ON THE MONUMENT OF DANTE ABOUT TO BE ERECTED IN FLORENCE.
Although our race at last By Peace is sheltered 'neath her snowy wings, Italian spirits ne'er Shall rive the chains by ancient languor cast, Unless our hapless country to the fame Of her proud sires her meditation brings. Italia! bear in mind To honour the departed, for of such Thy provinces are empty; none can claim Like praise of those who now are drawing breath. Turn and behold the numbers unconfined, My land, of heroes whom no time can touch, And full of shame bewail thine honour's death, For without indignation grief is vain: Turn to the past, and by thy shame revive, And mindful be again Of those who are no more, of those who still do strive. Different in face, in language, and in mind, On Tuscan soil the stranger takes his way, Desirous much to learn Where he the ashes of the bard can find Who equalled Ilion's poet in his song. And, oh inglorious day! He hears not only that the body cold, The naked bones afar Are lying in a weary exile long, But that not even within thy walls a stone, O Florence! stands for him, whose glory old Shines on thee like a star. O ye, thrice bounteous, by whose deed alone Shall this reproach be banished from our land! A noble work is thine, whence love shall flow, Renowned and courteous band, From hearts that with deep love for Italy yet glow. Yes, love for the ill-starred Italian land, ye generous, be your guide! She, to whom pity is dead In every heart, for wretched and most hard Are now the days that follow her past joy. May you, by mercy, be with fire supplied To crown the works you wrought! May grief and wrath inspire you for the woe Whence Italy is weeping her annoy! But with what praise, or what immortal song Shall we extol you, who not merely in thought, But with the genius whence your bosoms glow, Sublimest palms shall find in ages long, Your land adorning with so high a deed? Unto your souls what lay shall I address, That in your hearts may feed The never dying fire, and your high thoughts express? Like torches, verily, the noble theme Shall in your spirit throw the kindling blaze. Who can the wave describe Of your proud ire and patriotic dream? say, who can paint the rapture of your brow? The lightning of your gaze? What mortal utterance of celestial thing A faint reflection give? Hence, ye profane! what tears of joyaunce now The marble proud form Italy shall claim? Shall it e'er fall? Shall time a shadow fling On your renown? Ye live, Wherewith the anguish of our grief we tame, Ye live for aye, O cherished arts divine! The only comfort of our hapless race. Ye round our ruins twine Your loveliness, preserving our old honour's trace. Lo! I as well with zeal Inspired to honour our grieved and sublime Mother, bring what I can, And with my song join in your chisel's peal, Reclining where your skill gives marble life. O lofty father of Etruscan rhyme! If of terrestrial things, And if of her whom thou hast placed so high, In thine abode the tidings can be rife: I know that not for thee thou feelest joy, That frailer than the sands the ocean brings, Likened to thy renown, which ne'er shall die, Are bronze and marble; and if years destroy, Or have destroyed, thine image in our soul, Our anguish shall even more disastrous grow, And thy race, by the whole Wide world despised, shall weep in everlasting woe. But not for thee, for this thy hapless land Be joyous, if the example of its sire Can ever give such strength Unto the race, so sunk in slumber's hand, That for a moment it can greatly dare. Oh! by what evils dire Thou seest her bowed down, who so ill-starred Seemed to thine eyes when thou To Paradise didst finally repair! Now so reduced that, to her present plight, She then was like a queen whom splendours guard. Such anguish crowns her now That when thou seest, thou mayst doubt thy sight. The other evils and the other foes, But not the newest and the most unkind, I shall in silence close, Whereby thy land well nigh its fatal hour did find. Thrice blessed thou, whom Fate Did not condemn such horrors to behold! Who didst not see embraced, By foemen fierce, Italian wives; nor hate And foreign fury desolate each field, And rob the cities of their goods and gold; Nor of Italian skill The works divine to wretched thraldom led Beyond the Alpine snows; nor cannons wield Their ponderous weight along the grief-thronged road; Nor stern commands, nor haughty rule for ill; Nor didst thou hear the insults and the dread Abuse of Freedom's name, which seemed to goad Our grief, while lashes did resound and chains.