Miscellaneous Poems, 
 
 V » 
 
 TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH PROSE. 
 
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 rV 
 
 
 BY 
 
 ei. ALEXAJ^DER J^OBILE, BA. 
 
 ^ Tmi'lm- of Fmii'Ji and Italian. 
 
 ■-».> 
 
 MONTREAL: 
 WITNESS PKINTINC! HOUSE, ST. JAMES STREET WEST. 
 
 1884. 
 
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 Entered according to Act of Parliament, in the Office of tha Minister of 
 Agriculture, in the year of Our Lord one thousand eight hundred and 
 eighty-tliree, by A. Alexander Nobile. 
 
 .♦^ 
 
.■■> 
 
 CONTENTF,. # 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Infamy A, Richard 5 
 
 St. Sylvester A. Richard 1 8 
 
 The Night of December A. De Mussel. . 20 
 
 Dapte A. Richard 26 
 
 Hope in God , A. De Mussel 30 
 
 Charity A. Richard 43 
 
 Poland A. Richard 67 
 
 For the Poor Viclor Hugo 72 
 
 The Night of October A. De Mussel 75 
 
 Phantoms Viclor Hugo 84 
 
 On the Death of a Girl Brasseur 90 
 
 A Son F. Coppee 103 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN. 
 
 A Supper of King A.lboinus. .G. Prati 10 
 
 Christopher Columbus Gazzolelli. . . , 13 
 
 Mark Botzaris C. A. Morpurgo 37 
 
 The Two Mothers Fusinalo 45 
 
 Selim , C. A. Morpurgo. 52 
 
 Victor Emmanuel C. A. Morpurgo 93 
 
 The Twin Spirits C. A, Morpurgo no 
 
1. 
 
 INFAMY. 
 
 TO REV. HATRLEY CARMICHAEL. 
 
 THREE families, hungry, naked, roofless ; twelve 
 starved children, learning early in life how much 
 pity exists in human hearts, wandering on every road, 
 without finding shelter, stopped one day on that corner 
 of the earth which once was called Switzerland, the 
 hospitable. 
 
 At the sight of them suddenly anger is shown. 
 Rascals, vagabonds, beggars, away with you ! Let us 
 cast on our neighbors this tiresome burden ! Money- 
 less tourists come, out of the way ! Off with you ! 
 But neighbors, too, thank God, have police like us for 
 such visitors. 
 
 You have seen somet'.mes panting sheep, care- 
 lessly worried by butcher's dogs with hungry jaws, 
 bleating in despair, hurrying, pushing, and soon finding 
 uo place to run to, to fly to, to escape this horrible tor- 
 ture, since on every side the teeth are ready to bite them. 
 And the butcher's boy joyfully chuckles, he hounds them 
 on, and " Bite him, there's a little one for you." It's 
 
6 
 
 blood, it's flesh that the dog tears. It's an eye torn out 
 that hangs on his jowl. It's a life in tatters ; but close 
 to the shambles its quicker work ; and one gets through 
 one's duty. 
 
 So the poor wretches cast on to the frontier twenty 
 times are roughly repulsed. Pushed on and back, over 
 marshes, down ravines, through forests, caught, let go, 
 caught again, from night to dawn they go on, from dawn 
 to eve they go on again. Oh, horror! in vain, with 
 tears and cries the little ones shew the tormentors their 
 mangled feet ; in vain the rain drenches them, freezes 
 them ; no Christian offers them a place under his roof ; 
 no hearth for a moment warms the pale and fleshless 
 bodies of these miserable ones. 
 
 Exhausted, they complain in a voice hardly audible, 
 " Mother, I am hungry, cold ; mother, my feet are bleed- 
 ing; oh, mother, wait a little." But the orders are stern, 
 Living or dead they must leave the country without de- 
 lay. They must tramp, still tramp ; and the police have 
 rpany other cares, besides these cries and tears. 
 
 Drag them, beat them, if their spirits break down. 
 No doubt the stick will restore their strength. Let us 
 see how orders are carried out, and if to excel in this 
 noble competition the zeal of different districts is unequal, 
 so that we may give the prize to the most brutal. 
 
 WhoM there comes to us, dragging on a useless life, 
 some worn-out, wasted millionaire, well taught the re- 
 spect due to money, we sniff them, and require nothing 
 more ; we pass him as respectable, and humoring his 
 whims, we find a virtue in his every vice. 
 
Scruples and morality we keep for the poor. Let ua 
 be proud of our hospitality ; it is like a tavern dog, which 
 humbly fawns on his master's customers, which loves 
 good clothes, hates tramps, and always bites rags and 
 licks velvet. 
 
 Poverty, poverty, how bitter is thy wrath, and what a 
 crushing load is a burden of misery ! Oh, mother of in- 
 sults, what gall, what hatred, what fear, dost thou pour 
 in thy long embraces, on those whom thou choosest, 
 cleaving to them like a hideous leprosy, more deadly 
 every day, 
 
 Ne/er gaining a step, the poor man tramps day by 
 day, wearing out his whole life to fight with famine, to 
 add to the cares of to-day more racking than yesterday's, 
 those of to-mori'ow, which wake him at night ; unless, 
 indeed, he spend the night in ruining his eyes in order 
 that another may be amused, or glitter for an hour or 
 two ; to see his dear ones hopelessly languish in want ; 
 to suffer in their suffering ; to have less rest than the 
 cattle ; and yet to dread losing a thankless labour, and in 
 order to keep it to endure everything, contempt, hard 
 words, from him who throws him a scrap of work. 
 
 That is his fate, and his mildest fate, too ; that is what 
 he is when he has food, when he is to be envied. Ah ! 
 now I understand knavery, cunning ; the selling of soul 
 and body to avoid such misery ; every means being good 
 to heap up money ; for all is forgiven except the crime of 
 an empty purse. v 
 
 I feel myself shuddering with profound fear, for those 
 who have bread, for the world's lucky men, when I see 
 
8 
 
 them teach the hideous lesson, that there is no room in 
 the sunshine except for them, that for them grow the 
 flowers of this human life, for others the thorns and 
 endless woe. 
 
 Rich ! open your eyes, it is now or never ! there are 
 noble hearts among you, I know there are, and pride has 
 always saved me from envy, but most of you have only 
 seen one aspect of life, only the laughing side of this two- 
 fold world ; ah ! they would tremble to see the other. 
 
 Find a quick remedy for this eating evil ! In prudence 
 or in pity, come to help so many wretches whose groans, 
 becoming every moment more distinct, are changing into 
 cries, which, deaf that you are, the noise of your feasts 
 cannot drown. 
 
 At least let fear loosen her fingers ; sometimes after 
 ball or concert, you throw into this bottomless pit alms 
 which men applaud, and which fall like a drop of water 
 in a huge conflagration ; then, fools, you think you have 
 S8.tisfied this hungry crowd which grin '. their teeth. 
 
 Apportion, then, your balm to the horror of the wound. 
 The workman, aghast at the future, must have a labor 
 less thankless, so that he may think of his children, of 
 his old age, without turning pale ; he must live and must 
 have some joy, some little happiness, which heaven sends 
 you. 
 
 Hasten and we^p for every moment ! Some day death 
 will come an unbidden guest to sit at your banquet 
 Then for the evil, which you have permitted, able to 
 prevent it, on the earth, you, oh, ye rich, will answer 
 tooth for tooth, eye for eye, body for body. 
 
9 
 
 For him whom poverty drags into crime ; for the maiden 
 ■whom poverty defiles and throws into the abyss ; for the 
 cheat, the apostate, the groveller, the covetous ; for all 
 those whom famine ruins, the anger of God, taking shape 
 before your eyes, will ask of each of you, " Cain what 
 hast thou done with thy brother ? " 
 
 In the name of earth and heaven help the poor. Keep 
 a little money for his cup of wormwood. In your feasts, 
 your balls, your games, let the memory rise that elsewhere 
 some are de olate ! Give, before is taken from you, for 
 fear lest the flock, hunted by your hand, which bleats to- 
 day, may roar to-morrow. 
 
10 
 
 II. 
 
 A SUPPER OF KING ALBOINUS. 
 
 TO REV. J. R. DAVIS. 
 
 THE great mansion of King Alboinus was filled with 
 sounds and songs, and amidst the dukes assembled 
 at the meeting from every part of the kingdom, more 
 than ever beautiful and happy, adorned with jewels and 
 gold, was seated Rosmunda, chief ornament of this 
 
 festival. 
 
 The cups with brims frothing w'.th choice vines, pass 
 round the banquet. Foaming liquor ascends to the head, 
 and the king's eye, like his poniard, trembles and shines 
 with a dark gleam. With laughter high and ferocious 
 screamed the voices. 
 
 They spoke of our beautiful Italy, vanquished and 
 oppressed by their swords, they praise these hills filled 
 with so many vine trees. They, vile indeed, dare to 
 call Italian women frail as flowers, rather than firm as 
 pillars. They say all were gay, proud and beautiful, 
 but servants. The charming Rosmunda, not yet used to 
 
11 
 
 the great crimes of this race, was sick at heart amid the 
 noise of the horrid revel. 
 
 " Princes and barons, pages and knights, here is th 
 most beautiful of ray thoughts." (in the drunkenness of 
 wine speaks Alboinus.) " Look at the woman who sits 
 near to me so proud and so happy ! who loves me so 
 much ! This is, indeed, the true jewel of my crown, 
 
 " Desirest thou dresses all embroidered with gold ? Wilt 
 thou have three hundred feasts and banquets every year ? 
 Italy is rich, very rich, truly ; ask, and thou shalt have ; 
 but as all those valiant men in their castles must speak 
 of thy virtues, and daily and nightly render jealous 
 young girls and women, let them know all thy merits. 
 
 "That thou art good, Father Robert has pi-eached it; 
 that thou art chaste, I say it, and that is enough. Nimble 
 of form, with small feet ; that thou art beautiful, every 
 one can easily perceive. Give them now a proof of 
 thy courage ;" and with a smile he offers her the naked 
 skull of her murdered father. 
 
 " Come, Rosvnunda, be strong, Rosmunda, drink. For 
 me his blood, lor thee, my vine ; beautiful Rosmunda, 
 such is the destiny. Thou hast kissed him before he 
 died, kiss him now ; and thou, departed King Gunimond, 
 good day ! Thou comest from the other world, here is 
 the star of ray family, kiss thy daughter." 
 
 The insult of the drunkard king pleased the guests, 
 and was received by a boisterous, hellish laugh. 
 
 " King Gunimond, welcome ! Where hast thou been ? 
 Vfhy dost thou not take our hands ? What has happened 
 to thee? Thou hast lost thy eyes I O cursed knight. 
 
12 
 
 tell me something about the other life ; then thou who 
 knowest all, answer these two questions. Well fed, 
 and without war, shall we remain long in this coun- 
 try? and on what condition will God give us this 
 crown ? White, mute and blind guest, kiss the rose near 
 me. See how the poor maiden with pale face awaits thy 
 kisses !" and so saying, the drunkard king played with 
 the horrid skull, and quickly offered it to Rosmunda, who 
 turned away her head. 
 
 " Stop, Alboinus, from thy lips do not ask such an in- 
 famous trial ? " 
 
 " Drink, Rosmunda, not another word I will it." 
 
 Rosmunda drank, but with her eyes seemed to say, 
 Lombard King, if my revenge shall not fail, I will drink 
 thy blood. 
 
 A year after this festival, the drunkard husband 
 was sleeping alone. At night the beautiful Rosmunda 
 opened her cell, and with a stalwart soldier, she had 
 conspired to work his death. 
 
 Here at the dawn a soft knock was heard. — " Art thou 
 Almacliildes ?"— " I am."—" What news bringest thou?" 
 — " That the dead have a long sleep." And she, taking 
 off the strong helmet of her knight. " This crown," she 
 says, " my sweet, this crown sits better on thee. It was 
 infamous; thou makest it honorable. Kiss me, and reign." 
 
 If I have narrated you a sad, iniquitous story, history 
 cannot change. In the turbulent age, 'when Italy was a 
 nursling, there happened many atrocious deeds, but at 
 our epoch so polite and educated, hupoand." and wives, 
 people and kings are all good. 
 
13 
 
 III. 
 
 MONOLOGU 
 
 OF 
 
 CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 
 
 TO SIGNORE CAVALIERE GIANNELLI, 
 f Consul General of Italy in Montreal.) 
 
 I AM dying, old and wretched, and it was right that I 
 should die in sueh a way ! My life toiled through 
 with suffering ends with grief; but amidst all God 
 granted me so great and infinite a joy that every pain 
 compared to it is a smile. God, who, when he pours on 
 the world a ray of ete :nal light, recommends it to ^taly, 
 His beautiful Italy thus spoke to me, " Daring Genoese, 
 try the sun's road 1" 
 
 And I turned my ejes to the West, and I saw a new 
 world, as it were, come out from the waves ; im nense 
 forests of unknown trees, immense rivers, immense 
 plains. There were the soft fruits which distant India 
 ripens, which Europe envies and desires ; birds, nameless 
 with us, different wild beasts, soas filled with pearls, and 
 
14 
 
 mountains of gold, — and the voice said : " Go ; come back 
 and tell the story." But I am poor ; sails do not spread 
 at my command. I have nothing but a thought ! And 
 X brought my thought to the crowned heads of the world 
 and asked a little gold for recompense. Alas 1 I was 
 derided. For three long lustres I was scorned and went 
 wandering, and nobody understood me. I heard not, I 
 saw ! 
 
 Here, bring me nearer to the balcony ; for pity sake do 
 not talce away from me the sight of the sea ! The sea ! 
 the sea ! my kingdom, the friend of m}? youth and of my 
 glory ! Let me greet it a last time and then let me depart 
 for the journey from which no one returns. 
 
 I was so glad, so serene v^'aen, for the first time, I chal- 
 lenged it. Courageors, I pushed myself on its open 
 bosom where man's eye never yet reached. Foolish 
 cowai-dice imagined it to be filled with monsters and ter- 
 rors. I was not afraid. 
 
 Fly, my ship ; if my heart beats it is not for fear of 
 the waves, but for fear of my followers. Fly, fly my ship, 
 let not mischevious omens arrest thy swift course. A new 
 land is there. Gaily and speedily let us make sail for the 
 foreign shore ; let us follow. God protects the bold under- 
 taking. The wind is propitious, and the waves are 
 gentle. 
 
 But already days go, months have passed away, and 
 no trace of new countries is perceived. Our life is always 
 U'tween heaven and sea, and confidence has disappeared 
 from every face. What more can I do to encourage those 
 men who only understand the vile sound of gold ? I see 
 
15 
 
 other stars and other poles ! " Three days more, and if our 
 hopes were vain, I surrender myself to you ! " 
 
 Here we see flocks of birds rapidly fly from the West; 
 sea-weeds and cleft wood from grounds not distant 
 Land ! land ! A panting cry breaks the eternal silence of 
 the sky. It's the land ! It's the land ! Who could now 
 describe my joy ? A light seen from afar in the dark air 
 give strength to the assured heart and to the tired hand ! 
 Forward ! forward ! Here is the dawn. Perhaps it is my 
 dream. No, no, this is the longed for land, virgin, beauti- 
 ful, dewy, — beautiful like a bride given as a reward to 
 valour, fair and flowery like the hope courted by me for 
 so many years. See the sun ad vance ; see the land 
 smiles with proud life ! Furl the sails, lower the boat. — 
 0, beloved land, at last I kiss thee ! O my ardent wished- 
 for world, not in vain believed in by me, I greet thee. 
 
 The great work is accomplished ! Am I not now the 
 master of my land and my sea ? Where is my royal 
 palace? Where are my councillors, my jewels, my crown? 
 Ferdinand, where is thy faith ? 
 
 Thou wast sitting proud in the conquered Alhambra, 
 Granada lay vanquished at thy feet — a wandering Italian, 
 burdened by thought, whom anguish had made old be- 
 fore his time, leading by the hand a little boy, came to 
 thy throne. Around it were princes, lords, captains, and 
 all Spain's ancient splendour. What, powerful king, on 
 that day said the unknown Genoese ? 
 
 " Sire," he said, and he spoke without trembling, " for- 
 tune made thee sovereign of Aragon, love made thee mas- 
 ter of Castillo, war gave thee the beautiful kingdom of 
 
16 
 
 the Moors. Well, I will do for thee more than fortune, 
 love, and risk of arms already have done, I will give thee 
 a. world ! " 
 
 And then, O king, when from the far ocean unexpected 
 I returned and brought thee gold and jewels of thy new 
 kingdom, thine without a drop of blood shed, and to thy 
 confounded sages and proud councillors highly I answered 
 with facts, showing the proof of the glorious deed. What 
 said'st thou, O king ? Turning to thy subjects, thou didst 
 exclaim, " Genius is a sparkle of the eternal idea, and is 
 superior to every crown. Grandees of Spain, off with 
 your hats ! " Now I am the same Columbus. In the 
 gold, the distant springs of which I opened, Europe swims 
 and Spain is plunged to the neck. Poor and forgotten I 
 beg my living crust by crust, and the discoverer of a new 
 world has not a roof, nor a house where he may die in 
 peace. 
 
 0, do not tell my grand-children such an infamy ! 0, 
 do not say that these arms even yet keep the marks of 
 chains, and that in the place of my triumph I lived a 
 prisoner ! Cruel story ! If it was fated that such a recom- 
 pense should follow the benefit, God be thanked, that I 
 have not done it to Italy. 
 
 It was right, it was right ; see the beautiful countries 
 streaming with blood and with massacre. Of the people 
 who butcher, and the people who suffer, which is the sav- 
 age ? Crime ! Crime ! The sword is plunged into the 
 breast of innocent brethren, but this was not my inten- 
 tion when I undertook to guide you, ye wicked ! It is 
 not gold that tempts wickedness, but the vice is followed 
 
17 
 
 by useless offences ; these faithless men have made the 
 Cross a pretext for butchery, the Cross, law of eternal pity. 
 Cease, ye cruel, what rage maddens you ? Is gold not 
 enough, that you wish even for blood ? And cannot blood 
 quench your horrible thirst ? If this is valor what could 
 be cowardice ! Shut out from my last moments this fatal 
 scene ! Let me not see these horrors. Already high venge- 
 ance is moved, is awakened — it roars — it falls — and first 
 on me. 
 
 It was right! ! it was right ! I bow my head. — 0, sea I 
 The sio-ht of thee is remorse ^ i me. Though innocent we 
 are accomplices in great disa. cers! Time will come when 
 on blood and crime will rest th( " etf ulness of centuries, 
 and when from the new partnership ' ">rae to the uni- 
 verse as much good as formerly evil was p ^ 'ced : +' jr^ 
 amidst far posterity my name may be blesseu, re- 
 
 ward of honour more glorious because longer delayed 
 may comfort my weary bones. 
 
 Now cover my face — I die in peace. 
 
18 
 
 IV. 
 
 SAINT SILVESTER. 
 
 TO PROFESSOR DANIEL WILSON, L. L. D., 
 
 (President of University College.) 
 
 THE year is departing. When a mere boy, ignorant 
 of life, those days to me were so beautiful, and 
 such holidays. Gaily with my soul full of hope I ascend- 
 ed those hard steps builded up with tombs. 
 
 The pride of being and of growing shone on my face ; 
 under my golden hair I showed myself a fair flowering 
 shrub of which the living sap drinks and overflows in the 
 sunlight. 
 
 If I counted the days, it was not for complaining 
 of the days already past which had fallen as dead branches; 
 without fear I could contemplate the future, and without 
 remorse I could enjoy the present. 
 
 Far, very far from the ancestral hearth with void 
 heart, mournful spirit, and broken body, forsaken amidst 
 
19 
 
 the swarming city, sad, depressed, martyrized, to-day the 
 future frightens me. 
 
 To me it is like a dream, in which the pains of the day 
 come back in turn to persecute us with human face, and 
 without rest scourge i: with love. 
 
20 
 
 THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER. 
 
 TO MY BELOVED SISTER, 
 Josephine Calligt, (n^e Sorvillo.) 
 
 AT the time when I was a scholar one evening I re- 
 mained sitting up in the lonely hall, there came to 
 sit at my table a poor child all dressed in black, who 
 resembled me as a brother. His face was beautiful 
 and sad ; by the light of i ly lamp he came to read in 
 my open book, leaned his forehead on my hand and 
 smiling remained thoughtful until the morrow. 
 
 When I was fifteen years old I was walking one day 
 with .slow paces in a wood. At the foot of a tree came to 
 sit a young man dressed in black who resembled me as 
 a brother. I asked him my way ; in one hand he had 
 a lute, in the other a bunch of roses, he made me a friend- 
 ly salute, and, turning himself, with his finger pointed to 
 the hill. - 
 
 I had reached the age at which we believe in love. One 
 day I was alone in my room in the tears of a first sorrow. 
 At my fire corner came to sit a stranger all dressed in 
 
ii 
 
 black, who resembled me as a brother. He was sad and 
 thoughtful; with one hand he showed me the heaven, and 
 with the other held a poniard. It seemed that he suffered 
 from my pains, but he did not sigh, and vanished as a 
 dream. 
 
 At the age when man is licentious, one day I raised 
 my glass to drink a toast at a feast; opposite to me came 
 to sit a guest all dressed in black who resembled me as a 
 brother. Under his mantle he shook a rag of purple torn 
 in pieces, on his head he had a wild myrtle, his thin arm 
 tried to press mine, and the drinking glass in my feeble 
 hand broke as soon as it touched his. 
 
 A year after in the night I was on my knees at the 
 bed where my father had first died, there at the bedside 
 came and sat an orphan all dressed in black, who resembled 
 me as a brother. His eyes were moistened with tears ; 
 like the angel of sorrow he was crowned with thorns, 
 his lute was lying on the ground, his purple was the 
 color of blood, and his poniard was in his breast. 
 
 I recollected him so well that always in every moment 
 of my life I recognized him. It is a strange vision, and 
 yet, angel or devil, I have seen everywhere his friendly 
 shade. 
 
 When later, tired of suffering, I tried to exile myself 
 from France to be born again or to die, when impatient 
 of moving I went in search of the vestige of a hope, at 
 Pisa to the feet of the Apenines, — at Koln o]>posite to the 
 Rhine, — at Nice to the declivity of the valley, — at Flor- 
 ence in the midst of palaces, — at Brigues in those old 
 B 
 
22 
 
 castles in the middle of the desolate Alps, — at Geneva 
 under the cedars, — at Vevey under the green apple trees, 
 — at Havre in front of the Atlantic, — at Venice on the 
 arid Lido, where on the grass of a grave has just died the 
 pale Adriatic ; everywhere over this immense earth 
 I have wearied, and my eyes bleeding from everlasting 
 wounds ; everywhere limping weariness, dragging my 
 fatigue after it, has dragged me on a hurdle ; every- 
 where always thirsty foi the knowledge of an unknown, 
 I went after the shadow of my dreams ; everywhere, 
 without having lived, I have seen what I had already 
 seen, the human face, and its illusions ; everywhere I 
 wished to live ; everywhere I wished to die ; everywhere 
 I touched the la'id, always there came across on my path 
 a wretched man, all dressed in black, who resembled me 
 as a brother. 
 
 Who art thou, whom, in this life I have met in my 
 way ? Seeing thee so sad, I cannot believe thee to be my 
 evil genius ; thy sweet smile is full of infinite patience, 
 and thy tears showed so great a pity. In looking at thee 
 thy sorrow seems brother of my pain, and resembles 
 friendship. 
 
 Who art thou ? Surely thou art not my good angel. 
 Never thou comest to advise me. Thou seest my mis- 
 fortunes, and strange to say thou indifferently dost let me 
 suffer. For twenty years thou hast walked on my road, 
 and until now I would not know how I should call thee. 
 Thou smilest, without partaking of ray joy. Thou pitiest 
 me, without bringing me any consolation. 
 
 This evening also thou hast appeared to me. The night 
 
23 
 
 waa chilly. Alone, hent on my bed I was looking at a 
 place, yet warm with burning kisses, and was thinking 
 how soon a woman forgets, and felt a part of my life 
 pine away. 
 
 I collected letters of past days, and tresses, — remains 
 of our love. All this past repeated in my ears the eter- 
 nal oaths of a day. I was looking at these holy relics 
 which made my hand tremble. Tears of my heart, de- 
 voured by the heart, and which to-morrow will not 
 be known, even from the eyes which have poured 
 them. 
 
 I wrapped in a coarse covering the remains of happier 
 days. Methought that here below what lasts longest is a 
 lock of hair. Like the diver who goes down in a deep sea 
 I lose myself in such forge tfulness. On every side I re- 
 volved the probe, and alone far from the eyes of the 
 world I mourned o'er my poor buried love. 
 
 Already I was ready to seal in black those frail and 
 dear treasures. Already I was to restore it, and not being 
 able to believe it, I doubt it. Ah ! feeble woman, proud, 
 senseless, in thy spite thou wilt remember me. Why 
 why liest thou to thy own mind ? To what purpose all 
 this weeping, this swelling breast, these sobs, if thuu doat 
 not love me. 
 
 Yes, thou languishest, thou sufferest, thou weepest, but 
 a dark shadow is between us. Well, then, good bye, adieu. 
 Thou wilt count the hours which separate thee from me. 
 Go, go, and in thy cold heart satisfy your pride. I feel 
 my heart yet young and strong, and many evils could 
 
24 
 yet find a place upon the ill that you have caused 
 
 me. 
 
 Go ! go ! immortal nature had not endewed thee with 
 all virtues. Ah ! poor woman, who would be beautiful 
 imd not to forgive. Depart, depart, follow the destiny. 
 I who love thee have not yet lost all. Throw to the 
 winds our extinguished love. Is it possible? Thou 
 whom I loved so much ? If thou wilt go why lovest thou 
 
 me ? 
 
 But suddenly in the darkness of night I see a form 
 cross the room without making noise. I see on my cur- 
 tains appear a shadow ; it came to sit on my bed. Who 
 art thou, pale face, sadportrait of myself dressed in black? 
 What wilt thou, wicked bird of passage ? Is it a dream ? 
 Is it my own image that I see in my glass ? Who art 
 thou,ghost of my youth, pilgrim whom nothing could tire? 
 Tell me why I find thee on the shadow everywhere I go. 
 Who art thou solitary visitor, assidous host of my pain3 ? 
 What hast thou done to be condemned to follow me on 
 the world? Who art thou, who art thou, my brother 
 who appears to me only on the days of sorrow ? 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 Friend, \y father is also thine. I am not the guardian 
 angel, neither the ev^l genius of men. I do not know 
 where are directed the steps which I love in this hUle 
 world in which we are. 
 
 I am not God, neither devil, and thou hast called me 
 
25 
 
 with my name when thou hast called me brother. Where 
 thou wilt go I will always follow till the last day in 
 which 1 will go to sit on thy grave. Heaven has entrust- 
 ed thy heart to me. When thou rnfferest come to me 
 without inquietude ; 1 will well coine after thee on the 
 road, but I cannot touch thy hand, friend j I am 
 
 •THE SOLITUDE, 
 
M 
 
 VI. 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 TO THE HON. JOHN BEVERLEV UOBINSON, 
 
 Lieut.-Governor of Ontario. 
 
 La colpa sequirk la parte offenst, 
 In grida come suol. 
 
 —Dante. 
 
 I 
 
 T was evening. Deprived of its magnificence the sun 
 ^ now arrived at the dimmed horizon, was departmg 
 silently, without strength, like an exiled king, who passes 
 away unknown. Upright upon a hill whence Florence 
 could be seen, leaning on his sword still unsheathed and 
 bloody, a soldier, fierce in the face, yet dusty from the 
 battle scarcely ended, all of whose companions were fly- 
 ing at random, stood casting on the distant city a long 
 and painful look. A deep sigh heaved his breast, his 
 eye sparkled, and his voice made the hill tremble. 
 
 " Vanquished 1 exiled lik.^ a brigand ! driven away by 
 the fate of the battlefield! without even having the for- 
 tune to die fighting beneath our walls! Vanquished! 
 From valley to valley to drag along my sad life, begging 
 from half-hearted friends!— to eat the hard bread of alma 
 until my last hour comes 1 These are the rights I have 
 won r 
 
27 
 
 " I must fly, then, far from thee, dear and ungrateful 
 city, — live and suffer fa:: from thee without hope ! Of all 
 the misfortunes which from this moment will weigh on 
 me, the greatest will be never to see thee again. Thou 
 sun, who art dying, continue thy course and enlighten 
 still the roof of my ancestors, and the holy place where 
 under the black stone are sleeping in peace my mother 
 and my father. Oh, why could 1 not sleep near them ! 
 Thou belovfed Beatrix, who scarcely hast touched our 
 world while directing thy course toward heaven, in thy 
 great glory dost thou still remember thy friend ? Vision 
 BO short and so beautiful ! Oh, bright day, what was thy 
 to-morrow? Watch over m^, radiant immortal one I 
 Sweet-eyed angel, cov<jr me »vith thy wings ! Happy 
 star, point me out my ^v&y ! " 
 
 Dante was silent, and as in the tempest the oak tree 
 lowers the pride of its branches, the exile bent under the 
 burden of his misfortunes, lowered his face, and with tor- 
 mented soul, and with eyes full of tears, tasted long the 
 bitterness of his pains. A noise came to draw him from 
 his thoughts, — a noise feeble at first, but continually in- 
 creasing ; — a terrible mixture of saddened bells, of a na- 
 tion's curse, of songs of victors, and of cries of the 
 vanquished. 
 
 This noise was the uproar of the people of Florence. 
 Humbled on account of their fears, to feast their victory 
 they asked for vengeance, and without pity dragged to 
 the scafibld many prisoners spared by the sword in 
 battle. 
 
 Like a lion awakened by a sudden noise, which, with 
 
28 
 
 flashing eyes rises and pricks his ears, the soldier started 
 at the words which reac^ ed him with the echo, and com- 
 ino- out from his sad rest, for a moment listened to the 
 brutal orgies ; and then, with his arms extended toward 
 his native city, thus addressed I er : 
 
 " Senseless populace ' Go on ye, who curse the sacri- 
 ficed, and only help the strongest ! Join death to thy 
 pleasure. Mingle blood with the vine of thy feast. 
 Laugh at the execution prepared for those who, i lOved 
 by fate, have risked their life for thee ! 
 
 " Go on with thy work, and hasten. Canst thou, in 
 thy wisdom, know how many hours are needed to change 
 joy into dread, and grief into joy, — how long lasts so 
 sweet a power, — and if the oppressed remain long on 
 their knees ? 
 
 " V^ithout doubt, puffed up by their fortune, triumph- 
 ant and full of bitterness, the Neri alrea'.y say, ' Our 
 reign is sure ! ' Thinking this reign an easy task, and 
 the league of the Bianchi crushed, they strike our rem- 
 nant, and scoff at us with jest and sarcasm. 
 
 " Oh, Neri, know how to maintain yourselves kings of 
 
 the present. I have the future, and you, I dare to think 
 
 will tollow me thither. Ungrateful history may leave in 
 
 darkness your great exploits. I, in this terrified world,. 
 
 just towards so great a glory, will immortalize you. 
 
 " Pouring infernal light on your venal spirits, T will 
 pourtray you to future ages, and will discover the nig- 
 gardliness, the jealousy, the treachery, the hypocrisy of 
 your hearts, and upon your soiled names will throw tor- 
 rents of terrible verse. Oh, inconstant and deceiving: 
 
29 
 
 people ! I feel the day of vengeance coming ! Tremble 1 
 I see the supreme wrath, bend thyself under its eurae, 
 misfortune break thy pride, every hour will bring a new 
 pain, and thou wilt torture thyself as a man alive in a 
 
 tomb." • 
 
 The night had come. A blast of tempest roared pass- 
 ing through the air; the dark heaven was reddening, 
 and ,;he arm of the sad prophet seemed to threaten the 
 perverse, and the inspired forehead of the divine poet 
 was surrounded by lightning. 
 
 From nation to nation, from place to place, untamed, 
 uneasy, full of hatred and love, the great outlaw wandered 
 twenty years, far from his town, always dreaming of his 
 
 return. 
 
 Until the last hour he nourished the hope of seeing 
 this happy day. Death only took pity on his long suffer- 
 ings ; and the old Ghibelin never more saw Florence, — 
 which has not even his tomb* within her walls. 
 
 • Since the poet wrote these verses, Florence h.is acquired the reaiains 
 of her immortal though despised poet. — 77/i? Translator. 
 
30 
 
 VII. 
 
 HOPE IN GOD. 
 
 TO J. DUNFIELD, ESQ., M. D. 
 
 AS long as my feeble heart, yet full of youth, shall 
 not have bid fare—ell to its last illusions, I would 
 abide by the old wisdom which has made a demi-god of 
 the sober Epicurus. I would live, love, accustom myself 
 to my equals, go in search of joy without relying upon it, 
 do what has been done, be what I am, and carelessly lift 
 my eyes to heaven. 
 
 It is impossible. Infinity torments me. In spite of 
 myself I cannot think of it without fear or hope, and 
 notwithstanding all that has been said, my reason is 
 frightened at seeing it, and not being capable of under- 
 standing it. What is this world ? and what have we 
 come to do in it, if to leave in peace it is necessary to veil 
 heaven ? To pass like sheep with our eyes fixed on the 
 ground and to foi^ake all else, can that be called happi- 
 ness ? No, it is to cease to be a man, and degrades the 
 Boul. Chance has put mo hi the world. Happy or un- 
 
31 
 
 happy I am bom of woman, and I cannot throw off 
 humanity. 
 
 What can I do then ? " Be merry," says paganism, " be 
 merry and die ; the gods think only of sleeping." 
 
 " Hope," answers Christianity, "heaven always watches, 
 and thou canst not die." 
 
 Between these two roads I hesitate. I should wish to 
 follow a more easy path, but a secret voice tells me that 
 there is none, and that with regard to heaven one must 
 believe or deny. This is my opinion too. Tortured souls 
 cast themselves, sometimes in one, sometimes in another, 
 of these two extremes The indifferent are atheists, — if 
 they would doubt only for a day, they could not sleep. 
 I yield, and as matter leaves in my heart a desire full of 
 dread, I will bend my knees, I wish to believe and to 
 hope. 
 
 Here I am in the hands of a God more dreadful than 
 all evils of tliis world put together. Here I am alone, 
 a wandering, weak and miserable creature beneath the 
 eye of a witness who leaves me not. He watches me, he 
 follows me. If my heart beats too quick I offend his 
 dignity and his divinity. A precipice is opened under 
 my steps. If I fall into it to expiate an hour, an eternity, 
 is needed. My judge is a tyrant who deceives his victim. 
 For me everything becomes a snare and changes its name. 
 Love becomes a sin, happiness a crime, and all the world 
 is for me a continual temptation. I have n(jthing more 
 of humanity about me. I await the recompense, I try 
 to avoid the punishment, fear is my guide, and deatli is 
 my only aim. 
 
)2 
 
 Nevertheless, it is said that an infinite joy will be the 
 share of some elect. Who are those happy beings ? If 
 thou hast deceived me, wilt thou again give me life ? If 
 thou hast told me the truth, wilt thou open the heavens ? 
 Alas ! this beautiful country, promised by thy prophets, 
 if it really exists, must be a desert. Thou requirest those 
 chosen to be too pure, and when this happiness arrives 
 they already have suffered too much. I am a man, and I 
 will not be less, nor attempt more- Where should I stop ? 
 If I cannot believe in the priest's promises shall I consult 
 those who are indifferent ? 
 
 If my heart wearied by the dream which troubles it 
 returns again to reality for consolation, at the bottom of 
 the vain pleasures called into my aid I find a disgust that 
 kills me. In the same day in which my thoughts are 
 impious, in which to end my doubt I wish to deny, even 
 though I possessed all that a man could desire, power, 
 health, wealth, love, the only blessing of this world, though 
 the fair Astart^ worshipped by Greece should come from 
 the azure islands, and should open her arms, though I 
 could come in possession of the secret of the earth's fer- 
 tility, and thus changing at ray fancy living matter, 
 create a beauty for myself alone, though Horace, Lucretius 
 and the old Epicurus seated near me, should call me 
 happy, and those great lovers of nature should sing the 
 praises of pleasure, and the contempt of the gods, I would 
 say to all, " In spite of our efforts I suffer, it is too late, 
 the world has become old, an infinite hope has crossed 
 the earth, and against your will, we must raise our eyes 
 to heaven." 
 
33 
 
 What other should I try? Vainly my reason tries 
 CO believe, and my heart to doubt. The christian affrights 
 me, and in spite of my senses I cannot listen to the 
 atheist's persuasiveness. Religious people will call me 
 impious, the indifferent will call me a fool. To whom shall 
 I address myself, and what friendly voice will comfort 
 my heart wounded by doubt ? It is said that there exists 
 a philosophy which can explain everything without reve- 
 lation, and which in this life would guide us between in- 
 difference and religion. Granted. Where are those makers 
 of systems who without faith know how to find the truth? 
 Weak sophists, who believe only in themselves, what are 
 their arguments, what their authority ? One show us 
 two principles at war with one another, which alter- 
 nately conquer, both being everlasting.* 
 
 Another, far away in the desert, heaven discovers a 
 useless God, who will not have any altar.-j- I see Plato 
 dreaming, and Aristotle thinking. I hear them, I praise 
 them, but I pursue my way. Under absolute kings I 
 find a despot God, now they talk of a republican God 
 Pythagoras and Leibnitz transfigure my being. Descartes 
 leaves me perplexed. Montaigne after great examination 
 cannot understand himself. Pascal trembling tries to es- 
 cape from his own visions. Pyrrho blinds me, and Zeno 
 makes me insensible. Voltaire throws down all he sees 
 standing. Spinosa tired of trying the impossible, vainly 
 searching for his God, ends by seeing him everywhere. 
 With the English sophistj man is a machine, finally from 
 
 • Manichean. t Theism. ... t Locke. 
 
34 
 
 the fbgs comes a German* rhetorician who, finishing the 
 ruin of philosophy, declares the heaven empty and proves 
 that there is nothing. 
 
 These are the wrecks of human science, and of her five 
 thousand years continually doubting, after such a great 
 and persevering woi k here, one finds the results at which 
 we have arrived. Poor foolish, miserable brains, who 
 have explained all in such diffV ent ways, to reach heaven 
 you needed wings. You had the desire but faith was 
 rot with you. I pity you; your pride came from a wound- 
 ed soul, you have felt the pains which my heart suffers, 
 and you well know this bitter thought which has made 
 man tremble whenever he considers infinity. Well, 
 come on, let us pray together, let us abjure the misery of 
 your childish calculations of such a vain work. Now 
 that your bodies are dust I will pray for you on your 
 graves. Come pagan rhetoricians, masters of sciences 
 christians of old times, and thinkers of the present age, 
 believe me, prayer is a cry of hope. Let us address our- 
 selves to God in order that He may answer us. He is 
 just. He is good, without doubt He forgives you. All of 
 you have suffered, the rest is forgotten. If heaven is 
 a desert we shall oflfend nobody ; if there is One who 
 hears us, may He pity us. 
 
 PRAYER 
 thou whom nobody has been able to know, and 
 
 Kant. 
 
35 
 
 whom none could deny without lying, answer us, thou 
 who hast made me, and to-morrow may makest me die. 
 Since thou lettest us understand thee, why, at the same 
 time makest us doubt thee ? What sad pleasure canst 
 thou feel in tempting our good faith ? As soon as a man 
 raises his head he thinks that he sees thee in heaven, all 
 creation in his eyes is only a vast temple. If he descends 
 into his inward thoughts he finds thee, thou livcst in him. 
 If he suffers, weeps, or loves, it is his God who had so 
 willed. The noblest intelligences apply their most sublime 
 ambition to prove thy existence and in teaching thy 
 name. Whatever is the name which is given thee, Brah- 
 ma, Jupiter or Jesus, true eternal justice, all arms are 
 extended to thee. The last of the sons of the earth thanks 
 thee from the depth of his heart as soon as to his misery 
 is added a simple appearance of happiness. All the 
 world glorifies thee; the bird from its nest sings to thee; 
 and thousands have blessed thee for a drop of rain. 
 Nothing has been done by thee that is not admired ; none 
 of thy gifts is lost to us; all pray; and when thou smiles^ 
 all bend the knee before thee. Why, then, supreme Mas- 
 ter, hast thou created evil so great that reason and even 
 virtue tremble at the sight ? Whilst so many things in 
 the world proclaim the divinity, and are witnesses of 
 the love, power, and kindness of a father ; how is it that 
 under the holy aky are seen actions so shocking as to 
 check the prayer on the lips of the unhappy ? How is it 
 in thy divine handiwork are so many elements not in 
 harmony ? To what purpose are pestilence and crime ? 
 Just God, why death ? Thy pity must have been great 
 
36 
 
 when with all its good and evil this marvelous and beauti- 
 ful world emerged from chaos ! Since thou wouldst sub- 
 mit it to the pains of which is replenished, thou ought- 
 est not to have permitted it to discern thee. Why lettest 
 thou our misery see thee and guess a God ? Doubt has 
 brought desolation on the earth, we see too much or too 
 little'!' If thy poor creature is too unworthy to approach 
 thee tuou oughtest to have let nature veil and hide thee. 
 Thy power would have been left to thee, and we should 
 bave felt its blows ; but quiet and ignorance would have 
 
 lessened our evils. 
 
 If our afflictions and pains reach not to thy majesty, 
 keep thy solitary grandeur, shut forever thine immensity 
 but if our mortal griefs come to thee, and from the eter- 
 Bal plains thou hearest our laments, in grace break 
 then the deep vaults which cover the creation, lift this 
 woild's veil, and show thyself a just and good God ! 
 Thou wilt see all over this earth an ardent love of faith, 
 and humanity will fall down before thee. The tears 
 which have exhausted him, and which flow from man's 
 eyes as a light dew will disappear in the heaven. Thou 
 wilt hear only thy praises, and a concert of joy and love, 
 Uke that which the angels gladden thy heavenly kingdom, 
 and in this supreme Hosanna thou wilt see at the sound 
 of our songs doubt and blasphemy fly away, while death 
 itself will join its accents. 
 
87 
 
 Till. 
 
 MARK BOTZARIS, 
 
 TO SIR W. P. ROWLAND, C. B., K. C. M. 
 
 HALF a century has already passed since the day in 
 which, tired at last of the intolerable yoke, all the 
 untamed Greeks upraised their bent heads and unsheath- 
 ed theii swords, surging to the dangers of unforeseen strug- 
 gles, but inly too joyful in the attempt to deliver their 
 country from the horrors of slavery. Europe was astonish- 
 ed at the strange news, but ere long Britain, France and 
 Italy sent their sons to the defence of the sister who was 
 hesitating in the dangerous clutches of the Islamic pan- 
 ther, and removed the yoke imposed on Athens by Con- 
 stantinople. The blades glittered in the sunlight, and 
 new Alexanders they cleft the Gordiau knot and glorious- 
 ly made their brethren free. Of this holy war and of 
 the memorable deeds sung of the brilliant champion hero 
 c 
 
88 
 
 and supreme chief, -wlio as *n tl\9 sky shi'ies ihe sun siipe- 
 rior to all, shines for our inspired poeis. 
 
 Let me, 0, intrepid hero, sing a song in thy memory 
 about the ever gloiious day in which thy country was 
 preparing her courageous sons for the defence of her bre- 
 thren who were yet groaning, a prey to the Ottoman's, 
 and inpatiently waiting for freedom to be extended over 
 all Greece. The day is near, I hope that the Muscovite 
 will destioy the haughty Mussulman. The bells ring, the 
 cross rises, and the crescent lowers, like the owl at the 
 breaking of day flies from rock to rock. Hope, O, Gre- 
 cians ! this day is near ; already I see around me unfold- 
 ed in the air the avenging standard of the Christians : 
 already I see the Soliman fall suppliant. Rise, 0, glorious 
 country, dear to God ! This is the thought of the people, 
 and this is my hope ! and while to Botzaris I begin to 
 sing my sincere verse, inspire thyself with the holy ardour 
 which burns in rae, and let the world admire thee, while 
 loud plaudits will crown the success. Do not hesitate, 
 rise up ! What carest thou for ruins, if in the Neropolis 
 thou canst see die him, who once crushed, but always de- 
 spised thee ? 
 
 II. 
 
 It was already time when Hellenia, torn piecemeal, lay a 
 prey to the Ottoman hyena. The terrible ravaging sword 
 of Mahomet had rent into a thousand pieces the ancestral 
 land, nest of glory and of great virtues, and without fear 
 had enslaved the oftspring of Sophocles and Lycurgus. 
 
39 
 
 Separated from the other sisters Hellenia alone was not 
 enough for such an enemy, and Athens — conquered, for- 
 saken and tired succumbed, to the will of Soliman. 
 
 O, how many and what awful arts the victors employ- 
 ed toward the conquered ! 0, who will give me strength 
 to narrate the infinite tears poured out by Epaminondas» 
 sons, once great, now conquered, and at the will of a cruel 
 destiny ? The most beautiful of the Hellenian maidens, 
 the most chaste wives, innocent girls of scarce ten years 
 were condemned to the vilest wishes of their master, who 
 to watch over them employed iniquitous, wretched 
 eunuchs, (scorn and horror of the world) hideous, but 
 ra&de yet more vile and ferocious by reason of their lost 
 manhood, and the continual tortures to which they 
 are condemned, forced to watch those near whom 
 they lose their reason. Husbands, parents, sons, chil- 
 dren, beseeching matrons, 8,11 were slaves. The once 
 rich but now all ravaged fields were made haunts of wild 
 beasts and caverns of horrors. The power of the right 
 and of reason was lost, and the few spared by cruel fate, 
 lay spiritless and annihilated on the ground, Justice 
 slumbered and always was deaf to the querulous voices of 
 the thousand afflicted who implored her. Hope was dead. 
 Everywhere the abject crescent shone unjust and atrocious. 
 But one day from heaven, like a summer's ray, which 
 after a long rain fills with life the languid flowers, de- 
 scended an elect who, after long study of the wounded 
 country, and afflicted humanity, felt an intense horror for 
 his Buttering country, and daring soon destroyed every 
 seed of incertitude. Turning his looks to this land, which 
 
40 
 
 once so rich in virtue and great exploits, was the model 
 of great enterprise. "Let us not, he says, let not longer 
 endure this abominable condition which presses us ! Are 
 we not sons of God ? Why have we an heart ? How 
 could we look silently at the slaughter around us, and not 
 feel a holy wratb, which impels v.s to seizo our arms and 
 to reinflict on the oppressor's head the same griefs ? The 
 Almighty give us strength and manly hands able to 
 avenge our injuries. Up, then, sons of Greece ! I spur 
 you to fieedom, to freedom which smiles on us. In the 
 name of God, who now inspires me ; in the name of the 
 suffering which grieve you ; in the name of our suppliant 
 daughters exposed io the filthy kisses of the tyrant ; in 
 the name of our glorious ancestors, I, a son of Hellenia, 
 invite you to revenge. We are few, 'tis true, but we are 
 re'jolute and loved by God. Look how there the Saviour's 
 cross flaps in the blue sky 1 Lf \ her be our guide, O 
 Grecians, and let us conc^uor.*' 
 
 in. 
 
 The tyrant is fallen ! The thousand cohorts of the 
 cruel oppressor so dread before, fall now in the dark so- 
 journ of death. Hellenia already is awakened from her 
 long sleeping. Thousand, many thousand are those vali- 
 ant ones, who march through the field of glory, inflicting 
 the terrible anguish of prolonged suflering. Impelled 
 by a heavenly sacred spark they march ready to bring 
 death, or to die. The immortal genius of Botzaris already 
 
41 
 
 shines, already the conquered bands of the Mussulman 
 flee. Dispersed through the fields they go begging for 
 peace, falling, moaning, imploring mercy. The crescent 
 is destroyed, and the wicked blood of the conquered runs 
 in streams. The Grecian are victorious, but this victory is 
 dearly bought The hero of the heroes faithfully unfold- 
 ing the cross, exciting his followers to bravery, fighting 
 himseL bravely, is wounded and near to death. 
 
 Everywhere rise cries of grief, and the eyes of the vali- 
 ant are moistened. The bold and mighty leader is dying 
 mortally wounded. The hero weeps not, but turning 
 his eyes to heaven implores its pity for his dear 
 
 countrymen. 
 
 "Destiny is accomplished," thus he spoke, "and I depart 
 to the bosom of the everlasting where grief is unknown, 
 but at least I see you free before I go. Alas ! I faint at 
 such a joyful thought. Death smiles on me because I die 
 the same Jay Hellenia has been able to break her fetters- 
 — Beaut^til it is to die free on the field— for one's 
 fatherland— Greeks I leave you— rec«:ve my last fare- 
 well " 
 
 Thus spoke the warrior, and while the air resounds 
 with his words joined with the echo of the martial guns, 
 the oppressor was in flight, and sad sad on the ground 
 already reddened with the outpoured Ottoman blood 
 was deposited the dead body of Mark, tiie chief and the 
 
 victor. 
 
 Kneeling the soldiers prayed, and their prayers went to 
 the Almighty in company with his dying soul. Ho ac- 
 cepted favourably those prayers and mercifully watches 
 
m 
 
 o'er Greece. The lamented hero avenger of his land lives 
 and will live in the heart of the present and every future 
 generation as a rare example .'f love to one's countiy. 
 Ye Greeks, remember Missolunghi, and arise ! 
 
43 
 
 IX. 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 TO REV. D. J. MACDONELIi. 
 
 WHEN the pining flower that summer cauges to 
 fade leans toward the burning soil to di(3, and 
 to quench the fire by which it is devoured, askg and 
 begs only a drop of water ; without rain or de\^ this 
 dying complaint fell with the wind's Weath. 
 
 So when the unhappy drags himself alone, bent from 
 the cradle under troubles, oppressed by his burden, if the 
 arm of his bi.>cher does not support his misery, if some 
 Bweet voice does not speak him a word which rais<;s and 
 comforts, he must fall under the weight. 
 
 sublime charity, balm of grief, thou whose sight in- 
 spires courage, thou who driest tears ; beloved daughter 
 of God ! Pain and bitter complaint are silent before thee ; 
 peace is in thy mouth, and those touched by thj^ hand 
 suddenly lost> their fears. 
 
 He who lost in doubt and in despair smce long 
 has strayed from the right path, by thee is brought re- 
 
44 
 
 pentant to God whom he had forgotten, and thou restorest 
 hope in him who hoped no more. 
 
 0, Supreme Majesty, thy sovereign order has said 
 " Love thy neighbor as thyself." The man only to whom 
 misery never is troublesome is just in thy eyes. If on 
 earth he is poor, by the good action he has done he will 
 become rich in heaven. 
 
 • , ' 
 
45 
 
 X. 
 
 THE TWO MOTHERS. 
 
 TO HON. CHRIS. S. PATTERSON, 
 
 Judge of the Court of Appeal. 
 
 •'• 1 must go, and must take away from thine arms, 
 O poor wretch, tliis my darling, who has made thee so 
 happy." 
 
 ON the river Loire which, like a silver thread, runs 
 over a hundred miles of happy land, proud and 
 gay the citadel of Saumur raises its b'-i.d. 
 
 Like fresh beauties bathing themselves in the sea, her 
 white houses extend along the river, half naked and half 
 masked by vineyard and roses. Neither hot nor frost 
 It is an eternal spring. 0, yes 1 beautiful and cheerful 
 is the citadel of Saumur. 
 
 And there near the walls like a soft pillow is a gentle 
 descent with its mantle of verdure and the shadow of its 
 avenues. But this verdure, and these flowers are not a 
 complete paradise, and mixed with such a celestial smile 
 is a house of sorrows. 
 
46 
 
 Yes, a mad-house is at the bottom of the avenue. 
 Amidst the silence of the nights, amidst the gloomy wings 
 of the wind are heard interrupted plaintive and deep 
 sounds of lament, merry songs or strange voices, blasphe- 
 mies and atrocious laughs. 
 
 And a strong feeling, of which nobody dares to ask the 
 reason, forces every person to pay a visit to this living 
 churchyard. 
 
 11. 
 
 On the last hour of a splendid sunset a beautiful young 
 lady, giving her hand to her little daughter, ascends the 
 hill. How charming was the little angel of five years, 
 dressed in white, fresh, smiling, handsome and nimble. 
 
 The shining and fair hair descends on her shoulders 
 like waves, and with her provoking looks call for kisses. 
 " Mother, can you tell me how these poor madmen live ? 
 O ! how anxious I am to see them ; mother, come." 
 
 The door is open, they ascend two stairs, they are in 
 the asylum court. It was the time of the daily walk, the 
 hour of gaiety. One heavily walks, another recites, and 
 another sings. Some jump up and down, some sit on the 
 ground and others laugh. 
 
 A woman with loose hair and a dark petticoat, alone, 
 far away in a corner, sits on a bench as if tired by long 
 work. On her pale cheeks there is an eld trace of tears. 
 Bhe turns around her stupid and dull glazed eyes. 
 
 God had given her as a token of a first love a girl, 
 
' - , 47 
 
 whoae face was as beautiful as that of a cherub. How 
 she did love her dear daughter, how she watched her 
 white cradle ! Holy and deep affectiou ! For this happy 
 mother her girl was the world. A cruel illness had stolen 
 this gem of her life, and heart-broken from the great 
 sorrow she became mad, and for five years the poor wretch 
 waited for her darling, and asked of all, if they had seen 
 the lost one. Everybody who saw her with this intense 
 pain engraved on her squalid forehead feels in his own 
 soul a charm forcing him to tears. The kind lady ap- 
 proached near the unhappy mother, probably moved by 
 such a great sorrow. 
 
 Clinging to the skirt of her dress her little daughter 
 thrusts forward her head, and with her eyes filled with 
 tears, she says, " Poor thing ! " Then softly approached 
 to the mad woman and with her little hand caressed her 
 
 dark hair. 
 
 Shaken at this touch the unhappy one turns a look to 
 the little angel, and a strange flash shines in her eyes 
 then fixedly looking at her, she uttered a cry, opened her 
 arms, and with an impetuosity of affection pressed to her 
 breast the little one. ^ - 
 
 " O, my daughter, my dear daughter, how strong is this 
 joy which overflows my heart! Almighty God, let me die 
 in such a happiness! Die? Who speaks of death ? To 
 live, I say yes, I will live now that I have found thee, 
 and' I will live always near to my child. 
 
 «' Come, sit here on my knees, let me kiss thy beautiful 
 eyes, let me forget these few years of horrid anguish. 
 From the very first day I lost thee, my eyes had no more 
 
48 
 
 tears, but the excessive ecstacy of this hour makes me 
 weep anew. 
 
 " Tell me, where, where thou hast been all these years 
 I was in search of thee ? Hast thou perhaps been in the 
 joy of the other life ? But even in heaven in vain thou 
 hast asked my sweet kisses, and now thou comest back 
 to the loving embraces of thy mother. Thou comest now 
 and will fly no more from these arms. I would rather 
 die, 0, yes, I feel that surely I would die, if again thou 
 wert taken away from me." 
 
 III. 
 
 In such way she spoke and convulsively pressed the 
 girl to her panting bosom, and in the intoxication of her 
 deluded affection kisses without number came from the 
 burning lips. It was a fever of infinite love that sweetly 
 melted her heart. The dear girl with her little hand 
 carressed the dark hair, and in return kissed the unhappy 
 woman and nmiled at her with love's smile, the young 
 mother not daring to trouble the joy of such a brief en- 
 chantment. 
 
 In the meantime the falling evening's twilight was 
 shedding its pale light, and the dread band of guards 
 opened the door of the inner staircase, the clock of the 
 asylum calling the family of lunatics to their respective 
 cells. The kind stranger who feared to destroy the joy 
 of this holy mistake approached near the poor mad 
 woman, telling her in a pitiful voice of love, " I must go. 
 
49 
 
 and I must take away from thy arms, poor wretch, this, 
 my darling, who has made thee so happy ! ' Jumpmg 
 up the mad woman with ferocious fear pressmg the girl 
 to her breast, " Who art thou, she cried to her with 
 harsh voice, who comest to trouble my motnerly affec- 
 tion? _ J ,, 
 " Knowest not thou that neither Satan nor God could 
 ravish me of my little angel ? Away, far from me. Woe 
 to him who will dare to touch only a hem of her dres8_ 
 Bather than permit her to be taken away from my arms, I 
 would rather she should die, O, yes, I will kill her rather 
 
 than lose her again — " , , i • « 
 
 Neither prayer nor threat could subdue the delusion of 
 her mind, and with her lean arm raising the little girl, 
 if any one came forward, only a step, she meant to throw 
 her on the ground, and such waa the strong resolution 
 shining from her gesture and from her accents, that it 
 was thought better to leave her alone, and to await the 
 
 events of the night. 
 
 Therefore all retired, and she with the girl ran into her 
 cell, and there in haste putting in order the bed lay in it 
 her child, and arranging with care the folds of the rough 
 sheets, joyfully sits at the bedside looking at her, smiling 
 
 and kissing her. , . , 
 
 Under the pressure of the hand which softly caresses 
 the girl, she shuts her large eyes, and yielding to the 
 weariness and sleep fell into a sweet slumber, whilst the 
 mad woman who was near to her soothed her repose with 
 
 this song: , . u 
 
 " Sleep, girl, my jealous eye as a guardian angel watches 
 
50 
 
 at thy placid pillow, and the interminable kiss like music 
 sooth thy slumbers. 
 
 " Sleep, darlinr,', and let me see the moist brow, let me 
 in the full ecstacy of superhuman delirium inebriate my- 
 self with thy warm breath. 
 
 " Beautiful thou art ! thy cheek is rosy, thy head rests 
 upon thy snow-white arm, and the halo of thy fair hair 
 in a j^^entle disorder surrounds thy forehead. 
 
 " Beautiful thou art ! in the quiet rest of bhy face I 
 seem to see a ray of paradise, and in the celestial joy 
 which shines in thy looks, I see the image of happy 
 dreams. 
 
 " Dream, and in thy sleeping may the rainbow pour its 
 colors, the star their rays, the flowers their perfumes, and 
 may the Holy Virgin* send from her paradise a company 
 of angels to dance around thee." 
 
 IV. 
 
 There the voice became faint as a sound of a distant 
 sounding harp, and her tired forehead fell on the pillow 
 of the little one. Once again the calm sleep of the old 
 happy days returned to her tired eyes. 
 
 The young mother absorbed in that fear which surpasses 
 all fears, from the wicket of the iron door peeped in the 
 dark room, and every movement, every kiss, every noise 
 was a stroke of a poniard which pierced her heart. 
 
 * The poet is an Italian and a Roman Catholic. Generally in every 
 Italian poems are to be found those addresses to the mother of Jesus. — 
 The Translator. 
 
51 
 
 But when all was silent, and there was only heard the 
 cadence of two respirations, softly, softly a keeper crept 
 into the room, advanced silently and without awakening 
 the little one, who was sleeping, took her with him and 
 shut the door. 
 
 The mother uttered a cry of joy, which echoed in the 
 wide sonorous vaults, and kissing her dear lost angel with 
 joy, pressed her to her heart, and ran through the dark 
 corridor with her tightly pressed to her motherly arm. 
 
 The mad woman awakened at the sound of the strange 
 cry, perceived herself to be alone, looked around, and 
 from the hole in the door, by the light of a dying lamp, 
 she saw the white dress of the fugitive girl. A horrible 
 cry of rage was heard, her eyes were suffused with blood 
 and with a foam on her livid lips she stretched her arms 
 and pushed forward. Three times she shook the invincible 
 door, then fell backward and was a corpse. 
 
 -i„J.i.ii. L'.i.-. 
 
Kt 
 
 XI. 
 
 TO HIS EXCELLENCY FERDINANDO DE LUCA, 
 
 Ambassador of His Majesty the King of Italy. 
 
 L 
 
 IN ancient times, when Egypt (that land dear to God, 
 cradle of the world's civilization) became the prey 
 of the Mamelukes, and when as yet a wise law had not 
 broken and destroyed the fetters which kept the wretch- 
 ed people slaves to the inconstant humour of their pretty 
 masters ; — who, often at their foolish and wilful fancy, 
 condemned to an awful death or v'-'ked tortures their 
 slaves, guilty of naught save a too g eat fidelity, or a too 
 blind obedience— in that dreadful age of crimes, when in 
 cold blood the most beautiful maidens were taken by 
 force from their father's roofs to sacrifice their beauties, 
 Iheir celestial candour and every affection, always living 
 hesitating and uncertain of to-morrow, a horrible deed 
 
53 
 
 affected the hearts of all, and when narrated often moved 
 the listeners to tears. The patriotic guitar long time 
 seconded the sad songs of the troubadours who repeated 
 to the people the sad history. It was there that I be- 
 come acquainted with this story, and I will narrate it 
 to thee, kind reader. 
 
 Come, then, with me, follow me to the mansion of the 
 great ruler of many large tribes, the absolute monarch of 
 golden lands, of girls willing victims of his lust, and of 
 thousands obedient slaves. 
 
 Surrounded by the gentle arms and the electric touch 
 of loose tresses, amidst laughter, caresses and the ascend- 
 ing vortex of the sweet perfumes, the wicked ruler, tired 
 of the work of the day, inebriated whiles away the time, 
 and smiles and enjoys the great favours granted him by 
 God and his prophet. 
 
 And yet, amongst these joys, a wicked thought some- 
 times played over the wrinkled forehead of this tyrant, 
 and often his panting breath give forth a sigh ; he flies 
 then, and taking himself away from the embrace,!, biting 
 his close pressed lips with convulsed rage, like a madman 
 he runs, trampling and destroying everything in his 
 passage. Soon at such a noise with bended looks and 
 hands crossed on his breast, come to him a faithful slave 
 with dreadful face monstrously contracted at the time he 
 suffered the torture which deprived him of his manhood. 
 Iniquitoud law, eternal shame of our century ! He tries 
 to sooth the scarcely suppressed cries of his master, thus 
 humbly speaking, " Pray be not angry at my presence. 
 
64 
 
 A slave do not deserve thy sorrow ; if, fool, she dares to 
 resist thy will, condemn her to the lashes which have 
 made obedient so many other proud ones like her. The 
 whip will satisfy thy wishes better than the merciful 
 kindness with which since six months thou bast treated 
 her. And why carest thou for her so much ? Has not 
 the harem beauties more enchanting thar she ?" 
 
 " More enchanting,, yes — but not so dear to my heart ! 
 All the beauties gathered there and faithful to me cannot 
 purchase a single flash of her smile ! Oh ! if I could only 
 win her heart, all the palaces, all the gems, all the houris, 
 all my treasures, all, I would joyfully give in exchange 
 of this love which torments me. When I think of her 
 beauty, of her virgin purity, of her sweet and gentle 
 looks, of her smile — and that I cannot call her mine 1 
 Oh ! then I wish to condemn her to a thousand atrocious 
 deaths ! But as soon as her heaven-like face confronts 
 my wrath — looking at her my anger vanishes — and, 
 coward that I ami pity assails me. My thoughts ardently 
 fly to her, and since six months I have felt neither peace 
 nor rest." 
 
 " Leave to me, sire, the care of this girl. Trust to the 
 flkilfulness of your slave who cares too much for his 
 prince's welfare." 
 
 " And what wouldst thou attempt ? " 
 
 " Nothing, — or at least very little ! Shortly Agar will 
 be obedient, I promise you to-day and I am not wont to 
 forswear myself." 
 
 And presently the monster added so many other 
 reasons, he tried so many and difierent ways that at last 
 
55 
 
 the tyrant charged him with bringing the restive one to 
 his wishes. The old wretch inly felt glad at thie order. 
 Vile wretches like him in their impotence being generally 
 cruel, and said to himself, " To us now, fair girl, now I 
 have the tools to 'ut thy pinions. Disdainful little bird, 
 thou must submit," and thus saying he, through the silent 
 spacious halls, proceeded to seek the unhappy maiden. 
 
 II. 
 
 " O, my guitar, pour out into the air the complaints 
 which so richly overflow from the saddened heart, and 
 repeat the continual tortures of my soul which resembles 
 a fire that languishes but does not die ! 
 
 " Sweet companion undivided in the grief thou wast 
 already my companion in those days, in which seated on 
 the border of my river, thus I spoke to Allah, ' Allah ! I 
 only adore three things, my father's grave, my mother 
 and my Selim ! I implore thy prophet that he may keep 
 them, so that finally in complete happiness I should bend 
 before thy throne and with a sincere heart ; O, Eternal 
 God, I could address thee a hymn of thanksgiving.' 
 
 " But Allah the cruel 1 jealous of mortal happiness 
 in a single day, ravished all from me, while thou, my 
 guitar, so dear companion in my sorrows, always remain- 
 est faithful to me. Come on ! let us sing !" 
 
 Thus seated on a feathered chair in a spacions gilded 
 hall silent as a tomb, had spoken the unhappy Agar more 
 beautiful than the sun. 
 
56 
 
 She is of Abyssinian descent, by force torn away 
 from her native place, obliged to offer with fear her in- 
 genuous smile and her heavenly form to the cruel tyrant 
 who had bought her. Bright, she has blue eyes, mirrors 
 of paradise, and lips which often incline to celestial 
 kisses and hold treasures of white pearls. A veil, 
 traitor coverlet, wraps all her gentle person, which is 
 softly extended with the guitar in her hands, turning her 
 looks to the sky, sighing, trembling, and speaking to her- 
 self. 
 
 "Mother! despairing thoughts! What yet awaits 
 me so afar for ever from thee, my beloved ? Vain is hope 
 for my broken heart. To me nothing is left except death ! 
 0, yes ! Sweet is the peace of a tomb this refuge, heaven, 
 has preserved for the unhappy." 
 
 But here she is suddenly surprised by a strange and 
 light noise ; she remained mute with fixed eyes, half open 
 lips and straining listening ears, but she hears nothing, or 
 at least she thinks so in the cloister-like silent palace 
 where she is buried. 
 
 Again she let loose the bridle of her thoughts, and car- 
 ried on the wings of love she flies to the days in which 
 her young lover, mounted on a noble courser rode away 
 in quest of great deeds. She longs for his return, and 
 she perceives her loved one acclaimed ; she dreams of his 
 promise, of the immense joy of an everlasting affection, 
 and at these happy thoughts she laughs, weeps — and a 
 hidden blush colours the virgin cheeks and makes her 
 such a proud model of beauty, that even God would vene- 
 rate his own immortal work. Again the noise is repeated, 
 
57 
 
 a strange noise resembling the clapping of hands ma 
 certain manner as for a signal. Agar became again 
 motionless, and not long after she heard the distant ocho 
 of stirring steps, and finally before she lost her senses 
 there appeared before her a man with his face covered, 
 who immediately fell at her feet in an imploring attitude 
 with joined hands, like one who addresses his prayers to 
 the Holy Virgin. The dark face of the prostrated man, 
 the dress he wears, alas ! too well known to the unhai)py, 
 soon led her to believe that he was one of the keepers, 
 and judging him a madman, trembled; nevertheless her 
 heart inspired by love's powerful voice guided her Ic^oks 
 to the person before her, and then trembled again first 
 for surprise, for joy, for hope, and then at length for i^ear. 
 Finally is heard a sharp cry, pronouncing one word, 
 Selim !— and that was all, a river of tears having over- 
 whelmed her voice. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yes, it was Selim, a warrior born in the Arabian de- 
 serts, and while yet young deprived of both parents. A 
 brother of his mother who in Abyssinia had a wealth of 
 flocks, servants, and all that humanity could wisla for 
 had taken with him the grief-stricken young orphan who 
 in his friendly tent had found hospitality and new affec- 
 tions. Bright, and fond of hard work, of dangers, he 
 pometimes mounted on a fiery horse without bridle or 
 saddle, was wont to run over the immense surrounding 
 
68 
 
 plain, busy with dangerous hunting and with bloody and 
 ungrateful struggles ; or, armed with a lance or glittering 
 sword, he devoted many hours of the day to warlike occu- 
 pations. Thus while his valiant soul aimed at noblest 
 exploits his frame grew stronger, his hand surer, and his 
 eye keener. 
 
 But one day when, later than usual, he was returning 
 to his abode, near to a spring he saw a beautiful, chaste 
 innocent maiden completely ignorant of the joyful and 
 fatal deceit of love. At the neighing of the horse she 
 suddenly turned her face perceiving the brave Selim, who 
 proud and beautiful, admirably guided his fierce horse 
 which, knowing how well his master was surely seated in 
 its croup, playfully gave a graceful and nimble leap, as 
 though he would make known the honour of carrying 
 the valiant master who held the bridle. 
 
 Both Agar and Selim's souls were suddenly struck by 
 the same feeling. The former lowered her looks to the 
 ground, while her cheeks became red. Selim's heart beats 
 quicker in his breast, and surprised at the appearance of 
 such a beauty remained silent, as immersed in profound 
 contemplation. After awhile dismounting, with slow paces 
 he approached the girl, and with sweet and vibrating voice, 
 asked a sip of the fresh and pure water which shined in 
 the ray of the moon. She soon granted his request, while 
 her uncertain looks wandered timidly now at the ground 
 and now at the young man's face. Selim, mute himself 
 with covetous and admiring eye followed the enchantress 
 while she mo>^ed, furtively glancing to see if anybody 
 followed, her heart telling her the noble youth waa 
 
59 
 
 near, and although inly she felt joyful, she did not dare to 
 turn her head. Arrivred near to her house, she departed 
 hesitatingly with uncertain hands waved a greeting to 
 her cavalier. He stayed to contemplate her. and his 
 heart became so full of her, that he passed part of the 
 night standing in the same spot, where the beautiful 
 unknown had disappeared. 
 
 From that time Agar had no more peace, and the youth 
 became sad and thoughtful. Always at eventide slowly 
 he went nursing the hope of seeing her from afar, and if 
 sometimes provident faith brought her also there, and he 
 was able to exchange with her only a word, he judged 
 himself the happiest of mortals, and gave out the joy and 
 fulness of his soul in gay soliloquies, taking the ground 
 and breeze as confidants of the hopes of his heart. Agar 
 on her side poured in the bosom of her pious mother the 
 story of her love. She carefully listened to her, feeding 
 with warm words and flattering hopes the flames of a 
 virgin love. Scarcely had two months elapsed when a 
 profound and immense grief seized on Selim. Cruel 
 death ravished him of his uncle and left alone the orphan 
 who, at this unforeseen and sad event, fell the prey of a 
 fatal illness. Agar and her mother day and night watched 
 over the bed of the sick, and the care of these two pitiful 
 ones benefitted Selim so much, that although near to 
 the grave, he recovered new life; — such is the power 
 concealed in love. 
 
 [R'rom the day of his complete recovery, these two never 
 more separated, the same roof lodged both, the same air 
 ted both, and thus they grew beautiful, enjoying the 
 
60 
 
 blessed joy which pure and innocent love pours into the 
 young soul. ! how often running over the surrounding 
 green meadows, wrapped by the brightness of the moon, 
 they repeated to the mild and embalmed breeze the sweet 
 hopes they cherished. ! how many promises they ex- 
 changed ! They were happy, and to sanctify the chain 
 which binds for ever their hearts was needed only a ring ; 
 when the Egyptian prince prompted by unjust thirst for 
 war, called to arms all those who could carry a sword or 
 a bow, and who knew how to use them. More than 
 thirty thousand answered to his call, and went to defend 
 the prince, who in the meantime searched sweet distrac- 
 tions and shameful pleasures in the midst of tearful slaves 
 sold to his caprices. The cry of war struck the Abyssi- 
 nian land, and soon to its defence also rose thousands and 
 thousands of swords, grasped by free hands, the freedom 
 of their fatherland, first and more powerful of every affec- 
 tion, piercing their hearts, and gladly those champions 
 fly in defence of the Aybssinian country. Selim was 
 amongst the first to depart, leaving in tears his dear Agar 
 and her mother in the place where they had passed beau- 
 tiful and happy days. His patriotic love overcame every 
 other feeling, and mounted in his saddle, girded the bless- 
 ed sword, and pressing Agar to his breast, quick as a^ 
 flash of lightning he departed for the general place of 
 rendezvous. ! how the sad Agar wept her love ! How 
 many and how fervid were the prayers she addressed to> 
 Almighty God, that He might spare her beloved. 
 
It is late in the night, everywhere reigns a silence har- 
 ^onious in its mystery, soothing the soul, and making 
 all the feelings enraptured towards the spheres on high to 
 search in the infinite vault a compensation for our hopes^ 
 a feeble ray of the only light, which could guide us to 
 truth Th'e pale moon: with her cool brightness, inun- 
 dates the immense plain, and everything with vaporous 
 colours veils the broad horizon oi the vast desert 
 From time to time the monotonous .ly of some owl m 
 search of a companion, or the far roar of a hungry, wild 
 and cruel beast troubles only this calm silence. A maidea 
 also defies the night's rigor, a maiden who clothed in 
 white with nimble feet and palpitating heart turns 
 everywhere her anxious glances.and after listening, stands 
 iust as a benighted traveller, tired and lost in a heath, 
 would inquire with searching eyes from which side may 
 come the longed-for help. Her expectation is vain, and 
 the .ad one discovering nothing, bending her head m her 
 virgin bosom, weeps, and as drop by drop the tears furrow 
 her beautiful face she opens her lips to a prayer, the 
 <rreatest comfort of every tormented soul. 
 
 "0 Father of the wretched who rul est this universe! 
 O. supreme prophet of a severe law ! O, beautiful stars, 
 silvered stars, be illumined by my prayers! You have 
 taken away from me the bright warrior, my only hope, 
 sending him to the dreadful vicissitudes of war, leaving 
 me alone with broken heart, while my mind, ince^ santly 
 carried on the wings of love, flies to him. Pray, return 
 
62 
 
 him back to me. I kneel and beseech thee with all the 
 warmth of my heart." 
 
 At this moment of the prayer her voice failed, and she 
 starts up, moved by a secret voice, which whispers 
 harmonious songs. She gazes at the extreme horizon, 
 and it seemed her to see something glitter like a ray, 
 which runs and splinters reflected by the shining blades 
 of warriors. 
 
 It seemed to her she heard a stamping, a deep neighing 
 rendered deeper and tremendous by the solitude of the 
 place. She bends herself and places her ear to the ground. 
 The stamping is becoming more distinct, — it comes 
 nearer, — and before she could think of escape, she is sur- 
 rounded by a large band of horsemen with horrid faces 
 and blazing eyes, loaded with murderous arms. 
 
 The poor girl tried to fly, but was unable — too late ! 
 They with brutal strength pressed lier frame. A piercing 
 cry was the only answer she could give to the leader of 
 the iniquitous band. She saw nothing else, she heard 
 nothing more, having fainted, and when again she opened 
 her eyes, she finds herself lying in a dreadful dark cave, 
 with move than twenty other girls, all like her, brought 
 there by force and infamously wrested from their roofs> 
 victims, alas ! of the same cruel fate. Shrieks, blasphe- 
 mies, horrid laughs, moans, tears, sobs, were the usual 
 sounds repeated by the echoes of those walls. For five 
 days .she remained mute, deprived of all sense, feeble and 
 a prey to the strongest delirium ; finally on the sixth 
 day she arrived at a large town, changing her life to 
 gilded saloons. There, after many months, Selim saw 
 
G3 
 
 her and called down imprecations on destiny. This was 
 the story Agar narrated him with such an accent of truth 
 and pain as to lacerate Selim's heart. 
 
 ■ . V. 
 
 " Hush ! for pity, Agar ! hush ! do not go on ! Thou 
 then dost not perceive my grief and the devilish rage 
 which rises in me, at the abject situation in which I find 
 
 thee ? 
 
 " Truce to sorrow and useless tears ! These are unwor- 
 thy of a man ! Not vainly has God allowed me to remain 
 safe in the fatal struggle in which so many of our stronger 
 and greater than I left their lives ; not in vain, He has 
 brought me to these unfriendly places, only that I may 
 appease ray wrath in useless tears. No, I must take thee 
 away from hence and immediately — " 
 
 " What darest thou ? " 
 
 " What love dictates, and duty commands. God has 
 been pleased to keep thee yet pure, but thou must not 
 defy longer the will and the anger of the cruel sire 
 Trust me, think, O dearest, that I am near to thee and 
 ready to watch and protect thee. I only need a guide, 
 and be ready at the first signal." 
 
 " Selim, think of thyself, of my mother, who languishes 
 alone, unhappy, and ignorant of our destiny. Do not put 
 thyself to t ) hazard of an unwise undertaking." 
 
 " I had hoped thou wouldst have spoken in a very 
 different way ! How ? Is then this the answer to the 
 
64 
 
 tleep love I feel for thee ? Be whatever the risk of my 
 enterprise I must try it. Listen to me and endeavor to 
 help me. When darkness comes, when the prince will 
 3it at the table, swift I will creep here, and will open the 
 garden's secret door which leads to Nile. There, unseen 
 in a coach, I will await Achmet, a faithful friend who has 
 introduced me here, wrapped in this deceitful suit in 
 which thou seest me. He will take care of all. Soon as 
 he will arrive, disrobe thyself of thy garments, and 
 taking a male attire, which he cautiously will bring thee, 
 hasten to the garden door where I will be waiting." 
 
 " The scheme is bold, and great is the risk ; art thou 
 sure of Achmet ? " 
 
 " As of myself. He has been with me since the day 
 when at Kartoum I saved him from death. He owes me 
 his life and I well know his fidelity. He has accompani- 
 ed me in my search for thee, and to this faithful friend I 
 owe the joy of having seen thee again. Be then ready, 
 and at ease, trust to me, beloved girl, and hope ! " 
 
 " Selim ! Selim ! with these words thou fillest my 
 heart with measureless joy. Will I then see again my 
 fatherland and my mother — poor unhappy woman ? Can 
 I dry the tears which flow from her eyes ? Could I be 
 free again, and with thee ? O, 1 faint!" 
 
 " No, subdue thy feelings. For a few instants more let 
 thy lips be mute as the tomb, and let thy eye be closed 
 as a blind. Trust to me and Allah ! Come to my breast 
 and embrace me, in this last embrace " 
 
 " And last it will be ! " was suddenly thundered by a 
 horrid voice; and at the door appeared the Egyptian 
 
prince, fearful in his looks, a whip in his hand, the sword 
 hanging at his left side, with swollen eyes inflamed with 
 wrath, and followed by the cruel chief of his vile slaves, 
 faithful keeper of the harem. 
 
 A hoarse cry came out from Selim's heart, while Agar 
 without knowledge fell to the ground. 
 
 Two days after, in a dark cell of the large princely 
 harem, stretched on the floor, everywhere surrounded by 
 blood, which like a stream flowed from her body, near to 
 death lay Agar, the beautiful girl of sixteen years whose 
 tender flesh the whip had torn, while the cruel tyrant 
 looks at the bloody limbs; bloody, yes, but still beautiful, 
 and hugs himself and laughs at the martyrdom of the 
 unhappy girl. 
 
 " Thou," he tells her, " hast despised me as a friend 
 and as a lover, fear now my justice, which has condemned 
 thee to die." 
 
 Amongst the most atrocious sufferings, forsaken Agar 
 breathed her kit breath in the horrid prison, her convuls- 
 ing lips opening to pronounce a name, — the name of her 
 dear Selim. Her virgin soul, like a rose broken on the 
 stem scarcely open to life and warmth, ascended to the 
 feet of her creator. 
 
 History says nothing about Selim, only one day a 
 fisherman who sad was returning from his unfruitful 
 fishing, found on the bosom of the Nile the body of a 
 young man. Everyone noticed the proud and beautiful 
 face though cold and thin. Popular voice says this was 
 the body of the brave Selim— victim of the jealous tyrant- 
 By the same fisherman who found it, the body was buried 
 
66 
 
 in a solitary shady place, amongst beautiful flowers tend- 
 ed by pious hands. 
 
 Often a tired traveller bound homeward would bend 
 himself there, and there, too, go a sad poet, who thinking 
 over the fate of the buried one, in verses burning with 
 noble wrath imprec»ti« the cruel prince and the barbarous 
 destiny of that unfortunate country. 
 
67 
 
 Xlt. 
 
 POLAND. 
 
 1883. 
 
 TO COL. C. S. GZOWSKL 
 
 Fur alles He'l-j:.' entbraunt. 
 
 KORNEB. 
 
 THEY come ! They are here ! "Welcome Poles ! Let 
 us beat off the dust from their swollen feet, — let ua 
 cover with dainty dishes the hospitable table! Free 
 citizens, let us take in our hands the cups ! Never simi- 
 lar fugitives have reached our shores. Never driven by 
 storms guests more celebrated than these warriors in 
 mourning have landed as suppliants on our soil. 
 
 A despot, elated by his power, had said : Poland must 
 die ! To wash away the insult I have received, I will 
 grind her forehead under my horse's hoof; I will cause 
 future generations to cry out on account of my revenge I 
 I will crush this people as a reed is crushed by a granite 
 block ! I will make them feel the weight of my hand, 
 
68 
 
 and to-morrow, without seeing a vestige of them, one 
 may go through those rebel cities. 
 
 To-morrow ! He thought so, and the self-conceited, 
 during ten months, without gaining any advantage, push- 
 ed on armies, which one after another he saw instantly 
 destroyed, — melted in a ground sparkling with fire. — 
 The reed became an oak, whose unbended branches the 
 invisible root, under the thickened blood, resisted long, 
 and seemed to receive strength with the buffet of the 
 hurricane. 
 
 Hurrah !.... Like a whirlwind o'er the wild steppes, 
 barbarous without a name, run in full gallop, utter- 
 ing loud and discordant cries, and at the same moment 
 in which they thought to fall upon the spoils they stum- 
 bled on corpses. Hurrah ! Hurrali ! Ere long these 
 warriors without renown, appearing in a day of battle, 
 were broken, as wave falb on wave already broken on 
 the sand. 
 
 O ! how grand to see the Polish soldiers, at the sound 
 of the clarion, rush to the contest, and set at defiance the 
 far discharges of the guns, charging the squadrons, in 
 front of the squares. ! how grand to see dauntless 
 battalions marching to the attack, and soon as a battery 
 had thundered on them, carry the redoubt, and extin- 
 guish the murderous fire. But, vileucss ! A chief of 
 sad memory, who might have ended his life in freedom, 
 keeping untarnished his honor, opened his traitor hand 
 to the oppressor's gifts, and Poland expiring, overpowered 
 amidst blood and cries, fell down under the murderers, 
 as a wounded soldier, fallen on his knee, dies inflicting a 
 
69 
 
 last blow, — and the conqueror trod upon her trampled 
 bosom. Poland, where are now thy sons ? Happy those 
 who died, — sacrificed in honor of the God worshipped by 
 Russia ! They need no tears. Others — 0, folly ! — with- 
 out shame, without remorse, are dragged in the desert, 
 dying by slow degrees of hunger and misery. Others, 
 wandering through the world, addressing to cold sympa- 
 thizers frozen by their own interests, are eating a bitter 
 crust reluctantly given. 
 
 Nevertheless, thou yet livest, sublime Poland ! Though 
 persecuted, courage remains. Leave time, to do his duty. 
 The cut tree after years has grown again, and in the free- 
 dom of the air again exalts a higher top. Often the 
 wounded bear has risen again against the hunter, killing 
 him. Often the cold ashes have secretly hidden the first 
 spark of a great conflagration. 
 
 It is God who sends them to us. To those sacred 
 guests let us offer with pride a happy retreat. Shame 
 to us if a hair only falls from their heads ! Everywhere 
 their steps are full of insults. Every one to flatter the 
 tiger, wishes to deliver his victim. How noble ! how 
 gallant ' 
 
 And we, what are we to do ? Defend these valiant 
 ones who have come with branches in their hands, and 
 share with them our home . -our bread; shielding them 
 with our bodies against all those slaves who would have 
 become pale in the day of battle ; and to better maintain 
 our oath, bite, if necessary, our last cartridge. 
 
 Or if you, our leaders who feasted the powerful, judge 
 that these are sentiments too noble, add a new shame to 
 1> 
 
70 
 
 the past ones, and, like Iscariot, receive tlie price of 
 blood. You will be -welcomed at the court, you will re- 
 ceive insignia worthy of your hearts, as it needed great 
 strength to defy an insult, and contempt is always a 
 heavy weight on one's very forehead , 
 
 But then we shall be the last men ! But when in 
 foreign lands we shall be asked which is our own coun- 
 try, we shall blush and own with shame who we are ! — 
 But we cannot bluster more, without being treated as 
 cowards, worthy of blows. 
 
 Woe to him who will refuse the exile his help. Per- 
 haps — who knows ? — from our enslaved Switzerland, we 
 may some day have to fly in search of a place where to 
 hide our life ; and perhaps, we, too, may be in search of 
 help, — escaped from the executioner of an implacable 
 master, perhaps one day moaning we will tend our arms 
 to alms, and then we will reap the seed we have 
 sown. 
 
 Soldiers ! my companions ! I appeal to your souls I — 
 You will not suffer that oppressed men cannot hope to 
 find peace under your flag. Our honor is our own, — no- 
 body will dare to chase these unhappy ones in our name, 
 to make us infamous. Ah I if we shall be obliged with 
 shame to lower our eyes, instead of proudly upholding 
 our despised flag 1 Rather let us with our own hands 
 drag it in the dust I 
 
 They come ! They are here ! Welcome, Poles ! Let 
 us beat off" the dust from their swollen feet ; Let us cover 
 with dainty dishes the hospitable table. Free citizens, 
 let us take in our own hands the cups I Never similar 
 
71 
 
 fugitives have reached our shores. Never driven by the 
 storms guests more celebrated than these warriors in 
 mourning, as suppliants, have landed on our soil. 
 
72 
 
 XIII. 
 
 FOR THE POOR. 
 
 TO THE HON. ALEXANDER MORRIS, P. C, 
 
 Late Lieut.'Governor of Manitoba and the North West Tertitory. 
 
 v 
 
 " He who giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord. " 
 
 'E wealthy and happy of this world, when in your 
 I winter feasts the flying dance inundates you 
 with its sprightliness, — when you see shine and sparkle 
 all around you crystals, mirrors, burning chandeliers, 
 circles of light, and gladness on the face of your guests, — 
 while a golden bell ringing in your apartments changes 
 to joyful notes the grave sounds of the hours, — tell me, 
 have you never thought that devoured by famine, some 
 poor wretch, shivering in the dark, observes your dancing 
 shadows across the windows of your gilded saloons ? 
 
 Have you never thought that there, exposed to the 
 frost and snow, is a father without work tortured by 
 hunger ? Hear how he mutters in a subdued voice : " How 
 
73 
 
 many blessings for a single person ! How many friends 
 enjoys themselves at his banquet ! How happy is this rich 
 man ! his children smile at him, with the price of their 
 toys how much bread might be bought for mine !" And 
 then to your feasts he compares in his mind, his squalid 
 hearth, never brightened by the flame— his famishing 
 children, their mother's rags,— their grand-. mother stretch- 
 ed on the strav — who, through the winter, alas ! is 
 already cold enough for the gr"ve. 
 
 God has established these gradations of human fortune. 
 Few are invited to the banquet of happiness, and all are 
 not seated equally at their ease. A law which here seems 
 unjust and bad says to the one " Enjoy," to the other 
 "Envy." This tb ought is sombre, bitter, inexorable, and 
 ferments silently m the hearts of the miserable. O ! ye 
 rich, ye happy of the day, lulled to bleep by pleasure, let 
 it not be they who tear from your hands those super- 
 fluous goods which they regard with envy. O let it be 
 
 charity. 
 
 That ardent charity, which the poor idolize — mother 
 of those to whom fortune is a step-mother, which raises 
 and sustains those who are trampled on, and who in the 
 hour of need sacrificing herself like the martyr God of 
 whom she follows the footsteps will say, " This is my 
 bread, this is my blood." Let it be she, ye rich, let it be 
 she who to nourish the indigent and to save your souls, 
 shall tear with unsparing hand from the arras of your 
 daughters — from the breasts of your wives — jewels, dia- 
 monds, ribbons, laces, pearls, sapphires — jewels always 
 ^'alse— jewels always vain. 
 
74 
 
 Give, ye rich. Charity is the sister of prayer. Alas ! 
 If some old man, stiffened by the icy cold, vainly kneels 
 at your marble threshold, — if the little children, with 
 their red half -frozen hands seize on the crumbs left by 
 your revels, surely the face of the Lord will be turned 
 away from you. Give, that God, who endows families, 
 may give strength to your sons and grace to your daugh- 
 ters, — that your vine may always produce sweet fruite, — 
 that the ripe corn may overflow your granaries, — that 
 you may become better, and that in your dreams you 
 may see the angels visit you. 
 
 Give, for the day must come when earth leaves you. 
 Your alms will form for you a treasure on high. Give, 
 that it may be said " He pitied us ! "—that the indigent 
 whom the tempests freeze, — that the poor who suffer in 
 the midst of youi feasts, — may regard with a less jealous 
 eye the threshold of your palaces. Give, that you may 
 be beloved by the God who made himself a man, — that 
 your dwelling may be calm and fraternal. Give, that 
 some day, at your last hour, for all your sins, you may 
 have in Heaven the prevailing prayer of the beggar. 
 
7» 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE NIGHT OF OCTOBER. 
 
 TO MY BROTHER, CAVALIER GIOVANNI SORVILLC 
 
 POET. 
 
 THE pain I suffered has vanished like a dream, and 
 the faint remembrance it has left I can only com- 
 pare to those mists which rise with the dawn and dis- 
 perse in the dew. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 What ailed thee, my poet, and what was the pain that 
 parted thee from me ? Alas ! I yet feel its sad effects. 
 What is this unknown grief I have so long bewailed ? 
 
 POET. 
 
 It was a vulgar pain well known to men, but when our 
 heart is grieved, we always believe, poor fools that we 
 are, that nobody before us has known sorrow. 
 
76 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 Only the sorrow of a vulgar mind can be called vulgar. 
 Friend, reveal this sad misery of thy heart ; believe me ; 
 speak with confidence. The severe God of silence is one 
 of the brethren of death ; cofnplaint brings consolation, 
 and often a single word has spared remorse. 
 
 POET. 
 
 If I were to speak of my pain, truly I should not know 
 by what name to call it, — if it be love, felly, pride, expe- 
 rience, or if it could be of profit to anybody-— but as we 
 are now alone, seated by the fire, I will tell my story» 
 Take thy lyre, and let my memory awaken softly at the 
 sound of thy notes. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 Before you relate your so: rows. Poet, are you cured ? 
 Think, that to-day you must speak without love or hatred; 
 recollect I have received the sweet name of a consoler, 
 and do not make me the accomplice of the passions that 
 have ruined thee. 
 
 POET. 
 
 I am so well cured of my malady, that sometimes 1 
 doubt if it ever existed ; and where I risked my exist- 
 ence, instead of myself, I fancy I see the face of a stran- 
 cer. Muse^be without fear, we may both without danger 
 
77 
 
 confide in the voice of thy inspiration. It is sweet to 
 weep, it is sweet to smile, at the remembrance of ills we 
 might have forgotten. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 Like a watchful mother at the cradle of a beloved 
 child, I trembling turn to thy heart which was closed to 
 me. Speak, friend, my attentive lyre already follows the 
 accents of thy voice, and in a ray of light, like a beautiful 
 vision, pass by the shades of other days. 
 
 POET. 
 
 Days of work, the only days in which I really lived, 
 0, solitude, thrice beloved! God be praised, at last I 
 have returned to my old study ! Poor room, walls so 
 often deserted, dusty chairs, faithful lamp ! O, my palace, 
 my little world, and thou young immortal Muse, God be 
 praised, we are going again to sing ! Yes, I will open 
 my soul, you shall know all, and I will relate you 
 the ills that a woman can do,— for a woman it was, my 
 poor friend, (alas, perhaps you already know it,) a wo- 
 man to whom I i^jibmitted as a serf submits to his master. 
 Detested yoke, it was there my heart lost its force and its 
 youth, and yet near my mistress I had fancied I should 
 find happiness. When in the evening near the brook we 
 walked together on the silvery sand, when the white 
 spectre of the poplar showed us the road from afar, I 
 can yet see by the rays of the moon, her beautiful frame 
 
78 
 
 leaning on my arm. Let us speak no more of it. I did 
 not foresee where fortune would lead me ; doubtless the 
 anger of the Gods had need of a victim, for my attempt 
 to be happy has been punished as a crime. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 The image of a sweet remembrance has just presented 
 itself to thy thoughts. Why fearest thou to retrace its 
 track ? Young man if fortune has been cruel, do like 
 her, smile on thy first love. 
 
 POET. 
 
 No, it is at my misfortune that I have acquired a right 
 to smile at. Muse, I said I would without passion relate 
 my sorrows, my dreams, my madness, and that I would 
 tell thee the time, the hour and the occasion. It was, I 
 recollect, a night of autumn, sad and cold, like to-night; 
 the murmur of the wind with monotonous noise nursed 
 dark cares in my troubled mind. I was at the window, 
 expecting my mistress, and listening in the obscurity, I 
 felt such a distress in my heart, that I conceived the sus- 
 picion of an infidelity. The street where I lodged was 
 dark and deserted ; some shadows passed, a lantern in 
 their hands. When the wind whistled in the half-closed 
 door one heard in the distance what seemed a human sigh. 
 I know not — to say the truth — to what sad presentiment 
 my inquiet spirit then abandoned ftself I recalled in vain 
 the remains of my courage, and I felt a tremble when 1 
 
79 
 
 heard the clock strike. She came not. Alone with down- 
 cast eyes I looked anxiously at the walls and the road , 
 and I have not told thee what a senseless ardour that in- 
 constant woman lighted in my bosom. Her alone I loved 
 in the world, and to live a day vnthout her seemed to me 
 a destiny more dreadfnl than death ; still I remember in 
 that fearful night I made a long effort to break my chain. 
 A hundred times I called her perfidious and false. I re- 
 minded myself of all the ills she had caused me. Alas ! 
 at the recollection of her fatal beauty what ills, what 
 griefs were still unappeased ? At length the day broke. 
 Tired wifh vain expectation I fell into slumber on the 
 rails of the balcony. I opened my eyes at the rising dawn 
 and let my dazzled eyes wander around me. Suddenly 
 at a turning of a narrow lane I heard on the gravel 
 stealthy footsteps. It is she. She enters. Whence 
 comest thou ? Last night what hast thou done ? 
 answer, what would'st thou ? Who brings thee at this 
 
 hour ? Whilst I alone on this balcony watch 
 
 and weep, in what place, to whom did'st thou smile? 
 Perfidious, audacious woman, is it possible you come to 
 me ? What askest thou ? By what horrible thirst darest 
 thou seek to draw me to thy exhausted arms ? Go, re- 
 tire spectre of my beloved— return to the grave if you 
 are risen from it— leavs me to forget forever the joy of 
 my youth, and when I think of thee to believe that I have 
 dreamed. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 Calm thyself; I conjure thee. Thy words make me 
 
80 
 
 shudder ; thy wound is near to re-open. Alas ! it is very 
 deep, and the miseries of this world are so long ere they 
 are effaced. Forget my child, and from thy heart drive 
 the name of that woman I will not pronounce. 
 
 POET. 
 
 Shame to thee who first taught me treachery,and mad- 
 dened nie with horror and rage. Shame to thee woman of 
 the dark eye, whose fatal love buried in the shade my 
 spring and my bright days. Thy voice, thy smiles, thy 
 corrupting glances taught me to curse even the appear- 
 ance of happiness ; thy youth, thy charms reduced me to 
 despair, and if I no longer believe in tears it is because I 
 have seen thee weep. ' Shame to thee ! I was as simple 
 as a child ; like a flower at the dawn my heart opened to 
 thy love — sure that heart without defence could easily be 
 abused — but to leave it its innocence was still easier. 
 Shame to thee ; thou was't the mother of my first sorrows 
 and thou causest a fountain of tears to flow from my eyes 
 — still it flows and nothing will ever cure — but in that 
 bitter source at least I will bathe, and I shall forget, I 
 hope, thy abhorred remembrance. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 Poet ; it is enough. Though the illusions with the 
 faithless one lasted but a day, do not curse that day when 
 thou speakest of h*^v — if thou desirost to be loved respect 
 thy love — if the efibrt is too great for human weakness to 
 
81 
 
 pardon the ills that come to as from others, spare thyself at 
 least the torments of ha.tred, and in default of pardon let 
 oblivion come. The dead sleep in peace in the bosom of 
 the earth ; and thus should sleep the feelings which are 
 extinguished; the relics of the heart have also their 
 ashes. Do not let our hands touch these sacred remains. 
 Why in this narration of a vivid suffering, will you only 
 see a'dream and a deluded love ? Does Providence act 
 without a motive ? or, thinkest thou the God who struck 
 thee struck inadvertently ? The blow of which thou 
 complainest has perhaps saved thee, child, by that thy 
 heart was opened. Man is an apprentice, and sorrow is 
 his master, and no one knows himself until he has suf- 
 fered. Hard is the law, but supreme, old as the world 
 and the fate, that we must receive the baptism of misfor- 
 tune, and at such sad price everything must be bought. 
 The crops to ripen have need of dew. The symbol of joy 
 is a broken pla: ' wet dth rain and covered with flo^.-ers. 
 Did'st thou not say tl. ' wert cured of thy folly ? Art 
 thou not young, fortunate, well received by all— and those 
 light :>leasures which make life desirable—what would'st 
 thou care for them if thou had'st not wept ? When on 
 the decline of dpy seated in the earth thou drinkest at 
 liberty, say, would'st thou raise thy glasd so heartily if 
 thou had'st not paid the price of thy gaiety? Would'st 
 thou Icve flowers, meadows, the green shade, the sonnets 
 of Petrarch, and the song o. .he birds, Michel Ai.geio aud 
 tU arts, Shakespeare and nature, if thou didst not ilnd 
 some of these old sighs in them ? Wouldst thou under- 
 stand the ineffable harmony of the heavens, the silence of 
 
82 
 
 the night, the murmur of the waves, if in some other 
 places fever and sleeplessness had not made thee think of 
 eternal rest ? Hast thou not now a fair mistress — and 
 when in going to sleep thou pressest her hand, the distant 
 recollection of thy youth does not render her divine smiles 
 more sweet ? Do you not walk together in the midst of 
 flowering woods, on the silvery sand, and in that palace 
 of verdure ? Does the white spectre of the poplar no 
 longer show thee the road by the ray of the moon ? Do'st 
 thou not see as then by the rays of the moon a beautiful 
 frame lean her hand on thy arm — and if in thy path 
 thou shouldst meet with fortune, would'st thou not follow 
 her gaily singing ? Of what then do'st thou complain ? 
 Immortal hope is revived in thee by the hand of misfor- 
 tune. Oh, my child, pity her the unfaithful who formerly 
 made the tears flow from thy eyes. Wherefore would'st 
 thou hate the experience of thy youth, and detest an ill 
 which has rendered thee better. Pity her — she is a 
 woman — and God made thee, when with her, guess by 
 bufiering the secret of happiness. Her task was painful. 
 She perhaps loved thee, but destiny willed that she 
 should break thy heart ; she knew life, and she made thee 
 know it. Another has culled the fruit of thy sorrow — 
 pity her— her sad love has passed like a dream ; she saw 
 thy wound, but could not close it. Her tears, believe 
 me, were not all deceitful, and oven though they were, 
 pity her. Thou now knowest how to love. 
 
 POET. 
 
 You speak truth. Hatred is impious, it is a shudder- 
 
83 
 
 ing full of horror — when that viper curled up in our heart 
 unfolds herself. Hear me then, Goddess, and be witness 
 of my oath. By the blue eyes of my mistress— by the 
 azure of the firmament— by that brilliant star which 
 bears the name- of Venus, and like a diamond shines from 
 afar on the horizon— by the kindness of the Creator— by 
 the tranquil and pure light of the star dear to the travel- 
 er—by the herbs of the prairie— by the forests— by the 
 green meadows— by the'powers of life— by the productive 
 force of the universe, I banish you from my memory, re- 
 mains of an insensate love ; mysterious and dark history 
 which will sleep with the past— and thou who formerly 
 hast borne the fame and the sweet name of my beloved, 
 the instant that I forget thee forever ought also to be the 
 moment of forgiveness. Let us paxdon one another. I 
 break the chain which united us before God. With my 
 last tear receive an eternal adieu ; and now, fair dreamer, 
 now, Muse, to our own loves— sing me some joyous song 
 as in the first time of our bright days. Already the 
 fragrant lawn feels the approach of the morning. Come 
 to walk my dearest, and to smell the flowers of the 
 garden ; come to see immortal nature rise from the veil 
 of sleep ; we shall revive with her, at the first ray of 
 the sun. 
 
M 
 
 XT. 
 
 PHANTOMS. 
 
 TO WM. OLDBIOHT, ESQ., M.A., M.D. 
 
 HOW many beautiful maWens have I seen die ! It 
 i, de«tiny ? A prey i» necessary to death. J^ 
 the grass must fall under the scythe so m the ballthe 
 «uadr He must trample rosy youth under .ts steps The 
 r,mta n by irrigating the valleys must diminish ita 
 wateT The lightning' must shine but only for a moment. 
 Knvbus April with ita frosts must Wight the appl.-tree 
 too proud of its odoriferous flowers white ^s the suow of 
 Tprinr Yes ; such is life. The darkness of mght follow, 
 rdavlight knd to all will come the eternal awaking m 
 heaven of the abyss. A covetous crowd s ts at the great 
 trnTuet, but many of the guests leave their places empty 
 and depart before the end. 
 
85 
 
 II. 
 
 How many I have seen die ! One was fair and tlooming. 
 Another seemed to hear celestial music. Another with 
 her arms upholds her bended head— and as the bird which 
 in taking flight breaks the branch on which he rests — her 
 soul had broken her body. 
 
 One pale, lost, ^jressed by sad delirium pronounced 
 in a low voice a lame forgotten by all, another dies away 
 as a sound of a lyre, and another expiring has on her lips 
 the sweet smile of a young angel returning to heaven. 
 All frail flowers — dead as soon as born — halcyons drowned 
 with their floating nests ; doves sent from heav en to 
 earth, who, crowned with grace, youth and love num- 
 bered their years by the springs. 
 
 Dead! What? Already lying under the cold stone ! 
 So many charming beings deprived of voice and life ! So 
 many lights extinguished ! So many flowers faded away ! 
 O, let me trample the dried leaves and lose myself in the 
 depth of the woods. 
 
 Lovely phantoms ! It is there in the woods, when in 
 the dark I am thinking ; it is there that by turns they 
 come to listen and to speak to me. The twilight at the 
 same time shows and veils their number, but acroijs the 
 branches and leaves I perceive their glittering eyes, 
 
 My soul is a true sister to those beautiful shfi.dows. 
 For me and for them life and death have no laws— .some- 
 times I help their steps — sometimes I take their wings. 
 I 
 
86 
 
 Ineffable vision in which I am dead as they — they alive 
 as me. They lend their forms to my thoughts, I see ; O, 
 yes, I see them. They beckon me to come, and then 
 hand in hand they dance around a grave, and by degrees 
 disappearing softly, draw away, and then I think and I 
 remember. 
 
 III. 
 
 One specially — an angel — a young Spanish girl ! White 
 hands — her breast swelled by innocent sighs. Black 
 eyes in which shone the looks of a Creole ; and that in- 
 definite charm that fresh halo which generally crowns a 
 head of fifteen. 
 
 She died not for love. No ; love had not yet brought 
 her joy or sorrow ; nothing yet had made her rebel heart 
 beat, and when everyone in looking at her could not re- 
 press the words, " How beautiful she is !" none had 
 yet uttered secretly the word of love. Poor girl i She 
 loved dancing too much — it was that which killed her. 
 The charming ball ! The ball full of delight ! Her ashes 
 still tremble with a gentle movement — if by chance in a 
 fair night a white cloud dances round the crescent of the 
 sky. 
 
 She loved dancing too much ! At the approach oi a 
 festival — three days before she was continually thinking 
 and dreaming of it — and for three nights ladies, music, 
 dancers never tired troubled her mind in her sleep, and 
 laughed, and shouted at her pillows 
 
 Jewels, necklaces, silk girdles of waving reflections. 
 
87 
 
 saes lighter than the bee's wings, festoons of ribbons 
 jx full baskets, and flowers to buy a palace ; all those 
 things occupy her fancy. 
 
 Once the festival begun— full of gladness she comes 
 with her joyful sisters, furling and unfurling the fan in her 
 lingers — then sits amongst the silk dresses, and her heart 
 bursts into glad strains with the many-voiced orchestra. 
 What a t^ ue delight was it to look at her when she was 
 dancing. Her garment tossed its olue spangles ; her great 
 dark eyes sparkled under the black mantle like a pair of 
 stars under a dark cloud. She was all dance and laughter 
 and mad joy. Child ! 
 
 We admire her in our sad leisure moments — sad, be- 
 cause never at the ball our hearts were open — and in 
 these balls, as the dust flies on the silk dress, weariness is 
 mixed vrith pleasure. She, instead— carried by the 
 waiT/Hes or the polkas — was going up and down, hardly 
 breathing — exciting herself with the sound of the re- 
 nowned flute — with the flowers ; with the golden candle- 
 sticks ; with the attractive feast ; with the music of the 
 voices ; with the noise of the steps. 
 
 What happiness for her to move, lost in the crowd — to 
 feel her own senses multiply in ' e dance so as not to be 
 able to know if she was being conveyed by a cloud, or 
 flying leaving the heart, or treading upon a waving sea. 
 
 At the approach of the dawn she was obliged to depart 
 and to wait on the threshold till the silken mantle was 
 thrown over her shoulders. Only then this innocent dan- 
 cer, chilling, felt the morning breeze pass over her bare 
 neck. 
 
88 
 
 Sad morrows those following a ball ! Farewell, dresses 
 and dances, and child-like laughter. In her the obstinate 
 cough succeeds the songs ; the fever, with its hectic color, 
 follows the rosy and lively delights, and the bright eyes 
 are changed into lack lustre eyes. 
 
 IV. 
 
 She is dead ! Fifteen years old — beautiful, happy, 
 adored ! Dead coming out from a ball which immersed 
 all of us in mourning — dead, alas ! And Death with chilly 
 hands wrested her yet dressed from the arms of a mother, 
 mad with anguish, to lay her to sleep in the grave. 
 
 To dance at other balls she was ready ; Death was in 
 haste to take possession of such a beautii'ul body, and the 
 same ephemeral roses which had crowned her head and 
 which blossomed yesterday at a feast faded in a tomb. 
 
 V. 
 
 The unhappy mother, ignorant of her fate, had placed 
 80 deep a love on this frail stalk ; to lia«.'e watched her 
 suffering babyhood so long, and to have wasted so many 
 nights in lulling her when she cried — a tiny baby in her 
 cradle. To what purpose ? Now the girl sleeps under 
 the coffin lid, and if in the grave where we have left her 
 some beautiful winter's night a festival of the death 
 sh orld awake her cold corpse, a ghost with dreadful smile, 
 initead of the mother, will preside at her silent toilette, 
 
89 
 
 and will tell her — " Now is the time," and with a kiss 
 freezing her blue lips, will pass through her hair the 
 knotted fingers of its skeleton hand, and will lead her 
 trembling to the ethereal chorus, flitting in darkness, and 
 at the same timo on the grey horizon the moon will shine 
 pale and full, and the rainbow of the night will colour 
 with an opal reflection the silvered cloud. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Young maidens who are invited by the gay ball, with 
 its seductive pleasures, think of this Spanish girl. She 
 was gay, and with a merry hand, was gathering the roses 
 of life, pleasure, youth and love ! Poor girl ! Hurried 
 from feast to feast she was sorting the colors of this beau- 
 tiful nosegay. How soon all vanished ! Like Ophelia 
 parried away by the river, she died gathering flowers. 
 
90 
 
 XVI. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A GIRL. 
 
 TO MY BELOVED MOTHER, FORTUNATA SORVILLO, 
 Widow Nobile, (nei Nansd). 
 
 TWELVE springs had embelHshed her youth. Poor 
 girl! she could have lived longer ; to her eyes the 
 future was opening full of delight, and her beautiful 
 smile was pure as a golden ray of the sun. 
 
 The life of this beloved was the support of her mother's 
 soul. Innocence supports, while virtue defends. She was 
 used to say, " This angel one day will become a woman," 
 and this child was the incarnation of her happiness. 
 
 And thou hast lived twelve years embellishing all on 
 thy passage, for twelve years thy mother found her bliss 
 in the looks of thy charming eyes ; for twelve years she 
 had in her soul a continual happiness knowing that thou 
 wast living. 
 
 On the waves of life this girl was a calm, and in t;or- 
 
91 
 
 rows was a ray of dawn, and thou, alas ! sudden y lef 
 us. leaving in our heart an everlasting sadness Her soul 
 was the human embodiment of the virtues -the virtues, 
 flowers of heaver, and perfumes of the elect. Af erwa d 
 a child was needed in the bands of the angels, God 
 singled her out. Death came, and she was no raore^ 
 Ihe mother thoughtful, dishevelled, stayed there to 
 
 look at the body mute for ever. ^^-^'•./^^7,"^7;;^.;. 
 seemed that her life had disappeared with the poor gir 
 for whom the funeral bell was tolling. O ! I seem still 
 to see this girl with her rigid, silent frame, and her pale 
 face ! O I I see her cold and beautiful, lying on the bed 
 as if she was sleeping in an angelic dream. 
 
 I see the lights around her shed their reddish lustre 
 in the humble and sad room, I see yet the friendly hand 
 faithful to its duty, raise up and place her corpse in 
 the coffin. ! when this little body was brought to the 
 churchyard, the mother groaned for her lost happmess. 
 One would have said that her heart wished to follow the 
 coffin so many were the sobs which poured from her op- 
 pressed breast. The day was over, and gave place to 
 anoth'^r,— and yet the mother has always in her heart 
 her daughter, and seems always to see her angel prostrat- 
 ed by death. Vainly she is invited to many joyful feasts 
 —vain it is to persuade her of the necessity of forgetting, 
 —vainly it is said that life has the same law for all, and 
 that by death hearts are united with God. 
 
 Vainly it is repeated to her that the flowers live only 
 a season; that the beautiful dawn which awakes the 
 morning cannot continue ; that the children's souls up 
 
92 
 
 in heaven live again, — and at our own death they show 
 themselves to us. 
 
 The poor mother remains deaf to all these words. 
 Uselessly every one tells her that her daughter is an 
 angel, — that Death must extend its law over all, — that 
 life is an exile in this world, — that all must change. 
 Alas ! her heart is broken, — her faith is extinguished 
 The mother cannot believe and will not believe that she 
 is dead ; and continually with her tears, asks for her 
 daughter. She requires this girl, who still lives in her 
 mind, with her songs, with her games, and with her gay 
 smile. Sometimes her mind wanders for a moment, and 
 it seems that her soul has risen to the clouds to see if her 
 time had arrived to depart far away from the noise. — 
 Thus she lives amidst our human shadows, always faith- 
 ful to her daughter, — her dearest love. Many weeks I 
 have heard her cry, and since, I have been told, that she 
 is still weeping. 
 
93 
 
 XYII. 
 
 TO THE AUGUST MEMORY 
 
 OF HIS MAJESTY 
 
 VICTOR EMMANUEL," 
 
 First King of Italy. 
 
 TO E. BENDELARI, ESQ.,t 
 Vice Consul of Italy in Toronto. 
 
 THE dawn scarcely is reddening the sky, and the 
 pleasant enamelled fields of Novara fill the air 
 with such a shower of perfume as to soothe and inebriate 
 all the senses. Every where nature smiles beautiful and 
 
 • In the presence of God, I swear to observe with loyalty the Consti- 
 tution ; not to exercise the Royal Authority except according to the laws 
 and in confoimity to the same ; to give everybody according to their 
 rights full and exact justice, and to behave in every thing only with a view 
 to the interest, welfare and honor of '.he nation. — Oath pronouncedby Kittg 
 Victor Emmanuel the zgth March, iS^g. 
 
 X SIR, — Asa representative of our dear country I have taken the libertf 
 of putting your name at the head of this translation. 
 
 Acctpl it from, 
 
 Your obcdier.*^, 
 
 A. A. NOBILE. 
 
94) 
 
 flowering, kissed and caressed by the breeze. Nothing 
 seems to trouble the great quietness that there overflows. 
 From time to time only is heard a deep sound, which 
 ever comes nearer and nearer, increasing in such a man- 
 ner as to seem a thunder concealed amidst the clouds— 
 At the farther opposite horizon one could hear a similar 
 noise, which also comes near,— and although not a cloud 
 encumbers or tarnishes the blue sky, the roar does not 
 cease, but becomes stronger. 
 
 What may be all this immense mass that thou seest 
 moving at thy right ? It resembles a big writhing snake, 
 which thus over a rough and long wj»y, drags along the 
 twisted links of its cold body. 
 
 On the left the terrified eye sees a like crowd, and 
 afterward, little by little, the short space which divides 
 those living waves quickly disappears. 
 
 On the left flashes a lightning to which follows a thun- 
 der,— another lightning flashes and a thunder answers 
 on the right,— then a second,— another,— and finally the 
 shouts arise tremendous. At the same time the sky 
 rapidly changes its color, and under a dark cloud of sul- 
 phurous dust, envelops both field and contestants. God ! 
 Why such a great bloodshed ? Shortly, then, O florid 
 plains of Novara, the clod trampled by thousands upon 
 thouspnds will be bedewed by streams of blood, and mor- 
 sels of human flesh will cover the splendid emerald of 
 thy coverlet ! 
 
 But from the left arises a cry of Kjony, and from the 
 right answer shrieks of death,— alroady raiarderous blades 
 Bliine in the air. 
 
95 
 
 "Savoy!" is the cry,— " Bade! "ky !" is the answer; 
 already the raging waves of men rush against each other, 
 — like a foaming tempestuous sea striking the gentle 
 shore. 
 
 On one side the proud tri-color, — on the other the 
 douhle-pinioned and rcyal bird ; on the left the hope of a 
 better dawn, the love of native country, and free faith, — 
 on the other ide the right of the stronger, who hopes 
 to punish the proud folly of Ausonia. Farther a valiant 
 monarch, who obedient to the wish of a faithful people 
 arose to the battle ; a prince, scion of an adored ancestry, 
 admired by all ages for its exploits, master of a small 
 but beautiful province, the beloved of his subjects and the 
 model of loyalty. At his side, proudly mounted on a 
 noble courser, nourished at the breast of the Goddess of 
 Freedom, with refulgent eye, is a young Deity, who, 
 searching in the face of hia royal parent, hardly bridles 
 the ardor by which he is urged to fight this sacred battle 
 which for Italy is a last trial for redemption. 
 
 The battle grows always more and more terrible, the 
 impatient horses print their hoofs upon the fallen, and 
 continually is heard the noise of the fulminating thunder- 
 ing canons. It is impossible that Heaven can any more 
 favour this dreadful carnage. The tricolor flag of Italy 
 is lowered. The terrible Lombards fly, and the Savoy- 
 ards cannot fight. 
 
 The white uniformed victorious Austrians trample upon 
 the bent Ausonian heads. Awful sight ! The flowery 
 ground is all hidden by corpses. Piedmont, cover thyself; 
 
96 
 
 ihy hope is extinguished ; thy resuscitated faith ah-eady 
 become a dream. 
 
 Struck by this most cruel fate, Charles Albert perceiv- 
 ing himself alone, uncertain of the future, looking at the 
 numerous soldiers who had fallen on the field in his be- 
 half, cursing his horrible perverse destiny, thus speaks to 
 the son who at his side, dropping noble sweat, was await- 
 ing the orders of his princely father. " Heaven's wrath 
 descends on me, my son. Vain it is to struggle still ; all 
 abandon me, I hope no more; and again I see hard 
 destiny for Italy. 
 
 " For what, then, all these fights, those dead, and this 
 grief, if again the Ausonian land has to return into slavery? 
 " The power of this crown is vain, its weight already 
 oppresses me, I cannot withstand the pain ; take it, thou, 
 my son, fortune perhaps will smile more propitious on 
 thy valour ! 
 
 " Put this crown on thy head, and try to wrest the 
 broken heritage from cruel servitude. Thou wilt gain 
 what thy old father has lost. Thou wilt return to fight 
 anew. 
 
 " Keep thyself faithful to the people's rights, this 
 being a holy decree written in heaven. Victor, on this 
 bloody field 1 surrender thee the frail throne's dreadful 
 power." * 
 
 • The circumstances under which I take the reins of the government, are 
 such, tliat without the most elficient help of all ha>clly could I accomplish my 
 unique wish, the good of the country. Now your purpose must be to 
 maintain safe and unhurt the honour, to consolidate our constitutional insti- 
 tutions, I am ready to make a solemn o&th.—Proclaf/iadon of A'ing Victor 
 Emmanuei, "« Ihe ajth March i84g. 
 
97 
 
 Since this horrible day had passed two lustrums! 
 Two lustrums of hidden struggles and horror !— of 
 tears,— of griefs ; two lustrums of indelible honour to 
 
 Ausonia. 
 
 But all the tears poured, all the pain suffered were m- 
 cense offered on God's altar, were in the sight of heaven 
 an accepted pledge that Italy shall rise again radiant of 
 
 faith. 
 
 And the same young prince educated to misfortunes, 
 who once ascended on a tottering throne, now commands 
 an army guiding it to glory, and fulfilling in this way his 
 
 sacred oath. 
 
 The avenging and beautiful victorious flag of the th/ee 
 beloved colours is already unfolded in the air, severe 
 avenger of shame and holy grief. 
 
 From the frosty Alps to the smoking Vesuvius, from 
 Scylla to Gortz, ah-eady with joy all Italy awakens 
 panting, and each right hand brandishes the redeemer 
 
 blade. 
 
 And joined in a fraternal chain with the French these 
 two descend to fight from the Alps, and shortly we shall 
 see the flowery and charming valley of the Mincio become 
 red with blood. 
 
 O great day of Palestro, O sun who wast shining on 
 that day, thou well hast enlightened all the exploits of 
 those valiant avengers of dear Italy, the beautiful country 
 where the si is spoken. 
 
 Only a mind higher than mine could paint the valorous 
 deeds done in this glorious day. Can a mortal narrate a 
 
98 
 
 divine work ? And divine it was, — and history alwa.v» 
 will call divine St. Martin and Palestro ! 
 
 Sadly, sadly the bell gives a trembling sound, and far off 
 announces to the faithful believing people a wicked event 
 sadder than death. 
 
 The city, the ancient old seat of the humble fisherman, 
 Rome, mother of the faith, of the supreme and threefold 
 love; Rome, once august and now papal, nest of tem- 
 poral power ; Rome at last if surrounded by the valiant 
 men who before had fought for unity. 
 
 Vain are your bonds which Victor will break as once of 
 yore did the austere founder of the Greek empire. But 
 the bronze avenger is thundering, the friendly army is 
 coming. Italy ! Italy ! Let the joy of the unhappy say 
 how eagerly the people in that day awaited thee, 
 
 Victor ! Thou who hast opened thy royal heart at the 
 cry which thou hast heard* arise from one shore to the 
 other, come now to conquer, everyone awaits thee. 
 
 Descend brave deliverer king, and brandish the same 
 refulgent sword which once, as thou rememberest, thou 
 hadst unsheathed in defence of thine own and thy ances- 
 tor's throne. 
 
 And he already listened the unanimous voice of his 
 
 • Words pronounced by Victor Emmanuel in his speech to the Parlia- 
 ment on the loth January, 1859. 
 
99 
 
 sons, comes— sees— hastens to conquer at Porta Pia ! Let 
 history in its records take note of such valour. 
 
 The Savoyard prince, faithful to his word, in his noble 
 breast had nourished a hope, the most holy hope of re- 
 deeming the country which so long had remained in 
 slavery and mourning. 
 
 The breach is open, swift rushes on the narrow path 
 the Italian soldier ; and quickly raising the proud flag, 
 casts his eyes on the great city. 
 
 Victory! Victory! the old streets resound with the 
 touch of Italian swords. The Italian flag, pride of Auso- 
 nia, is already fi-:ed up on the Capitol. 
 
 Victory ! Victory ! Romans ! Shortly you will see 
 amidst you the hero of heroes ; you are free, destiny is 
 accomplished, Victor has shown you the path of glory ! 
 
 Destiny is accomplished ! Great, austere, splendid 
 Rome, first glory of Italy, of the world, now redeemed 
 thou art again the noble seat of Ausonia and of the king. 
 
 After a while, mounted on his impatient sorrel courser, 
 fiercely neighing, proud on the saddle, quiet and happy 
 Victor passes down the redeemed Roman streets amidst 
 the plaudits, the cries.the hurrahs of an enthusiastic crowd, 
 applauding, rejoicing;* and turning around his serene and 
 assured eye predicts a future more beautiful and more 
 proud. Arrived in the supreme hall, in the presence of 
 all the great men of Italy, with rapid words and the hand 
 upon the sword, " Gentlemen," he says, " the Italian star 
 shines propitious ! We are now in Rome, and here we will 
 
 • See chronicle about the entering of the king into Rome, on July, 1871. 
 
100 
 
 remain !* Be this the supreme wish of my soul. This 
 was the task which together with the frail crown I re- 
 ceived at Novara from my loved father, king Charles 
 
 Albert." 
 
 # * # # » 
 
 Is he dead ? Oh ! no ; Almighty God, thou wilt not 
 take away from Italy such a glorious man ! He is repos- 
 ing in a placid and quiet sleep, and the body broken by 
 cruel illness feels happy in this rest. No, ho who in his 
 heart nourished the holy fire of divinity cannot be 
 mortal \ I see heaven send its prohibition to the 
 work of death which is afraid in looking at this great 
 monarch. 
 
 And yet the universal grief, the mourning which in- 
 vades the soul, is already a tremendous prooi of the un- 
 utterable deadly disaster. The people, dissolved in tears 
 already groan, and after the first a new afflicted crowd 
 fills the road to the Quirinal, and arriving there find 
 another lamenting crowd with bent eye and paiu-stricken 
 faces. 
 
 The ancestral walls of eternal Rome are covered with 
 cloth ! Even the sky, always faithful to this race, to Italy 
 and to his untamed people covers and veils. A large 
 crowd of Seraphim, with golden hair, descend from high 
 amidst us bringing to this great king the homage of the 
 Eternal. 
 
 Alas ! the fatal tidings do not lie ! Victor, the father 
 
 • Historical words said at the opening of the first Parliament in Rome, 
 •n the 20th November, 1871. 
 
101 
 
 of the country, the great Savoyard prince is dead ' Monrp 
 Italy, — pour out freely thy sorrow. 
 
 Words cannot express such gigantic universal grief i 
 and who dares to try to read the hidden will of God ? 
 
 In order to give him a greater reward he was pleased 
 to take him away from this world, in the middle of the 
 same Rome, which sealed his exploits, at the side of the 
 weak old man adorned with the tiara, who once had 
 blessed the flag and the arms of Italy, and in those same 
 ancestral walls, the seat of glory, and the dream of all 
 the ages. 
 
 O magnanimous example to all princes ! Loyalty had 
 been his device ; Love the word which alwaj'^s was on his 
 lips ! And how he loved his dear Italy ! What faith ! 
 What pure and inviolate conscience ! What affection for 
 his sons ! Humbert, thou well knowest it, thou who re- 
 ceived the last royal farewell of thy parent ! Grief con- 
 quered thee, king, and thou hadst cause for grief. 
 
 The words of this great one, when for the last time 
 he turned his placid looks to the bystanders, all bent at 
 his knees, and crying was, Italy ! Italy ! after which he 
 rested silent for a while. 
 
 But when finally the minister of the Eternal came to 
 him with the pledge of redemption and of pardon, cer- 
 tainly immersed in a supreme ecstacy, he asked mercy for 
 all his actions. Mercy ? Proud were those actions. King 
 Victor, and if it is true that Heaven is the reward given 
 to the superhuman, thou rightly wilt sit at the side of 
 God, and always looking down on us, on our actions, on 
 
 Q 
 
102 
 
 our longed-for destinies, wilt kindly watch us, O great 
 father, founder of Italian greatness. 
 
 In every city of this happy land which thou hast made 
 free from tyranny, may be raised a proud monument tell- 
 ing—Here is the great man who made us. Glory be to 
 the worthy prince, to the first king of Italy ! 
 
 And there amidst the old vaults of the Pantheon, where 
 thou wilt find repose, many times I will come, father, to 
 implore thee, and there from God, with fervid prayer, I 
 will ask for Humbert's happiness, that he always may be 
 as thou wast, great and loving, and for the sake of the 
 angel that he leads at his side, tor her that mother of 
 Italy, already has gained the hearts of all her sous. I 
 will always invoke his blessings, I will come with the liv- 
 ing thought which boils in my youthful soul and quenches 
 the fullness of vajf W«Wul gvi9l 
 
103 
 
 xvin. 
 
 A SON. 
 
 TO MY FRIEND, C. A. MORPURGO. 
 
 T. 
 
 WHEN" they went to rent a room on the fifth flat, 
 the porter, with a look full of contempt, under- 
 stood all, and concluded — " Second rate people !" The 
 youth with intelligent eyes was proud of his mourning on 
 account of his new suit. His mother, already old at thirty 
 years, hid under a thick black veil her large eyes red 
 with tears, and when their goods, which were to be an- 
 swerable for the rent, were brought in this poor lodging 
 the porter became gloomy, and thought — " Quite second 
 rate !" Nevertheless, s-3 the rent was paid punctually, he 
 corrected his words by — " Second rate but honest." And 
 
 * As a token of my continued friendship I dedecate to you this trans- 
 lation. 
 
104 
 
 when he had noticed their manner of ringing the bell, for 
 the sake of his dignity he never was in a hurry to open 
 the door. The widow still had a lady-like appearance, 
 and for her support gave lessons in singing. She always 
 used to return home when her boy came back from school, 
 and prepare his dinner. On Sunday they went together 
 to the Luxembourg Gardens, threv/ some bread to the 
 swans, and went home. It was one of those cases of re- 
 spectable poverty in v^hich if anybody tries to take an 
 interest, he will receive a sweet smile, but no confidence. 
 They pleased their neighbors, and the porter, bold at first, 
 was by and by disarmed. Even he found some word of 
 
 pj-aise, and when six years latei one evening he became 
 
 acquainted with the fact that the young man had gained 
 all the prizes at the school, this father moved by such a 
 
 zeal and courage thought, " Some day perhaps ! for 
 
 our young miss !" 
 
 Just the same day, when the young rhetorician, radiant 
 with his own and also his mother's pride, showed to his 
 mother for the twentieth time his. prize, and embraced her 
 vehemently, speaking to her on hifi knees, saying, "Mother 
 how happy we are !" She suddenly taking his hands in 
 hers, uttering from her heart all the hidden pains, con- 
 fides all the bitterness of her life to her innocent, ht.,ppy, 
 and victorious boy. 
 
 She revealed to him how he had only his mother's 
 name,— how in the eyes of the laiv she was not a widow. 
 At the age of twenty she was earning her living by teach- 
 ing singing. But why let a young girl go alone ? Old 
 and worn-out story ! The singing mistress with the young 
 
105 
 
 gentleman. The criminal bad died suddenly, without 
 time for repairing his fault. She would have died at *he 
 same time, but she had a son. A son ! 
 
 •' Thou knowest the rest. This has been my ^ep sor- 
 row for sixteen years. I am not in good i.ealth, ny sight 
 is going, thou hast no trade and we are in debt." 
 
 The boy had dreamed of glory,— of a sword,— of epau- 
 lettes,— a golden future,— and the greatest honour,— and 
 now he would have to be satisfied with a thousand francs 
 yearly. He began to comfort his mother, speaking to her 
 as a man who is praying. 
 
 " Thou well knowest, we have a friend in the mairie ; * 
 he will give me employment ; he is chief clerk. If only 
 at twenty years I may draw a good number If Why 
 not ? yes, I am lucky in games. Mother be not sad. 
 Beside, it is not for nothing that I am an artist. I can 
 play the violin a little. One might make a profession of 
 my drawing room accomplishment. I feel in my soul an 
 indomitable courage, —you will see. Smile, then, mother, 
 —smile. To begin with, Madam,l I will not be satisfied 
 until you have smiled." 
 
 Poor, happy mother ! A tender smile for a moment lit 
 up her sad face, and then, deeply moved, she drew to her 
 breast her son and wept long, pressing him in her arms. 
 On the evening, the boy of seventeen years, left alonei 
 
 ♦ The GoverniTitnt Buildings. 
 
 t In France as well as in many other countries, the young have to draw 
 a number, which will decide if they must go into active service. 
 X The boy showed his fictitious anger by calling his mother " Madam " 
 
106 
 
 arranging with the others on the table his gilt edged 
 prizes said farewell to his former dreams, — and all the 
 rest went as he had foreseen. A very modest employment 
 occupied the day, and half of the evening was spent in 
 playing in a caj4 concert, for he had truly said that any- 
 thing is useful to make a living. From the very day in 
 which he accepted the struggle he ceased to grow, and his 
 stature remained short as his ambition. 
 
 When the porter was aware of this resolution, oflTended 
 in his aristocratic feelings, he was not able to refrain from 
 criticism. " These second rate folks," he said, " have very 
 low instincts ; they might have risen — but had no per- 
 severence. Fancy my wife's having thought he might 
 do for our Emma ; besides my daughter is destined for 
 the stage." 
 
 II. 
 
 And the good son learned the worry of office life, — the 
 long glance through the glass window at the free idler 
 who walks and smokes, — the loathing smell of the stove 
 to which surely a man gets used, but which still makes 
 one couch every morning, — the stupid joke at which one 
 must laugh, — the very common talk as to the feelings of 
 each toward the chief, and their hopes of an advance- 
 ment, — the monotonous and futile work, — and for the 
 only moment of breathing the fresh air whilst returning 
 to his lodgings with slow steps, enfeebled by hunger 
 which is badly satisfied by the unfailingly poor dinner. 
 
 Growing older, the mother had b .come soured, — truly 
 
i07 
 
 her misery and her long and painful virtue had been 
 silent for a long time. The heart feels twice the paina it 
 is obliged to keep secret. Besides she was ill ; finally her 
 character seemed changed even to her dear son. By him 
 the dinner time was abridged, -for himself as well as for 
 her he suffered too much, seeing her begin »)me ground- 
 less complaint ; and always he left dinner as early as ne 
 
 could. • ' 
 
 For the rest, at that hour duty called him to the suburb's 
 little cafe concert, where every evening with his violin, 
 behind the pianist leading the band without hatdn, and 
 not far from a soldier pufiing at the comet, he listened 
 distractedly, not amused at the painted singer with her 
 bare shoulders, — the bearded baritone, embarassed in his 
 white gloves,— and the buffo with his trembling andjoin- 
 ed legs, with his high collar, making horrible grimaces, 
 and narrating to the public his wedding day. At mid- 
 nicrht only he got up and arrived at home ; sometimes he 
 opened his hooka at his bed-side, but having no energy to 
 read them, went to bed to spare the candle. 
 
 This lif'^ lasted five, ten, fifteen years?. Alas ! fifteen 
 times when the season of lilacs had returned he could see 
 in the streets on Sunday evenings poor girls in fresh 
 white dresses near the foot-path where indulgent parents 
 sit, playing at shuttlecock with the young men. While 
 always alone he kept away timidly,— he never passed 
 near the pyramids of bowls filled with punoh which adorn 
 the counter of the cafd, where many times he had seen, as 
 be passed, old bachelors, fond of unfeverish p)easures 
 
108 
 
 playing at dominoes with pipe in their mouth, calling^ 
 each other " old chappie," and caressing their dogs. 
 
 He was envious of their lot, for this was his own, to 
 earn his dail}'^ bread and his quarter's rent. In the first 
 da)'"s when he was going to the orchestra a fair singer, 
 half consumptive, cast on him a pitiful eye :, but he low- 
 ered his own every time she appeared on the stage. I ater 
 she passed on the other side of the Seine, and yet young 
 died in the middle of Quartier Breda. Verily he had 
 almost loved her, and kept the remembrance of the dis- 
 pleasure he felt, seeing her kiss and fiirt with the actors; 
 and his proiession became to him more painful than 
 before. 
 
 III. 
 
 The health of his mother became worse. One night 
 for her came death as sad as life had been ; and when 
 they had carried her to the last resting place in deep mourn- 
 ing, and followed, as is the custom, by all his colleagues, 
 happy at this holiday, he returned to his room — and 
 alone began to think. He perceived himself without 
 friends, — poor, — bachelor, — old before his time, — surpris- 
 ed at his grey hairs. He felt that his soul and his body 
 for twenty years had taken the slow and growing habit 
 of weariness, silence and sol'tude, — that he had pr mounc- 
 ed only one word of love, " Mother !' — that he now had 
 no hope to see a more tender chapter added to his very 
 simple romance. Resigned but conquered, again he re- 
 
109 
 
 vamoct by day to his office, in the evening to his desk— 
 and free he lived just as he used to live when a slave. 
 Even in the house where he lives nobody knows that he 
 exists ; and at night, when he rings the bell, the old 
 porter, who now is seventy-two years old, and is losing 
 knowledge of things and of time, wakes up discontented 
 and murmurs in his lodge, " It is the boy of the fifth flat 
 who comes in i" 
 
no 
 
 XIX. 
 
 THE TWIN SPIRITS. 
 
 TO MISS NORA HILLARY, 
 Teacher of Music. 
 
 T 
 
 I. 
 
 HE sun was near the end of its journey, — the air was 
 _.. filled with mystery, — the violets sent their odour 
 to God,— the murmur of the stream was more lively, — ^all 
 creation seemed to repeat the words of love, and the heart 
 was seized by a pious feeling which sweetly suggested 
 
 prayer. 
 
 Prostrating myself before the rustic altar of the queen 
 of heaven, a divine pity moved my soul, and I wept and 
 prayed. 
 
 Whilst to the throne of the Almighty, like a cloud of 
 mceuse, joined to the sublime austere voice of the organ, 
 
Ill 
 
 rose the prayer of the fervid worshippers so dear to him. 
 Suddenly I heard a sweet, strong, harmonious voice, which 
 troubled my heart and forced me to weep. 
 
 Raising my eyes appeared before me a young orator, 
 beautiful and divine in appearance, who struck my heart. 
 
 III. 
 
 For many and many days already the fair young man 
 had turned and returned around my house, looked at me 
 and smiled, and every day I saw his sweet image; blush- 
 ing, I too had answered the salute, — and each time he 
 came I lost m/ peace. 
 
 God grant that he may understand me as I understand 
 him I And if he understand me and will give me his 
 heart I will adore him with an immense love. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He loves, yes, he loves me ! celestial delight ! — in 
 effable joy, — immense gladness i No, this is not a dream 
 he has told me so, and his words are words of divine con- 
 sent. Yes, my beloved, I will love thee, — to thee I will 
 open all the most hidden recesses of my heart, — entirely 
 thine will be this my living soul. Sweetly, sweetly a 
 breath of love slightly touches my face. He has looked 
 
 at me and has placed on my finger a ring, — a glit- 
 
 tering"circle of gold. 
 
112 
 
 See, see how the torches shine ! How beautiful is the 
 altai- festally adorned ! How many garlands ! How 
 much incense, and how many lights ! O what a solemn 
 function is this one ! How bright a day, and how the 
 heaven's smile ! I will adorn my head with the nuptial 
 crown. 1 will appear beautiful under my veil. Already 
 the harmonious trumpet tune the joyful songs. my 
 faithful one I do-^t thou not. hear the people's outcries — 
 " Hurrah ! for the bride !" 
 
 VI. • 
 
 " Thou art married." So said the priest, — this old man 
 thou knowest and who loves me so much ! Art thou 
 then mine ? Wilt thou be always at my side ? Is then 
 accomplished the hope of my heart ? But tell me, dear, 
 why so sadly lookest thou at the ground and sighest ? 
 What thought comes to abate the course of our joy ? 
 Thinkest thou perhaps of thy mother, whom thou hast 
 left alone ? We will go to her, but do not weep any 
 more ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Three days are past, and yet he cannot come back ! 
 Already three days,— three eternal days !— and I am 
 dyinc^ : My treasure has told me nothing. At dawn he 
 kissed me, and quickly went away. Has he been to con- 
 
113 
 
 sole his mother ? But then he ought to return without 
 delay ! Pray, bright stars, bring him back to me. With- 
 out my beloved I am failing, and I will preserve myself 
 alive for him, the only pride of my life, with whom 1 fell 
 in so great a ' ^ve. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Alas ! what are these melancholy voices, — this sad 
 sound of bells, — this grief which invades all the passers- 
 by ? What wants this yet distant crowd ? Somebody is 
 
 dead and is accompanied to his home by weeping 
 
 faces ! Alas ! is it true — this my horrid vision ? No, — 
 it cannot be true ! Eternal God, thou art not an unjust 
 punisher ! My mind is raving, and my thoughts are food 
 for my sorrows. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Yes, my love is dead ! The coloured cheeks have now 
 become pale, and the heart is silent. The refulgent pupil 
 which before used to shine with divine ardour is now 
 closed. God, why hast thou taken him, when scarcely 
 thou hadst granted me his sublime love ? Like a little 
 flower which in the winter appears waving, and soon 
 after is leafless and dies, thou, my sweetheart, hast pass- 
 ed away. 
 
 X. 
 
 I am wretched, snd and alone, because they have taken 
 a vay my treasure, burying him under the green sod not 
 
lit 
 
 far from thy altar, Virgin Mary, They have laid on the 
 coffin a few flowers,— singing pious songs. Prepare for 
 me in the same place the nuptial bed. I come to thee 
 my beloved, only comforfc oir' my heart. United we will 
 spread our wings to the celestial shore, — to the everlast- 
 ing love. 
 
 At the last tolling of the sad bell well known to the 
 village people, when the night has come, and the honest 
 prayer of the peasant singing to the virgin ascends to the 
 spheres, — when in the heaven rises the placid moon, — 
 when the breezes become milder, and all around the uni- 
 verse is silent, ado-ing the Creator, — when on the 
 branches the feathered birds tranquil hide their harmo- 
 nious throats in their winged arms, and in the sky the 
 most distant worlds reappear, — amidst the li^ht vapours 
 of the churchyard, a gentle flame towers alone and 
 trembling for a while, finally rests and waits. 
 
 Not long after a sad and harmonious song is heard, 
 and in the meanwhile one could see a like flame coming 
 toward the first, and both, mingled in one embrace, 
 sweetly disappear, like twins destined to the same fate> 
 who felt immense joy in meeting each other. 
 
 The firm belief of the people is that the apparition is 
 
115 
 
 the souls of the two unhappy ones who prematurely died 
 in such great grief, and on account of this, the believer, 
 pained for so great a misfortune, bows and weeping, says, 
 Ave Maria* 
 
 * This Poem has been also translated into French, and has been admirably 
 set to music by the Maestro Gervasio, of Savona, conductor of the 
 orchestra of the Theatre of Lyon.