Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,* Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought * His wife, Gemma Donati, sprung from one of the most powerful of the Guelph families. And feel, and know without repair, hath taught CANTO THE SECOND. THE Spirit of the fervent days of Old, Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold What the great Seers of Israel wore within, Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed Hast thou not bled? and hast thou still to bleed, With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget Thou 'rt mine-my bones shall be within thy breast, Shall find alike such sounds for every theme And make thee Europe's nightingale of song; Woe! woe! the veil of coming centuries The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored: Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made In feeble colours, when the eye-from the Alp Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still Are yet to come,-and on the imperial hill By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest, Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set; Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance Oh when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, Why sleep the idle avalanches so, Guicciardini. To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head? The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed? Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey? Those who o'erthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, In a soil where the mothers bring forth men: 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, And join their strength to that which with thee copes; What is there wanting then to set thee free, CANTO THE THIRD. FROM out the mass of never-dying ill, The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the Vials of wrath but emptied to refill And flow again, I cannot all record That crowds on my prophetic eye: the earth Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, Spread like 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 scoff, 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 fire 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 night, 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 I 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 ; Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of Savoy, Montecucco. † Columbus, Americus Vespucius, Sebastian Cabot. 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, The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, 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 gonefThe 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, t 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; 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 A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which Pompey took leave of Cornelia on entering the boat in which he was slain. †The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. Petrarch. By the transparency of his bright dream.- Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, 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, Harder to bear, and less deserved, for I But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 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 turned 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-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 amongst the number were, That destiny austere, and yet serene, Were prouder than more dazzling fame un bless'd; 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 breast A temporary torturing flame is wrung, Shines for a night of terror, then repels CANTO THE FOURTH. MANY are poets who have never penn'd Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compress'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, Than aught less than the Homeric page may One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, With beauty so surpassing all below, That they who kneel to idols so divine Break no commandment, for high heaven is there Of poesy, which peoples but the air With thought and beings of our thought reflected, Art shall resume and equal even the sway The Grecian forms at least from their decay, New wonders to the world; and while still stands Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in ne'er His chisel bid the Hebrew, at whose wordt The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realins Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms, Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelins, The genius of my country shall arise, The Cupola of St. Peter's. + The statue of Moses on the monument of Julius II. SONETTO Di Giovanni Battista Zappi. Chi è costui, che in dura pietra scolto, Acque ei sospese a se d' intorno, e tale E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzaste? The Last Judgment, in the Sistine Chapel. I have read somewhere (if I do not err, for I cannot recollect where), that Dante was so great favourite of Michael Angelo's, that he had designed the whole of the Divina Commedia: but that the volume containing these studies was lost by sea. L Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar, Wafting its nature incense through the skies. Sovereigns shall pause amidst 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, 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 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, Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and eyen that, The most infernal of all evils here, The sway of petty tyrants in a state; In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs, 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, And for this thou hast warr'd with me-'Tis done : I may not overleap the eternal bar As in the old time, till the hour be come a tear, And make them own the Prophet in his tomb. E scrisse più volte non solamente a particolari cittadini del reggimento ma ancora al popolo, e intra l'altre una Epistola assai lunga che comincia: "PeSee the treatment of Michael Angelo by Julius II., pule mi, quid feci tibi?"-Vita di Dante scritta da and his neglect by Leo X. Lionardo Aretino. |