On the clouds brokenly strewn through the west Dies the last ray of the sun sunk to rest; And a sad sibilance under the moon Sighs from the broken heart of the lagoon. Out of the city a boat draweth near: “You of the gondola! tell us what cheer!” “Bread lacks, the cholera deadlier grows; From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows.” No, no, nevermore on so great woe, Bright sun of Italy, nevermore glow! But o'er Venetian hopes shattered so soon, Moan in thy sorrow forever, lagoon! Venice, to thee comes at last the last hour; Martyr illustrious, in thy foe's power; Bread lacks, the cholera deadlier grows; From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows. Not all the battle-flames over thee streaming; Not all the numberless bolts o'er thee screaming; Not for these terrors thy free days are dead: Long live Venice! She's dying for bread! On thy immortal page, sculpture, O Story, Others'iniquity, Venice's glory; And three times infamous ever be he Who triumphed by famine, O Venice, o'er thee. Long live Venice! Undaunted she fell; Bravely she fought for her banner and well; But bread lacks; the cholera deadlier grows; From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows. And now be shivered upon the stone here Till thou be free again, O lyre I bear. Unto thee, Venice, shall be my last song, To thee the last kiss and the last tear belong. Exiled and lonely, from hence I depart, But Venice forever shall live in my heart; In my heart's sacred place Venice shall be As is the face of my first love to me. But the wind rises, and over the pale Face of its waters the deep sends a wail; Breaking, the chords shriek, and the voice dies. On the lagoon bridge the white banner flies! III Among the later Italian poets is Luigi Mercantini, of Palermo, who has written almost entirely upon political themes--events of the different revolutions and attempts at revolution in which Italian history so abounds. I have not read him so thoroughly as to warrant me in speaking very confidently about him, but from the examination which I have given his poetry, I think that he treats his subjects with as little inflation as possible, and he now and then touches a point of naturalness--the high-water mark of balladry, to which modern poets, with their affected unaffectedness and elaborate simplicity, attain only with the greatest pains and labor. Such a triumph of Mercantini's is this poem which I am about to give. It celebrates the daring and self-sacrifice of three hundred brave young patriots, led by Carlo Pisacane, who landed on the coast of Naples in 1857, for the purpose of exciting a revolution against the Bourbons, and were all killed. In a note the poet reproduces the pledge signed by these young heroes, which is so fine as not to be marred even by their dramatic, almost theatrical, consciousness.