A thousand glories round him did unite,
In fields of death and carnage nobly bought:
How trustful then, how joyously I caught
His manly tones, his look so high and bright!
Vanquished by love's entreaties, he would show
Beautiful scars, and tell the thrilling tale
Of victories, famed afar, his arms had won.
Deep, as my bliss was then, is now my woe;
Whilst each, by turns, I welcome or bewail,
Few tears in joy, but streams in sadness run.
The fame and fortunes of Veronica Gambara closely resemble those of Vittoria Colonna. Born of a noble family of Brescia, in the year 1485, she was married, in 1509, to Giberto, lord of Correggio. His death, a few years afterwards, left her a widow, in the prime of life; but her affection for her deceased husband, and her regard for his memory, caused her steadily to refuse a second marriage. Occupied in the wise government of her subjects, in the education of her children, and in literary pursuits, she lived until 1550, enjoying through life the highest moral and intellectual character.
To Charles V. and Francis I.
Chase from your angry breasts your ancient hate,
Francis and Charles, and let the sacred name
Of Christ and of his Cross, your souls inflame
With zeal for Him, who gave you power and state.
Rather combine your arms to subjugate
His impious foes, than, emulous of shame,
O'er Italy, o'er Europe wide proclaim
A mutual rage, no time nor woes can sate.
The holy pastor, to whose hands are due
The keys of heaven, invokes you to assuage
Your fatal wrath, the scourge of Christian lands.
Spare, then, his bleeding flock, and join anew
In consecrated league your martial bands,
The war on scornful infidels to wage.
This lady, not less highly praised by Italians as a poetess, than the two preceding, was born at Padua, in 1524. She died at the early age of thirty, the victim of her unrequited love for Collattino dei Conti di Collatto, to whom much of her poetry is addressed. The following sonnet, however, is of a different character.
Sad and repentant of my sins, I start
To think how wandering, empty, light, and low
My days have been; to see, with shame and woe,
My life, in love's vain service spent, depart.
To thee, my God, who softenest every heart,-
Who meltest even the frozen arctic snow,-
Who smoothest all things rugged here below,
For them, who burn to choose the holier part,—
I turn, and pray thee to extend thy grace
To save me from the sea of sin, whence I
Alone should vainly strive to win the strand.
For us, thou didst descend and leave the sky,
To ransom, in thy mercy, all our race;
Sweet Lord, then let not me despairing die.
Michel Agnolo Buonarotti, born at Florence, died in Rome in 1564, eighty-nine years of age, pre-eminent, during his long life, as a painter, sculptor, architect, and civil engineer. The church of St Peter's in Rome, the sepulchral monument of Julius II., and the paintings of the Sistine chapel are the great monuments of his extraordinary genius. But he also possessed a natural turn for verse; and if he had sedulously applied himself to its cultivation, might have become as eminent in poetry as he was in the sister His poems consist chiefly of sonnets, many of a devotional, and many others of an amatory character, the best of which latter class are addressed to the deservedly famous Vittoria Colonna.
Mine eyes beheld no common mortal sight,
While, gazing on the placid beams of thine,
I felt my spirit, in their ray divine,
Kindling to spread her wings for heavenly flight,
And seek repose in realms of kindred light:
No frail and earthly charms my soul confine;
She soars to view in steadier glory shine
The "ideal form" of beauty infinite.
The sage will never hope for lasting joys
In perishable clay, nor rashly bind
His love to that, which time and death control.
Unbridled will, not love, the soul destroys;
For here true love exalts the immortal mind,
And higher yet in heaven 't will raise the soul.
THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS.*
I WOULD not always reason. The straight path
Wearies us with its never-varying lines,
And we grow melancholy. I would make
Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit
Patiently by the way-side, while I traced
The mazes of the pleasant wilderness
Around me. She should be my counsellor,
But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs
Impulses from a deeper source than hers,
And there are motions in the mind of man
That she must look upon with awe. I bow
Reverently to her dictates, but not less
Hold to the fair illusions of old time-
Illusions that shed brightness over life,
And glory over nature. Look even now
Where two bright planets in the twilight meet
Upon the saffron heaven,—the imperial star
Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn
Pours forth the light of love. Let me believe
Awhile that they are met for ends of good
Amid the evening glory, to confer
Of men and their affairs, and to shed down
Kind influences. Lo, their orbs burn more bright
And shake out softer fires! The great earth feels
The gladness and the quiet of the time.
Meekly the mighty river, that infolds.
This mighty city, smooths his front, and far
Glitters and burns even to the rocky base
Of the dark heights that bound him to the west;
And a deep murmur from the many streets
Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we hence
Dark and sad thoughts awhile-there 's time for them
Hereafter-on the morrow we will meet
With melancholy looks to tell our griefs
And make each other wretched; this calm hour,
This balmy, blessed evening we will give
This conjunction was said in the common calendars to take place on the 2d of Angust last. It has been affirmed, that this was a mistake; but the apparent approach of the planets was sufficiently near for poetical purposes.
To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days,
Born of the meeting of those glorious stars.
Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared
The land with dread of famine. Autumn yet
Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits.
The dog-star shall shine harmless; genial days
Shall softly glide away into the keen
And wholesome cold of winter; he that fears
The pestilence shall gaze on these pure beams,
And breathe with confidence the quiet air.
Emblems of Power and Beauty! well may they
Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw
Towards the great Pacific, marking out
The path of empire. Thus, in our own land,
Ere long the better Genius of our race,
Having encompassed earth and tamed its tribes,
Shall sit him down beneath the farthest west,
By the shore of that calm ocean, and look back
On realms made happy.
Light the nuptial torch,
And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knits
The youth and maiden. Happy days to them
That wed this evening!—a long life of love,
And blooming sons and daughters! Happy they
Born at this hour,-for they shall see an age
Whiter and holier than the past, and go
Late to their graves. Men shall wear softer hearts
And shudder at the butcheries of war,
Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stained
Thy rivers; deep enough thy chains have worn
Their links into thy flesh; the sacrifice
Of thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes,
And reverend priests, has expiated all
Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights
There is an omen of good days for thee.
Thou shalt arise from 'midst the dust and sit
Again among the nations. Thine own arm
Shall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thine
The world takes part. Be it a strife of kings,-
Despot with despot battling for a throne,-
And Europe shall be stirred throughout her realms,
Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall
Upon each other, and in all their bounds
The wailing of the childless shall not cease.
Thine is a war for liberty, and thou
Must fight it single-handed. The old world
Looks coldly on the murders of thy race,
And leaves thee to the struggle; and the new,—
I fear me thou could'st tell a shameful tale
Of fraud and lust of gain,-thy treasury drained
And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs
Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand,
And God and thy good sword shall yet work out
For thee a terrible deliverance.
EXTRACT FROM A MANUSCRIPT DRAMA.
FAIR MOON! beneath whose blessed light all things
Grow pale and beautiful! beneath whose beams
Yon gloomy woods are tinged so softly bright,
In borrowed beauty waving their tall tops!
Thine, too, is borrowed; and a brighter orb
Sees in thy peaceful face his own rich beams
Reflected with a milder radiance back;
Even as a beauteous mother, gazing down,
Marks her own features in her infant's face!
And he, whose living light gives thee thy rays,
Is but an image of an unseen God!
'T is strange, but not more strange than beautiful, How all things breathe. But soft; beneath yon trees Methinks a shadowy form steals on, and now,
Emerging in the light, comes hitherward,
Silent and slow. I know thee now, my Queen!
Is there no slumber on thy couch, my friend? Why should it shun those lids that never knew The tears of midnight grief? So young and glad As thou, why should'st thou quit thy dreams of joy To wander o'er the dew-damp grass alone?
|