Imágenes de páginas

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?
Why doth Eridanus but overflow
The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed?

Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey?
Over Cambyses' host the desert spread
Her sandy ocean, and the sea-waves' sway

Roll'd o'er Pharaoh and his thousands,-why,
Mountains and waters, do ye not as they?
And you, ye men! Romans, who dare not die,
Sons of the conquerors who overthrew

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
Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring
Against oppression; but how vain the toil,

While still division sows the seeds of woe
And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil.
On my own beauteous land! so long laid low,
So long the grave of thy own children's hopes,
When there is but required a single blow
To break the chain, yet-yet the avenger stops,

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?
To make the Alps impassable; and we,
Her sons, may do this with one deed-Unite!


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!
I but foretell thy fortunes-then expire;
Think not that I would look on them and live.
A spirit forces me to see and speak,
And for my guerdon grants not to survive;
My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break:
Yet for a moment, ere I must resume
Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take,
Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom,

A softer glimpse; some stars shine through thy nigh.
And many meteors, and above thy tomb
Leans sculptured beauty, which death cannot blight;
And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise
To give thee honour and the earth delight;
Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise,

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
Many of love, and some of liberty;
But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing,

And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze
All free and fearless as the feathered king,
But fly more near the earth: how many a phrase
Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prince
In all the prodigality of praise!

And language, eloquently false, evince
The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty,

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,
And the first day which sees the chain enthral
A captive sees his half of manhood gone—1o
The soul's emasculation saddens all
His spirit; thus the bard too near the throne

Quails from his inspiration, bound to please,—
How servile is the task to please alone!
To smooth the verse to suit the sovereign's ease
And royal leisure, nor too much prolong
Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize,
Or force or forge fit argument of song!

Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to flattery's trebles,
He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong:
For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels,
Should rise up in high treason to his brain,
He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles
In's mouth, lest truth should stammer through his strain.
But out of the long file of sonnetteers

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,
And fill the earth with feats of chivalry:
His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire

Like that of heaven, immortal, and his thought
Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire;
Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught,
Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme,
And art itself seem into nature wrought
By the transparency of his bright dream.-

The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood,
Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem;
He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood
Shed where Christ bled for man; and his high harp
Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood,

Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp
Conflict, and final triumph of the brave

until wave

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,
What will he do to merit such a doom?
Perhaps he'll love,-and is not love in vain
Torture enough without a living tomb?
Yet it will be so-he and his compeer,
The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume
In penury and pain too many a year,

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,
Shines for a right of terror, then repels

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
Their inspiration, and perchance the best:
They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend
Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compress'd
The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars
Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more blest
Than those who are degraded by the jars

Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame,
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars.
Many are poets, but without the name;
For what is poesy but to create

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,
Can do no more: then let the artist share
The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected
Faints o'er the labour unapproved-Alas!
Despair and genius are too oft connected.
Within the ages which before me pass,

Art shall resume and equal even the sway
Which with Apelles and old Phidias
She held in Hellas' unforgotten day.

Ye shall be taught by ruin to revive
The Grecian forms at least from their decay,
And Roman souls at last again shall live

In Roman works wrought by Italian hands,
And temples loftier than the old temples, give
New wonders to the world; and while still stands
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar
A dome,12 its image, while the base expands
Into a fane surpassing all before,

Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in: ne'er
Such sight hath been unfolded by a door
As this, to which all nations shall repair,

And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven.
And the bold architect unto whose care
The daring charge to raise it shall be given,
Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord,
Whether into the marble chaos driven
His chisel bid the Hebrew,13 at whose word
Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone,
Or hues of hell be by his pencil pour'd
Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne,14
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see,
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown,
The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me,15
The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms
Which form the empire of eternity.

Amidst the clash of swords and clang of helms,
The age which I anticipate, no less

Shall be the age of beauty, and while whelms
Calamity the nations with distress,

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?
Florence! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof,
I loved thee, but the vengeance of my verse,
The hate of injuries, which every year
Makes greater and accumulates my curse,
Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear,
Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that,
The most infernal of all evils here,
The sway

of petty tyrants in a state;
For such sway is not limited to kings,
And demagogues yield to them but in date
As swept off sooner; in all deadly things

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.

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"Cader tra' buoni è pur di lode degno."
Sonnet of Dante,

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

the sentence.

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

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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.

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Di Giovanni Battista Zappi.

Chi è eostui, che in dura pietra scolto,

Siede gigante; e le piu illustri, e conte
Prove dell' arte avanza, e ha vive, e pronte
Le labbia si, che le parole ascolto?
Quest, é Mose: ben me 'I dicera il folto
Onor del mento, e 'l doppio raggio in fronte,
Quest'e Mosé, quando scenden del monte,
E gran parte del Nume avea nel volo,
Tal era allor che le sonanti, e vaste
Acque ei sospese a se d'intorno, e tale
Quando il nur chiuse, e ne fe tomba altrui
E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzate?
Aizata aveste imago a queste eguale!
Ch' era men fallo i adorar costui.

Note 14. Page 462. line 53.
Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne.
The Last Judgment, in the Sistine chapel.

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

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The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd;
The wood without a path but where they will'd;
The field o'er which promiscuous plenty pour'd
Her horn; the equal land without a lord;
The wish-which ages have not yet subdued

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
Her course, and gently made her liquid way;
The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow
In furrows form'd by that majestic plough;
The waters with their world were all before;
Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore.
The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane,
Dividing darkness from the dawning main;
The dolphins, not unconscious of the day,
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray;
The stars from broader beams began to creep,
And lift their shining eyelids from the deep;
The sail resumed its lately-shadow'd white,
And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight;
The purpling ocean owns the coming sun-
But, ere he break, a deed is to be done.


The gallant chief within his cabin slept,
Secure in those by whom the watch was kept:
His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore,
Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'o,
His name was added to the glorious roll
Of those who search the storm-surrounded pole.
The worst was o'er, and the rest seem'd sure,
And why should not his slumoer be secure?
Alas his deck was trod by unwilling feet,
And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet;
Young hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle,
Where summer years and summer women smile;
Men without country, who, too long estranged,
Had found no native home, or found it changed,
And, half-uncivilized, preferr'd the cave
Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave;

The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold,
The glowing sun and produce all its gold;
The freedom which can call each grot a home;
The general garden, where all steps may roam,
Where Nature owns a nation as her child,
Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild;

Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know;
Their unexploring navy, the canoe;

Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase;
Their strangest sight, an European face:-
Such was the country which these strangers yearn'd
To see again-a sight they dearly earn'd.


Awake, bold Bligh! the foe is at the gate!
Awake! awake!--Alas! it is too late!
Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer

Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear.
Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast,
The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest:
Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command
The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand;
That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath
Its desperate escape from duty's path,
Glares round thee, in the scarce-believing eyes
Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice;
For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage,
Unless he drain the wine of passion-rage.


In vain, not silenced by the eye of death,
Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath:-
They come not; they are few, and, overawed,
Must acquiesce while sterner hearts applaud.
In vain thou dost demand the cause; a curse
Is all the answer, with the threat of worse.
Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade,
Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid,
The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast
In hands as steel'd to do the deadly rest.
Thou darest then to their worst, exclaiming, "Fire!
But they who pitied not could yet admire;

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