And aliens from your God,


But ours is with thee: we will bear ye far

To some untroubled star,
Alas! where shall they dwell ?

Where thou and Anah shall partake pur lot:
Hark! hark! Deep sounds, and deeper still,

And if thou dost not wcep for thy lost earth, Are howling from the mountain's bosom:

Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot.
There's not a breath of wind upon the hill,

Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom: Oh, my dear father's tents, my place of birth !
groans as if beneath a heavy load.

And mountains, land, and woods, when ye are not,

Who shall dry up my tears?
Hark! hark! the sea-birds cry!
In clouds they overspread the lurid sky,

Thy spirit-lord.
And hover round the mountain, where before

Fear not, though we are shut from heaven,
Never a white wing, wetted by the wave,

Yet much is ours, whence we cannot be driven.
Yet dared to soar,
Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave. Rebel! thy words are wicked, as thy deeds
Soon it shall be their only shore,

Shall henceforth be but weak: the flaming sword,
And then, no more !

Which chased the first-born out of paradise,

Still Aashes in the angelic hands.

The sun! the sun! lle riseth, but his better light is gone;

It cannot slay us: threaten dust with death,
And a black circle, bound

And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds!
His glaring disk around,

What are thy swords in our immortal cyes?
Proclaims earth's last of summer days hath shone !

RAPHAEL. The clouds return into the hues of night,

The moment cometh to approve thy strength: Save where their brazen-colour'd edges streak

And learn at length The verge where brighter morns were wont to break.

How vain to war with what thy God commands :

Thy former force was in thy faith.
And lo! yon flash of light,

Enter Mortals, fying for refuge.
The distant thunder's harbinger, appears !
It cometh! hence, away!

Chorus of Mortals.
Leave to the elements their evil prey!

The heavens and earth are mingling-God! oh God! Hence to where our all-hallow'd ark uprears What have we done? Yet spare ! Its safe and wreckless sides.

Hark! even the forest beasts howl forth their prayer!

The dragon crawls from out his den,
Oh, father, stay!

To herd in terror innocent with men ;
Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides ! And the birds scream their agony through air.

Yet, yet, Jehovah! yet withdraw thy rod
Must we not leave all life to such ? Begone! Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair !

Hear not man only but all nature plead !
Not I.


Farewell, thou earth! ye wretched sons of clay,
Then die

I cannot, must not aid you. 'Tis decreed !
With them!

How darest thou look on that prophetic sky,
And seek to save, what all things now condemn, Some clouds sweep on, as vultures for their prey,
In overwhelming unison

While others, fix'd as rocks, await the word
With just Jehovah's wrath?

At which their wrathful vials shall be pour'd.

No azure more shall robe the firmament,
Can rage and justice join in the same path ?

Nor spangled stars be glorious : death hath risen: NOAH.

In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare
Blasphemer! darest thou murmur even now? Hath wound itself around the dying air.

Patriarcı, be still a father! smooth thy brow: Come, Anah! quit this chaos-founded prison,
Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink;

To which the elements again repair,
He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink To turn it into what it was: beneath

With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters; The shelter of these wings thou shalt be safe,
But be, when passion passeth, good as thou,

As was the eagle's nestling once within Nor perish like Heaven's children with man's daugh- Its mother's.—Let the coming chaos chafe ters,

With all its elements! Heed not their din!

A brighter world than this, where thou shalt breathe
The tempest cometh ; heaven and earth unite Ethereal life, will we explore :
For the annihilation of all life.

These darken'd clouds are not the only skies.
Unequal is the strife

(AZAZIEL and Samiasa fly off, and disapper | Between our strength and the eternal might !

with Anal and AHOLIBAMAN.







The corpses of the world of thy young days: They are gone! They have disappear'd amidst the roar Then to Jehovah raise of the forsaken world; and never more,

Thy song of praise ! Whether they live, or die with all earth's life,

A WOMAX. Now near its last, can aught restore

Blessed are the dead
Anah unto these eyes.

Who dic in the Lord !
Chorus of Mortals.

And though the waters be o'er earth outspread,

Yet, as His word, Oh son of Noah! mercy on thy kind !

Be the decree adored! What, wilt thou leave us all-all-all behind ?

He gave me life-He taketh but While safe amidst the elemental strife,

The breath which is His own:
Thou sit'st within thy guarded ark?

And though these eyes should be for ever shut,
A MOTHER (offering her infant to JAPHET).
Oh let this child embark !

Nor longer this weak voice before His throne

Be heard in supplicating tone,
I brought him forth in woe,

Still blessed be the Lord,
But thought it joy

For what is past,
To see him to my bosom clinging so.

For that which is :
Why was he born ?

For all are His,
What hath he done-

From first to last-
My unwean'd son-
To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn?


The vast known and immeasurable unknown. What is there in this milk of mine, thal Jeath

He made, and can unmake;
Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy

And shall I, for a little gasp of breath,
My boy,
And roll the waters o'er his placid breath ?

Blaspheme and groan?

No; let me die, as I have lived, in faith,
Save him, thou seed of Seth!

Nor quiver, though the universe may quake !
Or cursed be-with Him who made
Thee and thy race, for which we are betray'd!

Chorus of Mortals.

Where shall we fly?
Peace! 'tis no hour for curses, but for prayer!

Not to the mountains high ;

For now their torrents rush with double roar,
Chorus of Mortals.

To meet the ocean, which, advancing still,
For prayer !!!
And where

Already grasps each drowning hill,

Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave.
Shall prayer ascend,
When the swoln clouds unto the mountains bend

Enter a Woman.
And burst,
And gushing oceans every barrier rend,

Oh, save me, save!
Until the very deserts know no thirst ?

Our valley is no more :
Be He, who made thee and thy sire!

My father and my father's tent,

My brethren and my brethren's herds, We deem our curses vain; we must expire;

The pleasant trees that o'er our noon-day bent, But, as we know the worst,

And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds, Why should our hymns be raised, our knees be bent

The little rivulet which freshen'd all Before the implacable Omnipotent,

Our pastures green, Since we must fall the same ?

No more are to be seen. If He hath made earth, let it be His shame,

When to the mountain cliff I climb'd this morn, To make a world for torture :-Lo! they come,

I turn'd to bless the spot,
The loathsome waters in their rage!
And with their roar make wholesome nature dumb!

And not a leaf appear'd about to fall;

And now they are no!
The forest's trees (coeval with the hour
When paradise upsprung,

Why was í born ?

Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower,
Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung),

To die! in youth to die;

And happier in that doom, So massy, vast, yet green in their old age,

Than to behold the universal tomb
Are overtopp'd,

Which I
Their summer blossoms by the surges lopp’d,
Which rise, and rise, and rise.

Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain.
Vainly we look up to the louring skies

Why, when all perish, why must I remain ? They meet the seas,

[The Waters rise : Men fly in every direction, And shut out God from our beseeching eyes.

many are overtaken by the waves; the Chorus

of Mortals disperses in search of safety up the Fly, son of Noah, Ay, and take thine ease

Mountains ; JAPHET remains upon a rock, lu thine allotted ocean-tent;

while the Ark floats lowards him in the disAnd view all floating o'er the element,



The Prophecy of Dante.

'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.



into Italian versi sciolti—that is, a poem written in the Spenserean stanza into blank verse, without regard to

the natural divisions of the stanza, or of the sense. If Lods! if for the cold and cloudy clime Where I was born, but where I would not die,

the present poem, being on a national topic, should

chance to undergo the same fate, I would request the Of the great poet-sire of Italy I dare to build the imitative rhyme,

Italian reader to remember, that when I have failed in

the imitation of his great “Padre Alighier,” I have Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime,

failed in imitating that which all study and few under Thou art the cause; and, howsoe'er I Fall short of his immortal harmony,

stand, since to this very day it is not yet settled what Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime.

was the meaning of the allegory in the first canto of

the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious and Thou, in the pride of beauty and of youth, Spakest; and for thee to speak and be obey'd

probable conjecture may be considered as having de

cided the question. Are one; but only in the sunny South

He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms display'd,

not quite sure that he would be pleased with my sucSo sweet a language from so fair a mouth

cess, since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, Ah! to what effort would it not persuade?

are particularly jealous of all that is left them as a naRavenna, June 21, 1819.

tion-their literature ; and, in the present bitterness of the classic and romantic war, are but ill disposed to

permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them, withPREFACE.

out finding some fault with his ultramontane presumption. I can easily enter into all this, knowing what

would be thought in England of an Italian imitator of In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna, in Milton, or if a translation of Tonti, or Pindemonte, or the summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author Arici, should be held up to the rising generation, as a that, having composed something on the subject of model for their future poetical --ssays. But I perceive Tasso's confinement, he should do the same on Dante's that I am deviating into an addr ss to the Italian reader, exile—the tomb of the poet forming one of the princi- when my business is with the Eglish one, and, be they pal objects of interest in that city, both to the native few or many, I must take my leave of both. and to the stranger. "On this hint I spake," and the result has been the

THE following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to the reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my PROPHECY OF DANTE. purpose to continue the poem in various other cantos to its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader is requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in

CANTO I. the interval between the conclusion of the Divina Commedia and his death, and shortly before the latter event, Once more in man's frail world! which I had leit foretelling the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensu- So long that 't was forgotten ; and I feel ing centuries. In adopting this plan, I have had in my The weight of clay again,—too soon bereft mind the Cassandra of Lycophron, and the Prophecy of the immortal vision which could heal of Nereus by Horace, as well as the Prophecies of My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies Holy Writ. The measure adopted is the terza rima of List me from that deep gulf without repeal, Dante, which I am not aware to have seen hitherto Where late my ears rung with the damned cries tried in our language, except it may be by Mr. Hayley, Of souls in hopeless bale; and from that place of whose translation I never saw but one extract, Of lesser torment, whence men may arise quoted in the notes of Caliph Vathek; so that--if I Pure from the fire to join the angelic race; do not err—this poem may be considered as a metrical 'Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd! experiment. The cantos are short, and about the same My spirit with her light; and to the base length of those of the poet whose name I have bor- of the Eternal Triad! first, last, best, rowed, and most probably taken in vain.

Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the pres- Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, ent day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good Unblasted by the glory, though he trod or bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune From star to star to reach the almighty throne. u see the fourth canto of Childe Harold translated | Oh Beatrice! whose sweet limbs the sod 2 R2


So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone,

Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love,

Love so ineffable, and so alone, That nought on earth could more my bosom move,

And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet

That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet

Relieved her wing till found; without thy light

My paradise had still been incomplete.? Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight

Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought,

Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought

With the world's war, and years, and banishment,

And tears for thee, by other woes untaught; For mine is not a nature to be bent

By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd ;

And though the long, long conflict hath been spent In vain, and never more, save when the cloud

Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye

Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud Of me, can I return, though but to die,

Unto my native soil, they have not yet

Quench'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high. But the sun, though not overcast, must set,

And the night cometh; I am old in days,

And deeds, and contemplation, and have met Destruction face to face in all his ways.

The world hath left me, what it found me-pure,

And if I have not gather'd yet its praise,
I sought it not by any baser lure ;
Man wrongs, and Time



my name May form a monument not all obscure, Though such was not my ambition's end cr aim,

To add to the vain-glorious list of those

Who dabble in the pettiness of fame, And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows

Their sail, and deem it glory to be classid

With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, In bloody chronicles of ages past.

I would have had my Florence great and free :)

On Florence! Florence! unto me thou wast Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He

Wept over: "but thou wouldst not;" as the bird

Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard

My voice; but as the adder, deaf and fierce,

Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce,

And doom this body forfeit to the fire.

Alas! how bitter is his country's curse To him who for that country would expire,

But did not merit to expire by her,

And loves her, loves her even in her ire.
The day may come when she will cease to err,

The day may come she would be proud to have

The dust she dooms to scatter, 4 and transfer of him, whom she denied a home, the grave.

But this shall not be granted; let my dust

Lie where it falls; nor shall the soil which gave Je bıcath, but in her sudden fury thrust

Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume

My indignant bones, because her angry gust
Forsooth is over, and repeald her doom.

No-she denied me what was mine-my roof,
And shall not have what is not hers—my tomb.

Toc long her armed wrath hath kept aloof

The breast which would have bled for her, the heart

That beat, the mind that was tempiation-proof, The man who fought, toild, travell’d, and each part

Of a true citizen fulfillid, and saw

For his reward the Gucit's ascendant art
Pass his destruction even into a law.
These things are not made for forgetfulness-

Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw
The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress

Of such cndurance too prolong'd, to make

My pardon greater, her injustice less, Though late repented; yet-yet for her sake

I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine,

My own Beatrice, I would hardly take Vengeance upon the land which once was mine,

And still is hallowed by thy dust's return,

Which would protect the murderess like a shrine, And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn.

Though, like old Marius from Minturnæ's marsh

And Carthage' ruins, my lone breast may burn At times with evil feelings hot and harsh,

And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe

Writhe in a dream before me, and o'er-arch My brow with hopes of triumph,-let them go!

Such are the last infirmities of those

Who long have suf" sr'd more than mortal woe, And yet, being morta still, have no repose

But on the pillow of Revenge-Revenge,

Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change,

When we shall mount again, and they that trod

Be trampled on, while Death and Até range O'er humbled heads and sever'd neck-Great God!

Take these thoughts from me-to thy hands I yield

My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod
Will fall on those who smote me,-be my shield!

As thou hast been in peril, and in pain,

In turbulent cities, and the tented fieldIn toil, and many troubles borne in vain

For Florence.--I appeal from her to Thee!

Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, Even in that glorious vision, which to see

And live was never granted until now,

And yet thou hast permitted this to me. Alas! with what a weight upon my brow

The sense of earth and earthly things comes backo

Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low, The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack,

Long day, and dreary night; the retrospect

Of half a century bloody and black, And the frail few years I may yet expect

Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear;

For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd On the lone rock of desolate despair

To lift my eyes more to the passing sail

Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare ; Nor raise my voice-for who would heed my wail?

I am not of this people, nor this age,

And yet my harpings will unfold a tale Which shall preserve these times, when not a page

of their perturbed annals could attract

An eye to gaze upon their civil rage,
Did not my verse embalm full many an act

Worthless as they who wrought it: 't is the doom
Of spirits of my order to be rack'd



in life, to wear their hearts out, and consume

This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong,
Their days in endless strife, and die alone; Thy Tuscan bard, the banish'd Ghibelline.
Then future thousands crowd around their tomb, Woe! woe! the veil of coming centuries
And pilgrims come from climes where they have known Is rent,-a thousand years, which yet supine

The name of him-who now is but a name. Lie like the ocean waves cre winds arise,
And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone

Heaving in dark and sullen undulation,
Spread his -by him unheard, unhecded-fame; Float from eternity into these eyes ;

And mine at least hath cost me dear: to die The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station, Is nothing ; but to wither thus-o tame

The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, My mind down from its own infinity

The bloody chaos yet expects creation, To live in narrow ways with little men,

But all things are disposing for thy doom; A common sight to every common eye,

The elements await but for the word, A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den,

“Let there be darkness !" and thou grow'st a tomb! Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things Yes! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword,

That make communion sweet, and soften pair Thou, Italy! so fair that paradise, To feel me in the solitude of kings,

Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored : Without the power that makes them bear a crown- Ah! must the sons of Adam lose it twice? To envy every dove his nest and wings

Thou, Italy! whose ever-golden fields, Which wast him where the Apennine looks down Plough'd by the suribeams solely, would suffice Ori Arno, till he perches, it may be,

For the world's granary; thou whose sky heaven gilds Within my all-incxorable town,

With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue; Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,

Thou, in whose pleasant places summer builds Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought Her palace, in whose cradle empire grew, Destruction for a dewry—this to see

And form’d the eternal city's ornaments And fcel, and know without repair, hath taught From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew; A bitter lesson; but it leaves me free:

Birth-place of heroes, sanctuary of saints, I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, —

Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made Tney made an exile-not a slave of me.

Her home; thou, all which fondest fancy paints, And finds her prior vision but portray'd

In feeble colours, when the eye-from the Alp

Of horrid show, and rock and shaggy shade
Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp

Nods to the storm-dilates and dotes o'er thee, l'he spirit of the fervent days of old,

And wistfully implores, as 't were, for help When words were things that came to pass, and To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, thought

Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still Fiasn'd o'er the future, bidding men behold

The more approach'd, and dearest were they free, Their children's children's doom already brought Thou--thou must wither to each tyrant's will : Forth from the abyss of time which is to be,

The Goth hath been,--the German, Frank, and Hus, The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought

Are yet to come,-and on the Imperial hill Shapes that must undergo mortality;

Ruin, already proud of the deeds done What the great seers of Israel wore within,

By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, That spirit was on them, and is on me,

Throned on the Palatine, while, lost and won, And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din

Rome at her fect lies bleeding; and the hue Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed,

Of human sacrihce and Roman slaughter This voice from out the wilderness, the sin

Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed,

And deepens into rad the saffron water The only guerdon I have ever known.

Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest, Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to bleed, And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, Italia? Ah! to me such things, Toreshown

Vow'd to their god, have shrieking fled, and ceased With dim sepulchral light, bid me forgot

Their ministry: the nations take their prey, In thine irreparable wrongs my own;

Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast We can have but one country, and even ret

And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they Thou 'rt mine-my bones shall be wit in thy breast, Are; these but gorge the flo:h and lap the gore My sond within thy language, which cace set

of the departed, and then go


way ; With our old Roman sway in the wide west;

But those, the human savages, explore But I will make another tongue arise

All paths of torture, and insatiale yet As lofty and more sweet, in which exprest

With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. he hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs,

Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set;' Shall find alike such sounds for every theme

The chicfless army of the dead, which late That erery word, as brilliant as thy skies,

Bencath the traitor prince's banner mct, Shall realize a poet's proudest dream,

Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate; And make thee Europe's nightingale of song; Had but the royal rebel lived, perchance So that all present speech to thine shall seem Thou hadst been spared, but his involved ihy law The note of meaner birds, and every tongue Oh! Rome, the spoiler of the spoil of France,

Confess its barbarism when compared with thine. From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never


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