I sought the pathless woods, And drew the cowards thence and made them blush, And then made fury follow on their shame. I hailed the peasant in his fertile fields, Where, 'neath the burden of the cruel tribute, He dropped from famine 'midst the harvest sheaves, With his starved brood: “Open thou with thy scythe The breasts of Frenchmen; let the earth no more Be fertile to our tyrants.” I found my way In palaces, in hovels; tranquil, I Both great and lowly did make drunk with rage. I knew the art to call forth cruel tears In every eye, to wake in every heart A love of slaughter, a ferocious need Of blood. And in a thousand strong right hands Glitter the arms I gave. In the last act occurs one of those lyrical passages in which Niccolini excels, and two lines from this chorus are among the most famous in modern Italian poetry: Perchè tanto sorriso del cielo Sulla terra del vile dolor? The scene is in a public place in Palermo, and the time is the moment before the massacre of the French begins. A chorus of Sicilian poets remind the people of their sorrows and degradation, and sing: The wind vexes the forest no longer, In the sunshine the leaflets expand: With barrenness cursed be the land That is bathed with the sweat of the slave! On the fields now the harvests are waving, On the fields that our blood has made red; Harvests grown for our enemy's bread From the bones of our children they wave! With a veil of black clouds would the tempest Might the face of this Italy cover; Why should Heaven smile so glorious over The land of our infamous woe? All nature is suddenly wakened, Here in slumbers unending man sleeps; Dust trod evermore by the steps Of ever-strange lords he lies low! {Illustration: Giambattista Niccolini.}