On the Marriage of His Sister Paolina

Now that thy home thou leavest,Its happy silence and serene repose,And the ancient error which from Heaven flows,Adorning in thy sight this lone abode,By Fortune led upon the scene of life:Become acquainted with the evil ageWhich destiny devoteth to our years,My sister, who in timesOf strife, dismay, and fears,Proceedest to increase the ill-starred raceOf hapless Italy. Great models placeBefore thine offspring. An unswerving doomTo virtuous enterpriseUnclouded days denies,Nor in a bosom faint can lofty soul find room.Unhappy or else cravenShall be thy sons. Then nobly choose the first.A mighty gulf hath evil custom set'Twixt bravery and fortune. Ah! too slow,And in the sunset of terrestrial things,Doth man begin to suffer and to know.Heaven see'th why. The thought unto thee bringsIts first solicitude,That not in Fortune's netThy sons shall fall, nor be to terror low,Or hope the wretched tools: thence to be hailedHappy and blessed in the future far:For such the habits areOf our ignoble race,That living worth we scorn, and dead in honour place.Our fatherland, O women!Expecteth much from ye; and not to harmOur humankind, lurks in your eyes such charmThat it transcends the power of fire and steel.To gain your praise, the warrior and the sageLabour and think. Where'er the sun doth shine,We see all things your mighty influence feel.Of you the cause I askWhy sank so low our age?Did by your deed the fire of youth divineLanguish and die? By you, our nature madeSo shattered and so base? Our slumbering souls,Our will to shame betrayed,Our native valour spent:Must we for these on you our indignation vent?Love leads to mighty actions,Who knows him well; and of emotions vastIs Beauty the inspirer. Void of loveIs he who feeleth no impassioned fireWhen storms terrific raise their wrathful blast,When sable clouds are darkly seen above,And mountains tremble at their frenzy dire.O wives and virgins fair!From you scorn be his shareWho shuns the path of danger; who ignoresHis country's claim, unworthy; who adoresA lowly idol in his recreant mind;If in your hearts you findThe love of men doth glowAnd not of those who ever trivial fancy show.Scorn to be named the mothersOf an unwarlike race. The trials deepOf virtue let your offspring learn to bear,And in the bondage of contempt to keepWhate'er is honoured by this shameful age.Bid them rise to great actions. Make them knowWhat this our land doth to its fathers owe.Even as the heroes' nameWas held in honoured fameBy Sparta's sons as they increased in years,Until their spouses girded on their sword,And then their death in anguish deep deplored,And rent their hair with tearsWhen from the gory fieldThe warrior was brought home upon his faithful shield.With heavenly skill, Virginia,Did all-prevailing beauty mould thy form,And thy disdain made Rome's ignoble lordIn tempests of fierce passion rage and storm.Yes, thou wast fair, and in those happy yearsWhen pleasing dreams joy to the soul afford,What time thy father's unrelenting swordThy snowy bosom pierced,And thou to Hades darkDidst gladly sink. "May age with wrinkles markMy features, O my father! May the tombAwait me with its everlasting gloom,Ere to the tyrant's bedA victim I be led.Slay me, if Rome be rescued by the blood I shed."O maiden lofty-hearted!Though in thy days the sun more brightly shoneThan now it shines, yet honoured and consoledThy tomb becomes, bewailed by many a moan,Thy native country's sighs. Ah, now, behold!The race of Romulus with new-born ireIs fired around thy tomb. See, tyrants sinkUnto the very dust,And freedom doth inspireThe once oblivious hearts; and o'er the earthSubdued, the Latin valour doth proceedFrom the dark pole even to the torrid clime:And thus eternal Rome,Of languor deep the home,Doth Fate, by woman's hand, revive a second time.