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LXXXIII.
Se c'è armadura o cosa che tu voglia,

Vattene in zambra e pigliane tu stessi,
E cuopri a questo gigante le scoglia.
Rispose Orlando: se armadura avessi
Prima che noi uscissim de la soglia,
Che questo mio compagno difendessi :
Questo accetto io, e sarammi piacere.
Disse l'abate : venite a vedere.

LXXXIV.
E in certa cameretta entrati sono,

Che d'armadure vecchie era copiosa ;
Dice l'abate: tutte ve le dono,
Morgante va rovistando ogni cosa;
Ma solo un certo sbergo gli fu buono,
Ch'avea tutta la maglia rugginosa :
Maravigliossi che lo cuopra appunto :
Che mai più gnun forse glien' era aggiunto.

LXXXV.
Questo fu d'un gigante smisurata,

Ch 'a la badía fu morto per antico
Dal gran Milon d'Angrante, ch' arrivato;
Vera, s'appunto questa istoria dico;
Ed era ne le mura istoriato,
Come e' fu morto questo gran nimico,
Che fece a la badía già lunga guerra :
E Milon v'è com'e' l'abbatte in terra.

LXXXVI.
Veggendo questa istoria il conte Orlando,

Fra suo cor disse: 0 Dio, che sai sol tutto,
Come venne Milon quà capitando,
Che ha questo gigante quì distrutto ?
E lesse certe lettre lacrimando,
Che non potè tenir piu il viso asciutto,
Com'io dirò ne la seguente istoria :
Di mal vi guardi il Re de l'alta gloria.

LXXXIII. “ If you want armour or aught else, go in,

Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you choose, And cover with it o'er this giant's skin "

Oriando answer'd, “ If there should lie loose Some armour, ere our journey we begin,

Which might be turn'd to my companion's use,
The gift would be acceptable to me.”
The abbot said to him, " Come in and see.".

LXXXIV.
And in a certain closet, where the wall

Was cover'd with old armour like a crust,
The abbot said to them, “I give you all.”

Morgante rummaged piecemeal from the dust The whole, which, save one cuirass, was too small,

And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly, Which ne'er has suited others so compactly.

LXXXV. 'T was an immeasurable giant's, who

By the great Milo of Agrante fell, Before the abbey many years ago.

The story on the wall was figured well ; In the last moment of the abbey's foe,

Who long had waged a war implacable :
Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him,
And there was Milo as he overthrew him.

LXXXVI.
Seeing this history, Count Orlando said

In his own heart, “ Oh God, who in the sky
Know'st all things ! how was Milo hither led ?

Who caused the giant in this place to die ? "
And certain letters, weeping, then be read,

So that he could not keep his visage dry,
As I will tell in the ensuing story.
From evil keep you the high King of glory!

The Prophecy of Dante.'

“'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before."

CAMPBELL.

Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth,

Spakest; and for thee to speak and be obey'd Are one; but only in the sunny South Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms dis

play'd, So sweet a language from so fair a mouth

Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade ? Ravenna, June 21. 1819.

DEDICATION. LADY! if for the cold and cloudy clime

Where I was born, but where I would not die,

Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy
I dare to build the imitative rhyme,
Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime,

Thou art the cause; and howsoever I

Fall short of his immortal harmony,
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime.

[This poem, which Lord Byron, in sending it to Mr. Murray, called “the best thing he had ever done, if not un intelligible," was written, in the summer of 1819, at

" that place
of old renown, once in the Adrian sea,
Ravenna! - where from Dante's sacred tomb
He had so oft, as many a verse declares,

Drawn inspiration." – ROGERS.
The Prophecy, however, was first published in May, 1821.
It is dedicated to the Countess Guiccioli, who thus describes
the origin of its composition :-" On my departure from
Venice, Lord Byron had promised to come and see me at

Ravenna. Dante's tomb, the classical pine wood, the relics of antiquity which are to be found in that place, ed a suificient pretext for me to invite him to come, and for him to accept my invitation. He came in the month of June, 1819, arriving at Ravenna on the day of the festival of the Corpus Domini. Being deprived at this time of his books, his horses, and all that occupied him at Venice, I begged him to gratify me by writing something on the subject of Dante ; and, with his usual facility and rapidity, he composed his Prophecy."] [*" Twas in a grove of spreading pines he strayed,” &c.

DRYDEN's Theodore and Honoria)

as a nation — their literature; and in the present PREFACE.

bitterness of the classic and romantic war, are but In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna in ill disposed to permit a foreigner even to approve or the summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author imitate them, without finding some fault with his that having composed something on the subject of ultramontane presumption. I can easily enter into Tasso's confinement, he should do the same on all this, knowing what would be thought in England Dante's exile, – the tomb of the poet forming one of of an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a translation of the principal objects of interest in that city, both to Monti, or Pindemonte, or Arici, should be held up the native and to the stranger.

to the rising generation as a model for their future “ On this hint I spake," and the result has been poetical essays. But I perceive that I am deviating the following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered into an address to the Italian reader, when my to the reader. If they are understood and approved, business is with the English one ; and be they few or it is my purpose to continue the poem in various

many,

I must take my leave of both. other cantos, to its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader is requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in the interval between the conclusion of the Divina Commedia and his death, and shortly before the latter event, foretelling the fortunes of The Prophecy of Dante.' Italy in general in the ensuing centuries. In adopting this plan I have had in my mind the Cassandra

CANTO TIE FIRST. of Lycophron, and the Prophecy of Nercus by Horuce, as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The measure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, Once more in man's frail world ! which I had left which I am not aware to have seen hitherto tried in So long that 't was forgotten ; and I feel our language, except it may be by Mr. Hayley, of The weight of clay again, - too soon bereft wliose translation I never saw but one extract, quoted

Of the immortal vision which could heal in the notes to Caliph Vathek; so that if I do not My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies err — this poem may be considered as a metrical Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, experiment. The cantos are short, and about the Where late my ears rung with the damned crics same length of those of the poet, whose name I Of souls in hopeless bale; and froin that place have borrowed, and most probably taken in vain. Of lesser torment, whence men may arise

Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the Pure from the fire to join the angelic race; present day, it is difficult for any who have a name, Midst whom my own bright Beatricē? bless'd good or bad, to escape translation. I have had the My spirit with her light; and to the base fortunc to see the fourth canto of Childe Harold Of the eternal Triad ! first, last, best, translated into Italian versi sciolti, – that is, a poem Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! written in the Spenserean stanza into blank verse,

Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, without regard to the natural divisions of the stanza Unblasted by the glory, though he trou or of the sense. If the present poem, being on a From star to star to reach the almighty throne. national topic, should chance to undergo the same Oh Beatricē ! whose sweet limbs the sou fate, I would request the Italian reader to remember So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone, that when I have failed in the imitation of his great Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, “ Padre Alighier,” I have failed in imitating that Love so ineffable, and so alone, which al study and few understand, since to this very That nought on earth could more my bosom move, day it is not yet settled what was the meaning of the And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet allegory in the first canto of the Inferno, unless That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, Count Marchetti's ingenious and probable conjecture Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet may be considered as having decided the question. Relieved her wing till found ; without thy light

He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am My paradise had still been incomplete. 3 not quite sure that he would be pleased with my

Since my tenth sun gave suinmer to my sight success, since the Italians, with a pardonable nation- Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought, ality, are particularly jealous of all that is left them Loved ere I know the name of love", and bright

(Dante Alighieri was born in Florence in May, 1265, of manners most courteous and civil; and, both in public and an ancient and honourable family. In the early part of his private life, he was adniirably decorous."] life he gained some credit in a military character, and distin- 2 The reuer is requested to adopt the Italian pronunciation guished himself by his bravery in an action where the Flo. of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables. rentines obtained a signal victory over the citizeas of Arezzo.

3 “ Che sol per le belle opre lle became still invre eminent by the acquisition of court

Che fanno in Ciclo il sole e l'altre stelle honours; and at the age of thirty-five he rose to be one of the

Dentro di lui' si crede il Paradiso, chict inagistrates of Florence, when that dignity was conferred

Cosi se guardi fiso by the suffrages of the people. From this exaltation the poet

Pensar ben dei ch' ogni terren' piacere." himself dated his principal misfortunes. Italy was at that time districted by the contending factions of the Ghibelines

Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of Beatrice, and Guelphs, - among the latter Dante took an active part. Strophe third. In one of the proscriptions he was banished, his possessions * (According to Boccaccio, Dante was a lover long before confiscated, and he died in exile in 1321. Boccaccio thus de. he was a soldier, and his passion for the Beatrice whom he scribes his person and manners:-“lie was of the middle has immortalised commenced while he was in his ninth year, stature, of a mild disposition, and, from the time he arrived at and she in her cighth year. It is said that their first tuceting manhood, grave in his manner and deportment. llis clothes wils at a banquet in the house of Folco Portinaro, her father; were plain, and his dress always contormable to his years: and certain it is, that the impression then made on the suishis face was long ; his nose aquiline; his eyes rather large ceptible and constant heart of Dante was not obliterated by than otherwise. His complexion was dark, inelancholy, and her death, which happened after an interval of sixteen years. pensive. In his mcals he was extremely moderate; in his Cary.)

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Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought

No, - she denied me what was mine - my roof, With the world's war, and years, and banishment, And shall not have what is not hers - my tomb.

And tears for thee, by other woes untaught; Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof For mine is not a nature to be bent

The breast which would have bled for her, the heart By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd, That beat, the mind that was temptation proof,

And though the long, long conflict hath been spent The man who fought, toild, travell’d, and each part In vain, and never more, save when the cloud

Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye

For his reward the Guelf's ascendant art Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud

Pass his destruction even into a law. Of me, can I return, though but to die,

These things are not made for forgetfulness, Unto my native soil, they have not yet

Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw Quench'd the old cxile's spirit, stern and high. The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress But the sun, though not overcast, must set,

Of such endurance too prolong'd to make
And the night cometh; I am old in days,

My pardon greater, her injustice less,
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met Though late repented ; yet — yet for her sake
Destruction face to face in all his ways.

I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine,
The world hath left me, what it found mc, pure, My own Beatricē, I would hardly take
And if I have not gather'd yet its praise,

Vengeance upon the land which once was mine, I sought it not by any baser lure;

And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name Which would protect the murderess like a shrine, May form a monument not all obscure,

And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. Though such was not my ambition's end or aim, Though, like old Marius 3 from Minturnæ's marsh To add to the vain-glorious list of those

And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn Who dabble in the pettiness of fame,

At times with evil feelings hot and harsh, And make men's fickle breath the wind that Llows And son.etimes the last pangs of a vile foe Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd

Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch With conquerors, and virtue's other foes,

My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go ! In bloody chronicles of ages past.

Such are the last infirmities of those I would have had my Florence great and free: 1 Who long have suffer'd more than mortal woe,

Oh Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou wast And yet being mortal still, have no repose Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He

But on the pillow of Revenge - Revenge, Wept over,“ but thou wouldst not;" as the bird Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows

Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee With the oft-batfled, slakeless thirst of change, Beneath a parent pinion, badst thou heard

When we shall mount again, and they that trod My voice; but as the adder, deaf and fierce,

Be trampled on, while Death and Até range Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd O'er humble: heads and sever'd necks-Great God ! Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce,

Take these thoughts from me - to thy hands I yield And doom this body forfeit to the fire.

My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse

Will fall on those who smote me, - my shield ! To him who for that country would expire,

As thou hast been in peril, and in pain, But did not merit to expire by her,

In turbulent cities, and the tented field — And loves her, loves her even in her ire.

In toil, and many troubles borne in vain The day nay come when she will cease to err,

For Florence. 4 - - I appeal from her to Thee! The day may come she would be proud to have Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign,

The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer 2 Even in that glorious vision, which to see Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave.

And live was never granted until now, But this shall not be granted ; let my dust

And yet thou hast permitted this to me. Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust

The sense of earth and earthly things come back, Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume

Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low,
My indignant bones, because her angry gust The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack,
Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom ;

Long day, and dreary night; the retrospect

- be

L'Esilio che m'è dato onor mi tegno.
Cader tra' bouni è pur di lode degno."

Sonnet Of Dante,
in which he represents Right, Generosity, and Temperance
as banisheci from among men, and seeking refuge from Love,
who inhabits his boson:.

3." Ut si quis predictorum ullo tempore in fortiam dicti communis pervenerit, talis perreniens igne comburatur, sic quod moriatur." Second sentence of Florence against Dante, and the fourteen accused with him. The Latin is worthy of the sentence. - (On the 27th of January, 1302, Dante was mulcted eight thousand lire, and condeinned to two years' banishment ; and in case the fine was not paid, his goods were to be contiscated. On the eleventh of March, the same year, he was sentenced to a punishment due only to the mose des. perate of malefactors. The decree, that he and his associates in exile should be burned, if they fell into the hands of their enemies, was first discovered, in 1772, by the Conte Ludovico

Savioli. See Tiraboschi, where the sentence is given at length.)

3 [Under the pretence of opposing the power of Sylla, Marius, who had been five times elected to the consulship, aimed at the sovereign power. Stapylton says, that the Minturnian fens, in which he was discovered by Sylla's emissaries, were in Switzerland ! For this accurate piece of topography, he was indebted to the old scholiast.

The spot, however, lies on the right hand of the ferry of Garigliano, as you go from Rome to Naples. — GIFFORD.)

+ [In one so highly endowed by nature, and so consummate by instruction, we may well sympathise with a resentment which exile and poverty rendered perpetually fresh. But the heart of Dante was naturally sensible, and even tender : his poetry is full of comparisons irom rural life ; and the sincerity of his early passion for Beatrice pierces through the veil of allegory that surrounds her. But the memory of his injuries pursued him into the immensity of eternal light ; and in the company of saints and angels, his unforgiving spirit darkens at the name of Florence. - Hallam.)

Of half a century bloody and black, And the frail few years I may yet expect

Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear,

For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd On the lone rock of desolate Despair,

To lift my eyes more to the passing sail

Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare ; Nor raise my voice — for who would hocd 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

An eye to gaze upon their civil rage,
Did not my verse embalm full many an act

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, unhecded — fame;

And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die

Is nothing; but to wither thus — to tame My mind down from its own infinity

To uve in narrow ways with little men,

A common sight to every common eye,
A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den,

Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things

That make communion sweet, and soften pain To feel me in the solitude of kings

Without the power that makes them bear a crown

To envy every dove his nest and wings
Which waft him where the Apennine looks down

On Arno, till he perches, it may be,

Within my all inexorable town,
Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,'

Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought

Destruction for a dowry ? - this to see
And feel, and know without repair, hath taught

A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free :

I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, They maile an Exile - not a slave of me.

Forth from the abyss of time which is to be,

The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought Shapes that must undergo mortality;

What the great Secrs of Israel wore within,

That spirit was on them, and is on me, And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din

Of conflict none will hear, or hearing hecd

This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed,

The only guerdon I have ever known.

Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to blecil Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown

With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget

In thine irreparable wrongs my own ;
We can have but one country, and even get

Thou'rt mine-my bones shall be within thy breast,

My soul within thy language, which once sct With our old Roman sway in the wide West

But I will make another tongue arise

As lofty and more sweet, in which expressid The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs,

Shall find alike such sounds for every theme

That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, Shall realise a poet's proudest dream,

And make thee Europe's nightingale of song ;

So that all present speech to thine shall seem The note of meaner birds, and every tongue

Confess its barbarism when compared with thine.

This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, Thy Tuscan Bard, the banish'd Ghibelline.

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,

Float from eternity into these eyes ; {tion, The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their sta

The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb,

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 ! Yes I thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword,

Thou, Italy ! so fair that Paradise,

Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored : Ah ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ?

Thou, Italy ! whose ever golden fields,

Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice For the world's granary; thou, whose sky heaven gilds

With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue;

Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew,

And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments

From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew; Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints,

CANTO THE SECOND.

The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, [thought

When words were things that came to pass, and

Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold Their children's children's doom already brought

| This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from one of the most powerful Guelf families, named Donati. Corso Donati was the principal adversary of the Ghibellines. She is described as being * Admodum morosa, ul de Xantippe Socratis philosophi conjuge scriptum esse legiinus,” according to Giannozzo Manetti. But Lionardo Aretino is scandalised with Boccace, in his life of Dante, for saying that literary men should not marry.

“Qui il Boccaccio non ha pazienza, e dice, le mogli esser contrarie agli studj ; e non si ricorda che Socrate il più nobile filosofo che mai fosse, ebbe moglie e fi. gliuoli e uthici della Repubblica nella sua Città; e Aristotele che, &c. &c. ebbe duc inogli in varj tempi, ed ebbe figliuoli, e ricchezze assai, - E Marco Tullio - e Catone - e Varrone, - Seneca - ebbero moglie," &c. &c. It is odd that honest Lionardo's examples, with the exception of Scneca, and, for any thing I know, of Aristotle, are not the most felicitous. Tully's Terentia, and Socrates' Xantippe, by no means contributed to their husbands' happiness, whatever they might

as to their philosophy - Cato gave away his wife - of Varro's we know nothing - and of Seneca's only that she was disposed to die with him, but recovered, and lived several years afterwaris. But, says Lionardo, “L'uomo è animale civile, secondo piace a tutti i filosofi.' And thence concludes that the greatest proof of the animal's civism is." la prima congiunzione, dalla quale multiplicata nasce la Città."

2 [The violence of Gemma's temper proved a source of the bitterest suffering to Dante ; and in that passage of the In. ferno, where one of the characters says — • La fiera moglie più ch' altro, mi nuoce,

me, my wife,
Of savage temper, more than aught beside,

llath to this evil brought,' his own conjugal unhappiness must have recurred forcibly and painfully to his mind - CARY.]

Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made And makes your land impregnable, if earth

Her home; thou, all which fondest fancy paints, Could be so; but alone she will not war, And finds her prior vision but portray'd

Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth In fecble colours, when the eye — from the Alp In a soil where the mothers bring forth men: Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade

Not so with those whose souls are little worth; Of desert-loving pine, whose cmerald scalp

For them no fortress can avail, - the den Nods to the storm - dilates and dotes o'er thee, Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting And wistfully implores, as 't were, for help

Is more secure than walls of adamant, when To see thy sunny fields, my Italy,

The hearts of those within are quivering. Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still

Are ye not brave ? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil The more approach'd, and dearest were they free, Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to Thou — thou must wither to each tyrant's will : Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil, (bring

The Goth hath been,- the German, Frank, and Hun While still Division sows the seeds of woe
Are yet to come, – and on the imperial hill

And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil. Ruin, already proud of the deeds done

Oh! my own beauteous land ! so long laid low, By the old barbarians, there awaits the new,

So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won

When there is but required a single blow Rome at her feet lies bleeding; and the hue

To break the chain, yet — yet the Avenger stops, Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter

And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee, Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue,

And join their strength to that which with thee And deepens into red the saffron water

What is there wanting then to set thee free, (copes; Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest, And show thy beauty in its fullest light ?

And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, To make the Alps impassable; and we, Vowd to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased Her sons, may do this with one deed - - Unite.

Their ministry: the nations take their prey,

Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast
And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they

CANTO TIE THIRD.
Are; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore

Of the departed, and then go their way; But those, the human savages, explore

Frou out the mass of never-dying ill, (Sword, All paths of torture, and insatiate yet,

The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the With Ugolino hunger prowl for more.

Vials of wrath but emptied to refill Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set;! And flow again, I cannot all record The chiefless army of the dead, which late

That crowds on my prophetic eye: the earth Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met,

And ocean written o'er would not afford Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ;

Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth; Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance

Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. There where the farthest suns and stars have birth, Oh! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France, Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven, From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never

The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs Shall foreign standard to thy wails advance

Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven But Tiber shall become a mournful river.

Athwart the sound of archangelic songs, Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore,

Crush them, ye rocks! floods whelm them, and for Will not in vain arise to where belongs Why sleep the idle avalanches so,

[ever! | Omnipotence and mercy evermore : To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head ?

Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind, Why doth Eridanus but overflow

The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ?

The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey ? Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of Over Cambyses' host the desert spread

Earth's dust by immortality refined Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway

To sense and suffering, though the vain may scoff, Roll'd over Pharaoh and his thousands, — why, And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow Mountains and waters, do ye not as they ?

Before the storm because its breath is rough, And you, ye men! Romans, who dare not die, To thee, my country! whom before, as now, Sons of the conquerors who overthrew

I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre Those who o'erthrow proud Xerxes, where yet lic And melancholy gift high powers allow The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew,

To read the future; and if now my fire Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylæ ?

Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! Their passes morc alluring to the view

I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire ; of an invader ? is it they, or ye,

Think not that I would look on them and live. That to each host the mountain-gate unbar,

A spirit forces me to see and speak,
And leave the march in peace, the passage free? And for my guerdon grants not to survive ;
Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car,

My heart shall be pour'd over thce and break :

I See " Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guicci. arlini. There is another written by a Jacopo Luminarie, -(The original MS. of the latter work is proserra i inih. Royal Library at laris. It is entitled, “ Rasaglio Storico di tutto l'occorso, giorno per giorno, nel Sacco di Roma dell anno

MDXXVII, scritto da Jacopo Buonaparte, gentiluomo Sam. minintesc, che vi si trovo presente. an edition of it was printed at Cologne in !7:, to which is p:c:ixed a genealogy of the Buonapartc family.)

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