To him they turn, from his command,
Submiss, their destiny await:

He bids be still; and, high between,
He sits, the arbiter of fate!

He vanish'd—and in dull repose,

In narrow bounds his life must close;
By turns, in ev'ry changing state,
Object of envy, love, and fear;
Pursued by unextinguish'd hate,

And wept by Pity's tend'rest tear.

As o'er the drowning wretch

Th' incumbent wave rolls its o'erwhelming weight;

That very wave, o'er which, of late,

His eagle eye would proudly stretch,

And, borne aloft, exult to spy

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His destin'd victim vainly fly;

So o'er that haughty soul

Must the dark tide of recollection roll!

How oft, to each succeeding age

To paint himself he vainly plann'd!

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Ma sull' eterna pagina

Cadde la stanea man!

Ahi, quante volte al tacito
Morir d'un giorno inerte,
Chinati i rai fulminei,

Le braccia al sen conserte,

Stette, e dei dì che furono
L'assalse il sovvenir !

E ripensò le mobili

Tende, e i percossi valli,

E'l campo dei manipoli,

E l'onda dei cavalli ;

E'l concitato imperio,

E'l celere ubbedir!

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Ahi, forse a tanto strazio

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Cadde lo spirito anelo,
E disperò; ma valida

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As oft, upon th' eternal page

Sank overpower'd his weary hand.

Oft, as in silence died some listless day,
His eyeball's lightning ray

Bent idly on the tumbling flood,

With folded arms he stood;

And bitterly he number'd o'er

The days that had been, and that were no more!

He saw the quick-struck tents again,
The hot assault, the battle-plain,

The troops in martial pomp array'd,

The pealing of th' artillery,

The torrent charge of cavalry;

The hasty word

In thunder heard

Heard, and at once obey'd!

Beneath such suffocating thought
Perchance the panting soul at times
Would sink in chill despair;

Venne una man dal cielo,

E in più spirabil aere

Pietosa il trasportò.

E l'avviò sui floridi

Sentier della speranza

Ai campi eterni, al premio
Che 'l desiderio avanza;
Ov'è silenzio e tenebre

La gloria che passò.
Bella, Immortal, benefica

Fede, ai trionfi avvezza,

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Scrivi ancor questo; allegrati,

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Che più superba altezza
Al disonor del Golgota

Giammai non si chinò.
Tu dalle stanche ceneri
Sperdi ogni ria parola ;
Il Dio, che atterra e suscita,
Che affanna e che consola,

Sulla deserta coltrice

Accanto a lui posò!

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But Heav'n in mercy consolation brought,
And bore his weary spirit to purer climes
Of holier light, and more refreshing air!

By viewless hands his steps were led,
The flow'ry paths of Hope to tread,
Tow'rd those enchanting fields of rest,

By unimagin'd joys possess'd;
Where mortal glory's feeble ray

Is quench'd in one unclouded day.

O Thou, whose triumphs who can tell?
Pure, heav'nly Faith! amid the rest

Let this the glorious number swell!
Rejoice! for never haughtier crest,
To Him on Golgotha who died,

Hath vail'd his stubborn pride.

From foul reproach, angelic Friend,

Do thou his weary dust defend!

Since on that lonely couch, and suff'ring breast,

He, who alone hath pow'r the soul

To raise, depress, afflict, console,

The Mighty God hath deign'd to rest! 137 Rome, 1822.

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