Modern Italian Poets eBook

II

A much better poet of the Romantic School was Tommaso Grossi, who, like Manzoni and Pellico, is now best known by a prose work—­a novel which enjoys a popularity as great as that of “Le Mie Prigioni”, and which has been nearly as much read in Italy as “I Promessi Sposi”.  The “Marco Visconti” of Grossi is a romance of the thirteenth century; and though not, as Cantu says, an historic “episode, but a succession of episodes, which do not leave a general and unique impression,” it yet contrives to bring you so pleasantly acquainted with the splendid, squalid, poetic, miserable Italian life in Milan, and on its neighboring hills and lakes, during the Middle Ages, that you cannot help reading it to the end.  I suppose that this is the highest praise which can be bestowed upon an historical romance, and that it implies great charm of narrative and beauty of style.  I can add, that the feeling of Grossi’s “Marco Visconti” is genuine and exalted, and that its morality is blameless.  It has scarcely the right to be analyzed here, however, and should not have been more than mentioned, but for the fact that it chances to be the setting of the author’s best thing in verse.  I hope that, even in my crude English version, the artless pathos and sweet natural grace of one of the tenderest little songs in any tongue have not wholly perished.

[Illustration:  TOMMASO GROSSI.]

    THE FAIR PRISONER TO THE SWALLOW.

    Pilgrim swallow! pilgrim swallow! 
      On my grated window’s sill,
    Singing, as the mornings follow,
      Quaint and pensive ditties still,
    What would’st tell me in thy lay? 
    Prithee, pilgrim swallow, say!

    All forgotten, com’st thou hither
      Of thy tender spouse forlorn,
    That we two may grieve together,
      Little widow, sorrow worn? 
    Grieve then, weep then, in thy lay! 
    Pilgrim swallow, grieve alway!

    Yet a lighter woe thou weepest: 
      Thou at least art free of wing,
    And while land and lake thou sweepest,
      May’st make heaven with sorrow ring,
    Calling his dear name alway,
    Pilgrim swallow, in thy lay.

    Could I too! that am forbidden
      By this low and narrow cell,
    Whence the sun’s fair light is hidden,
      Whence thou scarce can’st hear me tell
    Sorrows that I breathe alway,
    While thou pip’st thy plaintive lay.

    Ah!  September quickly coming,
      Thou shalt take farewell of me,
    And, to other summers roaming,
      Other hills and waters see,—­
    Greeting them with songs more gay,
    Pilgrim swallow, far away.

    Still, with every hopeless morrow,
      While I ope mine eyes in tears,
    Sweetly through my brooding sorrow
      Thy dear song shall reach mine ears,—­
    Pitying me, though far away,
    Pilgrim swallow, in thy lay.