Thou, Italy! whose ever golden fields, Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made In feeble colours, when the eye-from the Alp Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still The more approach'd, and dearest were they free, By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest, VOL. II. BB And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, All paths of torture, and insatiate yet, Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set ; (6) Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate; Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, ever! Why sleep the idle avalanches so, To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head? Why doth Eridanus but overflow The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed? Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey? Over Cambyses' host the desert spread Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway Roll'd over Pharaoh and his thousands,-why, Mountains and waters, do ye not as they? Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, In a soil where the mothers bring forth men : Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting Is more secure than walls of adamant, when The hearts of those within are quivering. ; Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring Against Oppression; but how vain the toil, While still Division sows the seeds of woe And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil. Oh! my own beauteous land! so long laid low, So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, When there is but required a single blow To break the chain, yet-yet the Avenger stops, And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee, And join their strength to that which with thee copes; What is there wanting then to set thee free, THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. CANTO III. FROM out the mass of never-dying ill, The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the Sword, Vials of wrath but emptied to refill And flow again, I cannot all record That crowds on my prophetic eye: the earth Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth; Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, There where the farthest suns and stars have birth, Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven, The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs |