Fortune! why thus, where’er my footsteps tread, Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like these? Think’st thou that _I_ thy threatening mien shall dread, Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize? Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude, For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway! _My_ constant soul should triumph unsubdued, Were the wide universe destruction’s prey. Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried? No! I have long thine utmost power defied, And drawn fresh energies from every fight. Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel, With each successive shock the temper’d steel More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright. “Parlagli d’un periglio.” Wouldst thou to Love of danger speak?-- Veil’d are his eyes, to perils blind! Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek?-- He is a child of wayward mind! But with a doubt, a jealous fear, Inspire him once--the task is o’er; His mind is keen, his sight is clear, No more an infant, blind no more. “Sprezza il furor del vento.” Unbending midst the wintry skies, Rears the firm oak his vigorous form, And stem in rugged strength, defies The rushing of the storm. Then sever’d from his native shore, O’er ocean-worlds the sail to bear, Still with those winds he braved before, He proudly struggles there. “Sol può dir che sia contento.” Oh! those alone whose sever’d hearts Have mourn’d through lingering years in vain, Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts, When Fate unites them once again. Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear, Whose language hails that moment bright, When past afflictions but endear The presence of delight! “Ah! frenate le piante imbelle!” Ah! cease--those fruitless tears restrain! I go misfortune to defy, To smile at fate with proud disdain, To triumph--not to die! I with fresh laurels go to crown My closing days at last, Securing all the bright renown Acquired in dangers past. VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. “Italia! Italia! O tu cui diè la sorte.” Italia! O Italia! thou, so graced With ill-starr’d beauty, which to thee hath been A dower whose fatal splendour may be traced In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mien; Oh that more strength, or fewer charms were thine! That those might fear thee more, or love thee less, Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine, Then pierce thee with the death-pang’s bitterness! Not _then_ would foreign hosts have drain’d the tide Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed: Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew’d, Pour down; nor wouldst thou wield an alien brand, And fight thy battles with the stranger’s hand, Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued! PASTORINI. “Genova mia! se con asciutto ciglio.”