And pilgrims come from climes where they have known A common sight to every common eye, Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things Without the power that makes them bear a crown— Within my all inexorable town, Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she," Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 8 This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from one of the most powerful Guelph families, named Donati. Corso Donati was the principal adversary of the Ghibellines. She is described as being "Admodum morosa, ut de Xantippe Socratis philosophi conjuge scriptum esse legimus," 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 figliuoli e uffici della Repubblica nella sua Città; e Aristotele che, &c., &c., ebbe due mogli in varj tempi, ed ebbe figliuoli, e ricchezze assai.-E Marco Tullio-e Catone-e Varronee Seneca-ebbero moglie," &c. &c. It is odd that honest Lionardo's examples, with the exception of Seneca, and, for anything 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 do 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 afterwards. 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." CANTO THE SECOND. THE Spirit of the fervent days of Old, When words were things that came to pass, and thought Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold Their children's children's doom already brought Forth from the abyss of time which is to be, What the great Seers of Israel wore within, Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed Hast thou not bled? and hast thou still to bleed, We can have but one country, and even yet Thou'rt mine-my bones shall be within thy breast, As lofty and more sweet, in which express'd Shall find alike such sounds for every theme And make thee Europe's nightingale of song; The note of meaner birds, and every tongue Confess its barbarism when compared with thine. Woe! woe! the veil of coming centuries The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station, 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! 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 Iler 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, Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made In feeble colours, when the eye-from the Alp Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still The more approach'd, and dearest were they free, Thou-thou must wither to each tyrant's will: The Goth hath been,-the German, Frank, and Hun By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest, All paths of torture, and insatiate yet, Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set ;' Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. But Tiber shall become a mournful river. Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, Crush them, ye rocks! floods whelm them, and for ever! Why sleep the idle avalanches so, To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head? Why doth Eridanus but overflow The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed? Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey? Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 1 See "Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guicciardini. There is another written by a Jacopo Buonaparte. Her sandy ocean, and the sea-waves' sway Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie Are the Alps weaker than Thermopyla? That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, In a soil where the mothers bring forth men For them no fortress can avail,-the den Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting The hearts of those within are quivering. Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil While still Division sows the seeds of woe And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee, What is there wanting then to set thee free, And show thy beauty in its fullest light? |