The twilight is deepening, still is the wave; I sit by the window, mute as by a grave; Silent, companionless, secret I pine; Through tears where thou liest I look, Venice mine.
On the clouds brokenly strewn through the west Dies the last ray of the sun sunk to rest; And a sad sibilance under the moon Sighs from the broken heart of the lagoon.
Out of the city a boat draweth near: "You of the gondola! tell us what cheer!"
"Bread lacks, the cholera deadlier grows; From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows."
No, no, nevermore on so great woe, Bright sun of Italy, nevermore glow!
But o"er Venetian hopes shattered so soon, Moan in thy sorrow forever, lagoon!
Venice, to thee comes at last the last hour; Martyr ill.u.s.trious, in thy foe"s power; Bread lacks, the cholera deadlier grows; From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows.
Not all the battle-flames over thee streaming; Not all the numberless bolts o"er thee screaming; Not for these terrors thy free days are dead: Long live Venice! She"s dying for bread!
On thy immortal page, sculpture, O Story, Others"iniquity, Venice"s glory; And three times infamous ever be he Who triumphed by famine, O Venice, o"er thee.
Long live Venice! Undaunted she fell; Bravely she fought for her banner and well; But bread lacks; the cholera deadlier grows; From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows.
And now be shivered upon the stone here Till thou be free again, O lyre I bear.
Unto thee, Venice, shall be my last song, To thee the last kiss and the last tear belong.
Exiled and lonely, from hence I depart, But Venice forever shall live in my heart; In my heart"s sacred place Venice shall be As is the face of my first love to me.
But the wind rises, and over the pale Face of its waters the deep sends a wail; Breaking, the chords shriek, and the voice dies.
On the lagoon bridge the white banner flies!
III
Among the later Italian poets is Luigi Mercantini, of Palermo, who has written almost entirely upon political themes--events of the different revolutions and attempts at revolution in which Italian history so abounds. I have not read him so thoroughly as to warrant me in speaking very confidently about him, but from the examination which I have given his poetry, I think that he treats his subjects with as little inflation as possible, and he now and then touches a point of naturalness--the high-water mark of balladry, to which modern poets, with their affected unaffectedness and elaborate simplicity, attain only with the greatest pains and labor. Such a triumph of Mercantini"s is this poem which I am about to give. It celebrates the daring and self-sacrifice of three hundred brave young patriots, led by Carlo Pisacane, who landed on the coast of Naples in 1857, for the purpose of exciting a revolution against the Bourbons, and were all killed. In a note the poet reproduces the pledge signed by these young heroes, which is so fine as not to be marred even by their dramatic, almost theatrical, consciousness.
We who are here written down, having all sworn, despising the calumnies of the vulgar, strong in the justice of our cause and the boldness of our spirits, do solemnly declare ourselves the initiators of the Italian revolution. If the country does not respond to our appeal, we, without reproaching it, will know how to die like brave men, following the n.o.ble phalanx of Italian martyrs. Let any other nation of the world find men who, like us, shall immolate themselves to liberty, and then only may it compare itself to Italy, though she still be a slave.
Mercantini puts his poem in the mouth of a peasant girl, and calls it
THE GLEANER OF SAPRI.
They were three hundred; they were young and strong, And they are dead!
That morning I was going out to glean; A ship in the middle of the sea was seen A barque it was of those that go by steam, And from its top a tricolor flag did stream.
It anch.o.r.ed off the isle of Ponza; then It stopped awhile, and then it turned again Toward this place, and here they came ash.o.r.e.
They came with arms, but not on us made war.
They were three hundred; they were young and strong, And they are dead!
They came in arms, but not on us made war; But down they stooped until they kissed the sh.o.r.e, And one by one I looked them in the face,-- A tear and smile in each one I could trace.
They were all thieves and robbers, their foes said.
They never took from us a loaf of bread.
I heard them utter nothing but this cry: "We have come to die, for our dear land to die."
They were three hundred; they were young and strong, And they are dead!
With his blue eyes and with his golden hair There was a youth that marched before them there, And I made bold and took him by the hand, And "Whither goest thou, captain of this band?"
He looked at me and said: "Oh, sister mine, I"m going to die for this dear land of thine."
I felt my bosom tremble through and through; I could not say, "May the Lord help you!"
They were three hundred; they were young and strong, And they are dead!
I did forget to glean afield that day, But after them I wandered on their way.
And twice I saw them fall on the gendarmes, And both times saw them take away their arms, But when they came to the Certosa"s wall There rose a sound of horns and drums, and all Amidst the smoke and shot and darting flame More than a thousand foemen fell on them.
They were three hundred; they were young and strong, And they are dead!
They were three hundred and they would not fly; They seemed three thousand and they chose to die.
They chose to die with each his sword in hand.
Before them ran their blood upon the land; I prayed for them while I could see them fight, But all at once I swooned and lost the sight; I saw no more with them that captain fair, With his blue eyes and with his golden hair.
They were three hundred; they were young and strong, And they are dead.
CONCLUSION
Little remains to be said in general of poetry whose character and tendency are so single. It is, in a measure, rarely, if ever, known to other literatures, a patriotic expression and aspiration. Under whatever mask or disguise, it hides the same longing for freedom, the same impulse toward unity, toward nationality, toward Italy. It is both voice and force.
It helped incalculably in the accomplishment of what all Italians desired, and, like other things which fulfill their function, it died with the need that created it. No one now writes political poetry in Italy; no one writes poetry at all with so much power as to make himself felt in men"s vital hopes and fears. Carducci seems an agnostic flowering of the old romantic stalk; and for the rest, the Italians write realistic novels, as the French do, the Russians, the Spaniards--as every people do who have any literary life in them. In Italy, as elsewhere, realism is the ultimation of romanticism.
Whether poetry will rise again is a question there as it is everywhere else, and there is a good deal of idle prophesying about it. In the mean time it is certain that it shares the universal decay.
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A Complemento della sua Storia degli Italiani. Torino: Presso l"Unione Tipografico-Editrice, 1860.
Storia della Letteratura Italiana. Di Francesco de Sanctis. Napoli: Antonio Morano, Editore, 1879. Saggi Critici. Di Francesco de Sanctis.
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