I cry aloud, and ye shall hear my call, Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep, And blue Tyrrhene! Let him first roused from sleep Startle the next! one peril broods o’er all. It nought avails that Italy should plead, Forgetting valour, sinking in despair, At strangers’ feet!--our land is all too fair; Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition’s speed. In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye, For pardon sue; ’tis not her agony, Her death alone may now appease her foes. Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun! But oh, weak pride! thus feeble and undone, Nor to wage battle nor endure repose! [149] “Schiavi siam, ma schiavi ognor frementi.”--Alfieri. ALESSANDRO MARCHETTI. Italia! oh, no more Italia now! Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear: She was a queen with glory mantled--thou, A slave, degraded, and compell’d to bear, Chains gird thy hands and feet; deep clouds of care Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies; And shadows, born of terror and despair-- Shadows of death have dimm’d thy glorious eyes. Italia! oh, Italia now no more! For thee my tears of shame and anguish flow; And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour Are changed to dirge-notes: but my deepest woe Is, that base herds of thine own sons the while Behold thy miseries with insulting smile. ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI. She that cast down the empires of the world, And, in her proud triumphal course through Rome, Dragg’d them, from freedom and dominion hurl’d, Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o’ercome: I see her now, dismantled of her state, Spoil’d of her sceptre, crouching to the ground Beneath a hostile car--and lo! the weight Of fetters, her imperial neck around! Oh! that a stranger’s envious hands had wrought This desolation! for I then would say, “Vengeance, Italia!”--in the burning thought Losing my grief: but ’tis th’ ignoble sway Of vice hath bow’d thee! Discord, slothful ease, _Theirs_ is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are these. FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI. THE SHORE OF AFRICA. Pilgrim! whose steps those desert sands explore, Where verdure never spreads its bright array; Know, ’twas on this inhospitable shore From Pompey’s heart the life-blood ebb’d away. Twas here betray’d he fell, neglected lay; Nor found _his_ relics a sepulchral stone, Whose life, so long a bright triumphal day, O’er Tiber’s wave supreme in glory shone! Thou, stranger! if from barbarous climes thy birth, Look round exultingly, and bless the earth Where Rome, with him, saw power and virtue die; But if ’tis Roman blood that fills thy veins, Then, son of heroes! think upon thy chains, And bathe with tears the grave of liberty. JEU-D’ESPRIT ON THE WORD “BARB.”