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ON THE

ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES,

1821.

Carbone notati.

Ay-down to the dust with them, slaves as they are, From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly

veins,

That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,
Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er

Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails

From each slave-mart of Europe, and shadow their shore !

Let their fate be a mock-word-let men of all lands Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,

When each sword, that the cowards let fall from their hands,

Shall be forg'd into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driv'n,
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,

To think. -as the Doom'd often think of that heav'n
They had once within reach—that they might

have been free.

-h's heart,

Oh shame! when there was not a bosom, whose heat
Ever rose 'bove the zero of C-
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,
And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;

When the world stood in hope- when a spirit, that breath'd

The fresh air of the olden time, whisper'd about; And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheath'd, But waited one conquering cry, to flash out!

When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame, FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to

And their words, and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame

Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that, in such a proud moment of life, Worth the hist'ry of ages, when, had you but hurl'd

One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world

That then-oh! disgrace upon manhood-evʼn then, You should falter, should cling to your pitiful

breath;

Cow'r down into beasts, when you might have stood

men,

And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful:-shout, Tyranny, shout Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"

If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out, And return to your empire of darkness once

more.

For, if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,

Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss;

Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,

Than to sully ev'n chains by a struggle like this!

END OF THE SEVENTH VOLUME.

LONDON:

Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE, New-Street-Square.

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