l4g Original Poetn/ 



And with that ransom reckless buy 



This deep dark stain of infamy ! 



Oil ! w'iiercfore didst thou break the night 



Of thy long fall with this short gleam, 

 That to our eyes shone forth so bright,-^ 



Or was it that we did but dream ? 

 And fondly thought some spark was there 

 INlight rouse thee from thy lone despair? 



For joy was our's to wipe away 



The fierce reproach, so deep and dread 

 To patriot breasts, — that thoushould'st lay 



Tlius scom'd, while we had blood to 

 shed : 

 That we should love thee, and yet see 

 Thine unredeemed captivity. 

 'Twas but a moment's ! — Thou art crush'*! 



E'en as the trodden adder low ; 

 The shout, the raptnre, all is hush'd. 



And not an echo breathes to show 

 Earth's millions, — where are they so late 

 That shook the torpor of her fate I 

 So soon the fetter thou had'st torn, 



'To wear again, — nor shim the thrall. 

 Thus heedless brook the withering scorn 



Of friend or foe upon thy fall : 

 A scoff and by- word thus to be 

 So soon again ; Oh, Italy ! 



That I must bend to foreif;n shores 

 . My exiled steps, not now I mourn ; 



For, when my breast thy fate deplores. 

 That seems not heaviest to be borne : 



Far heavier 'tis, that mid this spell 



'Twere raockeiy to say — Farewell ! 



There was upon mine eye a tear! 



But I have dash'd away the brine ; 

 Be no complaining sorrow here, 



There is no sigh for griefs like thine. 

 My counti'y! thine are wrongs too deep 

 To leave our eyes the power to weep. 

 The blood I would have poured for thee, 



Glows sacred yet within my breast ; 

 Until some worthier hour may be. 



When hands heroic, nnrepress'd 

 By dark intrigue, sliall strike to save, 

 And earn the guerdon of the brave; 



And earn the glory of the free. 



The cause that sanctifies its swords,— 



Or fall as valour falls, — as we 



Had sworn to fall, ere Gothic lords 



Should thus have trampled down again 



The rights of man and citizen ! 



My countrymen ! what panic smote 



Yonr souls, to prompt this dire disgrace? 

 And thus to angry fates devote 



The reniuant of a godlike race ; 

 Thus to the mock of earth consign 



The relics of the Roman line ? 

 Woe worth the moment, when ye burst 



The stiaiteninscord, — this iron towear; 

 And cast the galling burden first 



From off your neck,— a worse to bear j 

 A tenfold worse ! thus bending ye 

 To slavishness and infamy. 



[March 1) 



And is it ye who boast tiKit strain. 

 The parentage of brave and free ? 



Who grovel in a despot's chain 

 Ignobly vile? — It cannot be ! 



The great of old could ne'er translate 



llicir blood and names to such a fate ! 



Ye press, indeed, the self-same sod. 

 Ye gaze upon the self-same sky. 



Ye tread the streets where heroes trod 

 In proud unyielding majesty : 



FjiU the high flame which fii-'d their breasts, 



Think ye its flame within you rests? 



The spirit of the days of old 



Sleeps yet within their funeral nm ; 



And age o'er age may yet be roH'd, 

 Ere Freedom's lamp rekindled burn! , 



Ye launch'd not in the ocean's flow. 



And now its wave is ebbing low. 



For 'tis not plough-shares ye must beat 

 To faulchions, — nor, for tyrant's hurt, 



The reaping-sickle of your wheat 

 Into the deadly spear convert ; 



No ! 'tis your fettering links that ye 

 Must forge to arms of Victory ! 



My countrymen I the base ne'er stole 

 A step on fame by deed of chance ; 



The virtue of a patriot's soul 



Must be the strength which nerves his 

 lance : 



Within the life-strings of his breast, — 



Earth's holiest ark ! — his cause must rest. 



Ye should have liv'd as live the free. 

 In tenfold union Arm to stand ; 



And scattei'd far whate'er might be 

 The bane of fair Italia's land : 



Nor left Helvetia's rocks to boast 



A nobler race, — a braver host. 



For when, with fierce barbaric zeal, 

 Rude foes roll'd on to brand her slave, 



Had ye not hands, — had ye not steel? 

 Ye should have died as die the brave, — 



Ye should have spnm'd this living breath, 



This heritage of shame and death ! 



But ye!-— the authors of her fate. 

 The dread dispensers of her woes, — 



What word or wish may imprecate 

 A vengeance o'er your dark repose? 



The calm is brooding on the deep,— 



Beware! the tempest doth but sleep. 



Your dungeons hide from human ken 

 The victims of your tyrant fear ; 



They mourn not to their fellow-men, 

 Yet they are heard,— for heaven can 

 hear! 



And think ye not His eye is bent 



Propitions o'er the innocent? 



And think yeTiot that in the blast 

 Of midnight, on the lightning's wing, 



Avenging, in liis power hath pass'd 

 Supreme, the universal King? 



And with the terror of His frown 



Hath s'mote the proud oppressor down ? 



Or 



