charms to fame belong.Ah, let us die! The unworthy garb divested,The naked soul will take to Dis its flight,And expiate the cruel fault of blindDispensers of our lot. And thou, for whomLong love in vain, long faith and fruitless rageOf unappeased desire assailed my heart,Live happily, if happily on earthA mortal yet hath lived. Not me did JoveSprinkle with the delightful liquor fromThe niggard urn, since of my childhood diedThe dreams and fond delusions. The glad daysOf our existence are the first to fly;And then disease and age approach, and last,The shade of frigid Death. Behold! of allThe palms I hoped for, and the errors sweet,Hades remains; and the transcendent mindSinks to the Stygian shoreWhere sable night doth reign, and silence evermore.THE FIRST LOVE.The day once more within my memory livesWhen first I felt the affray of Love, and said:"Ah me, if this be Love, what pangs he gives!"Unto the earth I bent mine eyes and head,Beholding her from whom my heart did learnThe first and stainless passion whence it bled.Love, to dire goal thou didst my fancy turn!Why should so tender an affection stingWith such desire, such agonies that burn?Why not serene, and with unfettered wing,Why full of frenzy and of loud lamentInto my heart didst thou thy joyaunce bring?Tell me, my tender heart, what terror sentA shaft through thee, what anguish 'mid the thought,Beside which paled whate'er was once content?That thought by day with flattering pleasure fraught.By night as well, unto my mind appeared,When worlds the silence of deep shadows sought.Restless, yet happy, though to grief endeared,Thou on my pillows didst alarm my frameWith palpitations, every minute feared.And where I sad and grieved and weary cameTo close mine eyes in slumber, feverish fireAnd frenzy roused me, sleep could never tame.How 'mid the shades, the queen of my desireUprose with vivid splendour, and mine eyesGazed on her closed, the lids not rising higher!How many a thrill of sweet emotion fliesThrough my glad frame which joyous ardours seize!How many thoughts within my soul arise,Uncertain, undefined! Thus 'mid the treesOf ancient forests doth a murmur sound,Vague, deep of tone, in answer to the breeze.And whilst in silence all my thoughts were bound,What said'st thou, heart, when she went far away,For whom a world of passion thou hadst found?I scarce within me felt the heat a day,Arising from Love's furnace, when the airWhereon it came, to scenes remote did stray.At early dawn I lay in sleepless care;Before our house the horses pranced, ere longTo make me of my only joyaunce bare!And I, to whom misgivings vague belong,These orbs did idly in the shadows strain,And forced my hearing with an effort strongTo catch the voice, last token I could gainFrom the fair lips of her whom I revere:All else, alas! hath Heaven from me ta'en.How many a time struck on my doubtful earPlebean cries and accents, and I frozeIn all my frame, my heart appalled with fear!And when at last within my heart I closeThe voice so well beloved, and hear the raceOf wheels and horses as the carriage goes:Knowing myself despoiled, I hide my face,And shut mine eyes, and sink upon my bed,And sigh, and on my heart my hand I place.After a while with wavering limbs I treadAs one amazed, along the silent room,And "What power else hath struck my heart?" I said.Then the remembrance with most bitter gloomSettled within my bosom; and my soulBecame to all the scenes of life a tomb,And seas of anguish through my being roll,And I did feel as when the torrents drearPour from the clouds, and shades o'ercast the wholeSpace of the sky; nor born for many a tear,Knew I the youth of vanished years twice nine,When, Love, thou first didst in full power appear,When for all pleasure scorn alone was mine,Nor dear the quiet dawn or meadows greenOr joyous radiance of the stars that shine.The love of glory was no more the queenOf this my soul, which it before did burn,For love of beauty reigned there all serene.To wonted studies no more thoughts I turn,And those unto my fancy idle seemFor which all other thoughts I used to spurn.Ah! I myself another self must deemThat so much love another love hath ta'en!We are, in truth, vain as an empty dream!Only my heart did please me, and we twainIn an eternal dialogue immersed,I loved to sit, the guardian of my pain.Mine eyes bent on the ground or else inversedWithin myself, on lovely face to gazeOr on a form unpleasing, never durst:For the unspotted image to eraseThat dwelt within my bosom, much I feared,As calm lakes ruffle when the zephyr plays.And the remorse that not enough I cheeredMy heart with joy, a thought so full of painThat pleasures past it maketh unendeared,Rankled within me in the days that wane,For shame could not my cloudless soul appal,Nor hue of indignation my brow stain.To Heaven, to you, ye gentle lovers all,I swear no evil will did in me strive,None could my fire base and ignoble call.That fire yet lives, my love is yet alive,Still in my thought the beauteous image reigns,Whence other joys than from the skies derive,I never felt; enough content remains.THE LONELY BIRD.[8]Upon the summit of the ancient towerUnto the land around, thou, lonely bird,Carollest sweetly till the evening hour,And through the vale thy melody is heard.Spring makes the gentle airFragrant and bright, and animates the fields,Bidding the gazer in his heart rejoice.Hark to the lowing herds, the flocks that bleat,The other birds that full of joyaunce singAnd in the air in happy circles meet,As though they homage to their fair time bring.Thou, full of thought, beholdest all aside,Nor carest to take wingWith thy companions, scorning their delight.Thou singest, and the flowerOf spring thus fadeth with thy life's sweet hour.Ah me! how like to thineMy habit doth appear! Pleasure and mirth,The happy offspring of our earlier age,And thou, Youth's brother, Love,Thou bitter sigh of our advancing years.I heed not; why, I cannot tell; but farFrom them I take my way;And like a hermit lone,Nor to my birthplace known,I see the spring of my existence die.This day that now is yielding to the night.Was in our hamlet ever festive held.Upon the air serene the bells resoundAnd frequent firing of the distant guns,Arousing the deep echoes far and wide.In festival attireThe youths and maidens go,Leaving their homes, upon the country paths,Rejoicing to be seen and to admire.I to this tower, remoteFrom sight of men, repairing all alone,All joy and mirth postponeFor other times; and as I gaze on high,The sun doth strike mine eye;Beyond the summit of yon mountain far,After the day serene,He sinketh to his rest, and seems to sayThat happy youth is leaving me for aye.Thou, lonely warbler, coming to the closeOf what the stars have granted thee to live,In truth of these thy waysShalt not complain, for Nature on thee laysThy fondness of repose.To me, if of old ageThe dreaded terrors sternI cannot from me turn,When to no heart this soul of mine can yearn,When void the earth will be, the future dayMore than the present, wearisome and grey:How will this lone mood seem?What shall I of myself in past years deem?Ah me! repent too late,And often gaze behind disconsolate.