Part 2 / Act 1 — PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS.

“Long, long, a bloody stage For petty kinglings tame, Their miserable game Of puny war to wage.”

When from the mountain’s brow the gathering shades Of twilight fall, on one deep thought I dwell: Day beams o’er other lands, if here she fades, Nor bids the universe at once farewell. But thou, I cry, my country! what a night Spreads o’er thy glories one dark sweeping pall! Thy thousand triumphs, won by valour’s might And wisdom’s voice—what now remains of all? And see’st thou not th’ ascending flame of war Burst through thy darkness, reddening from afar? Is not thy misery’s evidence complete? But if endurance can thy fall delay, Still, still endure, devoted one! and say, If it be victory thus but to retard defeat.

I cry aloud, and ye shall hear my call, Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep, And blue Tyrrhene! Let him first roused from sleep Startle the next! one peril broods o’er all. It nought avails that Italy should plead, Forgetting valour, sinking in despair, At strangers’ feet!—our land is all too fair; Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition’s speed. In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye, For pardon sue; ’tis not her agony, Her death alone may now appease her foes. Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun! But oh, weak pride! thus feeble and undone, Nor to wage battle nor endure repose!

Italia! oh, no more Italia now! Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear: She was a queen with glory mantled—thou, A slave, degraded, and compell’d to bear, Chains gird thy hands and feet; deep clouds of care Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies; And shadows, born of terror and despair— Shadows of death have dimm’d thy glorious eyes. Italia! oh, Italia now no more! For thee my tears of shame and anguish flow; And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour Are changed to dirge-notes: but my deepest woe Is, that base herds of thine own sons the while Behold thy miseries with insulting smile.

She that cast down the empires of the world, And, in her proud triumphal course through Rome, Dragg’d them, from freedom and dominion hurl’d, Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o’ercome: I see her now, dismantled of her state, Spoil’d of her sceptre, crouching to the ground Beneath a hostile car—and lo! the weight Of fetters, her imperial neck around! Oh! that a stranger’s envious hands had wrought This desolation! for I then would say, “Vengeance, Italia!”—in the burning thought Losing my grief: but ’tis th’ ignoble sway Of vice hath bow’d thee! Discord, slothful ease, Theirs is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are these.

Pilgrim! whose steps those desert sands explore, Where verdure never spreads its bright array; Know, ’twas on this inhospitable shore From Pompey’s heart the life-blood ebb’d away. Twas here betray’d he fell, neglected lay; Nor found his relics a sepulchral stone, Whose life, so long a bright triumphal day, O’er Tiber’s wave supreme in glory shone! Thou, stranger! if from barbarous climes thy birth, Look round exultingly, and bless the earth Where Rome, with him, saw power and virtue die; But if ’tis Roman blood that fills thy veins, Then, son of heroes! think upon thy chains, And bathe with tears the grave of liberty.

The warrior donn’d his well-worn garb, And proudly waved his crest, He mounted on his jet-black barb, And put his lance in rest. Percy’s Reliques.

Eftsoons the wight, withouten more delay, Spurr’d his brown barb, and rode full swiftly on his way. Spenser.

Hark! was it not the trumpet’s voice I heard? The soul of battle is awake within me! The fate of ages and of empires hangs On this dread hour. Why am I not in arms? Bring my good lance, caparison my steed! Base, idle grooms! are ye in league against me? Haste with my barb, or, by the holy saints, Ye shall not live to saddle him to-morrow! Massinger.

See’st thou yon chief whose presence seems to rule The storm of battle? Lo! where’er he moves Death follows. Carnage sits upon his crest— Fate on his sword is throned—and his white barb, As a proud courser of Apollo’s chariot, Seems breathing fire. Potter’s Æschylus. Oh! bonnie look’d my ain true knight, His barb so proudly reining; I watch’d him till my tearfu’ sight Grew amaist dim wi’ straining. Border Minstrelsy.

Fair star of beauty’s heaven! to call thee mine, All other joys I joyously would yield; My knightly crest, my bounding barb resign, For the poor shepherd’s crook and daisied field; For courts or camps no wish my soul would prove, So thou wouldst live with me, and be my love! Earl of Surrey’s Poems.

For thy dear love my weary soul hath grown Heedless of youthful sports: I seek no more Or joyous dance, or music’s thrilling tone, Or joys that once could charm in minstrel lore, Or knightly tilt where steel-clad champions meet, Borne on impetuous barbs to bleed at beauty’s feet. Shakspeare’s Sonnets.

As a warrior clad In sable arms, like chaos dull and sad, But mounted on a barb as white As the fresh new-born light,— So the black night too soon Came riding on the bright and silver moon, Whose radiant heavenly ark Made all the clouds, beyond her influence, seem E’en more than doubly dark, Mourning, all widow’d of her glorious beam. Cowley.

Apropos of your illness, pray give, if you please, Some account of the converse you held on high seas With Evelyn, the excellent author of “Sylva,” A work that is very much prized at Bronwylfa. I think that old Neptune was visited ne’er In so well-rigg’d a ship, by so well-matched a pair. There could not have fallen, dear H., to your lot any Companion more pleasant, since you’re fond of botany, And his horticultural talents are known, Just as well as Canova’s for fashioning stone. Of the vessel you sail’d in, I just will remark That I ne’er heard before of so curious a bark. Of gondola, coracle, pirogue, canoe, I have read very often, as doubtless have you; Of the Argo conveying that hero young Jason; Of the ship moor’d by Trajan in Nemi’s deep basin; Of the galley (in Plutarch you’ll find the description) Which bore along Cydnus the royal Egyptian; Of that wonderful frigate (see “Curse of Kehama”) Which wafted fair Kailyal to regions of Brama, And the venturous barks of Columbus and Gama. But Columbus and Gama to you must resign a Full half of their fame, since your voyage to China, (I’m astonish’d no shocking disaster befel,) In that swift-sailing first-rate—a cocoa-nut shell! I hope, my dear H., that you touch’d at Loo Choo, That abode of a people so gentle and true, Who with arms and with money have nothing to do. How calm must their lives be! so free from all fears Of running in debt, or of running on spears! Oh dear! what an Eden!—a land without money! It excels e’en the region of milk and of honey, Or the vale of Cashmere, as described in a book Full of musk, gems, and roses, and call’d “Lalla Rookh.” But, of all the enjoyments you have, none would e’er be More valued by me than a chat with Acerbi, Of whose travels—related in elegant phrases— I have seen many extracts, and heard many praises, And have copied (you know I let nothing escape) His striking account of the frozen North Cape. I think ’twas in his works I read long ago (I’ve not the best memory for dates, as you know,) Of a warehouse, where sugar and treacle were stored, Which took fire (I suppose being made but of board) In the icy domains of some rough northern hero, Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero. Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out, And in streams, just like lava, meander’d about, You may fancy the curious effect of the weather, The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together. When my first for a moment had harden’d my last, My second burst out, and all melted as fast; To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on, But I quite forget which of the elements won. But a truce with all joking—I hope you’ll excuse me, Since I know you still love to instruct and amuse me, For hastily putting a few questions down, To which answers from you all my wishes will crown; For you know I’m so fond of the land of Corinne That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts within, And I read all that authors, or gravely or wittily, Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy; From your shipmate John Evelyn’s amusing old tour, To Forsyth’s one volume, and Eustace’s four, In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances At the classical Eustace, and says he romances. —Pray describe me from Venice, (don’t think it a bore,) The literal state of the famed Bucentaur, And whether the horses, that once were the sun’s, Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dingy bronze; For some travellers say one thing, and some say another, And I can’t find out which, they all make such a pother. Oh! another thing, too, which I’d nearly forgot, Are the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not? These are matters of moment, you’ll surely allow, For Venice must interest all—even now. These points being settled, I ask for no more hence, But should wish for a few observations from Florence. Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti Are finish’d; if not ’tis a shame for the city To let one for ages—was e’er such a thing?— Its entablature want, and the other its wing. Say, too, if the Dove (should you be there at Easter, And watch her swift flight, when the priests have released her) Is a turtle, or ring-dove, or but a wood-pigeon, Which makes people gulls in the name of Religion? Pray tell if the forests of famed Vallombrosa Are cut down or not; for this, too, is a Cosa About which I’m anxious—as also to know If the Pandects, so famous long ages ago, Came back (above all, don’t forget this to mention) To that manuscript library called the Laurentian. Since I wrote the above, I by chance have found out, That the horses are bright yellow brass beyond doubt; So I’ll ask you but this, the same subject pursuing, Do you think they are truly Lysippus’s doing? —When to Naples you get, let me know, if you will, If the Acqua Toffana’s in fashion there still; For, not to fatigue you with needless verbosity, ’Tis a point upon which I feel much curiosity. I should like to have also, and not written shabbily, Your opinion about the Piscina mirabile; And whether the tomb, which is near Sannazaro’s, Is decided by you to be really Maro’s.

“Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time, And rule the spacious world from clime to clime. Thy handmaid, Art, shall every wild explore, Trace every wave, and culture every shore.” Campbell.

“May ne’er That true succession fail of English hearts, That can perceive, not less than heretofore Our ancestors did feelingly perceive, ... the charm Of pious sentiment, diffused afar, And human charity, and social love.” Wordsworth.

Amidst the peopled and the regal isle, Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile; Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower, And send on every breeze a voice of power; Hath Desolation rear’d herself a throne, And mark’d a pathless region for her own? Yes! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore When bled the noble hearts of many a shore; Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent When empires totter’d, and the earth was rent; Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind Had still’d life’s busy murmurs on the wind, And, flush’d with power in daring pride’s excess, Stamp’d on thy soil the curse of barrenness; For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven, In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given, Wild Dartmoor! thou that, midst thy mountains rude, Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude, As a dark cloud on summer’s clear blue sky, A mourner, circled with festivity! For all beyond is life!—the rolling sea, The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee. Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare But man has left his lingering traces there? E’en on mysterious Afric’s boundless plains, Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns, In gloom and silence fearfully profound, As of a world unwaked to soul or sound. Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone Feels, as amidst infinity, alone, And naught of life be near, his camel’s tread Is o’er the prostrate cities of the dead! Some column, rear’d by long-forgotten hands, Just lifts its head above the billowy sands— Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the scene, And tells that glory’s footstep there hath been. There hath the spirit of the mighty pass’d, Not without record; though the desert blast, Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away The proud creations rear’d to brave decay. But thou, lone region! whose unnoticed name No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame, Who shall unfold thine annals?—who shall tell If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell, In those far ages which have left no trace, No sunbeam, on the pathway of their race? Though, haply, in the unrecorded days Of kings and chiefs who pass’d without their praise, Thou mightst have rear’d the valiant and the free, In history’s page there is no tale of thee. Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild, Still rise the cairns, of yore all rudely piled,[151] But hallow’d by that instinct which reveres Things fraught with characters of elder years. And such are these. Long centuries are flown, Bow’d many a crest, and shatter’d many a throne, Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust, With what they hide—their shrined and treasured dust. Men traverse Alps and oceans, to behold Earth’s glorious works fast mingling with her mould; But still these nameless chronicles of death, Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath, Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear The same sepulchral mien, and almost share Th’ eternity of nature, with the forms Of the crown’d hills beyond, the dwellings of the storms. Yet what avails it if each moss-grown heap Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep, Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath (Nor needs such care) from each cold season’s breath? Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest, Thus rudely pillow’d, on the desert’s breast? Doth the sword sleep beside them? Hath there been A sound of battle midst the silent scene Where now the flocks repose?—did the scythed car Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war? And rise these piles in memory of the slain, And the red combat of the mountain-plain? It may be thus:—the vestiges of strife, Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life, And the rude arrow’s barb remains to tell[152] How by its stroke, perchance, the mighty fell To be forgotten. Vain the warrior’s pride, The chieftain’s power—they had no bard, and died.[153] But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere, The eternal stars of night have witness’d here. There stands an altar of unsculptured stone,[154] Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone, Propp’d on its granite pillars, whence the rains And pure bright dews have laved the crimson stains Left by dark rites of blood: for here, of yore, When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore, And many a crested oak, which now lies low, Waved its wild wreath of sacred mistletoe— Here, at dim midnight, through the haunted shade, On druid-harps the quivering moonbeam play’d, And spells were breathed, that fill’d the deepening gloom With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb. Or, haply, torches waving through the night Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height,[155] Like battle-signals, whose unearthly gleams Threw o’er the desert’s hundred hills and streams, A savage grandeur; while the starry skies Rang with the peal of mystic harmonies, As the loud harp its deep-toned hymns sent forth To the storm-ruling powers, the war-gods of the North. But wilder sounds were there: th’ imploring cry That woke the forest’s echo in reply, But not the heart’s! Unmoved the wizard train Stood round their human victim, and in vain His prayer for mercy rose; in vain his glance Look’d up, appealing to the blue expanse, Where in their calm immortal beauty shone Heaven’s cloudless orbs. With faint and fainter moan, Bound on the shrine of sacrifice he lay, Till, drop by drop, life’s current ebb’d away; Till rock and turf grew deeply, darkly red, And the pale moon gleam’d paler on the dead. Have such things been, and here?—where stillness dwells Midst the rude barrows and the moorland swells, Thus undisturb’d? Oh! long the gulf of time Hath closed in darkness o’er those days of crime, And earth no vestige of their path retains, Save such as these, which strew her loneliest plains With records of man’s conflicts and his doom, His spirit and his dust—the altar and the tomb. But ages roll’d away: and England stood With her proud banner streaming o’er the flood; And with a lofty calmness in her eye, And regal in collected majesty, To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze Bore sounds of triumph o’er her own blue seas; And other lands, redeem’d and joyous, drank The life-blood of her heroes, as they sank On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers wave Now in luxuriant beauty o’er their grave. ’Twas then the captives of Britannia’s war[156] Here for their lovely southern climes afar In bondage pined; the spell-deluded throng Dragg’d at ambition’s chariot-wheels so long To die—because a despot could not clasp A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp! Yes! they whose march had rock’d the ancient thrones And temples of the world—the deepening tones Of whose advancing trumpet from repose Had startled nations, wakening to their woes— Were prisoners here. And there were some whose dreams Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain-streams, And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain And festal melody of Loire or Seine; And of those mothers who had watch’d and wept, When on the field the unshelter’d conscript slept, Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were there Of sterner spirits, harden’d by despair; Who, in their dark imaginings, again Fired the rich palace and the stately fane, Drank in their victim’s shriek, as music’s breath, And lived o’er scenes, the festivals of death! And there was mirth, too!—strange and savage mirth, More fearful far than all the woes of earth! The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring From minds for which there is no sacred thing; And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee— The lightning’s flash upon its blasted tree! But still, howe’er the soul’s disguise were worn, If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn, Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show, Slight was the mask, and all beneath it—woe. Yet, was this all? Amidst the dungeon-gloom, The void, the stillness of the captive’s doom, Were there no deeper thoughts? And that dark power To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour, The mighty debt through years of crime delay’d, But, as the grave’s, inevitably paid; Came he not thither, in his burning force, The lord, the tamer of dark souls—Remorse? Yes! as the night calls forth from sea and sky, From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony, Lost when the swift triumphant wheels of day In light and sound are hurrying on their way: Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart, The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might start, Call’d up by solitude, each nerve to thrill With accents heard not, save when all is still! The voice, inaudible when havoc’s strain Crush’d the red vintage of devoted Spain; Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung, And the broad light of conflagration sprung From the south’s marble cities; hush’d midst cries That told the heavens of mortal agonies; But gathering silent strength, to wake at last In concentrated thunders of the past! And there, perchance, some long-bewilder’d mind, Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined Of village duties, in the Alpine glen, Where nature cast its lot midst peasant men; Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent The earthquake power of each wild element, To lend the tide which bore his throne on high One impulse more of desperate energy; Might—when the billow’s awful rush was o’er Which toss’d its wreck upon the storm-beat shore, Won from its wanderings past, by suffering tried, Search’d by remorse, by anguish purified— Have fix’d, at length, its troubled hopes and fears On the far world, seen brightest through our tears; And, in that hour of triumph or despair, Whose secrets all must learn—but none declare, When, of the things to come, a deeper sense Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence, Have turn’d to Him whose bow is in the cloud, Around life’s limits gathering as a shroud— The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows, And, by the tempest, calls it to repose! Who visited that deathbed? Who can tell Its brief sad tale, on which the soul might dwell, And learn immortal lessons? Who beheld The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repell’d— The agony of prayer—the bursting tears— The dark remembrances of guilty years, Crowding upon the spirit in their might? He, through the storm who look’d, and there was light! That scene is closed!—that wild, tumultuous breast, With all its pangs and passions, is at rest! He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife, Who woke those passions to delirious life; And days, prepared a brighter course to run, Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun! It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth O’er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north, And with one radiant glance, one magic breath, Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death; While the glad voices of a thousand streams, Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams! But Peace hath nobler changes! O’er the mind, The warm and living spirit of mankind, Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart, To life and hope from desolation start! She with a look dissolves the captive’s chain, Peopling with beauty widow’d homes again; Around the mother, in her closing years, Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears Of the dim past but winning purer light, To make the present more serenely bright. Nor rests that influence here. From clime to clime, In silence gliding with the stream of time, Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze With healing on its wings, o’er isles and seas. And as Heaven’s breath call’d forth, with genial power, From the dry wand the almond’s living flower, So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love; While round its pathway nature softly glows, And the wide desert blossoms as the rose. Yes! let the waste lift up the exulting voice! Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice! And thou, lone moor! where no blithe reaper’s song E’er lightly sped the summer hours along, Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain-source Rushing in joy, make music on their course! Thou, whose sole records of existence mark The scene of barbarous rites in ages dark, And of some nameless combat; hope’s bright eye Beams o’er thee in the light of prophecy! Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest, And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast! Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn, Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn, And, midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom’d spire Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire. Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy close Of labour’s day, the herald of repose, Which gathers hearts in peace; while social mirth Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth; While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales, And merry England’s voice floats up from all her vales. Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear Such as to Heaven’s immortal host are dear. Oh! if there still be melody on earth Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth, When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trode, And the air trembled with the breath of God; It lives in those soft accents, to the sky[157] Borne from the lips of stainless infancy, When holy strains, from life’s pure fount which sprung, Breathed with deep reverence, falter on his tongue. And such shall be thy music, when the cells, Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, dwells, (And, to wild strength by desperation wrought, In silence broods o’er many a fearful thought,) Resound to pity’s voice; and childhood thence, Ere the cold blight hath reach’d its innocence, Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled, Which vice but breathes on and its hues are dead, Shall at the call press forward, to be made A glorious offering, meet for Him who said, “Mercy, not sacrifice!” and, when of old Clouds of rich incense from his altars roll’d, Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare The heart’s deep folds, to read its homage there! When some crown’d conqueror, o’er a trampled world His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurl’d, And, like those visitations which deform Nature for centuries, hath made the storm His pathway to dominion’s lonely sphere, Silence behind—before him, flight and fear! When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing wheels, Till each fair isle the mighty impulse feels, And earth is moulded but by one proud will, And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still; Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay, The earthquake homage on its baleful way? Shall the glad harp send up exulting strains O’er burning cities and forsaken plains? And shall no harmony of softer close Attend the stream of mercy as it flows, And, mingling with the murmur of its wave, Bless the green shores its gentle currents lave? Oh! there are loftier themes, for him whose eyes Have search’d the depths of life’s realities, Than the red battle, or the trophied car, Wheeling the monarch-victor fast and far; There are more noble strains than those which swell The triumphs ruin may suffice to tell! Ye prophet-bards, who sat in elder days Beneath the palms of Judah! ye whose lays With torrent rapture, from their source on high, Burst in the strength of immortality! Oh! not alone, those haunted groves among, Of conquering hosts, of empires crush’d, ye sung, But of that spirit destined to explore, With the bright day-spring, every distant shore, To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed, To make the home of peace in hearts that bleed; With beams of hope to pierce the dungeon’s gloom. And pour eternal starlight o’er the tomb. And bless’d and hallow’d be its haunts! for there Hath man’s high soul been rescued from despair! There hath th’ immortal spark for heaven been nursed; There from the rock the springs of life have burst Quenchless and pure! and holy thoughts, that rise Warm from the source of human sympathies— Where’er its path of radiance may be traced, Shall find their temple in the silent waste.