Thou that strait to thy children
appearedst,
Thou that knew’st
not in peace how to tend them,
Fatal land! now the stranger
thou fearedst
Receive,
with the judgment he brings!
A foe unprovoked
to offend them
At thy board sitteth down,
and derideth,
The spoil of thy foolish divideth,
Strips
the sword from the hand of thy kings.
Foolish he, too! What
people was ever
For bloodshedding
blest, or oppression?
To the vanquished alone comes
harm never;
To
tears turns the wrong-doer’s joy!
Though he ‘scape
through the years’ long progression,
Yet the vengeance eternal
o’ertaketh
Him surely; it waiteth and
waketh;
It
seizes him at the last sigh!
We are all made in one Likeness
holy,
Ransomed all by
one only redemption;
Near or far, rich or poor,
high or lowly,
Wherever
we breathe in life’s air,
We are brothers,
by one great preemption
Bound all; and accursed be
its wronger,
Who would ruin by right of
the stronger,
Wring
the hearts of the weak with despair.
Here is the whole political history of Italy.
In this poem the picture of the confronted hosts,
the vivid scenes of the combat, the lamentations over
the ferocity of the embattled brothers, and the indifference
of those that behold their kinsmen’s carnage,
the strokes by which the victory, the rout, and the
captivity are given, and then the apostrophe to Italy,
and finally the appeal to conscience—are
all masterly effects. I do not know just how
to express my sense of near approach through that
last stanza to the heart of a very great and good
man, but I am certain that I have such a feeling.
The noble, sonorous music, the solemn movement of
the poem are in great part lost by its version into
English; yet, I hope that enough are left to suggest
the original. I think it quite unsurpassed in
its combination of great artistic and moral qualities,
which I am sure my version has not wholly obscured,
bad as it is.
The scene following first upon this chorus also strikes
me with the grand spirit in which it is wrought; and
in its revelations of the motives and ideas of the
old professional soldier-life, it reminds me of Schiller’s
Wallenstein’s Camp. Manzoni’s canvas
has not the breadth of that of the other master, but
he paints with as free and bold a hand, and his figures
have an equal heroism of attitude and motive.
The generous soldierly pride of Carmagnola, and the
strange esprit du corps of the mercenaries,
who now stood side by side, and now front to front
in battle; who sold themselves to any buyer that wanted
killing done, and whose noblest usage was in violation
of the letter of their bargains, are the qualities
on which the poet touches, in order to waken our pity
for what has already raised our horror. It is
humanity in either case that inspires him—a
humanity characteristic of many Italians of this century,
who have studied so long in the school of suffering
that they know how to abhor a system of wrong, and
yet excuse its agents.
