Part 10 (2/2)

With the slain the earth's hidden already; With blood reeks the whole plain, and vaster And fiercer the strife than before!

But along the ranks, rent and unsteady, Many waver--they yield, they are flying!

With the last hope of victory dying The love of life rises again.

As out of the fan, when it tosses The grain in its breath, the grain flashes, So over the field of their losses Fly the vanquished. But now in their course Starts a squadron that suddenly dashes Athwart their wild flight and that stays them, While hard on the hindmost dismays them The pursuit of the enemy's horse.

At the feet of the foe they fall trembling, And yield life and sword to his keeping; In the shouts of the victors a.s.sembling, The moans of the dying are drowned.

To the saddle a courier leaping, Takes a missive, and through all resistance, Spurs, lashes, devours the distance; Every hamlet awakes at the sound.

Ah, why from their rest and their labor To the hoof-beaten road do they gather?

Why turns every one to his neighbor The jubilant tidings to hear?

Thou know'st whence he comes, wretched father?

And thou long'st for his news, hapless mother?

In fight brother fell upon brother!

These terrible tidings _I_ bring.

All around I hear cries of rejoicing; The temples are decked; the song swelleth From the hearts of the fratricides, voicing Praise and thanks that are hateful to G.o.d.

Meantime from the Alps where he dwelleth The Stranger turns. .h.i.ther his vision, And numbers with cruel derision The brave that have bitten the sod.

Leave your games, leave your songs and exulting; Fill again your battalions and rally Again to your banners! Insulting The stranger descends, he is come!

Are ye feeble and few in your sally, Ye victors? For this he descendeth!

'Tis for this that his challenge he sendeth From the fields where your brothers lie dumb!

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 n.o.ble, 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 unsurpa.s.sed in its combination of great artistic and moral qualities, which I am sure my version has not wholly obscured, bad as it is.

VI

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 att.i.tude 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 n.o.blest 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.

The scene I am to give is in the tent of the great _condottiere_.

Carmagnola is speaking with one of the Commissioners of the Venetian Republic, when the other suddenly enters:

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