Lord Byron — The Prophecy Of Dante Canto. 2

Canto The Second The Spirit of the fervent days of Old,         When words were things that came to pass, and Thought         Flashed o'er the future, bidding men behold Their children's children's doom already brought         Forth from the abyss of Time which is to be,         The Chaos of events, where lie half-wrought Shapes that must undergo mortality;         What the great Seers of Israel wore within,         That Spirit was on them, and is on me, And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din         Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed         This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed,         The only guerdon I have ever known.         Hast thou not bled? and hast thou still to bleed, Italia? Ah! to me such things, foreshown         With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget         In thine irreparable wrongs my own; We can have but one Country, and even yet         Thou'rt mine—my bones shall be within thy breast,         My Soul within thy language, which once set With our old Roman sway in the wide West;         But I will make another tongue arise         As lofty and more sweet, in which expressed The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs,         Shall find alike such sounds for every theme         That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, Shall realise a Poet's proudest dream,         And make thee Europe's Nightingale of Song;         So that all present speech to thine shall seem The note of meaner birds, and every tongue         Confess its barbarism when compared with thine.         This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, Thy Tuscan bard, the banished Ghibelline.         Woe! woe! the veil of coming centuries         Is rent,—a thousand years which yet supine Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise,         Heaving in dark and sullen undulation,         Float from Eternity into these eyes; The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station,         The unborn Earthquake yet is in the womb,         The bloody Chaos yet expects Creation, But all things are disposing for thy doom;         The Elements await but for the Word,         "Let there be darkness!" and thou grow'st a tomb! Yes! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword,         Thou, Italy! so fair that Paradise,         Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored: Ah! must the sons of Adam lose it twice?         Thou, Italy! whose ever golden fields,         Ploughed by the sunbeams solely, would suffice For the world's granary; thou, whose sky Heaven gilds         With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue;         Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew,         And formed the Eternal City's ornaments         From spoils of Kings whom freemen overthrew; Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of Saints,         Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made         Her home; thou, all which fondest Fancy paints, And finds her prior vision but portrayed         In feeble colours, when the eye—from the Alp         Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp         Nods to the storm—dilates and dotes o'er thee,         And wistfully implores, as 'twere, for help To see thy sunny fields, my Italy,         Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still         The more approached, and dearest were they free, Thou—Thou must wither to each tyrant's will:         The Goth hath been,—the German, Frank, and Hun         Are yet to come,—and on the imperial hill Ruin, already proud of the deeds done         By the old barbarians, there awaits the new,         Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won Rome at her feet lies bleeding; and the hue         Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter         Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, And deepens into red the saffron water         Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest,         And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, Vowed to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased         Their ministry: the nations take their prey,         Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they        ? these but gorge the flesh, and lap the gore         Of the departed, and then go their way; But those, the human savages, explore         All paths of torture, and insatiate yet,         With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set;         The chiefless army of the dead, which late         Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met, Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate;         Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance         Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. Oh! Rome, the Spoiler or the spoil of France,         From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never         Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance, But Tiber shall become a mournful river.         Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po,         Crush them, ye Rocks! Floods whelm them, and for ever! Why sleep the idle Avalanches so,         To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head?         Why doth Eridanus but overflow The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed?         Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey?         Over Cambyses' host the desert spread Her sandy ocean, and the Sea-waves' sway         Rolled over Pharaoh and his thousands,—why,         Mountains and waters, do ye not as they? And you, ye Men! Romans, who dare not die,         Sons of the conquerors who overthrew         Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew,         Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylæ?         Their passes more alluring to the view Of an invader? is it they, or ye,         That to each host the mountain-gate unbar,         And leave the march in peace, the passage free? Why, Nature's self detains the Victor's car,         And makes your land impregnable, if earth         Could be so; but alone she will not war, Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth         In a soil where the mothers bring forth men:         Not so with those whose souls are little worth; For them no fortress can avail,—the den         Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting         Is more secure than walls of adamant, when The hearts of those within are quivering.         Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil         Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring Against Oppression; but how vain the toil,         While still Division sows the seeds of woe         And weakness, till the Stranger reaps the spoil. Oh! my own beauteous land! so long laid low,         So long the grave of thy own children's hopes,         When there is but required a single blow To break the chain, yet—yet the Avenger stops,         And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee,         And join their strength to that which with thee copes; What is there wanting then to set thee free,         And show thy beauty in its fullest light?         To make the Alps impassable; and we, Her Sons, may do this with one deed—Unite.