YET nor the Median groves, nor rivers rolled,
Ganges and Hermus, o'er their beds of gold,
Nor Ind, nor Bactra, nor the blissful land
Where incense spreads o'er rich Panchaia's sand,
Nor all that fancy paints in fabled lays,
O native Italy! transcend thy praise.
Though here no bulls beneath the enchanted yoke
With fiery nostrils o'er the furrow smoke,
No hydra teeth embattled harvest yield,
Spear and bright helmet bristling o'er the field;
Yet golden corn each laughing valley fills,
The vintage reddens on a thousand hills,
Luxuriant olives spread from shore to shore,
And flocks unnumbered range the pastures o'er.
Hence the proud war-horse rushes on the foe,
Clitumnus! hence thy herds, more white than snow,
And stately bull, that, of gigantic size,
Supreme of victims on the altar lies,
Bathed in thy sacred stream oft led the train,
When Rome in pomp of triumph decked the fane.
Here Spring perpetual leads the laughing hours, And Winter wears a wreath of Summer flowers; The o'erloaded branch twice fills with fruits the
And twice the teeming flocks their offspring rear. Yet here no lion breeds, no tiger strays,
No tempting aconite the touch betrays,
No monstrous snake the uncoiling volume trails,
Or gathers, orb on orb, his iron scales.
But many a peopled city towers around,
And many a rocky cliff with castle crowned,
And many an antique wall, whose hoary brow
O'ershades the flood, that guards its base below.
Say, shall I add, enclosed on every side
What seas defend thee, and what lakes divide?
Thine, mighty Larius? or, with surging waves,
Where, fierce as ocean, vexed Benacus raves?
Havens and ports, the Lucrine's added mole,
Seas, that enraged along their bulwark roll,
Where Julian waves reject the indignant tide,
And Tuscan billows down Avernus glide?
Here brass and silver ores rich veins expose,
And pregnant mines exhaustless gold enclose.
Blest in thy race, in battle unsubdued
The Marsian youth, and Sabine's hardy brood,
By generous toil the bold Ligurian's steeled,
And spear-armed Volsci that disdain to yield;
Camilli, Marii, Decii, swell thy line,
And, thunderbolts of war, each Scipio, thine!
Thou Cæsar! chief, whose sword the East o'er
And the tamed Indian drives from Roman towers.
All hail, Saturnian earth! hail, loved of fame,
Land rich in fruits, and men of mighty name!
For thee I dare the sacred founts explore,
For thee the rules of ancient art restore,
Themes, once to glory raised, again rehearse,
And pour through Roman towns the Ascræan
O ITALY, my country! I behold
Thy columns, and thine arches, and thy walls,
And the proud statues of our ancestors;
The laurel and the mail with which our sires
Were clad, these I behold not, nor their fame.
Why thus unarmed, with naked breast and brow?
What means that livid paleness, those deep
wounds?
To heaven and earth I raise my voice, and ask
What hand hath brought thee to this low estate,
Who, worse than all, hath loaded thee with chains,
So that, unveiled and with dishevelled hair,
Thou sittest on the ground disconsolate,
Hiding thy weeping face between thy knees?
Ay, weep, Italia! thou hast cause to weep!
Degraded and forlorn. Yes, were thine eyes
Two living fountains, never could thy tears
Equal thy desolation and thy shame!
Fallen!-ruined!-lost! who writes or speaks of
thee,
But, calling unto mind thine ancient fame,
Exclaims, "Once she was mighty! Is this she?"
Where is thy vaunted strength, thy high resolve?
Who from thy belt hath torn the warrior sword?
How hast thou fallen from thy pride of place
To this abyss of misery? Are there none
To combat for thee, to defend thy cause?
To arms! Alone I'll fight and fall for thee!
Content if my best blood strike forth one spark
To fire the bosoms of my countrymen.
Where are thy sons? I hear the clang of arms,
The din of voices, and the bugle-note;
Sure they are fighting for a noble cause!
Yes, one faint hope remains-I see-I see
The fluttering of banners in the breeze;
I hear the tramp of horses and of men,
The roar of cannon, and, like glittering lamps
Amid the darkening gloom, the flash of swords.
Is there no comfort? And who combat there
In that Italian camp? Alas, ye gods,
O, miserable those whose blood is shed
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