THE GENOESE EMIGRANT.

BY MISS E. M. ALLISON.

“It was the fatal pre-eminence ofGenoato wind up the last act of Italy’s direful tragedy.”

LADY MORGAN.

The tremulous moon’s light silvery gleam,Plays over Genoa’s halls and bowers,Gilds with a bright translucid beamHer splendid domes and lofty towers.Sardinia’s banners waving highIn pride of ancient rivalry,Tell to the world the wretched fateOf Genoa, and her fallen state;That she a proud republic hostOnce fair Italia’s pride and boast,Which stood a landmark by the seaTo show the spot where all were free.By commerce rear’d, her sons a raceEndow’d with wealth and martial grace,Oft Austria from her walls expell’dAnd long the daring French repell’d,Now to tyranny bow‘Neath their deadliest foe;Yield their sceptre and landTo a tyrant’s command,And though panting their dear cherish’d rights to regain,Unresistingly bend ’neath the yoke they disdain.Oh, Genoa, could none be foundTo deal thee such a deadly wound,To steal thy gem of brightest glowTo deck a worthless despot’s brow,Supplant thycross[15]andgolden crownThat floated o’er thy ancient town;But those the generous arms embracedWith hospitable welcome graced?But whose is yon form on the lone beach side,Wrapt in his mantle that streams o’er the tide?Whose footsteps’ hurried sound,No measure seems to beatTo aught that breathes aroundPale midnight’s calm retreat.And see yon skiff on ocean wide,Its pendants on the light breeze streaming,Dashing along the sparkling tide,A circle bright around it gleaming.Approaching gently to the shoreWaits it to waft yon stranger o’er,To seek in some far distant climeA solitary home.Through foreign lands to roamAnd waste a joyless, sunless prime.A branch lopped from the native treeTo wither where no eye may seeAnd reck its fallen destiny.Genoa, to fly thy still-lov’d walls,That hold to him the spell-bound halls,Where dwelt his sires in days gone byThe guardian friends of liberty;And where commingling now they lieBeneath thy soft cerulean sky.From every tie at once to sever,To fly from scenes by time endeared,Remembered joys to leave for everThat round his natal spot are twined.There bright ambition o’er him brokeIn strains of martial story,And first his ardent soul awokeFrom youth’s gay dreams to gloryAnd bending from above’Twas there immortal love,His golden sunbeams flung around him,And with his roseate fetters bound him;With yet one firmer look entwinedTo all, that must be now resigned.The stranger watched a dark cloud hoveringIn the blue sky,And over Genoa’s walls it was lowering,Nor passed it by.And resting on the ether blue,It hid the pale moon from his view.He gazed—for deemed he in such skiesSo dense a vapor ne’er could rise,To sully the untainted lightThat hallows an Italian night.His brow was motionless—and none could tellIf sorrow there had been.And from his still-fixed eye no tear-drop fellTo show of inward agony,Or aught that passed withinHis bosom’s sanctuary.Once his eye glanced o’er the expanded sea,With such a look as mocks at misery;Who, as the poets tell,At midnight leaves her cellTo sit the ocean rocks among,Re-echoing the owlets’ song.But soon again his glance is restingOn those turrets lofty and grayLit by a gleam of the moon’s ray.His sires might leave them to be breastingTheir foreign foes, on earth or main;More glorious to return again:But he an alien from this shore,Must quit them to return no more.He could have fought for Genoa’s right,His soul blenched not in thickest fight—He could drench that arm deep in gore,But not quail ’neath a foeman’s power.He could have fought till latest gaspTo free from an invader’s graspHis dear fraternity—his all—If but her cross were on that wall.That would have been a beacon lightTo light him on his foes in fight,Better than glare of torches bright.Shall he then own a tyrant’s chain?Let viler souls than his remain;But if he plough the watery waveWhere shall he find a land of braveHearts, bound to Liberty? No more;Such dreams are of an age that’s o’er;And men are wiser grown—and knaves,Choosing them quiet coward graves,Not glorious ones, upon the landTheir fathers valor won and mann’d.Liberty scorns with those to dwellWho love her name but passing well—Who hang it a boast on the lip for ever,A lip-drop warming the soul, oh! never—But ’mongst those, where her deep-cherished nameBurns in a bright and hallowed flame,Who breathe it but forth in devotional sigh—Who know but tolove her, and have her, or die!And now her pure white flag unfurledIs waving o’er a western world.And to that new-found world across the waves,In yon proud ship the gathering storm that braves,His onward course is steered. Yes! to that shoreBeyond the Atlantic’s wide resounding roarHis countryman[16]first traversed, and a nameCarved on the ’scutcheon of immortal fame.What would he more? Let others reap the gainThat springs from genius’s creative brain—’Tis ever so:—while grief and toil must winThe portals that to glory’s shrine let in.But there are toils that win no high renown;Griefs that the loftiest spirit can bow down:And such were his, who, standing by that prow,Felt the worst ills that fate on man can throw;But felt them as a man, resolved to bear,And snatch a brand to show what yet he dareIf Heaven permit; if not, to seek a tomb,Columbia, in thy forest’s thickest gloom,Where none can brand him with his fathers’ fame,And say he ill deserves their glorious name.Ah! thought most true which all of grief contains,And owning most the spirit most disdains.’Tis night—and musing on the deep he stands,The abstracted emigrant from other lands.His form majestic bending o’er the tide,Marks he impatiently how slow they glideO’er the unfathomed depth that lies below;Or doth but watch the sparkles as they glowAmong the envious billows’ angry play,That foam and toss on high the beauteous ray:Not that the glories of the sea or skyAbsorb the thoughts that in his bosom lie,Panting to burst from their sepulchral homeIn all the ghastliness of livid gloom.Why is his head uncovered to the air?As if the keenest wind came hotly there.Aye, even with the elemental wrath,His troubled spirit a communion hath.Then stalk before his view in mournful maze,Unburied phantoms of departed days;With withered hopes around them wildly flung,Like flowers to which no breath of odor clung;Nor hue of brightness—such as o’er the deadThe gifts of fond affection vainly shedBecome, ere the same morn that saw them bloom, hath fled.So on him comes the memory of the past,In floating shadows thickly seen and fast,Their spectral forms in grim arrayPress on him as in battle-fray.And he resists them not with hostile force,As he would once turn back the assailants’ courseIn the hot tide of war—but vainly throwsA weak retaliation on those foesWho urge a contest with the soul—and thereStrike their keen shafts envenomed by despair.Now in a milder mood his light guitarSwells o’er the crested billows dashing far.Sweet is the voice of music and of song—But sweetest when it floats the ocean waves alongSONG.“My loved guitar, send forth thy deepest gushOf mournful melody, in one farewell,Where all regretful tenderness may rush,And leave the spirit halcyon in its cell.Halls of my sires, that I no more shall view,Land of my home—a long—a last adieu!“’Tis well! Better the eagle should go forthThan have his eyrie for a prison tower.There on the mountains of the stormy northMore glad to soar, than in bright sunny bowerWith chain of silken fetters idly bound,Compell’d to wheel in measured circles round.“My lov’d guitar, not this thy touching forceOf soul-like cadence, that was wont to bringThe crystal tear-drops from the heart’s deep sourceOf her, to whom it was my joy to sing;While o’er her brow the light of love would break,Beauteous as morning’s first encrimsoned streak!Clari!—but I must let that name no moreSweep o’er these strings.—Maiden more fairThan any minstrel’s love in days of yore!And dearer, too!—but I must strive to tearThat name from out my heart; where it so longHath dwelt like odor, or the breath of song.“Yet still one long—one passionate adieuAs ’twere my soul sigh’d forth, to thee I send.Oh that it humbly at thy feet could sueFor one last thought, that thou wouldst deign to bendOn the lone exile from his land, and thee,Who ne’er may claim thee now—his bride to be.“And thou! my native land—a last farewell!Farewell the grandeur of thy marble halls!Farewell the hope again with thee to dwell!Farewell the ambitious beat to glory’s calls!All! all adieu! My native land, no moreThese exiled feet shall press thy much lov’d shore!”

The tremulous moon’s light silvery gleam,

Plays over Genoa’s halls and bowers,

Gilds with a bright translucid beam

Her splendid domes and lofty towers.

Sardinia’s banners waving high

In pride of ancient rivalry,

Tell to the world the wretched fate

Of Genoa, and her fallen state;

That she a proud republic host

Once fair Italia’s pride and boast,

Which stood a landmark by the sea

To show the spot where all were free.

By commerce rear’d, her sons a race

Endow’d with wealth and martial grace,

Oft Austria from her walls expell’d

And long the daring French repell’d,

Now to tyranny bow

‘Neath their deadliest foe;

Yield their sceptre and land

To a tyrant’s command,

And though panting their dear cherish’d rights to regain,

Unresistingly bend ’neath the yoke they disdain.

Oh, Genoa, could none be found

To deal thee such a deadly wound,

To steal thy gem of brightest glow

To deck a worthless despot’s brow,

Supplant thycross[15]andgolden crown

That floated o’er thy ancient town;

But those the generous arms embraced

With hospitable welcome graced?

But whose is yon form on the lone beach side,Wrapt in his mantle that streams o’er the tide?Whose footsteps’ hurried sound,No measure seems to beatTo aught that breathes aroundPale midnight’s calm retreat.And see yon skiff on ocean wide,Its pendants on the light breeze streaming,

But whose is yon form on the lone beach side,

Wrapt in his mantle that streams o’er the tide?

Whose footsteps’ hurried sound,

No measure seems to beat

To aught that breathes around

Pale midnight’s calm retreat.

And see yon skiff on ocean wide,

Its pendants on the light breeze streaming,

Dashing along the sparkling tide,A circle bright around it gleaming.Approaching gently to the shoreWaits it to waft yon stranger o’er,To seek in some far distant climeA solitary home.Through foreign lands to roamAnd waste a joyless, sunless prime.A branch lopped from the native treeTo wither where no eye may seeAnd reck its fallen destiny.Genoa, to fly thy still-lov’d walls,That hold to him the spell-bound halls,Where dwelt his sires in days gone byThe guardian friends of liberty;And where commingling now they lieBeneath thy soft cerulean sky.From every tie at once to sever,To fly from scenes by time endeared,Remembered joys to leave for everThat round his natal spot are twined.There bright ambition o’er him brokeIn strains of martial story,And first his ardent soul awokeFrom youth’s gay dreams to gloryAnd bending from above’Twas there immortal love,His golden sunbeams flung around him,And with his roseate fetters bound him;With yet one firmer look entwinedTo all, that must be now resigned.

Dashing along the sparkling tide,

A circle bright around it gleaming.

Approaching gently to the shore

Waits it to waft yon stranger o’er,

To seek in some far distant clime

A solitary home.

Through foreign lands to roam

And waste a joyless, sunless prime.

A branch lopped from the native tree

To wither where no eye may see

And reck its fallen destiny.

Genoa, to fly thy still-lov’d walls,

That hold to him the spell-bound halls,

Where dwelt his sires in days gone by

The guardian friends of liberty;

And where commingling now they lie

Beneath thy soft cerulean sky.

From every tie at once to sever,

To fly from scenes by time endeared,

Remembered joys to leave for ever

That round his natal spot are twined.

There bright ambition o’er him broke

In strains of martial story,

And first his ardent soul awoke

From youth’s gay dreams to glory

And bending from above

’Twas there immortal love,

His golden sunbeams flung around him,

And with his roseate fetters bound him;

With yet one firmer look entwined

To all, that must be now resigned.

The stranger watched a dark cloud hoveringIn the blue sky,And over Genoa’s walls it was lowering,Nor passed it by.And resting on the ether blue,It hid the pale moon from his view.He gazed—for deemed he in such skiesSo dense a vapor ne’er could rise,To sully the untainted lightThat hallows an Italian night.

The stranger watched a dark cloud hovering

In the blue sky,

And over Genoa’s walls it was lowering,

Nor passed it by.

And resting on the ether blue,

It hid the pale moon from his view.

He gazed—for deemed he in such skies

So dense a vapor ne’er could rise,

To sully the untainted light

That hallows an Italian night.

His brow was motionless—and none could tellIf sorrow there had been.And from his still-fixed eye no tear-drop fellTo show of inward agony,Or aught that passed withinHis bosom’s sanctuary.

His brow was motionless—and none could tell

If sorrow there had been.

And from his still-fixed eye no tear-drop fell

To show of inward agony,

Or aught that passed within

His bosom’s sanctuary.

Once his eye glanced o’er the expanded sea,With such a look as mocks at misery;Who, as the poets tell,At midnight leaves her cellTo sit the ocean rocks among,Re-echoing the owlets’ song.But soon again his glance is restingOn those turrets lofty and grayLit by a gleam of the moon’s ray.His sires might leave them to be breastingTheir foreign foes, on earth or main;More glorious to return again:But he an alien from this shore,Must quit them to return no more.He could have fought for Genoa’s right,His soul blenched not in thickest fight—He could drench that arm deep in gore,But not quail ’neath a foeman’s power.He could have fought till latest gaspTo free from an invader’s graspHis dear fraternity—his all—If but her cross were on that wall.That would have been a beacon lightTo light him on his foes in fight,Better than glare of torches bright.Shall he then own a tyrant’s chain?Let viler souls than his remain;But if he plough the watery waveWhere shall he find a land of braveHearts, bound to Liberty? No more;Such dreams are of an age that’s o’er;And men are wiser grown—and knaves,Choosing them quiet coward graves,Not glorious ones, upon the landTheir fathers valor won and mann’d.

Once his eye glanced o’er the expanded sea,

With such a look as mocks at misery;

Who, as the poets tell,

At midnight leaves her cell

To sit the ocean rocks among,

Re-echoing the owlets’ song.

But soon again his glance is resting

On those turrets lofty and gray

Lit by a gleam of the moon’s ray.

His sires might leave them to be breasting

Their foreign foes, on earth or main;

More glorious to return again:

But he an alien from this shore,

Must quit them to return no more.

He could have fought for Genoa’s right,

His soul blenched not in thickest fight—

He could drench that arm deep in gore,

But not quail ’neath a foeman’s power.

He could have fought till latest gasp

To free from an invader’s grasp

His dear fraternity—his all—

If but her cross were on that wall.

That would have been a beacon light

To light him on his foes in fight,

Better than glare of torches bright.

Shall he then own a tyrant’s chain?

Let viler souls than his remain;

But if he plough the watery wave

Where shall he find a land of brave

Hearts, bound to Liberty? No more;

Such dreams are of an age that’s o’er;

And men are wiser grown—and knaves,

Choosing them quiet coward graves,

Not glorious ones, upon the land

Their fathers valor won and mann’d.

Liberty scorns with those to dwellWho love her name but passing well—Who hang it a boast on the lip for ever,A lip-drop warming the soul, oh! never—But ’mongst those, where her deep-cherished nameBurns in a bright and hallowed flame,Who breathe it but forth in devotional sigh—Who know but tolove her, and have her, or die!And now her pure white flag unfurledIs waving o’er a western world.And to that new-found world across the waves,In yon proud ship the gathering storm that braves,His onward course is steered. Yes! to that shoreBeyond the Atlantic’s wide resounding roarHis countryman[16]first traversed, and a nameCarved on the ’scutcheon of immortal fame.What would he more? Let others reap the gainThat springs from genius’s creative brain—’Tis ever so:—while grief and toil must winThe portals that to glory’s shrine let in.But there are toils that win no high renown;Griefs that the loftiest spirit can bow down:And such were his, who, standing by that prow,Felt the worst ills that fate on man can throw;But felt them as a man, resolved to bear,And snatch a brand to show what yet he dareIf Heaven permit; if not, to seek a tomb,Columbia, in thy forest’s thickest gloom,Where none can brand him with his fathers’ fame,And say he ill deserves their glorious name.Ah! thought most true which all of grief contains,And owning most the spirit most disdains.

Liberty scorns with those to dwell

Who love her name but passing well—

Who hang it a boast on the lip for ever,

A lip-drop warming the soul, oh! never—

But ’mongst those, where her deep-cherished name

Burns in a bright and hallowed flame,

Who breathe it but forth in devotional sigh—

Who know but tolove her, and have her, or die!

And now her pure white flag unfurled

Is waving o’er a western world.

And to that new-found world across the waves,

In yon proud ship the gathering storm that braves,

His onward course is steered. Yes! to that shore

Beyond the Atlantic’s wide resounding roar

His countryman[16]first traversed, and a name

Carved on the ’scutcheon of immortal fame.

What would he more? Let others reap the gain

That springs from genius’s creative brain—

’Tis ever so:—while grief and toil must win

The portals that to glory’s shrine let in.

But there are toils that win no high renown;

Griefs that the loftiest spirit can bow down:

And such were his, who, standing by that prow,

Felt the worst ills that fate on man can throw;

But felt them as a man, resolved to bear,

And snatch a brand to show what yet he dare

If Heaven permit; if not, to seek a tomb,

Columbia, in thy forest’s thickest gloom,

Where none can brand him with his fathers’ fame,

And say he ill deserves their glorious name.

Ah! thought most true which all of grief contains,

And owning most the spirit most disdains.

’Tis night—and musing on the deep he stands,The abstracted emigrant from other lands.His form majestic bending o’er the tide,Marks he impatiently how slow they glideO’er the unfathomed depth that lies below;Or doth but watch the sparkles as they glowAmong the envious billows’ angry play,That foam and toss on high the beauteous ray:Not that the glories of the sea or skyAbsorb the thoughts that in his bosom lie,Panting to burst from their sepulchral homeIn all the ghastliness of livid gloom.Why is his head uncovered to the air?As if the keenest wind came hotly there.Aye, even with the elemental wrath,His troubled spirit a communion hath.Then stalk before his view in mournful maze,Unburied phantoms of departed days;With withered hopes around them wildly flung,Like flowers to which no breath of odor clung;Nor hue of brightness—such as o’er the deadThe gifts of fond affection vainly shedBecome, ere the same morn that saw them bloom, hath fled.

’Tis night—and musing on the deep he stands,

The abstracted emigrant from other lands.

His form majestic bending o’er the tide,

Marks he impatiently how slow they glide

O’er the unfathomed depth that lies below;

Or doth but watch the sparkles as they glow

Among the envious billows’ angry play,

That foam and toss on high the beauteous ray:

Not that the glories of the sea or sky

Absorb the thoughts that in his bosom lie,

Panting to burst from their sepulchral home

In all the ghastliness of livid gloom.

Why is his head uncovered to the air?

As if the keenest wind came hotly there.

Aye, even with the elemental wrath,

His troubled spirit a communion hath.

Then stalk before his view in mournful maze,

Unburied phantoms of departed days;

With withered hopes around them wildly flung,

Like flowers to which no breath of odor clung;

Nor hue of brightness—such as o’er the dead

The gifts of fond affection vainly shed

Become, ere the same morn that saw them bloom, hath fled.

So on him comes the memory of the past,In floating shadows thickly seen and fast,Their spectral forms in grim arrayPress on him as in battle-fray.And he resists them not with hostile force,As he would once turn back the assailants’ courseIn the hot tide of war—but vainly throwsA weak retaliation on those foesWho urge a contest with the soul—and thereStrike their keen shafts envenomed by despair.Now in a milder mood his light guitarSwells o’er the crested billows dashing far.Sweet is the voice of music and of song—But sweetest when it floats the ocean waves along

So on him comes the memory of the past,

In floating shadows thickly seen and fast,

Their spectral forms in grim array

Press on him as in battle-fray.

And he resists them not with hostile force,

As he would once turn back the assailants’ course

In the hot tide of war—but vainly throws

A weak retaliation on those foes

Who urge a contest with the soul—and there

Strike their keen shafts envenomed by despair.

Now in a milder mood his light guitar

Swells o’er the crested billows dashing far.

Sweet is the voice of music and of song—

But sweetest when it floats the ocean waves along

SONG.

“My loved guitar, send forth thy deepest gushOf mournful melody, in one farewell,Where all regretful tenderness may rush,And leave the spirit halcyon in its cell.Halls of my sires, that I no more shall view,Land of my home—a long—a last adieu!

“My loved guitar, send forth thy deepest gush

Of mournful melody, in one farewell,

Where all regretful tenderness may rush,

And leave the spirit halcyon in its cell.

Halls of my sires, that I no more shall view,

Land of my home—a long—a last adieu!

“’Tis well! Better the eagle should go forthThan have his eyrie for a prison tower.There on the mountains of the stormy northMore glad to soar, than in bright sunny bowerWith chain of silken fetters idly bound,Compell’d to wheel in measured circles round.

“’Tis well! Better the eagle should go forth

Than have his eyrie for a prison tower.

There on the mountains of the stormy north

More glad to soar, than in bright sunny bower

With chain of silken fetters idly bound,

Compell’d to wheel in measured circles round.

“My lov’d guitar, not this thy touching forceOf soul-like cadence, that was wont to bringThe crystal tear-drops from the heart’s deep sourceOf her, to whom it was my joy to sing;While o’er her brow the light of love would break,Beauteous as morning’s first encrimsoned streak!

“My lov’d guitar, not this thy touching force

Of soul-like cadence, that was wont to bring

The crystal tear-drops from the heart’s deep source

Of her, to whom it was my joy to sing;

While o’er her brow the light of love would break,

Beauteous as morning’s first encrimsoned streak!

Clari!—but I must let that name no moreSweep o’er these strings.—Maiden more fairThan any minstrel’s love in days of yore!And dearer, too!—but I must strive to tearThat name from out my heart; where it so longHath dwelt like odor, or the breath of song.

Clari!—but I must let that name no more

Sweep o’er these strings.—Maiden more fair

Than any minstrel’s love in days of yore!

And dearer, too!—but I must strive to tear

That name from out my heart; where it so long

Hath dwelt like odor, or the breath of song.

“Yet still one long—one passionate adieuAs ’twere my soul sigh’d forth, to thee I send.Oh that it humbly at thy feet could sueFor one last thought, that thou wouldst deign to bendOn the lone exile from his land, and thee,Who ne’er may claim thee now—his bride to be.

“Yet still one long—one passionate adieu

As ’twere my soul sigh’d forth, to thee I send.

Oh that it humbly at thy feet could sue

For one last thought, that thou wouldst deign to bend

On the lone exile from his land, and thee,

Who ne’er may claim thee now—his bride to be.

“And thou! my native land—a last farewell!Farewell the grandeur of thy marble halls!Farewell the hope again with thee to dwell!Farewell the ambitious beat to glory’s calls!All! all adieu! My native land, no moreThese exiled feet shall press thy much lov’d shore!”

“And thou! my native land—a last farewell!

Farewell the grandeur of thy marble halls!

Farewell the hope again with thee to dwell!

Farewell the ambitious beat to glory’s calls!

All! all adieu! My native land, no more

These exiled feet shall press thy much lov’d shore!”

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