The Ginestra,

OR THE FLOWER OF THE WILDERNESS.

  Here, on the arid ridge

  Of dead Vesuvius,

  Exterminator terrible,

  That by no other tree or flower is cheered,

  Thou scatterest thy lonely leaves around,

  O fragrant flower,

  With desert wastes content. Thy graceful stems

  I in the solitary paths have found,

  The city that surround,

  That once was mistress of the world;

  And of her fallen power,

  They seemed with silent eloquence to speak

  Unto the thoughtful wanderer.

  And now again I see thee on this soil,

  Of wretched, world-abandoned spots the friend,

  Of ruined fortunes the companion, still.

  These fields with barren ashes strown,

  And lava, hardened into stone,

  Beneath the pilgrim's feet, that hollow sound,

  Where by their nests the serpents coiled,

  Lie basking in the sun,

  And where the conies timidly

  To their familiar burrows run,

  Were cheerful villages and towns,

  With waving fields of golden grain,

  And musical with lowing herds;

  Were gardens, and were palaces,

  That to the leisure of the rich

  A grateful shelter gave;

  Were famous cities, which the mountain fierce,

  Forth-darting torrents from his mouth of flame,

  Destroyed, with their inhabitants.

  Now all around, one ruin lies,

  Where thou dost dwell, O gentle flower,

  And, as in pity of another's woe,

  A perfume sweet thou dost exhale,

  To heaven an offering,

  And consolation to the desert bring.

  Here let him come, who hath been used

  To chant the praises of our mortal state,

  And see the care,

  That loving Nature of her children takes!

  Here may he justly estimate

  The power of mortals, whom

  The cruel nurse, when least they fear,

  With motion light can in a moment crush

  In part, and afterwards, when in the mood,

  With motion not so light, can suddenly,

  And utterly annihilate.

  Here, on these blighted coasts,

  May he distinctly trace

  "The princely progress of the human race!"

  Here look, and in a mirror see thyself,

  O proud and foolish age!

  That turn'st thy back upon the path,

  That thought revived

  So clearly indicates to all,

  And this, thy movement retrograde,

  Dost _Progress_ call.

  Thy foolish prattle all the minds,

  Whose cruel fate thee for a father gave,

  Besmear with flattery,

  Although, among themselves, at times,

  They laugh at thee.

  But I will not to such low arts descend,

  Though envy it would be for me,

  The rest to imitate,

  And, raving, wilfully,

  To make my song more pleasing to thy ears:

  But I will sooner far reveal,

  As clearly as I can, the deep disdain

  That I for thee within my bosom feel;

  Although I know, oblivion

  Awaits the man who holds his age in scorn:

  But this misfortune, which I share with thee,

  My laughter only moves.

  Thou dream'st of liberty,

  And yet thou wouldst anew that thought enslave,

  By which alone we are redeemed, in part,

  From barbarism; by which alone

  True progress is obtained,

  And states are guided to a nobler end.

  And so the truth of our hard lot,

  And of the humble place

  Which Nature gave us, pleased thee not;

  And like a coward, thou hast turned thy back

  Upon the light, which made it evident;

  Reviling him who does that light pursue,

  And praising him alone

  Who, in his folly, or from motives base,

  Above the stars exalts the human race.

  A man of poor estate, and weak of limb,

  But of a generous, truthful soul,

  Nor calls, nor deems himself

  A Croesus, or a Hercules,

  Nor makes himself ridiculous

  Before the world with vain pretence

  Of vigor or of opulence;

  But his infirmities and needs

  He lets appear, and without shame,

  And speaking frankly, calls each thing

  By its right name.

  I deem not _him_ magnanimous,

  But simply, a great fool,

  Who, born to perish, reared in suffering,

  Proclaims his lot a happy one,

  And with offensive pride

  His pages fills, exalted destinies

  And joys, unknown in heaven, much less

  On earth, absurdly promising to those

  Who by a wave of angry sea,

  Or breath of tainted air,

  Or shaking of the earth beneath,

  Are ruined, crushed so utterly,

  As scarce to be recalled by memory.

  But truly noble, wise is _he_,

  Who bids his brethren boldly look

  Upon our common misery;

  Who frankly tells the naked truth,

  Acknowledging our frail and wretched state,

  And all the ills decreed to us by Fate;

  Who shows himself in suffering brave and strong,

  Nor adds unto his miseries

  Fraternal jealousies and strifes,

  The hardest things to bear of all,

  Reproaching man with his own grief,

  But the true culprit

  Who, in our birth, a mother is,

  A fierce step-mother in her will.

  _Her_ he proclaims the enemy,

  And thinking all the human race

  Against her armed, as is the case,

  E'en from the first, united and arrayed,

  All men esteems confederates,

  And with true love embraces all,

  Prompt and efficient aid bestowing, and

  Expecting it, in all the pains

  And perils of the common war.

  And to resent with arms all injuries,

  Or snares and pit-falls for a neighbor lay,

  Absurd he deems, as it would be, upon

  The field, surrounded by the enemy,

  The foe forgetting, bitter war

  With one's own friends to wage,

  And in the hottest of the fight,

  With cruel and misguided sword,

  One's fellow soldiers put to flight.

  When truths like these are rendered clear,

  As once they were, unto the multitude,

  And when that fear, which from the first,

  All mortals in a social band

  Against inhuman Nature joined

  Anew shall guided be, in part,

  By knowledge true, then social intercourse,

  And faith, and hope, and charity

  Will a far different foundation have

  From that which silly fables give,

  By which supported, public truth and good

  Must still proceed with an unstable foot,

  As all things that in error have their root.

  Oft, on these hills, so desolate,

  Which by the hardened flood,

  That seems in waves to rise,

  Are clad in mourning, do I sit at night,

  And o'er the dreary plain behold

  The stars above in purest azure shine,

  And in the ocean mirrored from afar,

  And all the world in brilliant sparks arrayed,

  Revolving through the vault serene.

  And when my eyes I fasten on those lights,

  Which seem to them a point,

  And yet are so immense,

  That earth and sea, with them compared,

  Are but a point indeed;

  To whom, not only man,

  But this our globe, where man is nothing, is

  Unknown; and when I farther gaze upon

  Those clustered stars, at distance infinite,

  That seem to us like mist, to whom

  Not only man and earth, but all our stars

  At once, so vast in numbers and in bulk,

  The golden sun himself included, are

  Unknown, or else appear, as they to earth,

  A point of nebulous light, what, then,

  Dost _thou_ unto my thought appear,

  O race of men?

  Remembering thy wretched state below,

  Of which the soil I tread, the token bears;

  And, on the other hand,

  That thou thyself hast deemed

  The Lord and end of all the Universe;

  How oft thou hast been pleased

  The idle tale to tell,

  That to this little grain of sand, obscure,

  The name of earth that bears,

  The Authors of that Universe

  Have, at thy call, descended oft,

  And pleasant converse with thy children had;

  And how, these foolish dreams reviving, e'en

  This age its insults heaps upon the wise,

  Although it seems all others to excel

  In learning, and in arts polite;

  What can I think of thee

  Thou wretched race of men?

  What thoughts discordant then my heart assail,

  In doubt, if scorn or pity should prevail!

  As a small apple, falling from a tree

  In autumn, by the force

  Of its own ripeness, to the ground,

  The pleasant homes of a community

  Of ants, in the soft clod

  With careful labor built,

  And all their works, and all the wealth,

  Which the industrious citizens

  Had in the summer providently stored,

  Lays waste, destroys, and in an instant hides;

  So, falling from on high,

  To heaven forth-darted from

  The mountain's groaning womb,

  A dark destructive mass

  Of ashes, pumice, and of stones,

  With boiling streams of lava mixed,

  Or, down the mountain's side

  Descending, furious, o'er the grass,

  A fearful flood

  Of melted metals, mixed with burning sand,

  Laid waste, destroyed, and in short time concealed

  The cities on yon shore, washed by the sea,

  Where now the goats

  On this side browse, and cities new

  Upon the other stand, whose foot-stools are

  The buried ones, whose prostrate walls

  The lofty mountain tramples under foot.

  Nature no more esteems or cares for man,

  Than for the ant; and if the race

  Is not so oft destroyed,

  The reason we may plainly see;

  Because the ants more fruitful are than we.

  Full eighteen hundred years have passed,

  Since, by the force of fire laid waste,

  These thriving cities disappeared;

  And now, the husbandman,

  His vineyards tending, that the arid clod,

  With ashes clogged, with difficulty feeds,

  Still raises a suspicious eye

  Unto that fatal crest,

  That, with a fierceness not to be controlled,

  Still stands tremendous, threatens still

  Destruction to himself, his children, and

  Their little property.

  And oft upon the roof

  Of his small cottage, the poor man

  All night lies sleepless, often springing up,

  The course to watch of the dread stream of fire

  That from the inexhausted womb doth pour

  Along the sandy ridge,

  Its lurid light reflected in the bay,

  From Mergellina unto Capri's shore.

  And if he sees it drawing near,

  Or in his well

  He hears the boiling water gurgle, wakes

  His sons, in haste his wife awakes,

  And, with such things as they can snatch,

  Escaping, sees from far

  His little nest, and the small field,

  His sole resource against sharp hunger's pangs,

  A prey unto the burning flood,

  That crackling comes, and with its hardening crust,

  Inexorable, covers all.

  Unto the light of day returns,

  After its long oblivion,

  Pompeii, dead, an unearthed skeleton,

  Which avarice or piety

  Hath from its grave unto the air restored;

  And from its forum desolate,

  And through the formal rows

  Of mutilated colonnades,

  The stranger looks upon the distant, severed peaks,

  And on the smoking crest,

  That threatens still the ruins scattered round.

  And in the horror of the secret night,

  Along the empty theatres,

  The broken temples, shattered houses, where

  The bat her young conceals,

  Like flitting torch, that smoking sheds

  A gloom through the deserted halls

  Of palaces, the baleful lava glides,

  That through the shadows, distant, glares,

  And tinges every object round.

  Thus, paying unto man no heed,

  Or to the ages that he calls antique,

  Or to the generations as they pass,

  Nature forever young remains,

  Or at a pace so slow proceeds,

  She stationary seems.

  Empires, meanwhile, decline and fall,

  And nations pass away, and languages:

  She sees it not, or _will_ not see;

  And yet man boasts of immortality!

  And thou, submissive flower,

  That with thy fragrant foliage dost adorn

  These desolated plains,

  Thou, too, must fall before the cruel power

  Of subterranean fire,

  Which, to its well-known haunts returning, will

  Its fatal border spread

  O'er thy soft leaves and branches fine.

  And thou wilt bow thy gentle head,

  Without a struggle, yielding to thy fate:

  But not with vain and abject cowardice,

  Wilt thy destroyer supplicate;

  Nor wilt, erect with senseless haughtiness,

  Look up unto the stars,

  Or o'er the wilderness,

  Where, not from choice, but Fortune's will,

  Thy birthplace thou, and home didst find;

  But wiser, far, than man,

  And far less weak;

  For thou didst ne'er, from Fate, or power of thine,

  Immortal life for thy frail children seek.