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Translated by Lady Dacre
O MY own Italy! though words are vain | |
| The mortal wounds to close, | |
| Unnumbered, that thy beauteous bosom stain, | |
| Yet may it soothe my pain | |
| To sigh forth Tiber’s woes, | 5 |
| And Arno’s wrongs, as on Po’s saddened shore | |
| Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour. | |
| Ruler of Heaven! by the all-pitying love | |
| That could thy Godhead move | |
| To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth,— | 10 |
| Turn, Lord, on this thy chosen land thine eye! | |
| See, God of charity, | |
| From what light cause this cruel war has birth! | |
| And the hard hearts by savage discord steeled, | |
| Thou, Father, from on high, | 15 |
| Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield! | |
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| Ye, to whose sovereign hands the Fates confide | |
| Of this fair land the reins,— | |
| This land, for which no pity wrings your breast,— | |
| Why does the stranger’s sword her plains infest? | 20 |
| That her green fields be dyed, | |
| Hope ye, with blood from the barbarians’ veins? | |
| Beguiled by error weak, | |
| Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast, | |
| Who love or faith in venal bosoms seek: | 25 |
| When thronged your standards most, | |
| Ye are encompassed most by hostile bands. | |
| O hideous deluge gathered in strange lands, | |
| That, rushing down amain, | |
| O’erwhelms our every native lovely plain! | 30 |
| Alas! if our own hands | |
| Have thus our weal betrayed, who shall our cause sustain? | |
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| Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state, | |
| Rear her rude Alpine heights, | |
| A lofty rampart against German hate; | 35 |
| But blind Ambition, seeking his own ill, | |
| With ever restless will, | |
| To the pure gales contagion foul invites: | |
| Within the same strait fold | |
| The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng, | 40 |
| Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong; | |
| And these—O shame avowed!— | |
| Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold: | |
| Fame tells how Marius’ sword | |
| Erewhile their bosoms gored,— | 45 |
| Nor has Time’s hand aught blurred the record proud! | |
| When they who, thirsting, stooped to quaff the flood, | |
| With the cool waters mixed, drank of a comrade’s blood! | |
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| Great Cæsar’s name I pass, who o’er our plains | |
| Poured forth the ensanguined tide, | 50 |
| Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins; | |
| But now—nor know I what ill stars preside— | |
| Heaven holds this land in hate! | |
| To you the thanks, whose hands control her helm!— | |
| You, whose rash feuds despoil | 55 |
| Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm! | |
| Are ye impelled by judgment, crime, or fate, | |
| To oppress the desolate? | |
| From broken fortunes and from humble toil | |
| The hard-earned dole to wring, | 60 |
| While from afar ye bring | |
| Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire? | |
| In truth’s great cause I sing, | |
| Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire. | |
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| Nor mark ye yet, confirmed by proof on proof, | 65 |
| Bavaria’s perfidy, | |
| Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof; | |
| (Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honor’s eye!) | |
| While ye with honest rage, devoted pour | |
| Your inmost bosom’s gore?— | 70 |
| Yet give one hour to thought, | |
| And ye shall own how little he can hold | |
| Another’s glory dear, who sets his own at naught. | |
| O Latin blood of old, | |
| Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame, | 75 |
| Nor bow before a name | |
| Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce! | |
| For if barbarians rude | |
| Have higher minds subdued, | |
| Ours, ours the crime!—not such wise Nature’s course. | 80 |
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| Ah! is not this the soil my foot first pressed? | |
| And here, in cradled rest, | |
| Was I not softly hushed,—here fondly reared? | |
| Ah! is not this my country, so endeared | |
| By every filial tie, | 85 |
| In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie? | |
| O, by this tender thought | |
| Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought, | |
| Look on the people’s grief, | |
| Who, after God, of you expect relief! | 90 |
| And if ye but relent, | |
| Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might, | |
| Against blind fury bent, | |
| Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight; | |
| For no,—the ancient flame | 95 |
| Is not extinguished yet, that raised the Italian name! | |
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| Mark, sovereign lords, how Time, with pinion strong, | |
| Swift hurries life along! | |
| E’en now, behold, Death presses on the rear! | |
| We sojourn here a day,—the next, are gone! | 100 |
| The soul, disrobed, alone, | |
| Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear. | |
| O, at the dreaded bourn | |
| Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn! | |
| (Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!) | 105 |
| And ye, whose cruelty | |
| Has sought another’s harm, by fairer deed | |
| Of heart or hand or intellect, aspire | |
| To win the honest meed | |
| Of just renown, the noble mind’s desire! | 110 |
| Thus sweet on earth the stay! | |
| Thus to the spirit pure unbarred is heaven’s way! | |
| My song, with courtesy, and numbers sooth, | |
| Thy daring reasons grace! | |
| For thou the mighty, in their pride of place, | 115 |
| Must woo to gentle ruth, | |
| Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse, | |
| Ever to truth averse! | |
| Thee better fortunes wait, | |
| Among the virtuous few, the truly great! | 120 |
| Tell them, But who shall bid my terrors cease? | |
| Peace! Peace! on thee I call! return, O heaven-born Peace! | |
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