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Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance, But Tiber shall become a mournful river.
Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, Crush them, ye rocks! floods, whelm them, and for ever!
Why sleep the idle avalanches so,
To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head?
Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey?
Roll'd o'er Pharaoh and his thousands,-why,
Those who o'erthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie The dead whose tomb oblivion never knew, Are the Alps weaker than Thermopyla? Their passes more alluring to the view Of an invader? is it they, or ye
That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, And leave the march in peace, the passage free? Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car,
And makes your land impregnable, if earth Could be so: but alone she will not war, Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth,
In a soil where the mothers bring forth men! Not so with those whose souls are little worth; For them no fortress can avail,-the den
Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting Is more secure than walls of adamant, when The hearts of those within are quivering.
Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil
While still division sows the seeds of woe
And doubt and discord step 'twixt thine and thee, And join their strength to that which with thee copes: What is there wanting then to set thee free,
And show thy beauty in its fullest light?
FROM out the mass of never-dymg ill,
The plague, the prince, the stranger, and the sword, Vials of wrath but emptied to refill
And flow again, I cannot all record
That crowds on my prophetic eye: the earth And ocean written o'er would not afford Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth;
Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, There where the farthest suns and stars have birth. Spread ke a banner at the gate of heaven,
The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven Athwart the sound of archangelic songs,
And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore, Will not in vain arise to where belongs Omnipotence and mercy evermore;
Like to a harp-string stricken by the wind, The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of Earth's dust by immortality refined To sense and suffering, though the vain may scofl And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow Before the storm because its breath is rough, To thee, my country! whom before, as now, I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre And melancholy gift high powers allow To read the future; and if now my
Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive!
A softer glimpse; some stars shine through thy nigh.
The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the brave, Native to thee as summer to thy skies, Conquerors on foreign shores and the far wave," Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name:" For thee alone they have no arm to save, And all thy recompense is in their fame, A noble one to them, but not to theeShall they be glorious, and thou still the same? Oh! more than these illustrious far shall be The being-and even yet he may be bornThe mortal saviour who shall set thee free, And see thy diadem, so changed and worn By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced; And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn, Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced And noxious vapours from Avernus risen, Such as all they must breathe who are debased By servitude, and have the mind in prison. Yet through this centuried eclipse of woe
Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen, Poets shall follow in the path I show,
And make it broader; the same brilliant sky Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow And raise their notes as natural and high;
Tuneful shall be their numbers: they shall sing
And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze
And language, eloquently false, evince
Too oft forgets its own self-reverence,
And looks on prostitution as a duty.
He who once enters in a tyrant's hall"
As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty,
Quails from his inspiration, bound to please,—
Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to flattery's trebles,
There shall be some who will not sing in vain, And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers," And love shall be his torment; but his grief Shall make an immortality of tears,
And Italy shall hail him as the chief
Of poet lovers, and his higher song
Of freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. But in a further age shall rise along
The banks of Po two greater still than he;
The world which smiled on him shall do them wrong Till they are ashes and repose with me.
The first will make an epoch with his lyre,
Like that of heaven, immortal, and his thought
The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood,
Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp
And pious, and the strife of hell to warp Their hearts from their great purpose, The red-cross banners where the first red cross Was crimson'd from his veins who died to save, Shall be his sacred argument; the loss
Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name, And call captivity a kindness, meant To shield him from insanity or shame: Such shall be his meet guerdon! who was sent To be Christ's laureate--they reward him well! Florence dooms me but death or banishment, Ferrara him a pittance and a cell,
Harder to bear and less deserved, for I
Had stung the factions which I strove to quell ; But this meek man, who with a lover's eye Will look on earth and heaven, and who will deign To embalm with his celestial flattery
As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign,
And, dying in despondency, bequeath
To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear, A heritage enriching all who breathe
With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul, And to their country a redoubled wreath, Unmatch'd by time; not Hellas can unroll Through her olympiads two such names, though one Of hers be mighty ;-and is this the whole Of such men's destiny beneath the sun? Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense, The electric blood with which their arteries run, Their body's self-turn'd soul with the intense Feeling of that which is, and fancy of
That which should be, to such a recompense Conduct? shall their bright plumage on the rough Storm be still scatter'd? Yes, and it must be. For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff,
These birds of paradise but long to flee
Back to their native mansion, soon they find Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, And die, or are degraded, for the mind
Succumbs to long infection, and despair, And vulture passions, flying close behind, Await the moment to assail and tear;
And when at length the winged wanderers stoop, Then is the prey-birds' triumph, then they share The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell swoop. Yet some have been untouch'd, who learn'd to bear, Some whom no power could ever force to droop, Who could resist themselves even, hardest care! And task most hopeless; but some such have been, And if my name amongst the number were, That destiny austere, and yet serene,
Were prouder than more dazzling fame unblest; The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest,
Whose splendour from the black abyss is flung, While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning
A temporary torturing flame is wrung,
Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, The hell which in its entrails ever dwells.
MANY are poets who have never penn'd
Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame,
From overfeeling good or ill; and aim At an external life beyond our fate,
And be the new Prometheus of new men, Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain,
And vultures to the heart of the bestower, Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain, Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore! So be it; we can bear.-But thus all they, Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power, Which still recoils from its encumbering clay, Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe❜er
The form which their creations may essay, Are bards; the kindled marble's bust may wear More poesy upon its speaking brow
Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear; One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, Or deify the canvas till it shine With beauty so surpassing all below, That they who kneel to idols so divine
Break no commandment, for high heaven is there Transfused, transfigurated: and the line Of poesy which peoples but the air
With thought and beings of our thought reflected,
Art shall resume and equal even the sway
Ye shall be taught by ruin to revive
In Roman works wrought by Italian hands,
Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in: ne'er
And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven.
Amidst the clash of swords and clang of helms,
Shall be the age of beauty, and while whelms
The genius of my country shall arise, A cedar towering o'er the wilderness, Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar,
Wafting its native incense through the skies. Sovereigns shall pause amid their sport of war, Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze On canvas or on stone; and they who mar All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise, Shall feel the power of that which they destroy; And art's mistaken gratitude shall raise To tyrants who but take her for a toy Emblems and monuments, and prostitute Her charms to pontiffs proud, 16 who but employ The man of genius as the meanest brute To bear a burthen, and to serve a need, To sell his labours, and his soul to boot: Who toils for nations may be poor indeed,
But free; who sweats for monarchs is no more Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd, Stands sleek and slavish bowing at his door.
Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest! how Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, Least like to thee in attributes divine, Tread on the universal necks that bow, And then assure us that their rights are thine? And how is it that they, the sons of fame, Whose inspiration seems to them to shine From high, they whom the nations oftest name, Must pass their days in penury or pain, Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame, And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain? Or if their destiny be borne aloof From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, In their own souls sustain a harder proof,
The inner war of passions deep and fierce?
of petty tyrants in a state;
Which make men hate themselves and one another In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs From Death, the Sin-born's incest with his mother, In rank oppression in its rudest shape,
The faction chief is but the sultan's brother, And the worst despot's far less human ape: Florence! when this lone spirit which so long Yearn'd as the captive toiling at escape, To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, An exile, saddest of all prisoners, Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars, Which shut him from the sole small spot of carth Where, whatsoe'er his fate-he still were hers, His country's, and might die where he had birthFlorence! when this lone spirit shall return To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth, And seek to honour with an empty urn
The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain.-Alas! "What have I done to thee, my people?" Stern
Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass
The limits of man's common malice, for
All that a citizen could be I was;
Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war,
Aristotle, are not the most felicitous. Tully's Terentia, and Socrates' Xantippe, by no means contributed to
And for this thou hast warr'd with me.-'T is done: their husbands' happiness, whatever they might do to
I may not overleap the eternal bar Built up between us, and will die alone, Beholding, with the dark eye of a seer, The evil days to gifted souls foreshown, Foretelling them to those who will not hear, As in the old time, till the hour be come
their philosophy-Cato gave away his wife-of Varro's we know nothing-and of Seneca's, only that she was disposed to die with him, but recovered, and lived sev eral years afterwards. But, says Lionardo, "L'uomo è animale civile, secondo piace a tutti i filosofi." And thence concludes that the greatest proof of the animal's
When truth shall strike their eyes through many a tear, civism is "la prima congiunzione, dalla quale multipliAn i make them own the prophet in his tomb.
"Cader tra' buoni è pur di lode degno."
in which he represents Right, Generosity, and Tem-1 perance, as banished from among me, and seeking refuge from Love, who inhabits his bosum
Note 4. Page 458, line 57.
The dust she dooms to scatter.
"Ut si quis prædictorum ullo tempore in fortiam dicti communis pervenerit, talis perveniens igne comburatur, sic quod moriatur."
Second sentence of Florence against Dante and the fourteen accused with him.-The Latin is worthy of
Note 5. Page 459, line 22.
Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she.
This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from one of the most powerful Guelf families, named Donati. Corso Donati was the principal adversary of the Ghibellunes. She is described as being "Admodum morosa, ut de Xantippe Socratis philosophi conjuge scriptum esse legimus," according to Giannozzo Manetti. But Lionardo Aretino is scandalized with Boccace, in his life of Dante, for saying that literary men should not Marry. "Qui il Boccaccio non ha pazienza, e dice, le rogii esser contrarie agli studj; e non si ricorda che Socrate il più nobile filosofo che mai fosse, ebbe moglie e figliuoli e uffici della Repubblica nella sua Città; e. Aristotele che, etc., etc. ebbe due mogh in varj tempi, ed ebbe figlioli, e ricchezze assai.-E Marco Tullioe Catone-e Varrone-e Seneca-ebbero moghe,” etc., It is odd that honest Lionardo's examples, with the exception of Seneca, and, for any thing I know, of
cata nasce la Città."
Note 6. Page 459, line 119.
Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set.
See "Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guicciardini. There is another written by a Jacopo Buonaparte, Gentiluomo Samminiatese che vi si trovò pre
Note 7. Page 460, line 93.
Conquerors on foreign shores and the far wave. Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of Savoy, Montecucco.
Note S. Page 460, line 94.
Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name. Columbus, Americus Vespusius, Sebastian Cabot. Note 9. Page 461, line 1.
He who once enters in a tyrant's hall, etc. A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which Pom pey took leave of Cornelia on entering the boat in which he was slain.
Di Giovanni Battista Zappi.
Chi è eostui, che in dura pietra scolto,
Siede gigante; e le piu illustri, e conte
Note 14. Page 462. line 53.
Note 15. Page 462, line 56.
The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me. I have read somewhere (if do not err, for I canno recollect where) that Dante was so great a favourite of
The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd;
THE foundation of the following story will be found partly in the account of the Mutiny of the Bounty, in the South Sea, in 1789, and partly in Mariner's "Ac-In man-to have no master save his mood; count of the Tonga Islands."
THE morning watch was come: the vessel lay
The gallant chief within his cabin slept,
The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold,
Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know;
Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase;
Awake, bold Bligh! the foe is at the gate!
Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear.
In vain, not silenced by the eye of death,