On the Monument of Dante About to Be Erected in Florence

Although our race at lastBy Peace is sheltered 'neath her snowy wings,Italian spirits ne'erShall rive the chains by ancient languor cast,Unless our hapless country to the fameOf her proud sires her meditation brings.Italia! bear in mindTo honour the departed, for of suchThy provinces are empty; none can claimLike 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 againOf 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 learnWhere he the ashes of the bard can findWho equalled Ilion's poet in his song.And, oh inglorious day!He hears not only that the body cold,The naked bones afarAre lying in a weary exile long,But that not even within thy walls a stone,O Florence! stands for him, whose glory oldShines on thee like a star.O ye, thrice bounteous, by whose deed aloneShall 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-starredItalian land, ye generous, be your guide!She, to whom pity is deadIn every heart, for wretched and most hardAre now the days that follow her past joy.May you, by mercy, be with fire suppliedTo crown the works you wrought!May grief and wrath inspire you for the woeWhence Italy is weeping her annoy!But with what praise, or what immortal songShall 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 feedThe never dying fire, and your high thoughts express?Like torches, verily, the noble themeShall in your spirit throw the kindling blaze.Who can the wave describeOf 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 thingA faint reflection give?Hence, ye profane! what tears of joyaunce nowThe marble proud form Italy shall claim?Shall it e'er fall? Shall time a shadow flingOn 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 twineYour loveliness, preserving our old honour's trace.Lo! I as well with zealInspired to honour our grieved and sublimeMother, 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 wholeWide world despised, shall weep in everlasting woe.But not for thee, for this thy hapless landBe joyous, if the example of its sireCan ever give such strengthUnto the race, so sunk in slumber's hand,That for a moment it can greatly dare.Oh! by what evils direThou seest her bowed down, who so ill-starredSeemed to thine eyes when thouTo 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 nowThat 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 FateDid not condemn such horrors to behold!Who didst not see embraced,By foemen fierce, Italian wives; nor hateAnd foreign fury desolate each field,And rob the cities of their goods and gold;Nor of Italian skillThe works divine to wretched thraldom ledBeyond the Alpine snows; nor cannons wieldTheir ponderous weight along the grief-thronged road;Nor stern commands, nor haughty rule for ill;Nor didst thou hear the insults and the dreadAbuse of Freedom's name, which seemed to goadOur grief, while lashes did resound and chains.Who did not grieve? What did we not endure?What region ne'er complainsOf how those recreants sinned? What temple was secure?Why in such evil times did we appear?Why didst thou give us birth, O cruel fate?Or why not early death?Enslaved and subject is our land so dearTo strangers and blasphemers; all her prideIs fallen and desolate;No succour and no comfort can we see;All balm to ease the painThat gives her keenest anguish, is denied;No solace can our bitter quest perceive.Alas! our life blood we gave not to thee,Land, dear to us in vain!Nor have I perished; though for thee I grieve.Here wrath and pity in all hearts abound:Full many of our number fought and bled:Alas! their doom they found,Not for our Italy, but for her tyrants dread.O Father, if thine ireLies dormant, thou art other than of yore;Upon the barbarous plainsOf Scythia, the Italian brave expire,Worthy of other death; the winds and skies,The beasts and men wage on them cruel war.In mighty hosts they fell,Naked and wasted, and with gore besmeared.For their dire bed the fatal snowstorm lies.Then as they felt their last, expiring pain,To her with whom their deep affections dwell,They said: "Oh, not the clouds or winds that rearedTheir deadly force, but steel, and for thy gain,Should end our lives, dear country! From thee far,When fairest years begin to meet our gaze,We, who all unknown are,Perish for that dire race which fetters thee and slays."For their lament the Arctic desert bleakFelt pity, and the moaning forests old.Thus did they meet their end,And wild beasts their neglected bodies seekUpon that horrid ocean of deep snow,Devouring their limbs cold;And the renown of the sublime and braveShall lie with those for ayeWhom tardy vileness claimeth. Though your woeBe infinite, ye cherished souls so dear!Yet be at peace; and this console your grave,That consolation's rayShall neither now nor in a future yearBe seen by you. Rest in your sorrow vast,O ye true sons of her to whose supremeMisfortunes unsurpassed,Yours only is so great it can their equal seem!Ah! not of you complainsYour native land, but of the one who madeYour weapons 'gainst her rise,So that for evermore she mourns her pains,And with your sorrows bids her own resound.Oh! would for her, whom once Renown arrayed,Fair Pity's light were shedIn such a heart as could to her be sentTo raise her from the dark abyss profoundWhere she is lying! O! thou glorious Bard!Say, of thine Italy if love be dead?Say, if the flame that fired thee now be spent?Say, shall no more that wreath its verdure guardWherewith we did so long our ills beguile?Lie all our crowns now shattered in the dust?Nor in a little whileShall men arise like thee so generous and just?Are we for ever withered? And our shameNo boundaries can hold?I, whilst I live, shall everywhere exclaim:--"Thou evil race, turn to thine ancestors;Survey these ruins old,And all the treasures wondrous arts bestow:Think on what soil thou treadest; if thy heartFeels not the light such high examples show,Why stay? Rise and depart.To be the scene of deeds so mean and fell,This land of mighty heroes was not made:If cravens here must dwell,'Twere better it should be deserted and betrayed."