SONETTO XX.

ZAPPI. IL MOISE.

CHI è costui che in dura pietra scolto

Siede gigante; e le più illustre e conte,

Prove dell'arte avanza: e ha vive e pronte

Le labbia sì che le parole ascolto?

Quest' è MOISE! Ben m' el diceva il folto

Onor del mento, e'l doppio raggio in fronte: Quest' è MOISE quando scendea dal monte

E gran parte del nume avea nel volto.

Tal era allor che le sonante e vaste

Acque ei sospese à se d'intorno; e tale

Quando il mar chiuse, e ne fè tombar altrui!

E voi, sue turbe, un rio vitello alzaste!

Alzata aveste imago à questo eguale!

Ch'era men' fallo l'adorar costui.

SONNET XX.

ZAPPI. MOSES.

WHO's he, that shap'd in marble I behold,

Wonder of human art, who on his throne

Sits giantlike, whose lips half open shewn Seem moving his high mandates to unfold? 'Tis Moses; by the horns of glory told,

And the thick beard in ample honors strewn; 'Tis Moses; such from Sion he came down Bearing his God's own impress; such of old He bade the waves suspended round him form A pathway; such the waters back he pour'd, And whelm'd the foe in the returning storm. Yet Israel rais'd that calf of gold abhorr❜d—

If she had rais'd like this her Patriarch's form, The guilt were less which here would have ador'd.

SONNET.

ZAPPI.

LULL'D by the treacherous calm, in sleep profound, Italia lies; meanwhile black clouds obscure

The heav'ns; but she rests tranquil and secure ; The thunder breaks, but no one wakes around; Or he who wakes makes his own weal the bound

Of his defence, nor heeds his neighbour's woe: Fond wretch! as if the bolt that laid him low, O'er his own bark shall burst, an empty sound; E'en now the mast is struck, and on the deck Lies riv'n; the helm is broken; and the sweep Of the next sea shall whelm the shatter'd wreck.

O Italy! 'tis this that makes me weep,

For we must all then perish one by one

When each is bent to save himself alone.

SONNET.

ZAPPI.

I HAVE call'd out, and I again will call,
Till Tiber, Po, and Arno, far and near,
Till the Tyrrhene, and Adriatic hear;

One universal danger threatens all.
Let Italy before th' invader fall,

And bathe his feet with many an abject tear,

What boots it? Oh! her beauties are too dear,

And Conquest heeds not Pity's gentle call.
'Tis not the streaming eye, the pallid cheek,
That can subdue the foe; not her despair,
But her destruction does his fury seek ;

If not to combat, let her arm to bear;
For 'tis a mockery in a lot so weak

Not to submit to peace, yet fly from war.