Led me, by some odd accident I ran

  On the old church St. Ambrose, at Milan.

  My comrade of the moment was, by chance,

  The young son of one Sandro — one of those

  Troublesome heads — an author of romance —

  Promessi Sposi — your Excellency knows

  The book, perhaps? — has given it a glance?

  Ah, no? I see! God give your brain repose;

  With graver interests occupied, your head

  To all such stuff as literature is dead.

  I enter, and the church is full of troops:

  Of northern soldiers, of Croatians, say,

  And of Bohemians, standing there in groups

  As stiff as dry poles stuck in vineyards, — nay,

  As stiff as if impaled, and no one stoops

  Out of the plumb of soldierly array;

  All stand, with whiskers and mustache of tow,

  Before their God like spindles in a row.

  I started back: I cannot well deny

  That being rained down, as it were, and thrust

  Into that herd of human cattle, I

  Could not suppress a feeling of disgust

  Unknown, I fancy, to your Excellency,

  By reason of your office. Pardon! I must

  Say the church stank of heated grease, and that

  The very altar-candles seemed of fat.

  But when the priest had risen to devote

  The mystic wafer, from the band that stood

  About the altar came a sudden note

  Of sweetness over my disdainful mood;

  A voice that, speaking from the brazen throat

  Of warlike trumpets, came like the subdued

  Moan of a people bound in sore distress,

  And thinking on lost hopes and happiness.

  ‘T was Verdi’s tender chorus rose aloof, —

  That song the Lombards there, dying of thirst,

  Send up to God, “Lord, from the native roof.”

  O’er countless thrilling hearts the song has burst,

  And here I, whom its magic put to proof,

  Beginning to be no longer I, immersed

  Myself amidst those tallowy fellow-men

  As if they had been of my land and kin.

  What would your Excellency? The piece was fine,

  And ours, and played, too, as it should be played;

  It drives old grudges out when such divine

  Music as that mounts up into your head!

  But when the piece was done, back to my line

  I crept again, and there I should have staid,

  But that just then, to give me another turn,

  From those mole-mouths a hymn began to yearn:

  A German anthem, that to heaven went

  On unseen wings, up from the holy fane;

  It was a prayer, and seemed like a lament,

  Of such a pensive, grave, pathetic strain

  That in my soul it never shall be spent;

  And how such heavenly harmony in the brain

  Of those thick-skulled barbarians should dwell

  I must confess it passes me to tell.

  In that sad hymn, I felt the bitter sweet

  Of the songs heard in childhood, which the soul

  Learns from beloved voices, to repeat

  To its own anguish in the days of dole;

  A thought of the dear mother, a regret,

  A longing for repose and love, — the whole

  Anguish of distant exile seemed to run

  Over my heart and leave it all undone:

  When the strain ceased, it left me pondering

  Tenderer thoughts and stronger and more clear;

  These men, I mused, the self-same despot king,

  Who rules in Slavic and Italian fear,

  Tears from their homes and arms that round them cling.

  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 : 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. To prove that Giusti was really a fine poet, I need give nothing more, for this alone would imply poetic power; not perhaps of the high epic sort, but of the kind that gives far more comfort to the heart of mankind, amusing and consoling it. “Giusti composed satires, but no poems,” says a French critic; but I think most will not, after reading this piece, agree with him. There are satires and satires, and some are fierce enough and brutal enough; but when a satire can breathe so much tenderness, such generous humanity, such pity for the means, at the same time with such hatred of the source of wrong, and all with an air of such smiling pathos, I say, if it is not poetry, it is something better, and by all means let us have it instead of poetry. It is humor, in its best sense; and, after religion, there is nothing in the world can make men so conscious, thoughtful, and modest.

  A certain pensiveness very perceptible in “St. Ambrose” is the prevailing sentiment of another poem of Giusti’s, which I like very much, because it is more intelligible than his political satires, and because it places the reader in immediate sympathy with a man who had not only the subtlety to depict the faults of the time, but the sad wisdom to know that he was no better himself merely for seeing them. The poem was written in 1844, and addressed to Gino Capponi, the life-long friend in whose house Giusti died, and the descendant of the great Gino Capponi who threatened the threatening Frenchmen when Charles VIII occupied Florence: “If you sound your trumpets,” as a call to arms against the Florentines, “we will ring our bells,” he said.

  Giusti speaks of the part which he bears as a spectator and critic of passing events, and then apostrophizes himself:

  Who art thou that a scourge so keen dost bear

  And pitilessly dost the truth proclaim,

  And that so loath of praise for good and fair,

  So eager art with bitter songs of blame?

  Hast thou achieved, in thine ideal’s pursuit,

  The secret and the ministry of art?

  Did’st thou seek first to kill and to uproot

  All pride and folly out of thine own heart

  Ere turning to teach other men their part?

  O wretched scorn! from which alone I sing,

  Thou weariest and saddenest my soul!

  O butterfly that joyest on thy wing,

  Pausing from bloom to bloom, without a goal —

  And thou, that singing of love for evermore,

  Fond nightingale! from wood to wood dost go,

  My life is as a never-ending war

  Of doubts, when likened to the peace ye know,

  And wears what seems a smile and is

  a throe!

  There is another famous poem of Giusti’s in quite a different mood. It is called “Instructions to an Emissary”, sent down into Italy to excite a revolution, and give Austria a pretext for interference, and the supposed speaker is an Austrian minister. It is done with excellent sarcasm, and it is useful as light upon a state of things which, whether it existed wholly in fact or partly in the suspicion of the Italians, is equally interesting and curious. The poem was written in 1847, when the Italians were everywhere aspiring to a national independence and self-government, and their rulers were conceding privileges while secretly leaguing with Austria to continue the old order of an Italy divided among many small tyrants. The reader will readily believe that my English is not as good as the Italian.

  INSTRUCTIONS TO AN EMISSARY.

  You will go into Italy; you have here

  Your passport and your letters of exchange;

  You travel as a count, it would appear,

  Going for pleasure and a little change;

  Once there, you play the rodomont, the queer

  Crack-brain good fellow, idle gamester, strange

  Spendthrift and madcap. Give yourself full swing;

  People are taken with that kind of thing.

  When you behold — and it will happen so —

  The birds flock down about the net, be wary;

  Talk from a warm and open heart, and show

  Yourself with everybody bold and merry.

  The North’s a dungeon, say, a waste of snow,

  The very house and home of January,

  Compared with that fair garden of the earth,

  Beautiful, free, and full of life and mirth.

  And throwing in your discourse this word free,

  Just to fill up, and as by accident,

  Look round among your listeners, and see

  If it has had at all the effect you meant;

  Beat a retreat if it fails, carelessly

  Talking of this and that; but in the event

  Some one is taken with it, never fear,

  Push boldly forward, for the road is clear.

  Be bold and shrewd; and do not be too quick,

  As some are, and plunge headlong on your prey

  When, if the snare shall happen not to stick,

  Your uproar frightens all the rest away;

  To take your hare by carriage is the trick;

  Make a wide circle, do not mind delay;

  Experiment and work in silence; scheme

  With that wise prudence that shall folly seem.

  The minister bids the emissary, “Turn me into a jest; say I’m sleepy and begin to dote; invent what lies you will, I give you carte-bianche.”

  Of governments down yonder say this, too,

  At the caf�s and theaters; indeed

  For this, I’ve made a little sign for you

  Upon your passport that the wise will read

  For an express command to let you do

  Whatever you think best, and take no heed.

  Then the emissary is instructed to make himself center of the party of extremes, and in different companies to pity the country, to laugh at moderate progress as a sham, and to say that the concessions of the local governments are merely ruses to pacify and delude the people, — as in great part they were, though Giusti and his party did not believe so. The instructions to the emissary conclude with the charge to

  Scatter republican ideas, and say

  That all the rich and all the well-to-do

  Use common people hardly better, nay,

  Worse, than their dogs; and add some hard words, too:

  Declare that bread’s the question of the day,

  And that the communists alone are true;

  And that the foes of the agrarian cause

  Waste more than half of all by wicked laws.

  Then, he tells him, when the storm begins to blow, and the pockets of the people feel its effect, and the mob grows hungry, to contrive that there shall be some sort of outbreak, with a bit of pillage, —

  So that the kings down there, pushed to the wall,

  For congresses and bayonets shall call.

  If you should have occasion to spend, spend,

  The money won’t be wasted; there must be

  Policemen in retirement, spies without end,

  Shameless and penniless; buy, you are free.

  If destiny should be so much your friend

  That you could shake a throne or two for me,

  Pour me out treasures. I shall be content;

  My gains will be at least seven cent, per cent.

  Or, in the event the inconstant goddess frown,

  Let me know instantly when you are caught;

  A thunderbolt shall burst upon your crown,

  And you become a martyr on the spot.

  As minister I turn all upside down,

  Our government disowns you as it ought.

  And so the cake is turned upon the fire,

  And we can use you next as we desire.

  In order not to awaken any fear

  In the post-office, ‘t is my plan that you

  Shall always correspond with liberals here;

  Don’t doubt but I shall hear of all you do.

  ...’s a Republican known far and near;

  I haven’t another spy that’s half as true!

  You understand, and I need say no more;

  Lucky for you if you get me up a war!

  We get the flavor of this, at least the literary flavor, the satire, and the irony, but it inevitably falls somewhat cold upon us, because it had its origin in a condition of things which, though historical, are so opposed to all our own experience that they are hard to be imagined. Yet we can fancy the effect such a poem must have had, at the time when it was written, upon a people who felt in the midst of their aspirations some disturbing element from without, and believed this to be espionage and Austrian interference. If the poem had also to be passed about secretly from one hand to another, its enjoyment must have been still keener; but strip it of all these costly and melancholy advantages, and it is still a piece of subtle and polished satire.

  Most of Giusti’s poems, however, are written in moods and manners very different from this; there is sparkle and dash in the movement, as well as the thought, which I cannot reproduce, and in giving another poem I can only hope to show something of his varying manner. Some foreigner, Lamartine, I think, called Italy the Land of the Dead, — whereupon Giusti responded with a poem of that title, addressed to his friend Gino Capponi:

  THE LAND OF THE DEAD.

  ‘Mongst us phantoms of Italians, —

  Mummies even from our birth, —

  The very babies’ nurses

  Help to put them under earth.

  ‘T is a waste of holy water

  When we’re taken to the font:

  They that make us pay for burial

  Swindle us to that amount.

  In appearance we’re constructed

  Much like Adam’s other sons, —

  Seem of flesh and blood, but really

  We are nothing but dry bones.

  O deluded apparitions,

  What do you do among men?

  Be resigned to fate, and vanish

  Back into the past again!

  Ah! of a perished people

  What boots now the brilliant story?

  Why should skeletons be bothering

  About liberty and glory?

  Why deck this funeral service

  With such pomp of torch and flower?

  Let us, without more palaver,

  Growl this requiem, of ours.

  And so the poet recounts the Italian names distinguished in modern literature, and describes the intellectual activity that prevails in this Land of the Dead. Then he turns to the innumerable visitors of Italy:

  O you people hailed down on us

  From the living, overhead,

  With what face can you confront us,

  Seeking health among us dead?

  Soon or late this pestilential

  Clime shall work you harm — beware!

  Even you shall likewise find it

  Foul and poisonous grave-yard air.

  O ye grim, sepulchral friars

  Ye inquisitorial ghouls,

  Lay down, lay down forever,

  The ignorant censor’s tools.

  This wretched gift of thinking,

  O ye donkeys, is your doom;

  Do you care to expurgate us,

  Positively, in the tomb?

  Why plant this bayonet forest

  On our sepulchers? what dread

  Causes you to place such jealous

  Custody upon the dead?

  Well, the mighty book of Nature

  Chapter first and last must have;

  Yours is now the light of heaven,

  Ours the darkness of the grave.

  But, then, if you ask it,

  We lived greatly in our turn;

  We were grand and glorious, Gino,

  Ere our friends up there were born!

  O majestic mausoleums,

  City walls outworn with time,

  To our eyes are even your ruins

  Apotheosis sublime!

  O barbarian unquiet

  Raze each storied sepulcher!

  With their memories and their beauty

  All the lifeless ashes stir.

  O’er these monuments in vigil

  Cloudless the sun flames and glows

  In the wind for funeral torches, —

  And the violet, and the rose,

  And the grape, the fig, the olive,

  Are the emblems fit of grieving;

  ‘T is, in fact, a cemetery

  To strike envy in the living.

  Well, in fine, O brother corpses,

  Let them pipe on as they like;

  Let us see on whom hereafter

  Such a death as ours shall strike!

  ‘Mongst the anthems of the function

  Is not Dies Irae? Nay,

  In all the days to come yet,

  Shall there be no Judgment Day?

  In a vein of like irony, the greater part of Giusti’s political poems are written, and none of them is wanting in point and bitterness, even to a foreigner who must necessarily lose something of their point and the tang of their local expressions. It was the habi the satirist, who at least loved the people’s quaintness and originality — and perhaps this is as much democracy as we ought to demand of a poet — it was Giusti’s habit to replenish his vocabulary from the fountains of the popular speech. By this means he gave his satires a racy local flavor; and though he cannot be said to have written dialect, since Tuscan is the Italian language, he gained by these words and phrases the frankness and fineness of dialect.

 

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