TO THE LATIN RACE.[22]
Arise, arise renewed, O Latin race,
Beneath the great cope of thy golden sun
The russet grape is bubbling in the press,
And gushing forth the wine of God shall run.
With hair all loosened to the sacred breeze
From Tabor’s Mount—thou art the race of light,
That lives of joy, and round about whose knees
Enthusiasm springs, and pure delight;
The Apostolic race, that through the land
Sets all the bells a-ringing once again;
Thou art the trumpet that proclaims—the hand
That scatters far and wide the bounteous grain.
Arise, arise renewed, O Latin race, &c.
Thy mother-tongue, that mighty stream that flows
Afar through seven branches, never dies;
But light and love outpouring, onward goes,
An echo that resounds from Paradise.
O Roman daughter of the People-King,
Thy golden language, it is still the song
That human lips unceasingly shall sing—
While words yet have a meaning—ages long.
Thy blood illustrious on every side
Hath been outpoured for justice and for right;
Thy mariners across the distant tide
Have sailed to bring an unknown world to light.
A hundred times the pulsing of thy thought
Hath shattered and brought low thy kings of yore;
Ah! but for thy divisions, who had sought
Ever to rule thee, or to frame thy law!
Arise, arise renewed, &c.
Kindling thy torch at radiances divine
From the high stars, ’tis thou hast given birth,
In shapes of marble and in pictured line,
To Beauty’s self, incarnate upon earth.
The native country thou of god-like Art,
All graces and all sweetness come from thee,
Thou art the source of joy for every heart,
Yea, thou art youth, and ever more shalt be.
Arise, arise renewed, &c.