Men, it is said, by famine so reduced, Have eaten their slain enemies; one wretch Askt if 'twere worse to eat men than to slay, To eat the murderer than to slay the helpless; Then, turning to a priest who taunted him, "Madden'd by famine brought on us by you We ate our enemies, you eat your God." Pincers tore out the tongue that thus blasphemed. After long winters and hard fights against Successive hosts the fortalice was won; Few the survivors; one Dolcino was, Another was the virgin; neither wish'd For life, both yearn'd for truth and truth alone. ! Dolcino was led forward: pots of pitch And burning charcoal were paraded round The cart that bore him, iron pincers glow'd With fire, and these contending priests applied To every portion of his naked flesh
Until the bones were bare; then was he dragg'd Thither where Margarita stood above
Small fagots, for her lingering death prepared.
Few and faint words she spoke, nor heard he these. "Have we not lived together, O Dolcino,
In sisterhood and brotherhood a life
Of chastity, God helping this desire,
Nor leaving other in the cleansed heart."
She paus'd; his head hung low; then added she "Our separation is the worst of pangs
We suffer: bear even this: pincers and barbs I now feel too."
"Dolcino, art thou faint?
Speakest thou not? then is thy spirit fled,
There was on each eye a tear
(For Margarita was but woman yet)
Not one had fallen, else the flames had dried it. She uttered these last words, scarce audibly, "Blessed be God, thou seest his face, Dolcino, O may I see it! may he grant it soon!"
Dishonour'd thou hast been, but not debased, O Venice! he hastes onward who will bring The girdle that enclosed thy virgin waist, And will restore to thee thy bridal ring.
Venice! on earth are reptiles who lift high The crested head, both venomous and strong Are they; and many by their fangs shall die, But one calm watcher crushes them ere long. So fare who ever twists in tortuous ways, Strown with smooth promises and broken vows, Who values drunken shouts, not sober praise, And spurns the scanty pittance Truth allows.
In brighter days the Dorian Muse Extoll'd the kings of Syracuse. Hieros and Gelons shook the rein Of coursers on the Olympic plain, Victors at Elis, where they won A crown no king can leave his son.- There Pindar struck his harp aloud, And shared the applauses of the crowd. Then Science from deep study rais'd A greater man than bards have prais'd. When Syracuse met Roman foes, Above her proudest he arose;
He called from heaven the Lord of Light To lend him his all-piercing might.
The patriot's pious prayer was heard, And vaunting navies disappeared;
Through clouds of smoke sparks widely flew, And hissing rafts the shore bestrew; Some on the Punic sands were cast, And Carthage was avenged at last. Alas! how fallen art thou since, O Syracuse! how many a prince Of Gallia's parti-colour'd brood Have crept o'er thee to suck thy blood! Syracuse, raise again thy head, Long hast thou slept, but art not dead. A late avenger now is come
Whose voice alone can split the tomb. Hearest thou not the world throughout Cry Garibaldi? One loud shout Arises, and there needs but one To shatter a polluted throne.
Alfieri, thou art present in my sight Tho' far removed from us, for thou alone Hast toucht the inmost fibres of the breast, Since Tasso's tears made damper the damp floor Whereon one only light came thro' the bars;
Love brought it, and stood mute, with broken wing. The vision of Leonora could not raise
His heavy heart, and staid long nights in vain.
Thou scornedst thy own country, scorn thou wouldst Many who dwell within it now her bonds
Are broken: adulation at all times
Was her besetting sin, nor leaves her yet,
But thou couldst tell her, and couldst make her hear, That Corsic honey* which attracts the hive
Is poison.. turn then from the mortal taste.
TO CAREY, ON HIS APPOINTMENT TO AN OFFICE IN THE BRITISH
Carey! I fear the fruits are scanty
Thou gatherest from the fields of Dante, But thou hast found at least a shed Wherein to cram thy truckle-bed; The porter's lodge of the Museum May daily hear thee sing Te Deum. Peaches and grapes are mostly found Richest the nearest to the ground: Our gardeners take especial care To keep down low all boughs that bear. Dante's long intertwisted line
Is straiten'd and drawn tight by thine : Hell, devil, dog, in force remain, And Paradise blooms fresh again.
AN OLD POET TO SLEEP.
No God to mortals oftener descends
Than thou, O Sleep! yet thee the sad alone Invoke, and gratefully thy gift receive. Some thou invitest to explore the sands
Left by Pactolos, some to climb up higher,
Much of the honey in Corsica is extracted from the flower of box and unwholesome.
Where points Ambition to the pomp of War; Others thou watchest while they tighten robes
Which Law throws round them loose, and they meanwhile Wink at a judge, and he the wink returns. Apart sit fewer, whom thou lovest more And leadest where unruffled rivers flow, Or azure lakes neath azure skies expand. These have no wider wishes, and no fears, Unless a fear, in turning, to molest The silent, solitary, stately swan, Disdaining the garrulity of groves
Nor seeking shelter there from sun or storm. Me also hast thou led among such scenes, Gentlest of Gods! and Age appear'd far off While thou wast standing close above the couch, And whispered'st, in whisper not unheard,
'I now depart from thee, but leave behind
My own twin-brother, friendly as myself,
Who soon shall take my place; men call him Death. Thou hearest me, nor tremblest, as most do,
In sooth why shouldst thou? what man hast thou wrong'd By deed or word? few dare ask this within."
There was a pause; then suddenly said Sleep "He whom I named approacheth, so farewell."
THE POETS OF SCOTLAND.
Thomson, there born where mist and snow Are the sole change the Seasons know, Saw them alternate in his dreams,
And woke to charm the Nymphs of Thames. The generous Scott and stalwart Burns Blew Caledonia's pipe by turns; And Campbell with no fainter voice Bade her in one more bard rejoice, When Hohenlinden made reply To "Glorious Death or victory!"
Jonson to Shakespeare was preferr'd By the bell-jingling low-brow'd herd, Cowley to Milton. Who would mind The stumbles of the lame and blind? We may regret their sad estate,
But can not make them amble straight.
Thy daughters often visit me And call thee mother, Memory! Doubtful if thou art quite divine, I never askt them who was thine. Altho' these children are so good, There's somewhat acrid in thy blood, For here and there I think I trace A more than freckle in thy face. Why tell me how serenely bright Shone over me the morning light? Why lead me backward far away And make me wish for close of day?
To see the cities and to know the men
Of many lands, in youth was Homer's lot;
In age to visit his far home again
The Gods, who never feel it, granted not.
TO THE EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH.
Pleas'd was I when you told me how
In hat that buffeted the brow
And mason's loose habiliment
With masons thro' Ham's gate you went.
Heartily glad was I to see
A prisoner, though a prince, set free.
"Prince!" said I, "you've escaped two worst Of evils."
"I have known a first," Said you, "but that is only one, Tell me the other."
I could not add what now I might, It keeps the worthy out of sight,
Nor lets the sitter sit upright.
Can there be pleasure to keep down In rusty chains a struggling town? Can there be any to hear boom
Your cannon o'er the walls of Rome? Or shows it strength to break a word As easily as girls a cord
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