My little son 'tis, knocking at thy door,
Who bears the same proud, blessèd name as thine;
He, too, flees life which unto thee before
Did prove such bitter portion, brother mine!
Alas! He was playing in the meadows gay,
Smiling to some sweet vision of surprise,
When the night suddenly upon him came
And bore him to thy bleak, lone shores away.
O welcome him in death, who turns his eyes
Towards the sun and calls his mother's name !

ESSER Francesco, peace of thee I crave,
And of thy lady with the flaxen curls,
This passionate soul and troubled mind would lave
Where the fresh water of the Sorga pearls.

I sit me down and call on the lone strand;
An oak affordeth shelter and repose;

Thou dost appear, and with a gesture bland
Greeting thy gracious company bestows.

These are thy Songs, who sweetly gather home,
Soft-garlanded with roses; by their fair

Limbs dream their rippled locks of gold. Ah see,
One tosses back her head rebelliously,

Her tuneful lips have launched upon the air
A cry prophetic: Italy and Rome.

U

NDER a laughing, snow-clad hill Bologna

Lifts her dim turrets to pure skies of winter.

This is the gentle hour, divine Petronius,

When the dying day greets the towers and this thy temple;

le torri i cui merli tant' ala di secolo lambe, e del solenne tempio la solitaria cima.

Il cielo in freddo fulgore adamantino brilla ; e l' aër come velo d'argento giace

su 'l fòro, lieve sfumando a torno le moli che levò cupe il braccio clipeato de gli avi.

Su gli alti fastigi s' indugia il sole guardando con un sorriso languido di vïola,

che ne la bigia pietra nel fósco vermiglio mattone par che risvegli l'anima de i secoli,

e un desío mesto pe 'l rigido aëre sveglia di rossi maggi, di calde aulenti sere,

quando le donne gentili danzavano in piazza e co' i re vinti i consoli tornavano.

Tale la musa ride fuggente al verso in cui trema un desiderio vano de la bellezza antica.

UESTO la inconscia zagaglia barbara
prostrò, spegnendo li occhi di fulgida
vita sorrisi da i fantasmi

fluttuanti ne l'azzurro immenso.

L'altro, di baci sazio in austriache piume e sognante su l' albe gelide le dïane e il rullo pugnace,

piegò come pallido giacinto.

The lonely pinnacle of thy solemn temple,

And battlements fanned by the wide wing of ages.

The skies blaze with cold, adamantine splendour;
Over the forum, like a veil of silver,

Shimmers the mist, soft-wreathed about the sombre
Almighty walls our warrior-fathers builded.

The sun-god's smiling eyes, like violet petals,
Rest languidly upon the topmost summits,

As if from sleep the soul of time awaking
In the grey stone and deep-hued brick vermilion.

Stirs on the frozen air a plaintive longing
For fulgid Mays and mild, ambrosial evenings,

When gracious ladies danced in the piazza,
And with the captive kings returned the consuls.

Thus the fugitive muse mocks at the verse where vainly A tremulous heart yearns for departed beauty.

O

NE, the unwitting savage spear prostrated,

Quenching eyes filled with fulgid life and flattered

By phantoms floating in the boundless blue;

The other, sunk in Austrian cushions, sated

With kisses, in chill dawns dreaming reveillé
And warlike drums, drooped like a pallid hyacinth.

Ambo a le madri lungi; e le morbide chiome fiorenti di puerizia

pareano aspettare anche il solco

de la materna carezza.

In vece

balzar ne 'l buio, giovinette anime, senza conforti; nè de la patria l'eloquio seguivali al passo

co i suon' de l' amore e de la gloria.

Non questo, o fósco figlio d' Ortensia,
non questo avevi promesso al parvolo :
gli pregasti in faccia a Parigi
lontani i fati del re di Roma.

Vittoria e pace da Sebastopoli
sopían co 'l rombo de l' ali candide
il piccolo: Europa ammirava:
la Colonna splendea come un faro.

Ma di decembre, ma di brumaio
cruento è il fango, la nebbia è perfida :
non crescono arbusti a quell' aure,
o dan frutti di cenere e tòsco.

O solitaria casa d' Aiaccio,

cui verdi e grandi le querce ombreggiano

e i poggi coronan sereni

e davanti le risuona il mare!

Ivi Letizia, bel nome italico

che omai sventura suona ne i secoli,

fu sposa, fu madre felice,

ahi troppo breve stagione! ed ivi,

lanciata a i troni l'ultima folgore, date concorde leggi tra i popoli, dovevi, o consol, ritrarti

fra il mare e Dio cui credevi.

Both mothers absent; the luxuriant, silken
Tresses of childhood seemed to crave the pressure
Of a caress maternal; but instead

Their youthful souls leapt out into the darkness,
Nor comfort nor their country's praise companioned
Them to the essay with sound of love and glory.

Not this thy promise to the babe, O sombre
Son of Hortensia, when evoking other

Fates before Paris than the King of Rome's!

Victory and peace out of Sebastopol lulled
The child with murmur of white pinions; Europe
Admired; the Column blazed forth like a signal.

But of December, of Brumaire, the mire
Is foul, the mist perfidious; no trees spring,
Or if they do their fruits are dust and ashes.

O thou, Ajaccio's solitary dwelling,
Shadowed by lofty, verdant oaks, and circled
With placid summits, by the sounding sea!

Here bode Letitia, gracious name Italic,
Now through the centuries spelling desolation,
Too brief a season wife and happy mother!

Here was thy place, with sea and God thou trustedst,
Consul, when thy last bolt all thrones had shaken

And thou concordant laws hadst given the peoples.