And drives them slaves thence, to keep us slaves here;
From their familiar fields afar they pass
Like herds to winter in some strange morass.
To a hard life, to a hard discipline,
Derided, solitary, dumb, they go;
Blind instruments of many-eyed Rapine
And purposes they share not, and scarce know;
And this fell hate that makes a gulf between
The Lombard and the German, aids the foe
Who tramples both divided, and whose bane
Is in the love and brotherhood of men.
Poor souls! far off from all that they hold dear,
And in a land that hates them! Who shall say
That at the bottom of their hearts they bear
Love for our tyrant? I should like to lay
They've our hate for him in their pockets! Here,
But that I turned in haste and broke away,
I should have kissed a corporal, stiff and tall,
And like a scarecrow stuck against the wall.
Note [1]: Alessandro Manzoni.
I could not well praise this poem enough, without praising it too
much. It depicts a whole order of things, and it brings vividly before
us the scene described; while its deep feeling is so lightly and
effortlessly expressed, that one does not know which to like best,
the exquisite manner or the excellent sense.
Pages:
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311