Classic Poem

I

Great art thou. Sunlike, shining eternally,
Thy rainbow colours comfort the world of men.
Idealised, youthful for ever,
Nature doth smile in the forms thy genius

Pictured. The rose-red glow of thy phantasies
Flashed o'er that grim, tumultuous century,
And hushed was the clash of those warring
Nations; they paused to look upward, wond'ring.

And he, the Flemish Caesar, the passionless
Destroyer, who sacked Rome and our Italy,
Forgetting his majesty, stooped to
Pick up for thee from the floor thy pencils.

Say, dost thou sleep, O ancient one, 'neath the weight
Of Austrian marbles where the grey Frari looms
Around thee, or dost thou now wander,
Spirit diffused, o'er thy native mountains,

Here, where on thee, whose forehead Olympian
One hundred years of calm life engarlanded,
'Mid white clouds doth smile the cerulean
Sky, and doth woo thee with fragrant kisses?

Yea, thou art great. And yet yonder humble stone
With more compelling magic doth call to me;
The bold face of yon youth defiant
Claims from me songs in the classic measure.

Tell me, O godlike youth, whom defiest thou?
Battle and fate and terrible onset of
A thousand 'gainst one thou defiest,
Spirit heroical, Pietro Calvi.

Yea, e'en so long as Piave through wild ravines
In the eternal flight of the centuries
Flows downward and buffets the Adrian
Sea with the wrack of her dark-stemmed forests,

Which to Saint Mark of old gave his turreted
War-galleys yonder 'mid the Echinades;
So long as the westering sun doth
Tinge the pale Dolomite's distant spires,

Making the mountains, loved by Vecellio,
His Marmarole glisten at eventide
Rose-red, a dream-palace, where spirit
Forms and veiled Destinies float in splendour:

So long, O Calvi, so long may thy dread name
Live unforgotten, peal like a trumpet-call
To brave hearts, and pulse in the pallid
Cheeks of our youths as they arm to battle.

II

Not with the oat of Arcadian swains do I sing thee, Cadore,
Blending with murmur of wind and rill;
Thee do I hymn in heroic verse, that blends with the thunder
Of guns heard in the vales below.

Oh, that second of May, when he leapt on the parapet bounding
The road by Austria's frontier!
Captain Pietro Calvi — the bullets whistled around him —
Fair-haired, erect, immovable,

Lifts on the point of his sword, while he glares at the foe in defiance,
The note surrend'ring Udine:
High in his left hand waves he a red scarf, signal of battle,
Of war and battle to the death.

Pelmo and Antelao, beholding that deed of a hero,
Shake free from clouds their hoary crests,
Like unto giants primeval, who, tossing the plumes of their helmets,
Stand by and gaze upon the fight.

Like unto shields of heroes, which flash in the sagas of minstrels
Along the astonied centuries,
Glistening white and pure in the rays of the sun as he climbeth
The sky their sparkling glaciers shine.

Sun of the glories of olden days, with how burning an ardour
Dost thou embrace Alps, streams, and men!
Thou thro' the sod beneath the gloomy forests of pine-trees
Dost penetrate and wake the dead.

" Sons, o'er our mouldering bones smite down, smite down the invader,
Barbarian, our eternal foe!
Crags, crash down from the snows stained red with our blood! Avalanches,
Annihilate him utterly!"

So from mountain to mountain re-echoes the voice of the heroes
Who at Rusecco fought and died,
And from town unto town it swells ever louder; like thunder
The breezes catch and pass it on.

Blithely they rush to arms the youths of Titian's village
With battle-shout of " Italy";
Smiling the women lean o'er the black wooden balconies gay with
Carnations and geraniums.

Mirthful Pieve, that nestles 'mid smiling hills and hearkens
To Piave thund'ring far below;
Lovely Auronzo, stretched far out o'er the plain 'mid her waters
'Neath gloomy Mount Ajarnola,

And sunny Lorenzago, 'mid sloping meadows, the mistress
Of the wide dale on either hand,
All the green Comelico dotted with hamlets half hidden
Among the fir-trees and the pines,

And other towns, and yet others, from smiling woodland and pasture
Send forth their fathers and their sons;
Guns are seized, and spears and pruning-hooks brandished: the echoes
Are wakened by the shepherd's horn.

Plucked from the Altar, the ancient banner is borne which at Valle
Beheld another Austrian rout,
Bidding the heroes hail: at a new sun, at a new peril
The old Venetian lion roars.

Hark! a faint, far sound on the breeze, ever nearer, distincter
It swells, clangs, clashes tumultuous;
Sound of weeping and calling, of shrieking, of praying, of goading
To frenzy, insistent, terrible.

" What does it mean?" demandeth the foe, who seeketh a parley,
With questioning and startled gaze.
" They are the bells of the people of Italy," calm came the answer;
" For our death or for yours they ring."

Ah, Pietro Calvi, on the plain by Mantua's trenches
When seven years have passed shall Death
Seize thee — thee, who camest in quest of her, e'en as an exile
Steals back in secret to his bride.

As on the Austrian guns, so now on the Austrian gibbet
He gazeth, glad, unflinching, calm,
Grateful unto the foe who condemn him to pass as a soldier
To join the Holy Host of Dead.

Never a nobler soul hast thou launched at Italy's future,
Released from vile imprisonment,
Belfiore, black pit, 'neath th' Austrian gallows: Belfiore,
Bright altar of the martyrs now.

Oh, if ever a man, calling Italy mother, forget thee,
May his adulterous bed bring forth
Such as shall trample him down in the mire; from the gods of his household
Thrust out in old age, vile, abhorred!

And in the heart, in the brain, in the blood of him who denieth
His country, may some ghastly power
Urge him to suicide! and from his mouth, blaspheming, repulsive,
May a green toad exude its slime.

III

To thee returneth, e'en as the Bird of Jove
When with a struggling snake he hath gorged himself
Sails home on wide, motionless pinions,
Home to the sun and his wind-swept eyrie,

To thee this sacred song of the fatherland
Turns home, Cadore. Swelling melodiously,
The gradual murmur of pine-trees
'Neath the pale beams of the white Moon-Maiden

Breathes o'er the magic sleep of thy waters with
Long-drawn caresses. Thy happy villages
Now blossom with flaxen-haired children:
On the o'erhanging cliff-edges stalwart

Girls cut the hay 'mid laughter and song, their bright
Tresses confined in black scarves, and rapidly
Their blue eyes with keen glances sparkle:
And by precipitous mountain pathways

The carter drives his team of three horses down,
Dragging a load of pine-trunks, and all the air
Is filled with their fragrance, and round the
Weir swarm the woodmen of Perarolo.

Hark, through the mists enwreathing the mountain-tops
Thunders the chase; and, sure hit, the chamois falls —
Ay, falls as the foe, when our country
Calls on her sons to defend her, falleth.

Pietro Calvi's spirit I seek to snatch
From thee, Cadore, and on the wings of song
Throughout the peninsula send it
Herald-like: — " Ah, to ill purpose wakened,

" Deem'st thou the Alps a pillow encouraging
Slumber and dreams of treach'rous adultery?
Up, sluggard, and finish thy warfare!
Up, for the cock of the War-God croweth!"

Not until Marius climb o'er the Alps again,
And on the twin seas gazeth Duilius,
Shalt thou be appeased, O Cadore,
Shall we demand from thee Titian's spirit.

Then on the shining, spoil-enriched Capitol
Splendid with new laws; ay, on the Capitol
Then let him paint Italy's triumph,
Her new Assumption among the nations.