HEY were three hundred, they were young and strong,
And they are dead!
One morning, as I went to glean the grain,
I saw a bark in middle of the main;
It was a bark came steaming to the shore,
And hoisted for its flag the tricolor.
At Ponza's isle it stopped beneath the lea;
It stayed awhile, and then put out to sea,
Put out to sea, and came unto our strand;
Landed with arms, but not as foemen land.
They were three hundred, they were young and strong,
And they are dead!
Landed with arms, but not as foemen land,
For they stooped down and kissed the very sand.
And one by one I looked them in the face;
A tear and smile in each one I could trace!
"Thieves from their dens are these," some people said,
And yet they took not even a loaf of bread!
I heard them utter but a single cry:
"We for our native land have come to die!
They were three hundred, they were young and strong,
And they are dead!
With eyes of azure, and with hair of gold,
A young man marched in front of them; and bold
I made myself, and, having seized his hand,
Asked him, "Where goest, fair captain of the band?”
He looked at me and answered, Sister mine,
I go to die for this fair land of thine!
I felt my heart was trembling through and through,
Nor could I say to him, "God comfort you!”
They were three hundred, they were young and strong,
And they are dead!
That morning I forgot to glean the grain,
And set myself to follow in their train.
Twice over they encountered the gens-d'armes,
Twice over they despoiled them of their arms;
But when we came before Certosa's wall
We heard the drums beat and the trumpets call,
And mid the smoke, the firing, and the glare
More than a thousand fell upon them there.
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 wished to die,
But wished to die with weapons in their hands;
Before them ran with blood the meadow-lands.
I prayed for them, but ere the fight was o'er
Swooned suddenly away, and looked no more;
For in their midst I could no more behold
Those eyes of azure and that hair of gold!
They were three hundred, they were young and strong,
And they are dead!
Luigi Mercantini. Tr. Anon.
VESPERS ON THE SHORE OF THE MEDITERRANEAN.
AT Savona, a very ancient little city on the coast of Genoa, there stands by the lighthouse a Madonna about twelve feet high, under which are inscribed two Sapphic verses, which are both good Latin and choice Italian, made by Gabriello Chiabrera, "the prince of Italian lyric poets," who was a native of Savona,
In mare irato, in subita procella,
Invoco te, nostra benigna stella.”
ELIGION'S purest presence was not found, By the first followers of our Saviour's creed, In stately fanes where trump and timbrel sound Sent up the chorus in a strain agreed,
And where the decked oblation's wail might plead
For guilty man with Abraham's holy seed.
Not in vast domes, horizons hung by men,
Where golden panels fret a marble sky,
And things below look up, and wonder when
Those lifelike seraphim would start and fly!
Not where the heart is mastered by the eye
Will worship, anthem-winged, ascend most high.
But in the damp cathedral of the grove,
Where nature feels the sanctitude of rest,
Or in the stillness of the sheltered cove
Which noiseless waterfowl alone molest,
At times a reverence will pervade the breast
Which will not always come, a bidden guest.
Oft as the parting smiles of day and night
Flush earth and ocean with a roseate hue,
And the quick changes of the magic light
Prolong the glory of their warm adieu,
Each pilgrim on the hills, and every crew
On the lulled waters, frame their vows anew.
Then by the waves that lip Liguria's land,
In Genoa's gulf, thou, wanderer! must have heard What, more than hymus from Pergolesi's hand, The living soul of adoration stirred, And, like the note of Spring's first-welcomed bird, Some thoughts awake for which there is no word.
The shipman's chant! as noting travellers tell,
In either language old and new-the same;
But more they might have truly said, and well,
For 't is a speech the universe may claim;
Men of all times, all climes, and every name,
Devotion's tongue! which from the Godhead came.
Tost rudderless around the deep
By Apennine and Alpine blast,
Which o'er the surge in fury sweep,
And make a bulrush of our mast,
We murmur in our half-hour's sleep
To thee, Madonna! till the storm be past,
In mare irato, in subita procella,
Invoco te, nostra benigna stella.
Whether for weeks our bark hath striven
With death in wild Sardinia's waves,
Or downward far as Tunis driven,
Threat us with life, the life of slaves;
We know whose hand its help has given,
And locked the lightning in its thunder caves.
In mare irato, in subita procella,
Invoco te, nostra benigna stella.
O Virgin! when the landsman's hymn,
At vesper time, on bended knee,
In sunlit aisle, or chapel dim,
Or cloister cell, is paid to thee,
Hear us that ocean's pavement skim,
And join our anthem to the raging sea:
In mare irato, in subita procella,
Invoco te, nostra benigna stella.
And when the tempest's wrath is o'er,
And tired Libeccio sinks to rest,
And starlight falls upon the shore
Where love sits watching, uncaressed,
Though hushed the tumult and the roar, Again the prayer we'll chant which thou hast blest: In mare irato, in subita procella,
Invoco te, nostra benigna stella.
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