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Svarto, Guntigi and others, evince a profound knowledge of the deepest recesses of the human heart.

But let it not be forgotten that Manzoni is above all things a lyric poet. The chorus in the third act of “Carmagnola" and those at the end of the second and fourth acts of " Adelchi" are written in a prophetic rather than poetical style. The lyric poesy of Manzoni in these three national songs, no less than in his “ Inni Sacri," and in his ode" ]l cinque Maggio,” are a new creation in Italy, both for the enthusiasm that inspired them, and for the metres and language in which they were dictated. Had Italian literature produced nothing in this century beyond those few sacred

verses, there would be no reason to conceive any serious apprehensions of its being in a period of decline. Such effusions however are not only beyond the reach of translation, but are pot even to be duly appreciated by any foreigner to whom the Italian language has not become a second nature.

It is, therefore, with a full expectation of a thorough failure that we venture to subjoin the following version of one of those rare passages; and notwithstanding the freedom of our translation and of the inetre we have adopted, we must, before we resolve upon offering it to our readers, remind them how much the original must lose, in its new dress, of that softness and delicacy by which that beautiful language seems to ennoble and grace every image it embodies.

It is a chorus in the third act of the Adelchi : Charlemagne and his host have almost miraculously been led through unknown paths across the Alps. The Lombard armies are seized by the panic of sudden surprise. The cowardly defection of some of the feudal lords of that nation hasten the downfal of the fated dynasty of Alboin. The two kings, Desiderius and Adelchis, with the scattered remnants of their forces, seek their refuge within the walls of Pavia and Verona. The enslaved Latin, or native Italian, population, after two centuries not yet thoroughly schooled to their yoke, are now suddenly aroused from their long state of dejection by the tidings of the ruin of their masters. The Chorus, who are made to utter the poet's mind, raise their solemn, ominous voice to undeceive them from their fond expectation.

The allusion to recent events is obvious enough. It only requires a change of names. We need but read Austrians instead of Lombards, French instead of Franks, Napoleon instead of Charlemagne, and the whole mournful drama of blind illusion and dolorous disenchantment exhibited under Manzoni's eyes will be perhaps, notwithstanding the bard's fatidical lesson, reproduced again and again on the same stage.

- THE CHORUS. * From moss-grown fanes, from tottering halls,

From their burnt forges' clanging walls,
Forth from their fields' half-furrowed soil
Bathed with the drops of bondmen's toil ;
Roused into life by sudden start,
The trampled race of Italy,
With anxious ear and bounding heart,
Awake and listen tremblingly.
From their pale brows and cowering eyes,
Like sunbeams from the clouded skies,
Still flashes forth the manly glance
Of their forefathers' countenance;
In those dark eyes and pallid brows,
The vaunt of that long by-gone age,
More deep alas! more glaring shows
The brand of present vassallage.

Through winding paths, with faltering tread,
And hearts that beat 'twixt hope and dread,
The gathering Latin crowd advance ;-
And lo! before the host of France
They see there fly the scattered hordes
Of their relentless northern lords.-
Adown the plain, with slackened rein,
Like hunted beasts with bristling mane,
They see them panting seek their lair ;
And there, all mure in fallen pride,
The stately matrons, terrified,
Gaze on their sons with vacant stare.

“ Dagli atri muscosi, dai fori cadenti

Dai boschi, dall'arse fucine stridenti
Dai solchi bagnati di servo sudor;
Un volgo disperso repente si desta,
Intende l'orecchio, solleva la testa
Percosso da novo crescente romor,
Dai guardi dubbiosi, dai pavidi volti
Qual raggio di sole tra nuvoli folti
Traluce dei padri la fiera virtù.
Nei guardi nei volti confuso ed incerto
Si mesce e discorda lo spregio sofferto
Col misero orgoglio d'un tempo che fu.
S'aduna voglioso, si sperde tremante
Per torti sentieri con passo vagante
Fra tema e desire s'avanza e ristà.
E adocchia e rimira scorata e confusa
Dei crudi signori la turba diffusa
Che fugge dai brandi che sosta non ha.

And right and left, like loosened packs,
In hot pursuit upon their tracks,
There ride the conquering knights of France.
They see—and flushed with sudden trance,
Deceived by hope's new dawning ray,
They fondly hail the coming day-
The day of their deliverance.

But hark? those brave victorious bands,
That chase your lords with eager brands,
Have roamed and ridden wide and far;
Up from their couches' sweet repose,
Up from their nightly feasts they rose,
As sudden sang the trump of war.
Lone in their castle-halls bereft,
Their fainting dames in tears they left,
On whose pale lips the farewell died :
The crested helmet o'er their brow,
They pressed their chargers' saddle-bow,
And down the hollow bridge did ride.
From land to land, in joyous throngs,
They cheered their way with warlike songs;
'Long trackless dales and rugged heights
They watched the long, inclement nights;
Whilst far their longing hearts still roved
Back to their homes, to all they loved.

Ansanti li vede quai trepide fere
Irsuti per tema le fulve criniere
Le note latebre del covo cercar.
E quivi, deposta l'usata minaccia,
Le donne superbe con pallida faccia
I figli pensosi pensose guatar.
E dietro ai fuggenti con avido brando,
Quai cani disciolti, correndo, frugando,
Da ritta, da manca, guerrieri venir.
Li vede ;-e rapito d'ignoto contento,
Con l'agile speme precorre l'evento
E sogna la fine del duro servir.
Udite !-quei forti che or tengono il campo,
Che ai vostri tiranni precludon lo scampo,
Son giunti da lungi per aspri sentier.
Sospeser le gioie dei prandi festosi
Assursero in fretta dai blandi riposi
Chiamati repente da squillo guerrier.
Lasciar nelle sale del tetto natio
Le donne accorate tornanti all'addio,
Ai preghi, ai consigli che il pianto troncò.
Han carche le fronti dei pesti cinieri,
Han poste le selle sui bruni corsieri
Volaron sul ponte che cupo sono.

The martial rule, the toilsome march,
And frosts that pierce, and heats that parch,
And famine drear they next endure.
The shock of lances couched in rest,
And rattling shafts on mailed breast,
Bide they yet firm with front secure.
And all these toils, these dangers past,
Should have no better meed at last,
Than turn the course of destiny,
An alien race of serfs to free?-
Back then, ye doomed deluded crowd,
To your burnt forges, ruins proud,
Back to the furrows of your soil,
Bathed with the drops of bondmen's toil !
Victor and vanquished join their hands,
They rest upon your blood-stained lands,
The stirring trump of war is bushed,
They share the spoil of victory;
Beneath a double yoke are crushed

The trampled race of Italy !" It is greatly to be regretted that the assiduous cares he bestowed on his historical novel, and, in later years, his more than devoted exertions in favour of what he deemed to be the cause of true religion, have estranged Manzoni froin that branch of literature into which, notwithstanding his lack of really dramatic

A torme di terra passarono in terra
Cantando giulive canzoni di guerra,
Ma i dolci castelli pensando nel cor
Per valli petrose, per balzi dirotti
Vegliaron nell' armi le gelide notti
Membrando i fidati colloqui d'amor.
Gli oscuri perigli di stanze incresciose
Per greppi senz' orma le corse affannose
Il rigido impero, le fami durar
Si vider le lance calate sui petti
D'accanto agli scudi, rasente gli elmetti
S'udiron le frecce fischiando volar.
E il premio sperato, promesso a quei forti
Sarebbe, o delusi, rivolger le sorti
D'un volgo straniero por fine al dolor?
Tornate alle vostre superbe ruine
All'opere imbelli dell'arse officinc
Ai solchi bagnati di servo sudor!
Il forte si mesce col vinto nemico
Col novo signore rimane l'antico
L'un popolo e l'altro sul collo vi sta ;
Dividono i servi, dividun gli armenti
Si posano insieme sui campi cruenti
D'un volgo disperso che nome non ha.”

talents, he was likely by repeated essays to introduce a salutary revolution. Deprived of his important countenance, the romantic reform, that had commenced under his auspices, remained incomplete; and those of the modern dramatists, who are considered as belonging to his school, such as Carlo Tedaldi-Fores, Davide Bertolotti, and a young Neapolitan, who has endeavoured to reproduce the most revolting scenes of the modern French drama, bave been led from extravagance into extravagance until the very name of romanticism has fallen under the strokes of that most irresistible of weapons-ridicule. But there were in that school, notwithstanding its frequent aberrations of taste, ideas teeming with vigour and youth, with life and activity ; its principles were consonant with the newly-awakened longings for political freedom, for moral and mental emancipation; its supporters appealed to all that was noblest or dearest in modern patriotism; they aspired to make of literature a matter of national pride, an instrument of social progress, an emanation from life. The lessons of romanticism could not be utterly lost, however unsuccessful its earliest specimens might have proved to be, neither could classicism be revived, although the present age had nothing to substitute in its place. Hence that state of uncertainty and dissatisfaction that prevents the people of Italy from following a determined course and laying the basis of a national school. For, on the one side, the Greco-Latin type of beauty, noble and venerable as it is, when considered in its relation to the past, is utterly insufficient to the wants and in opposition to the tendencies of the present; nor can any sympathy be established between the Italians of the nineteenth century and the heroes of fabulous Greece, between the patriots of “ young Italy" and that

“Race d'Agamemnon qui ne finit jamais;" — But it is, on the other side, not quite evident, why the dramatic rules, the grim legends of the German and Scandinavian nations should better suit the sunny imagination and the lively feelings of a southern people. To substitute the imitation of Schiller or Shakspeare for that of Æschylus or Euripides, would be a strange way of providing for the development of an independent national taste. The classical style of Greece and Rome is to be banished as something alien and obsolete. But is Italy to receive her models from Oltremonti? Are indeed the dramas of Mauzoni and his disciples more national productions than those of Alfieri or Foscolo? Is there among those romantic structures an edifice that can be considered as essentially belonging to a genuine Italian school? The Italians were glad to receive from their neighbours the example of that truly Teutonic iudependence



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