by William Stigant.
Originally published in Temple Bar (Ward and Lock) vol.1 #2 (Jan 1861).
The fervour of a new and mighty gladness
Has pass'd into the world, and cannot die;
The eyes of Faith, no longer dimm'd with sadness,
See promise of new dawn within the sky.
For Youth and Freedom, Love and Poesy,
Clasp'd hands, and tears of rapture dew'd the cheek;
And Hope leapt up and cried exultingly
When from the clangour of War's sulphurous reek
The Austrian vulture flew with shatter'd plume and beak.
And she, the glorious child of Europe's morn,
The eldest born of Rome,—she heard the sound;
She drank the thund'rous boom of cannon born
There, where she lay in darkness underground;
She knew the hour—as with impulsive bound
She leapt upon the dungeon-floor—the roof
Was riven asunder, and the walls around
Fell, and her chains, as though at Heav'n's reproof,
Fled from her limbs like threads of some enchanted woof.
She cried; and all the radiant forms of Truth
Came from afar to see the glorious thrall
Clad in the splendour of her deathless Youth,
Unstained by bondage and the things which crawl
In slimy stealth upon the dungeon-wall.
Each Emanation of the Eternal Flame,
The Poet-dreams, the fair creations all,
Glories, and wingèd ministers of Fame,
Winnowing the infinite air, around Italia came.
Foremost of all the immortal company,
The sweet Castalian pow'rs were rang'd around;
From whom all Science, Art, and Poesy
Clothe the dim thoughts of men; Urania wound
Her arm around her form, the while she crown'd
With a star-woven anadem her brow,
And cried, "O joy! dear Child, that we have found
Thy hero soul, thy woman's love; for now
Europe has need to feel thy pulse's ancient glow.
"Yes! Europe needs the grand and simple heart
Which thou didst nourish in thy sons of yore;
For in the rush of traffic and the mart
The bloom and grace of Life die more and more.
And Unbelief, with wither'd lips and frore,
E'en on Spring's blossoms breathes her scorching rime;
Ah, me! Italia, voiceless anguish tore
Thy heart when thou, misled by Faith sublime,
Laid down thy spear and shield amid an age of crime."
Then spake Italia: "In my youth's dim dawn
Vast were my dreams; when the Barbarian wars
Had ceas'd, and Hun and Vandal had withdrawn,
Darkling, I lov'd, beneath the moon and stars,
To wander round Rome's ruins. While the scars
And rifts of Havoc caught the splintering blaze
Of silver light, I track'd the victor cars,
Where they had worn the long triumphal way,
'Mid the red mammoth-bones of Rome's imperial Day.
"Oft in night's stillness, by the palaces,
I heard the owls hoot in the Cæsars' hall,
And from the Capitol and cypress-trees
On Nero's golden house, in echoing call,
The birds of desolation whoop'd o'er all;
I felt no sadness, for I knew the dust
Pregnant with life to lift away the pall
Which then enswathed the world. The martyr'd just
Had planted in my soul such deep immortal trust.
"And Rome had left a heritage to me,
A word which made my bosom sink and swell,
A name—a dream—immense 'Humanity;'
And when I heard it, it became a spell
To draw me like a child. And this knew well
Those who fierce looks upon my Beauty cast;
But much my people lov'd in thought to dwell
Upon the name of Cæsar, and the vast
Mysterious awe which loom'd from out the sceptred Past.
"Thus, when an Otho rode in feudal state
Down from the Alps, and grasp'd the iron crown,
All cried, 'Lo, Cæsar! victor over fate
And Death's pale kingdoms; and they knelt adown
And did him homage, as from town to town
He swept triumphant: but I knew the cheat,
The vulture-heart beneath the ermin'd gown,
And at Legnano such heroic heat
I roused that from my soil the Suabian made retreat.
"Still was the Future veiled before mine eyes,
When came a priest, wan, hollow-cheek'd, austere,
Bearing the cross; he spake in saintly wise,
'O fairest of the fair, Italia! hear:
I offer not to thee what men hold dear,
Conquest or power, or treasurable worth;
But this I ask, to aid me to uprear
The world-redeeming Cross, that, through new-birth,
All nations may be ruled by Christ's Law upon earth.'
"As the grand prospect open'd from the dark,
I grew more than mine own Columbus pale,
When first he saw from out his weary bark
The land of promise. Ah, for bliss or bale,
I grasp'd the mission. And by hill and dale
With shield and spear I fought, The Tuscan maid,
Matilda,[1] arm'd with Amazonian mail,
Flash'd by my side her keen and spotless blade,
Till on the pontiff's brow the triple crown was laid.
"But ah! I learnt, in far too late an hour,
That Piety will never creep or climb,
To seize with savage hand the keys of pow'r;
Heaven's altar-stairs grew stepping-stones to crime.
It seem'd the Neros of Rome's basest time
Had burst the gates of Death, with hope elate
To make Christ's name abhorr'd in every clime,
To use His Cross in mockery and hate,
And bring the heathen gods back to their ancient state.
"Pontiffs of Rome, old childless men and lone,
Who with the pastoral ring from age to age
Did claim the mission of the Holy One!
Have ye not left upon Time's foulest page
A warning to the statesman and the sage?
Ye would be more than God, and, unrepressed,
Wield Heaven's own thunders with a zealot's rage.
What were ye? Godless Leos at the best,
Else Amuraths of Rome, worse Sultans of the West.
"O Dante, O Petrarca, ye felt well
My agonising heart, when from the lyre
Ye shook your grand notes with a master-spell,
Arrows of song all barb'd and wing'd with fire
Of Love's own deathless thirst and heavenly ire;
And show'd the wantons with the cheeks of flame,
Gorging from Christ's own vine impure desire,
Making the sanctuary a den of shame,
Of which the hideous reek unto th' Eternal came.[2]
"Then Ariosto from a foul dark age
Fled on his griffin-steed: through forests drear
Seeking Angelica with Roland's rage,
The lost world-beauty. Cities shook with fear,
Yet still my artists wrought with noble cheer
New worlds for man. The poet-hands work'd fast,
Peopling the human soul's void atmosphere;
The present spirit colour'd all the past,
And thus each changing mood was from the pencil cast.
"For Leonardo's virgins gaily smiled
At maceration, with lips archly curl'd,
And Raphael's beam'd immaculately mild;
But Angelo his wrathful Judgment hurl'd,
In execration of a rebel-world;
Till sweet Correggio on Parma's shrine
Drew the Madonna, borne on wings unfurl'd
Of angels: in her ecstasy divine
She stretch'd her arms; that form I saw; I wept;—'twas mine.
"O Tasso, noble soul! who to the bad
Sang thy pure strains of Love and Chivalry,
Why did the spawn of Evil style thee mad,
But that thou didst believe in Christ and me,
Amid an age of Hell's own tyranny?
Let thy tormenters pass; their heirs have quaff'd
The death-cup which they mixed with fiendish glee
For others: wither'd is the priestly craft,
E'en as the Borgias died by their own poison-draught.
"Since the vain laurel-crown was laid, as though
To mock Torquato, on his death-cold brows,
In Sant' Onofrio's cell, the poet's glow
Froze in the veins. But Music then arose
To melodise unutterable woes:
'O miserere,' Palestrina sighs,
The Sistine darkens to each mournful close;
O Mater dolorosa, veil thine eyes
While Pergolesi hymns my ghastly sacrifice.
"O my tone-poets! ye who did create
New robes of glory for this age's soul,
Yet for my darkness, cold and desolate,
Ye lost not hope. Now let your Glorias roll,
Salve Regina sound from pole to pole!
For I have burst the bonds of crime and night;
Once more I see before me the great goal
Of human destiny. O life! O light!
Nor prince nor slave shall more take in my wounds delight:—
"My wounds! let pass—curse not, but look aside
From the brute brows who wrought my misery,
The unctuous sycophants who fed their pride
On my distress, and mock'd me, and pass'd by.
Ah! like my Galileo, through the sky
New galaxies of glory did I draw.
Armida-realms more bright I did descry
Than Amerigo or Columbus saw,
And on my heart, like theirs, Hate preyed with harpy-claw.
"Immur'd in darkness, fetter'd by the spite
Of priest and prince, I fail'd to count the year,
Till, from the apathy of dateless night,
Prophetic rapture loos'd the disus'd tear:
My name was borne unto my ravish'd ear,
And I had visions of a golden morn;
The young, the brave, the beautiful, the dear,
Invok'd Italia, dar'd the world's fixed scorn,
And of their martyr-blood this Liberty is born.
"O martyrs pale! I will your hopes fulfil;
And though long centuries have fleeted by,
Savonarola! Campanella! still
Your mystic dreams of Christ's pure monarchy
Shall have my violets. In glad augury,
O White Cross of Savoy! I hail thy fold;
Thou wave-born Cytherea, cease to sigh;
Ere thy lagoons blush red with summer-gold,
The lion of St. Mark shall from thy masts be roll'd.
"Make ready the blood-ransom in your veins,
My children. Ye must pay the whole price down;
Enough of thy blood on our Lombard plains,
O France! chivalric sister. In each town,
From Ætna to the Alps, let war-drums drown
All softer music till the land is free;
Then will I seek my unfulfilled renown,
And so my spirit-realms once more shall be
The palace, home, and hope of all Humanity."
1. Matilda, Countess of Tuscany, who fitly represents the genius of Italy at the time of her existence. The names mentioned are not necessarily in chronological order.
2. "Or vivi si, ch' a Dio ne venga il lezzo." Petrarch.