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IXSCRIBED TO HON. GEORGE P. MARSH, FIRST UNITED STATES MINISTER TO ITALY.

BY HENRY TEODORE TUCKERMAN,

With what enchantment glow

The mountain peaks of snow
And the blue waters of that Southern sea,

Whose dallying arms inclose

The beauty and the woes
That lure our restless hearts to Italy !

The mystery of Time,

With interlude sublime,
Steals through the murmur of the passing day;

Memorials of the Past

A pensive challenge cast
And from familiar bounds win thought away ;

While Music's pulses beat

To guide the willing feet
Where gifted spirits limitless aspire;

And all the muses wait

Our life to consecrate
And bid the soul expand with vast desire :

RAPHAEL's angelic child,

SALVATOR's forest wild,
The sun-set's golden mist CLAUDE's pencil caught

VOL. LVIII.

Brave MICHAEL's forms sublime,

That adamantine rhyme The Tuscan bard from love and sorrow wrought;

Petrarcu's love-rounded lays,

And Tasso's tear-gemmed bays,
The marble wonder of Rome's saintly pile;

BELLINI's plaintive strain,

MARENGO's storied grain,
Kindle the fancy and the heart beguile.

Nor less does Nature woo,

With ravishment imbue
The elemental grace her aspect fills;

What azure seems to brood

Above, in tender mood, While glimmering sun shine laughs upon the hills !

The sky, at evening, glows

With amber, pearl and rose,
As if to pave with gems a seraph's walk;

Twilight's soft breath endears,

And melts in grateful tears
On the flax-blossom and the aloe's stalk :

Vineyards serenely crest

The hoar volcano's breast, And orbs of flame through darksome foliage gleam;

Umbrageous Apennine,

And lakes of crystalline
Invoke the limner's touch, the poet's dream.

The chestnut plumes uplift,

And violet odors drift,
As winds from vale to upland gently pass,

The cypress shafts to sway,

Sigh through the olives gray,
And almond flowers scatter on the grass.

Yet soon our rapture flies,

The sweet illusion dies When human scenes call back the pilgrim's glance;

And the degraded land

Beneath oppression's brand Reproachful mocks his visionary trance.

The glory of the Past

A shadow seems to cast
And living charms allegiance to defy :

No beauty can élate,

No genius consecrate
The air whose echoes waft the captive's sigh.

Through Freedom's long eclipse

Mute are inspired lips,
And life a tortured vigil to the brave;

For they who do and dare,

The patriot's fate must share —
Scaffold and rack, the dungeon and the grave !

“She is not dead, but sleeps,

Though slow the life-blood creeps Through veins benumbed with anguish, not despair ;

Invaders yet shall ily,

The despot and the spy,
And brutal priestcraft tremble in its lair !'

Thus have thy lovers cried

When skeptics, in their pride, Would own no promise in the baffled zeal

That pined in Spielberg's gloom

And braved the martyr's doom,
Or patient bore the pangs thy exiles feel.

And now a King benign

By Love's own right divine,
His father's fallen sceptre takes with awe;

And wields it to obey

The humanizing sway
That dedicates a race to Liberty and Law :

With him a Statesman wise,

Whose liberal mind defies
The narrow feuds that severed states control;

And strives, from mount to sea,

Inviolate and free,
To wake and harmonize a nation's soul !

And when the arms of Gaul

Unloosed the Austrian thrall,
And VICTOR's banner cheered the Lombard plain ;

It floated wide and free

Along the Tuscan sea,
And bade Val d'Arno's lilies bloom again !

Then to the Patriot King

CASTRUCCIO's sword they bring, And Faction's ancient trophies all divide :

And throngs, with festal rite,

Seek the far mountain height,
To chant Feruccio's glory where he died.*

Another champion now

Lifts his unsullied brow,
Whose wisdom chastens the intrepid eyes;
. And with fraternal mien,

And confidence serene,
And dauntless valor, tyranny defies !

His firm Ligurian mould,

Warm, trustful, frank and bold
With years of peace and peril on the deep ;

Nerved arm and chartered brain,

Battle and faith to gain, And from their thrones the recreant princes sweep.

And when his prowess found

At home no vantage-ground,
He sought afar the struggling free to aid ;

And trained his legions there,

To wait, achieve and bear,
Until the signal came for Italy's crusade.

Then like a star he rose,

Portentous to her foes,
Whose rallying beams electric courage spread;

And when Novara's day

Had ended in dismay,
In triumph unto Rome the patriots led.

Oft from her ancient gate,

Oblivious of fate,
His eager cohorts, when the bugles call,

Rush on the cannon flame,

And victory proclaim,
As, at their bayonets' gleam, the gunners fall !

When triple hosts surround

That liberated ground,
And Freedom's hopes in wanton treachery fade:

* On the occasion of VICTOR EMMANUEL's visit to Tuscany, at the Villa Puccini, in Pistoja, NicCOLO PUCCINI, the hereditary representative of the family, and a brave and liberal cavalier, presented to the First Soldier of Italian Independence,' the celebrated sword of CASTRUCCIO CASTRACANI, long reserved by its owner for such a disposition. At about the same time, a deputation of Genoese restored, with great ceremony, to Pisa, the chains of her Gate, which the once great maritime republic had borne off as a trophy, during the mediæval wars, from her hated rival. In the autumn of 1848. after the successful revolution in Tuscany, a festival was given at Cavinana, a little town nestled among the Apennines, in memory of FERUCCIO, on the very spot where, tradition says, he perished or his country, three centuries ago.

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