The northern desert and the whispering groves, Sole witnesses of their lament, As thus they passed away! And their neglected corpses, as they lay Upon that horrid sea of snow exposed, Were by the beasts consumed; The memories of the brave and good, And of the coward and the vile, Unto the same oblivion doomed! Dear souls, though infinite your wretchedness, Rest, rest in peace! And yet what peace is yours, Who can no comfort ever know While Time endures! Rest in the depths of your unmeasured woe, O ye, her children true, Whose fate alone with hers may vie, In endless, hopeless misery!
But she rebukes you not, Ah, no, but these alone, Who forced you with her to contend; And still her bitter tears she blends with yours, In wretchedness that knows no end. Oh that some pity in the heart were born, For her, who hath all other glories won, Of one, who from this dark, profound abyss, Her weak and weary feet could guide! Thou glorious shade, oh! say, Does no one love thy Italy? Say, is the flame that kindled thee extinct? And will that myrtle never bloom again, That hath so long consoled us in our pain? Must all our garlands wither in the dust? And shall we a redeemer never see, Who may, in part, at least, resemble thee?
Are we forever lost? Is there no limit to our shame? I, while I live, will never cease to cry: “Degenerate race, think of thy ancestry! Behold these ruins vast, These pictures, statues, temples, poems grand! Think of the glories of thy native land! If they thy soul cannot inspire or warn, Why linger here? Arise! Begone! This holy ground must not be thus defiled, And must no shelter give Unto the coward and the slave! Far better were the silence of the grave!”
TO ANGELO MAI,ON HIS DISCOVERY OF THE LOST BOOKS OF CICERO, “DE REPUBLICA.”
Italian bold, why wilt thou never cease The fathers from their tombs to summon forth? Why bring them, with this dead age to converse, That stifled is by enemies and by sloth? And why dost thou, voice of our ancestors, That hast so long been mute, Resound so loud and frequent in our ears? Why all these grand discoveries? As in a flash the fruitful pages come, What hath this wretched age deserved, That dusty cloisters have for it reserved These hidden treasures of the wise and brave? Illustrious man, with what strange power Does Fate thy ardent zeal befriend? Or does Fate vainly with man’s will contend?
Without the lofty counsel of the gods, It surely could not be, that now, When we were never sunk so low, In desperate oblivion of the Past, Each moment, comes a cry renewed, From our great sires, to shake our souls, at last! Heaven still some pity shows for Italy; Some god hath still our happiness at heart: Since this, or else no other, is the hour, Italian virtue to redeem, And its old lustre once more to impart, These pleading voices from the grave we hear; Forgotten heroes rise from earth again, To see, my country, if at this late day, Thou still art pleased the coward’s part to play.
And do ye cherish still, Illustrious shades, some hope of us? Have we not perished utterly? To you, perhaps, it is allowed, to read The book of destiny. I am dismayed, And have no refuge from my grief; For dark to me the future is, and all That I discern is such, as makes hope seem A fable and a dream. To your old homes A wretched crew succeed; to noble act or word, They pay no heed; for your eternal fame They know no envy, feel no blush of shame. A filthy mob your monuments defile: To ages yet unborn, We have become a by-word and a scorn.
Thou noble spirit, if no others care For our great Fathers’ fame, oh, care thou still, Thou, to whom Fate hath so benignant been, That those old days appear again, When, roused from dire oblivion’s tomb, Came forth, with all the treasures of their lore, Those ancient bards, divine, with whom Great Nature spake, but still behind her veil, And with her mysteries graced The holidays of Athens and of Rome. O times, now buried in eternal sleep! Our country’s ruin was not then complete; We then a life of wretched sloth disdained; Still from our native soil were borne afar, Some sparks of genius by the passing air.
Thy holy ashes still were warm, Whom hostile fortune ne’er unmanned; Unto whose anger and whose grief, Hell was more grateful than thy native land. Ah, what, but hell, has Italy become? And thy sweet cords Still trembled at the touch of thy right hand, Unhappy bard of love. Alas, Italian song is still the child Of sorrow born. And yet, less hard to bear, Consuming grief than dull vacuity! O blessed thou, whose life was one lament! Disgust and nothingness are still our doom, And by our cradle sit, and on our tomb.
But thy life, then, was with the stars and sea, Liguria’s hardy son, When thou, beyond the columns and the shores, Where oft, at set of sun, The waves are heard to hiss, As he into their depths has plunged, Committed to the boundless deep, Didst find again the sun’s declining ray, The new-born day didst find, When it from us had passed away; Defying Nature’s every obstacle, A land unknown didst win, the glorious spoils Of all thy perils, all thy toils. And yet, when known, the world seems smaller still; And earth and ocean, and the heavenly sphere More vast unto the child, than to the sage appear.