THE

RESTORATION

OF THE

WORKS OF ART TO ITALY:

POEM.

Italia, Italia! O tu cui feo la Sorte

Dono infelice di bellezza, onde hai

Funesta dote d' infiniti guai,

Che'n fronte scritti per gran doglia porte;

Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte.

Filicaja..

(147)

"But the joy of discovery was short, and the triumph of taste transitory. The French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity of the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, tore its masterpieces from their pedestals, and dragging them from their temples of marble, transported them to Paris, and consigned them to the dull sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre." -EUSTACE'S Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. p. 60.

(148)

RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY.

LAND of departed fame! whose classic plains.
Have proudly echoed to immortal strains;
Whose hallow'd soil hath given the great and brave,
Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave;
Home of the arts! where glory's faded smile
Sheds lingering light o'er many a mouldering pile;
Proud wreck of vanish'd power, of splendour fled,
Majestic temple of the mighty dead!
Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay,
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day;
Though dimm'd thy brightness, riveted thy chain,
Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again !

Lost, lovely realm! once more 'tis thine to gaze
On the rich relics of sublimer days.

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades,
Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades;
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom;
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb;
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave,
Swell'd the deep echoes of the fountain's cave.
Or thrill'd the soul in Tasso's numbers high,
Those magic chains of love and chivalry;
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove,
Haunting the myrtle-vale, the laurel grove;

Oh! rouse once more the daring soul of song,
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long,
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered,
Hallow'd by time, by absence more endear'd.

And breathe to those the strain, whose warriormight,

Each danger stemm'd, prevail'd in every fight;
Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured,
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured.
Sing of that leader, whose ascendant mind
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind;
Whose banners track'd the vanquish'd Eagle's flight
O'er many a plain, and dark sierra's height;
Who bade once more the wild, heroic lay
Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day;
Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow,
An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe;
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales,
Rich Languedoc! that fan thy glowing vales,
And 'mid those scenes renew'd th' achievements high,
Bequeath'd to fame by England's ancestry.

Yet, when the storm seem'd hush'd, the conflict past,
One strife remain'd-the mightiest and the last!
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour,
Untamed Ambition summon'd all his power:
Vengeance and Pride, to phrenzy roused, were there,
And the stern might of resolute Despair.
Isle of the free! 'twas then thy champions stood,
Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood,
Sunbeam of Battle, then thy spirit shone,
Glow'd in each breast, and sunk with life alone.

1

Oh hearts devoted! whose illustrious doom Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb, Ye, firm and faithful, in th' ordeal tried Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified; Shrined, not entomb'd, ye rest in sacred earth, Hallow'd by deeds of more than mortal worth. What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust, No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust, Yours, on the scene where valour's race was run, A prouder sepulchre-the field ye won! There every mead, each cabin's lowly name, Shall live a watch-word blended with your fame; And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown, That ask no urn to blazon their renown. There shall the bard in future ages tread, And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the dead; Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave: Pause o'er each warrior's grass-grown bed, and hear In every breeze, some name to glory dear, And as the shades of twilight close around, With martial pageants people all the ground.. Thither unborn descendants of the slain Shall throng, as pilgrims to some holy fane, While as they trace each spot, whose records tell Where fought their fathers, and prevail'd, and fell, Warm in their souls, shall loftiest feelings glow, Claiming proud kindred with the dust below ! And many an age shall see the brave repair, To learn the hero's bright devotion there.

And well, Ausonia! may that field of fame, From thee one song of echoing triumph claim.