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In vain, and never more, save when the cloud Forsooth is over, and repeald her doom;

Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye No,-she denied me what was mine-my roof, Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud

And shall not have what is not hers--my tomb. Of me, can I return, though but to die,

Too long her armed wrath haih kept aloof Cnto my native soil, they have not yet

The breast which would have bled for her, the heart Quench'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high. That beat, the mind that was temptation-proof, But the sun, though not overcast, must set,

The man who fought, toil'd, travell’d, and each part And the night cometh ; I am old in days,

Of a true citizen fulfilld, and saw
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met For his reward the Guelfs ascendant art
Destruction face to face in all his ways.

Pass bis destruction even into a law.
The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, These things are not made for forgetfulness,
And if I have not gather'd yet its praise,

Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw I sought it not by any baser lure;

The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name Of sich endurance too prolong'd, to make May form a monument not all obscure,

My pardon greater, her injustice less, Though such was not my ambition's end or aim, Though late repented; yet-yet for her sake To add to the vain-glorious list of those

I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine, Who dabble in the pettiness of fame,

My own Beatrice, I would hardly take And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows Vengeance upon the land which once was mine, Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd

And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, With conquerors, and virtue's other foes,

Which would protect the murderess like a shrine, In bloody chronicles of ages past.

And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. I would have had my Florence great and free:(1) Though, like old Marius (3) from Minturnæ's marsh O Florence! Florence! unto me thou wast

And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He

At times with evil feelings hot and harsh, Wept over, “but thou wouldst not;" as the bird And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe

Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard My brow with hope of triumph, 1 t them go!

My voice; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, Such are the last infirmities of those

Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirrid Who long have sufferd more than mortal woe; Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, And yet, being mortal still, have nu repose And doom this body forfeit to the tire.

But on the pillow of Revenge-Revenge, Alas! how titler is his country's curse

Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows To him who for that country would expire, With the oft-baffled slakeless thirst of change, But did not merit to expire by her,

When we shall mount again, and they ibat irod And loves her, loves her even in her ire.

Be trampled on, while Death and Até range The day may come when she will cease to err, O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks--Great The day may come she would be proud to have

God! The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer(2) Take these thoughts from me—to thy hands I yield Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave.

My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod
But this shall not be granted; let my

Will fall on those who smote me,-be my

shield! Lie where it falls; nor shall the soil which gave

As thou hast been in peril, and n pain, Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust

In turbulent cities, and the tented fieldMe forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume In toil, and many troubles borne in vain My indignant bones, because her angry gust For Florence. (4)—1 appeal from her to Thee!

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“ L'esilio che m'è dato onor mi legno.

nishment due only to the most desperate of malefact: rs. The

decree, that he and his associates in exile should be burned, if they Cadè tra' buoni è pur di lode degno.”

fell into the hands of their enemies, was first discovered, in 1772,

Sonnel of Dante, by the Conte Ludovico Savioli. See Tiraboschi, where the senin which be represents Right, Generosity, and Temperance as lence is given al length.-E.) banisl.ed from among men, and seeking refuge from Love, who (3) Proconsul of Africa.- After the expiration of his governinbabits his bosom.

ment, he was prosecuted by the province for extortion and cruelty, (2) "Ut si quis predictorum ullo tempore in fortiam dicti com-convicted on the clearest evidence, fined, and banished from munis pervenerit, lalis perveniens igne comburalur, sic quod Italy. Yet, reserving the greater part of his former spoils, he morialur.” Second sentence of Florence against Danle, and lived in a wanton exile; while the Africans returned home with the fourteen accused with him. The Latin is worthy of the sen lne wretched consolation of having defrayed their own expenses, tence.--(On the 27th of Janvary. 13N2, Dante was mulcled eight and seen the money levied on their oppressor carried to the Rothousand lire, and condemned to two years' banishment; and in Inan treasury.-E. case the fine was not paid, bis googs were to be couuscaicu. (41 In one so nigbiy endowed by nature, and so consummate the cleventh of March, the same year, he was sentenced to a pu- wy instruction, we may well sympathise with a resentment which


Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign,

That make communion sweet, and soften painEven in that glorious vision, which to see

To feel me in the solitude of kings And live was never granted until now,

Without the power that makes them bear a And yet thou hast permitted this to me. Alas! with what a weight upon my brow

To envy every dove his nest and wings The sense of earth and earthly things comes back, Which waft him where the Apennine looks down Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low,

On Arno, till he perches, it may be,
The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, Within my all-inexorable town,

Long day, and dreary night; the retrospect Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,(1)
Of half a century bloody and black,

Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought And the frail few years I may yet expect

Destruction for a dowry (2)—this lo seeHoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear, And feel, and know without repair, hath taught

For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd A bitter lesson; but it leaves me free: On the lone rock of desolate Despair

I have not vilely found, nor basely sought,
To lift my eyes more to the passing sail

They made an exile--not a slave of me.
Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare;
Nor raise my voice—for who would heed my wail ?
I am not of this people, nor this age,

And yet my harpings will unfold a tale
Which shall preserve these times when not a page
of their perturbed annals could attract

The Spirit of the fervent days of old,
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage,

When words were things that came to pass, and Did not my verse embalm full many an act

thought Worthless as they who wrought it: 't is the doom Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold Of spirits of my order to be rack'd

Their children's children's doom already brought In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume Forth from the abyss of time which is to be,

Their days in endless strife, and die alone; The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought

Then future thousands crow'd around their tomb, Shapes that must undergo mortality; And pilgrims come from climes where they have What the great seers of Israel wore within, known

That spirit was on them, and is one me, The name of him—who now is but a name, And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din

And, wasting homage o'er the sullen stone, Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed
Spread his--by him unheard, unheedeu-fame; This voice from out the wilderness, the sin

And mine at least hath cost me dear: to die Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed,
Is nothing; but to wither thus-lo tame

The only guerdon I have ever known.
My mind down from its own infinity-

Hast thou not bied ? and hast thou still to bleed, To live in narrow ways with little men,

Italia ? Ah! to me such things, foreshown A common sight to every common eye,

With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, In thine irreparable wrongs my own;

Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things we can have but one country, and even yet

exile and poverty rendered perpetually fresh. But the heart of odd that honest Lionardo's examples, with the exception of Dante was naturally sensible, and even lender : his poetry is Seneca, and, for any thing I know, of Aristotle, are not the most full of comparisons from rural lise; and the sincerity of his early felicitous. Tully's Terentia, and Socrates' Xantippe, by no means passion for Beatrice pierces through the veil of allegory that contributed to their husbands' happiness, whatever they might surrounds her. But the memory of his injuries pursued him into do to their philosophy. Calo gave away his wise-of Varro's we the immensity of eternal light; and, in the company of saints and know nothing-and of Seneca's, only that she was disposed to angels, bis unforgiving spirit darkens at the name of Florence.” die with him, but recovere!, and lived several years afterwards. llallam.-E.

Dui, says Lionardo, “ L'uomo è animale civile, secondo piace (1) This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from one of

a lutti i filosofi;” and thence concludes that the greatest proof the most powerful Guelf families, named Donati. Corso Donati of the animal's civism is “ la prima congiunzione, dalla quale was the principal adversary of the Ghibelines. She is described multiplicata nasce la città.” as being “ Admodum morosa, ut de Panlippe Socratis philo- (2) “ The violence of Gemma's temper proved a source of the sophi conjuge scriptum esse legimus,” according to Gianozzo bitterest suffering to Dante; and in that passage of the Inferno, Manetti. But Lionardo Aretino is scandalised with Boccace, in where one of the characters sayshis Lise of Dante, for saying that literary men should not marry:

· La fiera moglie più ch'altro, mi nuoce, “Qui il Boccaccio non ha pazienza, e dice, le mogli esser contrarie

--'me, my wife, agli studj; e non si ricorda che Socrate, il più nobile filosofo Of savage temper, more than aught beside, che mai fosse, ebbe moglie e figliuoli e uflici della Repubblica

Hata lo ibis evil broughl, nella sua Città ; e Aristotele che, etc. etc. ebbe due mogli in vari his own conjugal unhappiness must have recurred forcibly and tempi, ed ebbe figliuoli, e ricchezze assai.-E Marco Tulio-e najnluily to dis mind." Cary.-E. Catone-e Varrone-e Seneca-ebbero mogiie," etc. etc. It is


Thou 'rt mine- my bones shall be within thy The Guth hath been,—the German, Frank, and breast,

My soul within thy language, which once set Are yet to come,-and on the imperial hill
With our old Roman sway in the wide West; Ruin, already proud of the deeds done
But I will make another tongue arise

By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, As lofty and more sweet, in which express'd Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs,

Rome at her feet lies bleeding; and the hue Shall find alike such sounds for every theme Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter That every word, as brilliant as thy skies,

Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, Shall realise a poet's proudest dream,

And deepens into red the saffron water And make thee Europe's nightingale of song;

Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest, So that all present speech to thine shall seem And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, The note of meaner birds, and every tongue Vow'd lo their God, have shrieking fied, and ceased

Confess its barbarism when compared with thine. Their ministry: the nations take their prey,

This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast
Thy Tuscan bard, the banish'd Ghibeline.

And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they Woe! woe! the veil of coming centuries

Are; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore Is rent,-a thousand years, which yet supine Of the departed, and then go their way; Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise,

But those, the human savages, explore Heaving in dark and sullen undulation,

All paths of torture, and, insatiate yet, Float from eternity into these eyes;

With Ugolino-hunger prowl for more. The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set;(1) station,

The chiefless army of the dead, wbich late The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met, The bloody chaos yet expects creation,

Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ; But all things are disposing for thy doom;

Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance 1

The elements await but for the word, [tomb! Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate.

“Let there be darkness !” and thou grow'st a O Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France, Yes! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword, From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never | Thou, Italy! so fair that Paradise,

Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance
Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored : But Tiber shall become a mournful river.
Ah! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ?

Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, Thou, Italy! whose ever-golden fields,

Crush them, ye rocks ! floods, whelm them! and Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice

for ever:
For the world's granary: thou, whose sky heaven Why sleep the idie avalanches so,

To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head ?
With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue; Why doth Eridanus but overflow
Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds The peasant's harvest from his lurbid bed ?
Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew,

Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey ? And formd the Eternal City's ornaments

Over Cambyses' host the desert spread From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew; Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints,

Rolld over Pharaoh and his thousands,-why, Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made Mountains and waters, do ye not as they? Her home; thou, all which fondest fancy paints, And you, ye men! Romans, who dare not die, And finds her prior vision but portray'd

Sons of

conquerors who overthrew In feeble colours, when the eye-from the Alp Those who o’erthrew proud Xerxes, where yerlie

Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew,
Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp

Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylæ ?
Nods to the storm-dilates and dotes o’er thee, Their passes more alluring to the view
And wistfully implores, as 't were, for help

Of an invader? is it they, or ye, To see thy sunny fields, my Italy,

That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still

And leave the march in peace, the passage free? The more approach'd, and dearest were they free, Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car, Thou—thou must wither to each tyrant's will: And makes your land impregnable, if earth

(O See "Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guicciardinj. giorno per giorno, ne! Sacco di Roma dell anno MDXXVII, scrillo There is another, written by a Jacopo Puonaparte.-[The ori- da Jacopo Buonaparte, gentiluomo Samminjalese, che vi si trovo ginal MS. of the latter work is preserved in the Royal Library at presente.” An edilion of it was printed at Cologne in 175j, lo Paris. it is entitled, “ Ragguaglio Storico di tutto l'occorso, which is prefixed a genealogy of :he Buona parte family.-E.]

Could be so; but alone she will not war, Te thee, my country! whom before, as now, Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth

I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre Ia a soil where the mothers bring forth men: And melancholy gift high powers allow

Not so with those whose souls are little worth ; To read the future; and if now my fire For them no fortress can avail,—the den

Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive! Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting I but foretell thy fortunes—then expire;

Is more secure than walls of adamant, when Think not that I would look on them and live. The hearts of those within are quivering.

A spirit forces me to see and speak, Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil And for my guerdon grants not to survive; Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break: bring

Yet for a moment, ere I must resume Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil,

Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take While still Division sows the secds of woe Over the gleams that flash athwart ihy gloom

And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil. A softer glimpse; some stars shine through thy Oh! my own beauteous land! so long laid low,

night, So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, And many meteors, and above thy lomb

When there is but required a single blow Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot blight; To break the chain, yel-yet the Avenger stops, And from thine ashes boundless spiriis rise

And Doubt and Discord step'twixt thine and thee, To give thee honour, and the earth delight; And join their strength to that which with thee Thy soil shall stių be pregnant with the wise, copes;

The gay, the learn’d, the generous, and the brave, What is there wanting then to set thee free;

Native to thee as summer to thy skies, And show thy beauty in its fullest light ? Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave, (1) To make the Alps impassable; and we,

Discoverers of new worlds, which take their Her sons, may do this with one deed Unite.

For thee alone they have no arm to save,

And all thy recompense is in their fame,

A noble one to them, but not to thee

Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same?

Oi! more than these illustrious far shall be From out the mass of never-dying ill,

The being-and even yet he may be bor — The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the

The mortal saviour who shall set thee free, Sword,

And see thy diadem, so changed and worn Vials of wrath but emptied to refill

By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced; And flow again, I cannot all record That crowds on my prophetic eye: the earth

And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn, And ocean written o'er would not afford

Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced

And noxious vapours from Avernus risen,
Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth;
Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven,

Such as all they must breathe who are debased There where the farthest suns and stars have birth, By servitude, and have the mind in prison.

Yet through this centuricd eclipse of woe Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven,

Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen; The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs

Poels shall follow in the path I show,
Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven
Athwart the sound of archangelic songs,

And make it broader; the same brilliant sky

Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore,

flow, Vill not in vain arise to where belongs

And raise their notes as natural and high ; Omnipotence and mercy evermore:

Tuneful shall be their numbers; they shall sing Like to a harp-string stricken by the wind,

Many of love, and some of liberty, The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er

but few shall soar upon that eagle's wing, The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind.

And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze, Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of

All free and fearless as the feather'd king,
Earth's dust by immortality refined
To sense and suffering, though the vain may scoff,

But fly more near the earth; how many a phrase

Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prince And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow

In all the prodigality of praise! Before the storm, because its breath is rough,

And language, eloquently false, evince

The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, (1) Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of Savoy, Montecuccoli.

Too oft forgets its own self-reverence, (2, Columbus, Americus Vespasius, Sebaslian Cabol. And looks on prostitution as a duty.

He who once enters in a tyrant's hall (1)

And pious, and the strife of hell to warp As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty, Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave And the first day which sees the chain enthral The red-cross banners where the first red cross

A captive, sees his half of manhood gone-(2) Was crimson'd from his veins who died to save, The soul's emasculation saddens all

Shall be his sacred argument; the loss His spirit; thus the bard too near the throne

Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame Quails from his inspiration, bound te please, Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss How servile is the task to please alone!

Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name, To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease And call captivity a kindness, meant And royal leisure, nor too much prolong

To shield him from insanity or shame: Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, Such shall be his meet guerdon! who was sent Or force, or forge fit argument of song!

To be Christ's laureale—they reward him well! Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to flattery's Florence dooms me but death or banishment, trebles,

Ferrara him a pittance and a cell:
He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong: Harder to bear and less deserved, for I
For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels, Had stung the factions which I strove to quell;

Should rise up in high-treason to his brain, But this meek man, who with a lover's eye
He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles Will look on earth and heaven, and who will deign
In 's mouth, lest truth should stammer through his To embalm with his celestial flattery

As poor a thing as e'er was spawn’d to reign,
But out of the long file of sonneteers

What will he do to merit such a doom ? There shall be some who will not sing in vain, Perhaps he 'll love,-and is not love in vain And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers,(3) Torture enough, without a living tomb ?

And love shall be his torment; but his grief Yet it will be so-he and his compeer,
Shall make an immortality of tears,

The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume
And Italy shall hail him as the chief

In penury and pain too many a year, | Of poet-lovers, and his higher song

And, dying in despondency, bequeath
Of freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear,
But in a farther aye shall rise, along

A heritage enriching all who breathe
The banks of Po, two greater still than he; With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul,

The world which smiled on him shall do them And to their country a redoubled wreath 1 wrong

Unmatch'd by time; not Hellas can unroll Till they are ashes, and repose with me.

Through her Olympiads two such names, though The first will make an epoch with his lyre,

Of hers be mighty ;-and is this the whole (one And fill the earth with feats of chivalry:

Of such men's destiny beneath the sun ? (4) His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire,

Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense, Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thoug!.t The electric blood with which their arteries run,

Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire: Their body's self-tuned soul with the intense Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught,

Feeling of that which is, and fancy of Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme,

That which should be, to such a recompense And Art itself seem into Nature wrought Conduct? shall their bright plumage on the rough By the transparency of his bright dream.

Storm be still scalter'd? Yes, and it must be, The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood,

For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff, Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem;

These birds of paradise but long to flee He, too, shall sing of arms and Christian blood Back to their native mansion, soon they find Shed where Christ bled for man; and his high harp

Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, And die or are degraded, for the mind Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp

Succumbs to long infection, and despair, Conflict, and final triumph of the brave

And vulture passions flying close behind,

verse from the Greek tragedians, with which Pompey exquisitely beautiful and affecting portraitures of the two matchlook leave of Cornelia on entering the boal in which he was less poets which conclude the third canto of the Prophecy of slain.

Dante! We there see them contrasted without such invidious (2) The verse and sentiment are taken frorn Homer.

comparison, or depreciation of the one to exalt the other; and 3) Petrarch.

characterised in numbers, style, and sentiment, so wonderfully (4) “Why is it necessary to adopt the invidious and too com- Dantesque, thal-mastering our uncongenial language, and hamon practice of weighing the transcendent talents of Ariosto bitual modes of thought as well as expression-they seem to and Tasso in opposite, and as it were contending, scales? Reader! lave been inspired by the very genius of the inarrivabile Dadle if you have already had the delight of perusing the last produc-tiltasell.” Glenbervie, Ricciardello, p. 106.-E. lion of Lord Byron's muse, how must you have admired those

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