Stranger, whose fathers I have taught to yield,— Witness the graves on Calenzana's field— Why break my rest? Two thousand years of fight Have seen me struggle for my free-born right: Have watch'd my desperate, unyielding stand, 'Gainst each invader of my native land. Those Roman bands, whose traces still you see, At Col di Tenda were compell'd to flee; Hasdrubal's force I roll'd back to the strand, Etruria's army scatter'd as the sand. The Moor in quest of booty sought my bay, He seized my children, bore my wife away, Pillaged my fields, and wrapt my house in flame— We met, we wrestled, and I overcame! Again the battle-summons strikes my ear, Hordes of fresh foes upon our isle appear Lombards and Turks and Arragon's proud sons,— Again my hand is raised—my life-blood runs! Again I see my roof-tree overthrown; I weep not—Liberty is still my own! Then Genoa came—be curse on curse up-piled! 'Twas Italy herself that chain'd her child! Mourn'st thou my country's aspect—waste tho' fair— Harbours deserted, meadow-lands left bare, Ivy-clothed buildings falling to decay? Be sure that Genoa has there held sway! Hear'st thou the mandoline by yonder sea, Blend with the solemn Dirge's melody? Seem the chords struck by sorrow and by pain? Be sure that Genoa awoke the strain! Echo the mountains to the rifle's crack, Lies bathed in blood the victim in thy track; Dost shudd'ring view the deed by vengeance wrought? Be sure that Genoa the lesson taught! Part of our wrongs thou'st heard—now hear with glee, The grave of Genoa has been dug by me! Ay, should'st thou e'er behold her, thou may'st boast, "I've seen thy grave on Corsica's steep coast." Fierce was the conflict—war unto the knife! They sold to France our country and our life, Like some mean chattel gold had power to buy, And the world look'd on with an unmoved eye! Hear me, thou Stranger! Ponte Nuovo's height Frown'd on me wounded in inglorious fight With French officials trampling on my right. Weeping, I shrunk off like a wounded deer, Far from the slaughter-field to hide me here; Weary at length—by _such_ strife weary made— Grudge not my rest beneath the olive-shade. THE STRANGER.