The Basvigliana of Monti: From Sismondi’s “Litterature Du Midi”

“Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes,Rest thou in deep and undisturb’d repose;Till at the last great day, from slumber’s bed,Heaven’s trumpet-summons shall awake the dead.

“Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower,And soft the breeze’s wing, till that dread hour;Nor let the wanderer passing o’er thee, breatheWords of keen insult to the dust beneath.

“Sleep thou in peace! Beyond the funeral pyre,There live no flames of vengeance or of ire;And midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shoreWhere mercy’s home hath been from days of yore.”

Thus to its earthly form the spirit cried,Then turn’d to follow its celestial guide;But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh,A lingering step, and oft reverted eye--As when a child’s reluctant feet obeyIts mother’s voice, and slowly leave its play.

Night o’er the earth her dewy veil had cast,When from th’ Eternal City’s towers they pass’d,And rising in their flight, on that proud dome,Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome,Lo! where a cherub-form sublimely tower’d,But dreadful in his glory! Sternly lower’dWrath in his kingly aspect. One he seem’dOf the bright seven, whose dazzling splendour beam’dOn high amidst the burning lamps of heaven,Seen in the dread, o’erwhelming visions givenTo the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fireSeem’d his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire;And his loose tresses, floating as he stood,A comet’s glare, presaging woe and blood.He waved his sword--its red, terrific lightWith fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night;While his left hand sustain’d a shield so vast,Far o’er the Vatican beneath was castIts broad, protecting shadow. As the plumeOf the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloomO’er its young brood, as yet untaught to soar;And while, all trembling at the whirlwind’s roar,Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest,Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast,They sleep unheeding; while the storm on highBreaks not their calm and proud security.

The air was heavy, and the brooding skiesLook’d fraught with omens, as to harmoniseWith his pale aspect. Through the forest roundNot a leaf whisper’d--and the only soundThat broke the stillness was a streamlet’s moanMurmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone,As if a storm within the woodland bowersWere gathering. On they moved--and lo! the towersOf a far city! Nearer now they drew;And all reveal’d, expanding on their view,The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woes--Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose!

In the dark mantle of a cloud array’d,Viewless and hush’d, the angel and the shadeEnter’d that evil city. Onward pass’dThe heavenly being first, with brow o’ercastAnd troubled mien, while in his glorious eyesTears had obscured the splendour of the skies.Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit sawThat alter’d aspect, and, in breathless awe,Mark’d the strange silence round. The deep-toned swellOf life’s full tide was hush’d; the sacred bell,The clamorous anvil, mute; all sounds were fledOf labour or of mirth, and in their steadTerror and stillness, boding signs of woe,Inquiring glances, rumours whisper’d low,Questions half-utter’d, jealous looks that keepA fearful watch around, and sadness deepThat weighs upon the heart; and voices, heardAt intervals, in many a broken word--Voices of mothers, trembling as they press’dTh’ unconscious infant closer to their breast;Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries,And the wild eloquence of tears and sighs,On their own thresholds striving to detainTheir fierce impatient lords; but weak and vainAffection’s gentle bonds, in that dread hourOf fate and fury--Love hath lost his power!For evil spirits are abroad, the airBreathes of their influence. Druid phantoms there,Fired by that thirst for victims which of oldRaged in their bosoms fierce and uncontroll’d,Rush, in ferocious transport, to surveyThe deepest crime that e’er hath dimm’d the day.Blood, human blood, hath stain’d their vests and hair,On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare,Scattering red showers around them! Flaming brandsAnd serpent scourges in their restless handsAre wildly shaken. Others lift on highThe steel, th’ envenom’d bowl; and, hurrying by,With touch of fire contagious fury dartThrough human veins, fast kindling to the heart.Then comes the rush of crowds! restrain’d no more,Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour;From every heart affrighted mercy flies,While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies.Then the earth trembles, as from street to streetThe tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet,The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze,Come deepening onward, as the swell of seasHeard at the dead of midnight; or the moanOf distant tempests, or the hollow toneOf the far thunder! Then what feelings press’d,O wretched Basville! on thy guilty breast;What pangs were thine, thus fated to beholdDeath’s awful banner to the winds unfold!To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high--The dark impatience of the murderer’s eye,Eager for crime! And he, the great, the good,Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for bloodDragg’d to a felon’s death! Yet still his mien,Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene;And his step falters not. O hearts unmoved!Where have you borne your monarch?--He who loved--Loved you so well! Behold! the sun grows pale,Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil;The misty air is silent, as in dread,And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o’erspread;While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest,Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest.

In that dread moment, to the fatal pileThe regal victim came; and raised the whileHis patient glance, with such an aspect high,So firm, so calm, in holy majesty,That e’en th’ assassins’ hearts a moment shookBefore the grandeur of that kingly look;And a strange thrill of pity, half-renew’d,Ran through the bosoms of the multitude.

Like Him, who, breathing mercy to the last,Pray’d till the bitterness of death was past--E’en for his murderers pray’d, in that dark hourWhen his soul yielded to affliction’s power,And the winds bore his dying cry abroad--“Hast thou forsaken me, my God! my God?”--E’en thus the monarch stood; his prayer arose,Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes--“To Thee my spirit I commend,” he cried;“And my lost people, Father! be their guide!”

But the sharp steel descends--the blow is given,And answer’d by a thunder-peal from heaven;Earth, stain’d with blood, convulsive terrors owns,And her kings tremble on their distant thrones!