190 STORM AND WINTER. 



gigantic Lombard corbeille, that great nursery of fruits and flowers 

 where Virgil listened to his song. The land has in nowise changed ; 

 now, as then, the Italian, an exile from his home, the sad cultivator of 

 another's fields,* the duriis arator, pursues the nightingale. The 

 useful insect-devourer is proscribed as an eater of gi-ain. Let him 

 cross then, if he can, the Adriatic, from isle to isle, despite the winged 

 corsairs, which keep watch on the very rocks ; he will amve perhaps 

 in the land ever consecrated to birds — in genial, hospitable, bountiful 

 Egj^pt — where all are spared, nourished, blessed, and kindly welcomed. 



Still happier land, if in its blind hospitality it did not also shelter 

 tlie murderer. The nightingale and dove are gladly entertained, it is 

 true, but no less so the eagle. On the terraces of sultans, on the bal- 

 conies of minarets, ah, poor traveller, I see those flashing dreadful 

 eyes which dart their gaze this way. And I see that they have 

 already marked thee ! 



Do not remain here long. Thy season will not last. Tlie de- 

 structive wind of the deseit will dry up, and destroy, and sweep 

 away thy meagre nourishment. Not a gnat will be left to sustain 

 thy wing and thy voice. Bethink thyself of the nest which thou 

 hast left in our woods, remember thy European loves. The sk}^ was 

 gloomy, but there thou madest for thyself a sky of thine own. Love 

 was around thee ; every soul thrilled at thy voice ; the purest throbbed 

 for thee. There is the real sun, there the fairest Orient. True light 

 is where one loves. 



■* This was written before tlie annexfitiou of Lombanlv to the new Italian kin'^dom. 



