 | A sheaf of verse bound for the fair |  |
THE SIEGE OF ROME.
1849.
The mellow sunsets that with rapture fill
Claude's young disciples on the Pincian hill,
No more are watched with meditative gaze,
As melts their gold in twilight's purple haze;
Drowned is the pine's low whisper by the roar
Artillery peals like billows on the shore,
And the soft chorus of the serenade
Yields to the cheer that mans the barricade;
The moon's benignant ray, that sweetly fell
On trellised vine and friar's quiet cell,
Reveals dead heroes, whose cold faces still
Wear the stern smile that proves unconquered will;
The lofty cypresses on Mario's height,
Like conscious mourners, greet the aching sight,
For bayonets gleam from bulwarks heaped below,
And in their shadow bivouac the foe.
No organ's tone and nun's sweet voice beguile
The musing stranger in Saint Peter's aisle,
But its vast concave echoes back the sound
Of booming cannon from the plains around—
Those hallowed plains, whose solitude the eye
Of wandering artist melted to descry;
Where fragmentary arch and brooding cloud
Forbid each tongue profane to breathe aloud;
Where, if a passing footfall hovered nigh,
The frightened lizard swiftly glided by;
Where Nature's bounty, in that fertile clime,
Paused, as if awe-struck at the wrecks of Time,
And spread for ruthless man a neutral ground,
With solemn hills and holy silence round,
To check, with thought, the warrior's cruel zeal,
And bid him Life's departed spirit feel.
Vain lesson for that sacrilegious race,
For whom the earth contains no sacred place;
Who, in their reckless hour, with fiendish care
Torture a woman, and a marble spare;
With “Free Republic” on their banner wrought,
Crusade against her, though with valor bought;
Rome's peaceful haunts and venerable air
Make waste and lurid with the battle's glare;
Through Faith's own temple speed the crushing ball,
And shroud Art's trophies with Destruction's pall.
Claude's young disciples on the Pincian hill,
No more are watched with meditative gaze,
As melts their gold in twilight's purple haze;
Drowned is the pine's low whisper by the roar
Artillery peals like billows on the shore,
And the soft chorus of the serenade
Yields to the cheer that mans the barricade;
The moon's benignant ray, that sweetly fell
On trellised vine and friar's quiet cell,
Reveals dead heroes, whose cold faces still
43
The lofty cypresses on Mario's height,
Like conscious mourners, greet the aching sight,
For bayonets gleam from bulwarks heaped below,
And in their shadow bivouac the foe.
No organ's tone and nun's sweet voice beguile
The musing stranger in Saint Peter's aisle,
But its vast concave echoes back the sound
Of booming cannon from the plains around—
Those hallowed plains, whose solitude the eye
Of wandering artist melted to descry;
Where fragmentary arch and brooding cloud
Forbid each tongue profane to breathe aloud;
Where, if a passing footfall hovered nigh,
The frightened lizard swiftly glided by;
Where Nature's bounty, in that fertile clime,
Paused, as if awe-struck at the wrecks of Time,
And spread for ruthless man a neutral ground,
With solemn hills and holy silence round,
To check, with thought, the warrior's cruel zeal,
And bid him Life's departed spirit feel.
Vain lesson for that sacrilegious race,
For whom the earth contains no sacred place;
Who, in their reckless hour, with fiendish care
Torture a woman, and a marble spare;
With “Free Republic” on their banner wrought,
Crusade against her, though with valor bought;
Rome's peaceful haunts and venerable air
44
Through Faith's own temple speed the crushing ball,
And shroud Art's trophies with Destruction's pall.
Chivalric French! the murderous bomb to hurl
And wound a child, or kill a sleeping girl,
Shake the lone painter's easel, till no more
His eager hand the canvas may explore;
Make drear the villa's paths of odorous gloom,
Where ilex twines and oleanders bloom;
Bid your brave rifles from their massive screen
Shoot patriots down the instant they are seen,
And your base leader to his master send
The mocking lie that Romans call him friend!
And wound a child, or kill a sleeping girl,
Shake the lone painter's easel, till no more
His eager hand the canvas may explore;
Make drear the villa's paths of odorous gloom,
Where ilex twines and oleanders bloom;
Bid your brave rifles from their massive screen
Shoot patriots down the instant they are seen,
And your base leader to his master send
The mocking lie that Romans call him friend!
The Summer harvests all neglected wave,
While peasants throng their country's name to save;
Nor thunder-bolt nor hot sirocco's breath
Can keep those reapers from the field of death;
Pale students haste their gentle lives to sell,
And dark-eyed women quench the burning shell,
While Lombards, exiled from their native plain,
Here wield the sword for Liberty again!
While peasants throng their country's name to save;
Nor thunder-bolt nor hot sirocco's breath
Can keep those reapers from the field of death;
Pale students haste their gentle lives to sell,
And dark-eyed women quench the burning shell,
While Lombards, exiled from their native plain,
Here wield the sword for Liberty again!
Ah not alone the Dawn's aërial grace,
Bequeathed by Art's apostle to his race,
But the first rosy beams of Freedom's morn
By the invader's battle-smoke were shorn!
Bequeathed by Art's apostle to his race,
45
By the invader's battle-smoke were shorn!
When the guerilla troop
in bright array
Took through the gate their melancholy way;
When the triumvir, fearless, calm, and proud,
Resigned his trust to that despairing crowd,
And over breastworks youthful corses made,
The modern Goths their tarnished flag displayed;
When through the breach in Rome's once sacred wall,
Filed the battalions of the perjured Gaul;
Oh, why did no celestial sign appear,
Like that which beamed when Constantine was near?
No sainted hero or immortal bard
By Heaven armed, that sacrifice retard?
Took through the gate their melancholy way;
When the triumvir, fearless, calm, and proud,
Resigned his trust to that despairing crowd,
And over breastworks youthful corses made,
The modern Goths their tarnished flag displayed;
When through the breach in Rome's once sacred wall,
Filed the battalions of the perjured Gaul;
Oh, why did no celestial sign appear,
Like that which beamed when Constantine was near?
No sainted hero or immortal bard
By Heaven armed, that sacrifice retard?
And when achieved, how like a funeral knell
Through outraged Rome indignant silence fell!
Deserted balconies and streets forlorn
O'erwhelmed the captors with a voiceless scorn;
From that vain triumph Beauty's pleading eyes
Were turned, in anguish, to the tranquil skies;
That sudden hush to each invader's ear,
Murmured reproaches that he quailed to hear;
They stole from every house that lined the way,
Whose darkened casements hid the light of day;
From Tasso's convent, Raphael's burning home,
The shattered cornice and the riven dome,
From lonely shrines and famine-stricken mart,
And from the turf that covers Shelley's heart!
Through outraged Rome indignant silence fell!
Deserted balconies and streets forlorn
O'erwhelmed the captors with a voiceless scorn;
From that vain triumph Beauty's pleading eyes
Were turned, in anguish, to the tranquil skies;
That sudden hush to each invader's ear,
Murmured reproaches that he quailed to hear;
They stole from every house that lined the way,
Whose darkened casements hid the light of day;
From Tasso's convent, Raphael's burning home,
The shattered cornice and the riven dome,
46
And from the turf that covers Shelley's heart!
Ignoble triumph! History's faithful page
Records this shameful wonder of the age;—
A prosperous Nation, Conquest's wreath to gain,
Brands her own forehead with the mark of Cain;
Hastens, with sword and flame, the slow decay
Of mouldering fresco, arch, and column gray;
Blasts the fair promise of Rome's second birth,
And stains with blood her consecrated earth!
Records this shameful wonder of the age;—
A prosperous Nation, Conquest's wreath to gain,
Brands her own forehead with the mark of Cain;
Hastens, with sword and flame, the slow decay
Of mouldering fresco, arch, and column gray;
Blasts the fair promise of Rome's second birth,
And stains with blood her consecrated earth!
Claude lived on Monte Pincio, and his house is still a favorite residence of students of Art in Rome.
In the French Revolution, the same monsters who insulted with every conceivable degradation the imprisoned Queen, were scrupulous to preserve the statues in the Tuileries from the violence of the mob.
| A sheaf of verse bound for the fair | |