“Look, O mother, through yon shadowy Trees, beyond their gloomy cover: Canst thou not an atom see Toward us from the distance start? Seest thou not the dust rise cloudily, And above the highway hover? Come at last! 'T is he! 't is he! Mother, something breaks my heart.”
Ah, poor child! she raises wearily Her dim eyes, and, turning slowly, Seeks the sun, and leaves this strife With a loved name in her breath. Ah, poor child! in vain she waited him. In the grave they made her lowly Bridal bed. And thou, O life! Hast no hopes that know not death?
Among Prati's patriotic poems, I have read one which seems to me rather vivid, and which because it reflects yet another phase of that great Italian resurrection, as well as represents Prati in one of his best moods, I will give here:
With ears intent, with eyes abased, Like a shadow still my steps thou hast chased; If I whisper aught to my friend, I feel Thee follow quickly upon my heel. Poor wretch, thou fill'st me with loathing; fly! Thou art a spy!
When thou eatest the bread that thou dost win With the filthy wages of thy sin, The hideous face of treason anear Dost thou not see? dost thou not fear? Poor wretch, thou fill'st me with loathing; fly! Thou art a spy!
The thief may sometimes my pity claim; Sometimes the harlot for her shame; Even the murderer in his chains A hidden fear from me constrains; But thou only fill'st me with loathing; fly! Thou art a spy!
Fly, poor villain; draw thy hat down, Close be thy mantle about thee thrown; And if ever my words weigh on thy heart, Betake thyself to some church apart; There, “Lord, have mercy!” weep and cry: “I am a spy!”
Forgiveness for thy great sin alone Thou may'st hope to find before his throne. Dismayed by thy snares that all abhor, Brothers on earth thou hast no more; Poor wretch, thou fill'st me with loathing; fly! Thou art a spy!
In the first quarter of the century was born a poet, in the village of San Giorgio, near Verona, of parents who endowed their son with the magnificent name of Aleardo Aleardi. His father was one of those small proprietors numerous in the Veneto, and, though not indigent, was by no means a rich man. He lived on his farm, and loved it, and tried to improve the condition of his tenants. Aleardo's childhood was spent in the country,--a happy fortune for a boy anywhere, the happiest fortune if that country be Italy, and its scenes the grand and beautiful scenes of the valley of the Adige. Here he learned to love nature with the passion that declares itself everywhere in his verse; and hence he was in due time taken and placed at school in the Collegio { note: Not a college in the American sense, but a private school of a high grade.} of Sant' Anastasia, in Verona, according to the Italian system, now fallen into disuse, of fitting a boy for the world by giving him the training of a cloister. It is not greatly to Aleardi's discredit that he seemed to learn nothing there, and that he drove his reverend preceptors to the desperate course of advising his removal. They told his father he would make a good farmer, but a scholar, never. They nicknamed him the _mole_, for his dullness; but, in the mean time, he was making underground progress of his own, and he came to the surface one day, a mole no longer, to everybody's amazement, but a thing of such flight and song as they had never seen before,--in fine, a poet. He was rather a scapegrace, after he ceased to be a mole, at school; but when he went to the University at Padua, he became conspicuous among the idle, dissolute students of that day for temperate life and severe study. There he studied law, and learned patriotism; political poetry and interviews with the police were the consequence, but no serious trouble.