Though, like old Marius from Minturnæ's marsh | Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she, And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn But on the pillow of Revenge-Revenge, When we shall mount again, and they that trod For Florence,-I appeal from her to Thee! Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought And feel, and know without repair, hath taught CANTO II. THE Spirit of the fervent days of Old, Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold And if Cassandra-like, amidst the din Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed The sense of earth and earthly things come back, Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, On the lone rock of desolate Despair To lift my eyes more to the passing sail The name of him-who now is but a name, To live in narrow ways with little men, Without the power that makes them bear a crown- The only guerdon I have ever known. Hast thou not bled? and hast thou still to bleed breast, My soul within thy language, which once set As lofty and more sweet, in which exprest Shall find alike such sounds for every theme And make thee Europe's nightingale of song; The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, But all things are disposing for thy doom; "Let there be darkness!" and thou grow'st a tomb! Yes! thou so beautiful, shall feel the sword, For the world's granary; thou, whose sky heaven | Of an invader? is it they, or ye, gilds With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue; And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made In feeble colors, when the eye-from the Alp Nods to the storm-dilates and dotes o'er thee, Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still Are yet to come,-and on the imperial hill By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won Rome at her feet lies bleeding; and the hue Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter, Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest, But those, the human savages, explore All paths of torture, and insatiate yet, With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting Against Oppression; but how vain the toil, copes; What is there wanting then to set thee free, CANTO III. FROM out the mass of never-dying ill, The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the Vials of wrath but emptied to refill Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set; And flow again, I cannot all record, The chiefless army of the dead, which late Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate; Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, Why sleeps the idle avalanches so, To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head? Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey? Roll'd over Pharaoh and his thousands,-why That crowds on my prophetic eye: the earth Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind, To sense and suffering, though the vain may scoff Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie To read the future; and if now my fire The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew, Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylæ ? Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive! And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise To give thee honor, 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,7 Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name;8 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 vapors 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 wo 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; And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze, "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-10 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 his 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 sonneteers There shall be some who will not sing in vain, And he, their prince shall rank among my peers,11 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. The banks of Po two greater still than he; The first will make an epoch with his lyre, 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 And pious, and the strife of hell to warp Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave 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 favor, 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 Laureat-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 As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, Yet it will be so-he and his compeer, 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 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-tuned 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 scattered? 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-bird's 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 among 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 splendor from the black abyss is flung, While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning A temporary torturing flame is wrung, Shines for a night of terror, then repels [breast Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. CANTO IV. MANY are poets who have never penn'd Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame, And be the new Prometheus of new men, 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 canvass 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 Such sight hath been unfolded by a door As this, to which all nations shall repair, And lay their sins at this 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 recognized afar, To tyrants, who but take her for a toy, To bear a burden, and to serve a need, Who toils for nations may be poor indeed, But free; who sweats for monarch is no more Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd, Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door. 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 gardier chain? Or if their destiny be born 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, [other, Which make men hate themselves, and one anIn 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 To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain-Alas! "What have I done to thee, my people?"17 Strn 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, And for this thou hast warr'd with me.-'Tis done: 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. I As in the old time, till the hour be come [a tear, When truth shall strike their eyes through many And make them own the Prophet in his tomb. 4. The dust she dooms to scatter. Page 511, line 103. "Ut si quis predictorum ullo tempore in fortiam dicti: communis pervenerit, tallis 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. 5. Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she. Page 512, line 69. This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from one of the most powerful Guelf families, named of Donati. Corso Donati was the principal adversary of the Ghibellines. 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 mogli 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, &c., &c., ebbe due mogli in varj tempi, ed ebbe figliuoli, e ricchezze assai.-E Marcc Cader tra' buoni è pur di lode degno." Sonnet of Dante, In which he represents Right, Generosity, and Temperance as banished from among men, and seeking refuge from Love, who inhabits his bosom. |