William Dean Howells

“ Become thou king of sacrifice; ascend The holy hill of God; on these perverse Launch thou thy thunderbolts; and feared again And great thou wilt be. Tell me, Adrian, Must thou not bear a burden that were heavy Even for angels? Wherefore wilt thou join Death unto life, and make the word of God, That says, “My kingdom is not of this world,” A lie? Oh, follow Christ's example here In Rome; it pleased both God and her To abase the proud and to uplift the weak. I'll kiss the foot that treads on kings! Adrian. Arnaldo, I parley not, I rule ”

“ Weep, weep, for well thou may'st, my Italy! Born, as thou wert, to conquest, Alike in evil and in prosperous sort! If thy sweet eyes were each a living stream, Thou could'st not weep enough For all thy sorrow and for all thy shame. For thou wast queen, and now thou art a slave. Who speaks of thee or writes, That thinking on thy glory in the past But says, “She was great once, but is no more.” Wherefore, oh, wherefore? Where is the ancient strength, The valor and the arms, and constancy? Who rent the sword from thee? Who hath betrayed thee? ”

“ If, unknowing, one ask who may be This woman, that, as in disgrace, O'er the curls of the boy at her knee Bows her beautiful, joyless face, A hundred tongues answer in scorn, A hundred lips teach him to know— “Wife of one of our tyrants, forsworn To her friends in her truth to their foe.” At the play, in the streets, in the lanes, At the fane of the merciful God, 'Midst a people in prison and chains, Spy-haunted, at home and abroad— Steals through all like the hiss of a snake Hate, by terror itself unsuppressed: “Cursed be the Italian could take The Austrian foe to her breast!” ”

“ It is, in a measure, rarely, if ever, known to other literatures, a patriotic expression and aspiration. Under whatever mask or disguise, it hides the same longing for freedom, the same impulse toward unity, toward nationality, toward Italy. It is both voice and force.
It helped incalculably in the accomplishment of what all Italians desired, and, like other things which fulfill their function, it died with the need that created it. No one now writes political poetry in Italy; no one writes poetry at all with so much power as to make himself felt in men's vital hopes and fears. ”

“ On the sorrowful earth, in hopeless quest, Passes the exile without rest; Where'er he goes, in sun or snow, Trouble and pain beside him go. But when I look upon thy sleep, And hear thy breathing soft and deep, My soul turns with a faith serene To days of sorrow that have been, And I feel that of love and happiness Heaven has given my life excess; The Lord in his mercy gave me thee, And thou in truth art part of me! Thou knowest not, as I bend above thee, How much I love thee, how much I love thee; Thou art the very life of my heart, Thou art my joy, thou art my smart! ”

“ Let us hear it again, as the poet sounds it, figuring himself a Syrian shepherd, guarding his flock by night, and weaving his song under the Eastern moon:
O flock that liest at rest, O blessèd thou That knowest not thy fate, however hard, How utterly I envy thee! Not merely that thou goest almost free Of all this weary pain,— That every misery and every toil And every fear thou straightway dost forget,— But most because thou knowest not ennui When on the grass thou liest in the shade. I see thee tranquil and content, And great part of thy years Untroubled by ennui thou passest thus. ”

“ Like this sand Is life itself, and evermore each path Is traced in suffering, and one footprint still Obliterates another; and we are all Vain shadows here that seem a little while, And suffer, and pass. Let me not fight in vain, O Son of God, with thine immortal word, Yon tyrant of eternity and time, Who doth usurp thy place on earth, whose feet Are in the depths, whose head is in the clouds, Who thunders all abroad, The world is mine! Laws, virtues, liberty I have attempted To give thee, Rome. Ah! only where death is Abides thy glory. ”

“ Dear wife, live thou; conquer thy sorrow, live; Let not this poor girl utterly be orphaned. Fly from this land, and quickly; to thy kindred Take her with thee. She is their blood; to them Thou once wast dear, and when thou didst become Wife of their foe, only less dear; the cruel Reasons of state have long time made adverse The names of Carmagnola and Visconti; But thou go'st back unhappy; the sad cause Of hate is gone. Death's a great peacemaker! And thou, my tender flower, that to my arms Wast wont to come and make my spirit light, Thou bow'st thy head? ”

“ No, no, nevermore on so great woe, Bright sun of Italy, nevermore glow! But o'er Venetian hopes shattered so soon, Moan in thy sorrow forever, lagoon! Venice, to thee comes at last the last hour; Martyr illustrious, in thy foe's power; Bread lacks, the cholera deadlier grows; From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows. Not all the battle-flames over thee streaming; Not all the numberless bolts o'er thee screaming; Not for these terrors thy free days are dead: Long live Venice! She's dying for bread! On thy immortal page, sculpture, O Story, Others'iniquity, Venice's glory ”

“ God! Who comforts us for all things. And oh, thou Proud foe of mine! (Turning to Carlo.) Carlo. Nay, by this name, Adelchi, Call me no more; I was so, but toward death Hatred is impious and villainous. Nor such, Believe me, knows the heart of Carlo. Ad. Friendly My speech shall be, then, very meek and free Of every bitter memory to both. For this I pray thee, and my dying hand I lay in thine! I do not ask that thou Should'st let go free so great a captive—no, For I well see that my prayer were in vain And vain the prayer of any mortal. Firm Thy heart is—must be—nor so far extends Thy pity. ”

“ Men die no more For chains and errors; martyrs now at last Hast thou, O holy Freedom; and fain were I Ashes for thee!—But I see you grow pale, Ye Romans! Down, go down; this holy height Is not for cowards. In the valley there Your tyrant waits you; go and fall before him And cover his haughty foot with tears and kisses. He'll tread you in the dust, and then absolve you. The People. The arms we have are strange and few, Our walls Are fallen and ruinous. Arnaldo. Their hearts are walls Unto the brave.... ”

“ Frederick answers furiously that the thought of this fate has always filled him with hatred of the papacy; and Adrian, perceiving that he has pressed too far in this direction, turns and soothes the Emperor:
I am truth, And thou art force, and if thou part'st from me, Blind thou becomest, helpless I remain. We are but one at last.... Caesar and Peter, They are the heights of God; man from the earth Contemplates them with awe, and never questions Which thrusts its peak the higher into heaven. Therefore be wise, and learn from the example Of impious Arnaldo. ”

“ There are satires and satires, and some are fierce enough and brutal enough; but when a satire can breathe so much tenderness, such generous humanity, such pity for the means, at the same time with such hatred of the source of wrong, and all with an air of such smiling pathos, I say, if it is not poetry, it is something better, and by all means let us have it instead of poetry. It is humor, in its best sense; and, after religion, there is nothing in the world can make men so conscious, thoughtful, and modest. ”

“ Toward us comes, With tranquil pride, the servant of the lowly, Upon a white horse docile to the rein As he would kings were; all about the path That Adrian moves on, warriors and people Of either sex, all ages, in blind homage, Mingle, press near and fall upon the ground, Or one upon another; and man, whom God Made to look up to heaven, becomes as dust Under the feet of pride; and they believe The gates of Paradise would be set wide To any one whom his steed crushed to death. With me thou never hast thine empire shared; Thou alone hold'st the world! ”

“ A very little book holds all the poems which Aleardi has written, and I have named them nearly all. He has in greater degree than any other Italian poet of this age, or perhaps of any age, those qualities which English taste of this time demands—quickness of feeling and brilliancy of expression. He lacks simplicity of idea, and his style is an opal which takes all lights and hues, rather than the crystal which lets the daylight colorlessly through. He is distinguished no less by the themes he selects than by the expression he gives them. ”

“ As an average American, I have found myself very greatly embarrassed when required, by Count Alfieri, for example, to hate tyrants. Of course I do hate them in a general sort of way; but having never seen one, how is it possible for me to feel any personal fury toward them? When the later Italian poets ask me to loathe spies and priests I am equally at a loss. I can hardly form the idea of a spy, of an agent of the police, paid to haunt the steps of honest men, to overhear their speech, and, if possible, entrap them into a political offense. ”

“ At the feet of the foe they fall trembling, And yield life and sword to his keeping; In the shouts of the victors assembling, The moans of the dying are drowned. To the saddle a courier leaping, Takes a missive, and through all resistance, Spurs, lashes, devours the distance; Every hamlet awakes at the sound. Ah, why from their rest and their labor To the hoof-beaten road do they gather? Why turns every one to his neighbor The jubilant tidings to hear? Thou know'st whence he comes, wretched father? And thou long'st for his news, hapless mother? ”

“ And thou wert first, Florence, to hear the song With which the Ghibelline exile charmed his wrath,{6} And thou his language and his ancestry Gavest that sweet lip of Calliope,{7} Who clothing on in whitest purity Love in Greece nude and nude in Rome, again Restored him unto the celestial Venus;— But happiest I count thee that thou keep'st Treasured beneath one temple-roof the glories Of Italy,—now thy sole heritage, Since the ill-guarded Alps and the inconstant Omnipotence of human destinies Have rent from thee thy substance and thy arms, Thy altars, country,—save thy memories, all. ”

“ I suppose that such poetry owes very much of its peculiar influence to that awful love we all have of hovering about the idea of death—of playing with the great catastrophe of our several tragedies and farces, and of marveling what it can be. There are moods which the languid despair of Leopardi's poetry can always evoke, and in which it seems that the most life can do is to leave us, and let us lie down and cease. ”

“ The truth is, the Muse, for a lady who has seen so much of life and the ways of the world, is an excessively jealous personification, and is apt to punish with oblivion a mixed devotion at her shrine. The poet who desires to improve and exalt his time must make up his mind to a double martyrdom,—first, to be execrated by vast numbers of respectable people, and then to be forgotten by all. ”

“ Full twice seven times I plunged and plunged my sword Into his cowardly and quaking heart; Yet have I slaked not my long thirst of vengeance! El. Then Clytemnestra did not come in time To stay thine arm? Or. And who had been enough For that? To stay my arm? I hurled myself Upon him; not more swift the thunderbolt. The coward wept, and those vile tears the more Filled me with hate. A man that durst not die Slew thee, my father! El. Now is our sire avenged! Calm thyself now, and tell me, did thine eyes Behold not Pylades? Or. I saw Aegisthus; None other. Where is dear Pylades? ”

“ I give one of these in which, under a fantastic name and in a fantastic form, the poet expresses the tragic and pathetic interest of the life to which he was himself vowed.
THE SISTER OF THE MOON. Shine, moon, ah shine! and let thy pensive light Be faithful unto me: I have a sister in the lonely night When I commune with thee. Alone and friendless in the world am I, Sorrow's forgotten maid, Like some poor dove abandoned to die By her first love unwed. Like some poor floweret in a desert land I pass my days alone; In vain upon the air its leaves expand, In vain its sweets are blown. ”

“ Pio Nono is a banner, a refrain, A name that sounds well sung upon the street. Who calls, “Long live Pio Nono!” means to call, Long live our country, and good-will to all! And country and good-will, these signify That it is well for Italy to die; But not to die for a vain dream or hope, Not to die for a throne and for a Pope!
During these years at Trieste, however, Dall' Ongaro seems to have been also much occupied with pure literature, and to have given a great deal of study to the sources of national poetry, as he discovered them in the popular life and legends. ”

“ Trust me, when to this hour Thou also shalt draw nigh, most jubilant And fair shall pass before thy thought the years In which thou wast not king—the years in which No tears shall be recorded in the skies Against thee, and thy name shall not ascend Mixed with the curses of the unhappy. Oh, Rejoice that thou art king no longer! that All ways are closed against thee! There is none For innocent action, and there but remains To do wrong or to suffer wrong. A power Fierce, pitiless, grasps the world, and calls itself The right. ”

“ Those coasts, strewn thick with ashes of damnation, Forever foe to every living thing, Where rings the cry of the lost wandering bird That, on the shore of the perfidious sea, Athirsting dies,—that watery sepulcher Of the five cities of iniquity, Where even the tempest, when its clouds hang low, Passes in silence, and the lightning dies,— If thou hast seen them, bitterly hath been Thy heart wrung with the misery and despair Of that dread vision! Yet there is on earth A woe more desperate and miserable,— A spectacle wherein the wrath of God Avenges him more terribly. ”

“ Giusti speaks of the part which he bears as a spectator and critic of passing events, and then apostrophizes himself:
Who art thou that a scourge so keen dost bear And pitilessly dost the truth proclaim, And that so loath of praise for good and fair, So eager art with bitter songs of blame? Hast thou achieved, in thine ideal's pursuit, The secret and the ministry of art? Did'st thou seek first to kill and to uproot All pride and folly out of thine own heart Ere turning to teach other men their part? O wretched scorn! from which alone I sing, Thou weariest and saddenest my soul! ”

“ Among Prati's patriotic poems, I have read one which seems to me rather vivid, and which because it reflects yet another phase of that great Italian resurrection, as well as represents Prati in one of his best moods, I will give here:
THE SPY. With ears intent, with eyes abased, Like a shadow still my steps thou hast chased; If I whisper aught to my friend, I feel Thee follow quickly upon my heel. Poor wretch, thou fill'st me with loathing; fly! Thou art a spy! When thou eatest the bread that thou dost win With the filthy wages of thy sin, The hideous face of treason anear Dost thou not see? ”