To lift my eyes more to the passing sail And yet my harpings will unfold a tale An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, Worthless as they who wrought it. 'T is the doom Of spirits of my order to be rack'd In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume Their days in endless strife, and die alone; Then future thousands crowd around their tomb, And pilgrims come from climes where they have known The name of him, who now is but a name, And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone, Spread his by him unheard, unheeded - fame. And mine at least hath cost me dear: to die To live in narrow ways with little men, A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things Without the power that makes them bear a crown, Which waft him where the Apennine looks down "Thou, Italy! so fair that Paradise, Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored." - Prophecy of Dante, Canto II, p. 167. On Arno, till he perches, it may be, Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,1 Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought And feel, and know without repair, hath taught I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, CANTO THE SECOND THE Spirit of the fervent days of Old, When words were things that came to pass, and thought Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold. What the great Seers of Israel wore within, Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed Hast thou not bled? and hast thou still to bleed, 1 Gemma, Dante's wife and the mother of his seven children, did not share his exile. There is a tradition, but no proof, that she had a violent temper. Italia? Ah! to me such things, foreshown We can have but one country, and even yet Thou 'rt mine-my bones shall be within thy breast, My soul within thy language, which once set With our old Roman sway in the wide West; But I will make another tongue arise As lofty and more sweet, in which express'd The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs, Shall find alike such sounds for every theme And make thee Europe's nightingale of song; Woe! woe! the veil of coming centuries Is rent, a thousand years which yet supine Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise, Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station, The bloody chaos yet expects creation, But all things are disposing for thy doom; The elements await but for the word, 'Let there be darkness!' and thou grow'st a tomb! |