The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave How they had gladly lived and calmly died,Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from her And why not also Torquil and his bride? cave. There, with a little tinge of phantasy, VIII. And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand, And now she spread her little store with smiles, IX. She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press'd Not mine to tell the rapturous caress The kindling ashes to his kindled breast.* The waves without sang round their couch, their roar As much unheeded as if life were o'er ; X. And they, the cause and sharers of the shock, Which left them exiles of the hollow rock, Where were they? O'er the sea for life they plied, To seek from Heaven the shelter men denied. Another course had been their choice-but where ? The wave which bore them still their foes would bear, Who, disappointed of their former chase, XI. They landed on a wild but narrow scene, No grateful country, smiling through her tears, * The tradition is attached to the story of Eloïsa, that when her body was lowered into the grave of Abelard (who had been buried twenty years), he opened his arms to receive her. Who, born perchance for better things, had set | He tore the topmost button from his vest, His life upon a cast which linger'd yet: And such a fall! But still he faced the shock, Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. XII. Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, fired, and smiled As his foe fell; then, like a serpent, coil'd His last rage'gainst the earth which he forsook; The boat drew nigh, well arm'd, and firm the His body crush'd into one gory mass, crew To act whatever duty bade them do ; And the smoke rose between them and their aim, And ere the word upon the echo died, The three maintain'd a strife which must not yield, In spots where eagles might have chosen to build. There every shot told; while the assailant fell, With scarce a shred to tell of human form, Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds; Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse brains. XIII. The deed was over! All were gone or ta'en, Now wheeling nearer from the neighbouring surge, And screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge: But calm and careless heaved the wave below, XIV. 'Twas morn; and Neuha, who by dawn of day Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, And watch if aught approach'd the amphibious lair Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air: But by a thread, like sharks who've gorged the Bent its broad arch; her breath began to fail bait; Yet to the very last they battled well, more Mercy was offered when they saw his gore; With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high, While yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie. Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free But when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, XV. Again their own shore rises on the view, | A thousand proas darted o'er the bay, And welcomed Torquil as a son restored; LADY! if for the cold and cloudy clime, Where I was born, but where I would not die, I dare to build the imitative rhyme, Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. Spakest; and for thee to speak and be obey'd Are one; but only in the sunny South CAMPBELL. Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms display'd, Ah! to what effort would it not persuade. RAVENNA, June 21, 1819. PREFACE. IN the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna in the summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author that, having composed something on the subject of Tasso's confinement, he should do the same on Dante's exile,-the tomb of the poet forming one of the principal objects of interest in that city, both to the native and to the stranger. "On this hint I spake," and the result has been the following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to the reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my purpose to continue the poem, in various other cantos, to its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader is requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in the interval between the conclusion of the Divina Commedia and his death, and shortly before the latter event, foretelling the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensuing centuries. In adopting this plan I have had in my mind the Cassandra of Lycophron, and the Prophecy of Nereus by Horace, as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The measure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, which I am not aware to have seen hitherto tried in our language, except it may be by Mr Hayley, of whose translation I never saw but one extract, quoted in the notes to Caliph Vathek; so that-if 1 do not err--this poem may be considered as a metrical experiment. The cantos are short, and about the same length of those of the poet, whose name I have borrowed, and most probably taken in vain. If Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the present day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good or bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune to see the fourth canto of "Childe Harold" translated into Italian versi sciolti,-that is, a poem written in the Spenserean stanza into blank verse, without regard to the natural divisions of the stanza or of the sense. the present poem, being on a national topic, should chance to undergo the same fate, I would request the Italian reader to remember that when I have failed in the imitation of his great "Padre Alighier," I have failed in imitating that which all study and few understand, since to this very day it is not yet settled what was the meaning of the allegory in the first canto of the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious and probable conjecture may be considered as having decided the question. He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am not quite sure that he would be pleased with my success, since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, are particularly jealous of all that is left them as a nation,-their literature; and in the present bitterness of the classic and romantic war, are but ill disposed to permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them, without finding some fault with his ultramontane presumption. I can easily enter into all this, knowing what would be thought in England of an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a translation of Monti, or Pindemonte, or Arici, should be held up to the rising generation as a model for their future poetical essays. But I perceive that I am deviating into an address to the Italian reader, when my business is with the English one; and be they few or many, I must take my leave of both. CANTO THE FIRST. ONCE more in man's frail world! which I had left So long that 'twas forgotten; and I feel The weight of clay again,-too soon bereft Of the immortal vision which could heal My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, Where late my ears rung with the damned cries Of souls in hopeless bale; and from that place Of lesser torment, whence men may arise Pure from the fire to join the angelic race; Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd My spirit with her light; and to the base Of the eternal Triad! first, last, best, Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God! Soul universal! led the mortal guest, Unblasted by the glory, though he trod From star to star to reach the almighty throne. O Beatrice! whose sweet limbs the sod So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone, Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, Love so ineffable, and so alone, That nought on earth could more my bosom move, And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet Relieved her wing till found: without thy light My paradise had still been incomplete. Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought, Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought With the world's war, and years, and banishment, And tears for thee, by other woes untaught; For mine is not a nature to be bent By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd, And though the long, long conflict hath been spent In vain, and never more, save when the cloud Unto my native soil, they have not yet And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, I sought it not by any baser lure; Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name May form a monument not all obscure, Though such was not my ambition's end or aim, To add to the vain-glorious list of those Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, And loves her, loves her even in her ire! The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. But this shall not be granted; let my dust Lie where it falls; nor shall the soil which gave Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust No, she denied me what was mine-my roof, The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and each part Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw For his reward the Guelph's ascendant art Pass his destruction even into a law. These things are not made for forgetfulness, Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress Of such endurance too prolong'd to make My pardon greater, her injustice less, Though late repented; yet-yet for her sake I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine, My own Beatrice, I would hardly take Vengeance upon the land which once was mine, And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, Which would protect the murderess like a shrine, And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. Though, like old Marius from Minturnæ's marsh |