What countless perils, woes of darkest hue, Haunt the vast main and shores your arms must yet subdue! Know that o'er every bark, whose fearless helm Invades, like yours, this wide mysterious realm, Unmeasured ills my arm in wrath shall pour, And guard with storms my own terrific shore! And on the fleet, which first presumes to brave The dangers throned on this tempestuous wave, Shall vengeance burst, ere yet a warning fear Have time to prophesy destruction near! "Yes, desperate band! if right my hopes divine, Revenge, fierce, full, unequall'd, shall be mine! Urge your bold prow, pursue your venturous way, Pain, Havoc, Ruin, wait their destined prey! And your proud vessels, year by year, shall find, (If no false dreams delude my prescient mind), My wrath so dread in many a fatal storm, Death shall be deem'd misfortune's mildest form. * "Lo! where my victim comes!—of noble birth, Of cultured genius, and exalted worth, With her,' his best beloved, in all her charms, Pride of his heart, and treasure of his arms! From foaming waves, from raging winds they fly, Spared for revenge, reserved for agony ! Oh! dark the fate that calls them from their home, On this rude shore, my savage reign, to roam, 1 Don Emmanuel de Sonza and his wife, Leonora de Sà. And sternly saves them from a billowy tomb, "Yet more, yet deeper woe, shall those behold, As the dark phantom sternly thus portray'd Our future ills, in Horror's deepest shade, "Who then art thou?" I cried, "dread being, tell Each sense thus bending in amazement's spell?" With fearful shriek, far echoing o'er the tide, Writhing his lips and eyes, he thus replied— "Behold the genius of that secret shore, Where the wind rages, and the billows roar; That stormy Cape, for ages mine alone, To Pompey, Strabo, Pliny, all unknown! Far to the southern pole my throne extends, That hidden rock, which Afric's region ends. Behold that spirit, whose avenging might, Whose fiercest wrath your daring deeds excite." * Thus having said, with strange, terrific cries, The giant-spectre vanish'd from our eyes; In sable clouds dissolved-while far around, Dark ocean's heaving realms his parting yells resound! A DIRGE. WEEP for the early lost! How many flowers were mingled in the crown How many hopes have wither'd-they that bow Did the young mother's eye Behold her child, and close upon the day, Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn! For there is hush'd on earth A voice of gladness-there is veil'd a face, A smile hath pass'd, which fill'd its home with light; But there is power with faith! Power, e'en though nature, o'er the untimely grave Must weep, when God resumes the gem He gave; For sorrow comes of Death, And with a yearning heart we linger on, When they, whose glance unlock'd its founts, are gone! But glory from the dust, And praise to Him, the merciful, for those On whose bright memory love may still repose, With an immortal trust! Praise for the dead, who leave us, when they part, Such hope as she hath left-"the pure in heart." 1823. THE MAREMMA. ["NELLO DELLA PIETRA had espoused a lady of noble family at Sienna, named Madonna Pia. Her beauty was the admiration of Tuscany, and excited in the heart of her husband a jealousy, which, exasperated by false reports and groundless suspicions, at length drove him to the desperate resolution of Othello. It is difficult to decide whether the lady was quite innocent, but so Dante represents her. Her husband brought her into the Maremma, which, then as now, was a district destructive of health. He never told his unfortunate wife the reason of her banishment to so dangerous a country. He did not deign to utter complaint or accusation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence, without answering her questions, or listening to her remonstrances. He patiently waited till the pestilential air should destroy the health of this young lady. In a few months she died. Some chronicles, indeed, tell us that Nello used the dagger to hasten her death. It is certain that he survived her, plunged in sadness and perpetual silence. Dante had, in this incident, all the materials of an ample and very poetical narrative. But he bestows on it only four verses. He meets in Purgatory three spirits. One was a captain who fell fighting on the same side with him in the battle of Campaldino; the second, a gentleman assassinated by the treachery of the House of Este; the third, was a woman unknown to the poet, and who, after the others had spoken, turned towards him with these words: Recorditi di me; che son la Pia, Disposando m' avea con la sua gemma.'' Purgatorio, cant. 5. -Edinburgh Review, No. lviii.] |