A sheaf of verse bound for the fair | ||
ITALY.
The mountain peaks of snow,
And the blue waters of that Southern sea
Whose dallying arms inclose
The beauty and the woes
That lure our restless hearts to Italy!
With interlude sublime,
Steals through the murmur of the passing day;
Memorials of the Past
A pensive challenge cast,
And from familiar bounds win thought away;
To guide the willing feet
Where gifted spirits limitless aspire;
And all the muses wait
Our life to consecrate,
And bid the soul expand with vast desire;
Salvator's forest wild,
The sunset's golden mist Claude's pencil caught;
Brave Michael's forms sublime,
That adamantine rhyme
The Tuscan bard from love and sorrow wrought;
And Tasso's tear-gemmed bays,
The marble wonder of Rome's saintly pile;
Bellini's plaintive strain,
Marengo's storied grain,
Kindle the fancy and the heart beguile.
With ravishment imbue
The elemental grace her aspect fills;
What azure seems to brood
Above, in tender mood,
While glimmering sunshine laughs upon the hills!
With amber, pearl, and rose,
As if to pave with gems a seraph's walk;
Twilight's soft breath endears,
And melts in grateful tears
On the flax blossom and the aloe's stalk;
The hoar volcano's breast,
And orbs of flame through darksome foliage gleam;
And lakes of crystalline
Invoke the limner's touch, the poet's dream.
And violet odors drift,
As winds from vale to upland gently pass,
The cypress shafts to sway,
Sigh through the olives gray,
And almond flowers scatter on the grass.
The sweet illusion dies
When human scenes call back the pilgrim's glance;
And the degraded land
Beneath oppression's brand
Reproachful mocks his visionary trance.
A shadow seems to cast
And living charms allegiance to defy:
No beauty can elate,
No genius consecrate
The air whose echoes waft the captive's sigh.
Mute are inspired lips,
And life a tortured vigil to the brave;
For they who do and dare,
The patriot's fate must share—
Scaffold and rack, the dungeon and the grave!
Though slow the life-blood creeps
Through veins benumbed with anguish, not despair;
Invaders yet shall fly,
The despot and the spy,
And brutal priestcraft tremble in its lair!”
When skeptics, in their pride,
Would own no promise in the baffled zeal
That pined in Spielberg's gloom
And braved the martyr's doom,
Or patient bore the pangs thy exiles feel.
By Love's own right divine,
His father's fallen sceptre takes with awe;
And wields it to obey
The humanizing sway
That dedicates a race to Liberty and Law;
Whose liberal mind defies
The narrow feuds that severed states control;
And strives, from mount to sea,
Inviolate and free,
To wake and harmonize a nation's soul!
Unloosed the Austrian thrall,
And Victor's banner cheered the Lombard plain;
Along the Tuscan sea,
And bade Val d'Arno's lilies bloom again!
Castruccio's sword they bring,
And Faction's ancient trophies all divide:
And throngs, with festal rite,
Seek the far mountain height,
To chant Feruccio's glory where he died.
Lifts his unsullied brow,
Whose wisdom chastens the intrepid eyes;
And with fraternal mien,
And confidence serene,
And dauntless valor, tyranny defies!
Warm, trustful, frank, and bold,
With years of peace and peril on the deep;
Battle and faith to gain,
And from their thrones the recreant princes sweep.
At home no vantage-ground,
He sought afar the struggling free to aid;
And trained his legions there,
To wait, achieve, and bear,
Until the signal came for Italy's crusade.
Portentous to her foes,
Whose rallying beams electric courage spread;
And when Novara's day
Had ended in dismay,
In triumph unto Rome the patriots led.
Oblivious of fate,
His eager cohorts, when the bugles call,
Rush on the cannon flame,
And victory proclaim,
As, at their bayonets' gleam, the gunners fall!
That liberated ground,
And Freedom's hopes in wanton treachery fade:
With what heroic pride,
His loved one at his side,
Rides forth the Chief unconquered though betrayed!
With naught but Honor left,
A wanderer—noble in his lowly toil;
He watched with passive might,
Prompt to renew the fight,
And lead the van upon his native soil.
His hunters of the Alps
Rush, like a torrent, at the onset's peal;
And Como's sbirri run,
Varese's day is won,
Imperial squadrons fly their charging steel!
Around Marsala's bay,
Uprose his war-cry through the welkin clear;
Sicilia's outraged isle
Is kindled by his smile,
And rallies to the strife with Garibaldi near!
As flashed his waving sword,
And onward with his gallant band he sped!
Women their jewels flung,
Children around him clung,
But royal myrmidons in terror fled!
From orange-grove and sedge,
The dews of May exhaled their fragrant breath:
Upon the rising blast,
That heralded her sons to liberty or death!
Echoed her tyrant's knell,
In the freed captive's shout, the people's cheer;
And saw her champion kneel,
Upon his cheek to feel
A dying comrade's sacrificial tear!
His braves at midnight glide,
And Freedom's watch-fires light Calabria's shore:
Swift his victorious way,
Salerno ends the fray,
Parthenope is reached—the struggle o'er.
Shrined in a crystal name,
Such peaceful triumphs to his country brings;
Wins love that discords heal,
From brother's steadfast zeal,
And fleets and armies from apostate kings.
Volturno with renown,
Where stood the despot's hirelings at bay;
And fiercely braved his might,
In long and valiant fight,
Where Hannibal of yore led War's array.
Nor pomp allurement lends,
The patriot's mission and the victor's palm;
But the resistless grace
Of manhood's pristine race,
Benignant, simple, valorous, and calm!
To hail thy blest return,
Before whose face the cruel bigots flee;
While with unfaltering mien,
The Adriatic Queen
Uplifts her fettered hands to God and thee!
Doth welcome every guest,
Who, worn and weary with insensate strife,
Seeks the maternal fold
Humanity of old,
The garner made for our propitious life!
On the occasion of Victor Emmanuel's visit to Tuscany, at the Villa Puccini, in Pistoja, Niccolo Puccini, the hereditary representative of the family, and a brave and liberal cavalier, presented to the “First Soldier of Italian Independence,” the celebrated sword of Castruccio Castracani, long reserved by its owner for such a disposition. At about the same time, a deputation of Genoese restored, with great ceremony, to Pisa, the chains of her Gate, which the once great maritime republic had borne off as a trophy, during the mediæval wars, from her hated rival. In the autumn of 1848, after the successful revolution in Tuscany, a festival was given at Cavinana, a little town nestled among the Apennines, in memory of Feruccio, on the very spot where, tradition says, he perished for his country, three centuries ago.
A sheaf of verse bound for the fair | ||