No beauty can ėlate,

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 fly,

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:

* 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 medieval 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.

5

Swift his victorious way,

Salerno ends the fray,

Parthenope is reached — the struggle o'er.

For Liberty's pure flame,
Shrined in a crystal name,

Such peaceful triumphs to his country brings;
Wins love that discords heal,

From brothers steadfast zeal,
And fleets and armies from apostate kings.

His deeds afresh shall crown
Volturno with renown,

Where stood the despot's hirelings at bay ;
And fiercely braved his might,

In long and valiant fight,

Where HANNIBAL of yore led War's array.

No retinue attends,

Nor pomp allurement lends,

The patriot's mission and the victor's palm; But the resistless grace

Of manhood's pristine race,

Benignant, simple, valorous and calm!

And Roman hearts now burn,

To hail thy blest return,

Before whose face the cruel bigots flee;
While with unfaltering mien,

The Adriatic Queen

Uplifts her fettered hands to GoD and thee!

Free be the land whose breast

Doth welcome every guest,

Who, worn and weary with insensate strife,
Seeks the maternal fold

Humanity of old,

The garner made for our propitious life!