THE SEPULCHRES.[1]

Beneath the cypress shade, or sculptured urn By fond tears watered, is the sleep of death Less heavy?—When for me the sun no more Shall shine on earth, to bless with genial beams This beauteous race of beings animate— When bright with flattering hues the coming hours No longer dance before me—and I hear No more, regarded friend, thy dulcet verse, Nor the sad gentle harmony it breathes— When mute within my breast the inspiring voice Of youthful poesy, and love, sole light To this my wandering life—what guerdon then For vanished years will be the marble reared To mark my dust amid the countless throng Wherewith the Spoiler strews the land and sea? Thus is it, Pindemonte! Man’s last friend, Hope, flies the tomb; and dim forgetfulness Wraps in his rayless night all mortal things: Change after change, unfelt, resistless, takes Its tribute—and o’er man, his sepulchres, His being’s lingering traces, and the relics Of earth and heaven, time in mockery treads. Yet why hath man, from immemorial years, Yearned for the illusive power that may retain The parted spirit on life’s threshold still? Doth not the buried live, e’en though to him The day’s enchanted melody is mute, If yet life’s music with fond memories He wake in friendly breasts? Oh! ’tis from heaven, This sweet communion of abiding love! A boon celestial! By its charm we hold Full oft a solemn converse with the dead; If yet the pious earth, that nourished once Their ripening youth, in her maternal breast Yielding a last asylum, shall protect Their sacred relics from insulting storms, Or step profane—if some secluded stone Preserve their name, and flowery verdure wave Its fragrant shade above their honored dust. But he who leaves no heritage of love, Is heedless of an urn; and if he look Beyond the grave, his spirit wanders lost Among the wailings of infernal shores; Or hides itself beneath the sheltering wings Of God’s forgiving mercy; while his bones Moulder unrecked of on the desert sand, Where never loving woman pours her prayer, Nor solitary pilgrim hears the sigh Which mourning nature sends us from the tomb. New laws now banish from our yearning gaze The hallowed sepulchres, and envious strip Their honors from the dead. Without a tomb Thy votary sleeps, Thalia! he who sung To thee beneath his humble roof, and reared His bays to weave a coronal for thee. And thou didst wreathe with gracious smiles his lay That stung the Sardanapalus of our land,[2] Whose grovelling soul loved but to hear the lowing Of cattle pasturing in Ticino’s fields, His source of boasted wealth. Oh, muse inspired! Where art thou? No ambrosial air I breathe Betokening thy blest presence, in these bowers Where now I sigh for home. Here wert thou wont To smile on him beneath yon linden tree, That now with scattered foliage seems to weep Because it droops not o’er the old man’s urn Who once sought peace beneath its cooling shade. Perchance thou, goddess, wandering among graves Unhonor’d, vainly seek’st the spot where rests Parini’s sacred head! The city now To him no space affords within her walls, Nor monument, nor votive line. His bones Perchance lie sullied with some felon’s blood, Fresh from the scaffold that his crimes deserved. See’st thou the lone wild dog among the tombs Howling with famine, roam—raking the dust From mouldering bones—while from the skull through which The moonlight streams, the noisome hoopoe flies, And flaps his hateful wings above the field Spread with funereal crosses—screaming shrill, As if to curse the light the pious stars Shed on neglected burial-grounds?—In vain Dost thou invoke upon thy poet’s dust The sweet distilling dews of silent night: There spring no flowers on graves by human praise Or tears of love unhallowed! From the days When first the nuptial feast, and judgment seat, And altar, softened our untutor’d race, And taught to man his own and others’ weal, The living treasured from the bleaching storm And savage brute, those sad and poor remains By nature destined to a lofty fate. Then tombs became the witnesses of pride, And altars for the young: thence gods invoked, Uttered their solemn answers; and the oath Sworn on the father’s dust was thrice revered. Hence the devotion, which with various rites, The warmth of patriot virtue, kindred love, Transmits us through the countless lapse of years. Not in those times did stones sepulchral pave The temple floors—nor fumes of shrouded corpses, Mixed with the altar’s incense, smite with fear The suppliant worshipper—nor cities frown Ghastly with sculptured skeletons—while leaped Young mothers from their sleep in wild affright, Shielding their helpless babes with feeble arm, And listening for the groans of wandering ghosts, Imploring vainly from their impious heirs Their gold bought masses.—But in living green Cypress and stately cedar spread their shade O’er unforgotten graves, scattering in air Their grateful odors; vases rich received The mourners’ votive tears. There pious friends Enticed the day’s pure beam to gild the gloom Of monuments—for man his dying eye Turns ever to the sun; and every breast Heaves its last sigh toward the departing light! There fountains flung aloft their silvery spray, Watering sweet amaranths and violets Upon the funeral sod; and he who came To commune with the dead, breathed fragrance round, Like bland airs wafted from Elysian fields. Sublime and fond illusion! This endears The rural burial place to British maids, Who wander there to mourn a mother lost, Or supplicate the hero’s safe return, Who of its mast the hostile ship despoiled, To scoop from it his own triumphal bier.[3] Where slumbers the high thirst of glorious deeds, And wealth and fear are ministers to life, Unhallowed images of things unseen, And idle pomp, usurp the place of groves And mounds. The rich, the learned, the vulgar great, Italia’s pride and ornament, may boast Enduring tombs in costly palaces, With their sole praise—ancestral names—inscribed. For us, my friend, be quiet couch prepared, Where fate, for once, may weary of his storms, And friendship gather from our urn, no treasure Of sordid gold, but wealth of feeling warm, And models of free song! Yes—Pindemonte! The aspiring soul is fired to lofty deeds By great men’s monuments—and they make fair And holy to the pilgrim’s eye, the earth That has received their trust. When I beheld The spot where sleeps enshrined that noble genius[4] Who, humbling the proud sceptres of earth’s kings, Stripped thence the illusive wreaths, and showed the nations What tears and blood defiled them—when I saw His mausoleum,[5] who upreared in Rome A new Olympus to the Deity— And his,[6] who ’neath heaven’s azure canopy Saw worlds unnumbered roll, and suns unmoved Irradiate countless systems—treading first For Albion’s son, who soared on wings sublime, The shining pathways of the firmament— Oh! blest art thou, Etruria’s queen! I cried— For thy pure airs, so redolent of life, And the fresh streams thy mountain summits pour In homage at thy feet. In thy blue sky The glad moon walks—and robes with silver light Thy vintage-smiling hills; and valleys fair, Studded with domes and olive groves, send up To heaven the incense of a thousand flowers. Thou, Florence, first didst hear the song divine That cheered the Ghibelline’s indignant flight;[7] And thou the parents and sweet tongue didst give To him, the chosen of Calliope,[8] Who Love with purest veil adorning—Love That went unrobed in elder Greece and Rome— Restored him to a heavenly Venus’ lap. Yet far more blest, that in thy fane repose Italia’s buried glories! all, perchance, She e’er may boast! since o’er the barrier frail Of Alpine rocks the o’erwhelming tide of fate Hath swept in mighty wreck her arms—her wealth— Altars—and country—and save memory—all! Where from past fame springs hope of future deeds, In daring minds, for Italy enslaved Draw we our auspices. Around these tombs In thought entranced, Alfieri wandered oft. Indignant at his country, here he strayed O’er Arno’s desert plain, and looked abroad With silent longing on the field and sky: And when no living aspect soothed his grief, Turned to the voiceless dead; while on his brow There sat the paleness, with the hope, of death. With them he dwells for ever! Here his bones Murmur a patriot’s love. Oh, truly speaks A god from this abode of pious rest! The same that fired of old in Grecian bosoms Hatred of Persian foes at Marathon, Where Athens consecrates her heroes gone. The mariner since, whose white sails woo the winds Before Eubœa’s isle, through midnight deep Hath seen the lightning flash of gleaming casques, And swift encountering brands; seen blazing pyres Roll forth their volumed vapors—phantom warriors Begirt with steel, and striding to the fight: While in night’s silence, o’er the distant shores, From those tumultuous phalanxes was borne The clang of arms—and trumpet’s hoarse response— The tramp of rushing steeds, with hurrying hoofs Above the helmed dead—and mingling wild, Wails of the dying—hymns of victory— And high o’er all, the Fates’ mysterious chant.[9] Happy, my friend, who in thine early years Hast crossed the wide dominion of the winds! If e’er the pilot steered thy wandering bark Beyond the Egean isles, thou heardst the shores Of Hellespont resound with ancient deeds; And the proud surge exult, that bore of old Achilles’ armor to Rhetœum’s shore Where Ajax sleeps.[10] To souls of generous mould Death righteously awards the meed of fame: Nor subtle wit, nor kingly favor gave The perilous spoils to Ithaca—when waves Stirred to wild fury by infernal gods, Rescued the treasures from the shipwrecked bark. For me, whom years and love of high renown Impel through far and various lands to roam, The muses, ever waking in my breast Sad thoughts, bid me invoke the heroic dead. They sit and guard the sepulchres:—and when Time with cold wing sweeps tombs and fanes to ruin, The gladdened desert echoes with their song, And its loud harmony subdues the silence Of noteless ages. Yet on Ilium’s plain, Where now the harvest waves, to pilgrim eyes Devout, gleams starlike an eternal shrine. Eternal for the nymph espoused by Jove, Who bore her royal lord the son whence sprung Troy’s ancient city and Assaracus, The fifty sons of Priam’s regal line, And the wide empire of the Latin race. She, listening to the Fates’ resistless call That summoned her from vital airs of earth To choirs Elysian, of Heaven’s sire besought One boon in dying.—“Oh! if e’er to thee,” She cried—“this fading form, these locks were dear, And the soft cares of love—since destiny Denies me happier lot, guard thou at least That thine Electra’s fame in death survive!” She prayed and died. Then shook the Thunderer’s throne, And bending in assent, the immortal head Showered down ambrosia from celestial locks To sanctify her tomb.—Ericthon there Reposes; there the dust of Ilus lies. There Trojan matrons with dishevelled hair Sought vainly to avert impending fate From their doomed lords. There, too, Cassandra stood, O’erfraught with Deity, and told the ruin That hung o’er Troy—and poured her wailing song To solemn shades—and led the children forth— And taught to youthful lips the fond lament. Sighing she said—“If e’er the gods permit Your safe return from Greece, where, exiled slaves, Your hands shall feed your haughty conquerors’ steeds, Your country ye will seek in vain! Yon walls By mighty Phœbus reared, shall cumber earth In smouldering ruins. Yet the gods of Troy Shall hold their dwelling in these tombs;—Heaven grants One proud last gift—in grief a deathless name. Ye cypresses and palms! by princely hands Of Priam’s daughters planted! ye shall grow, Watered full soon, alas! by widows’ tears! Guard ye my fathers! He who shall withhold The impious axe from your devoted trunks, Shall feel less bitterly his stroke of grief, And touch the shrine with not unworthy hand. Guard ye my fathers! One day shall ye mark A sightless wanderer ’mid your ancient shades: Groping among your mounds, he shall embrace The hallowed urns, and question of their trust. Then shall the deep and caverned cells reply In hollow murmur, and give up the tale Of Troy twice razed to earth, and twice rebuilt; Shining in grandeur on the desert plain, To make more lofty the last monument Raised for the sons of Peleus. There the bard, Soothing their restless ghosts with magic song, A glorious immortality shall give Those Grecian princes, in all lands renowned Which ancient ocean wraps in his embrace. And thou too, Hector! shalt the meed receive Of pitying tears, where’er the patriot’s blood Is prized or mourned—so long as yonder sun Shall roll in heaven, and shine on human woes!”