 | Fra Cipolla, and other poems |  |
Hard, then, their fate whom evil fame pursues,
As tyrants branded by the partial Muse,
That as her scribes indite the reader sways;
Hard Borgia's lot in Machiavelli's praise.
He laid deep plots for conquest, and to keep
That he had won, and lull his foes to sleep,
From which, perchance, they woke not; death might wait,
Disguised as welcome, smiling at his gate,
And gathering hosts for him might trample o'er
The prostrate city—drench the earth with gore;
Yet let the eagle bear the palm away
From baser vultures, and the prating jay;
To strife if empire's Roman game allure,
Vain-glorious sophist, are thy hands more pure?
The world would gaze on Reason face to face,
Then burns like Semele in Jove's embrace:
And still as years emerge from their abyss
Shows many a Paris 'gainst Persepolis:
Patriot, or tyrant come, for judgment stand;
This loves persuasion, loftier this command,
The sword's their last appeal, and ever near at hand.
As tyrants branded by the partial Muse,
That as her scribes indite the reader sways;
Hard Borgia's lot in Machiavelli's praise.
109
That he had won, and lull his foes to sleep,
From which, perchance, they woke not; death might wait,
Disguised as welcome, smiling at his gate,
And gathering hosts for him might trample o'er
The prostrate city—drench the earth with gore;
Yet let the eagle bear the palm away
From baser vultures, and the prating jay;
To strife if empire's Roman game allure,
Vain-glorious sophist, are thy hands more pure?
The world would gaze on Reason face to face,
Then burns like Semele in Jove's embrace:
And still as years emerge from their abyss
Shows many a Paris 'gainst Persepolis:
Patriot, or tyrant come, for judgment stand;
This loves persuasion, loftier this command,
The sword's their last appeal, and ever near at hand.
| Fra Cipolla, and other poems | |