Atoms with their airy justles,

And all manner of corpuscles;

And, as through a crystal skylight,

How morning differeth from evening twilight;
And further telleth us the reason why go

Some stars with such a lazy light, and some with a vertigo.

O, how widely wandereth he,

Who in search of verity

Keeps aloof from glorious wine!

Lo, the knowledge it bringeth to me!

For Barbarossa, this wine so bright,

With its rich red look and its strawberry light,

So inviteth me,

So delighteth me,

I should infallibly quench my inside with it,

Had not Hippocrates

And old Andromachus
Strictly forbidden it

And loudly chidden it,

So many stomachs have sickened and died with it.

Yet, discordant as it is,

Two good biggins will not come amiss;

Because I know, while I'm drinking them down,

What is the finish and what is the crown.

A cup of good Corsican

Does it at once;

Or a glass of old Spanish

Is neat for the nonce:

Quackish resources are things for a dunce.

Talk of Chocolate!

Talk of Tea!

Medicines, made-ye gods!-as they are,
Are no medicines made for me.
I would sooner take to poison
Than a single cup set eyes on
Of that bitter and guilty stuff ye

Talk of by the name of Coffee.
Let the Arabs and the Turks
Count it 'mongst their cruel works:
Foe of mankind, black and turbid,
Let the throats of slaves absorb it.
Down in Tartarus,

Down in Erebus,

'Twas the detestable Fifty invented it; The Furies then took it

To grind and to cook it,

And to Proserpina all three presented it.
If the Mussulman in Asia

Doats on a beverage so unseemly,

I differ with the man extremely.

There's a squalid thing, called Beer:
The man whose lips that thing comes near
Swiftly dies; or falling foolish,

Grows, at forty, old and owlish.

She that in the ground would hide her,

Let her take to English Cider:

He who'd have his death come quicker,

Any other Northern liquor.

Those Norwegians and those Laps

Have extraordinary taps:

Those Laps especially have strange fancies;

To see them drink,

I verily think,

Would make me lose

my senses.

But a truce to such vile subjects,

With their impious, shocking objects.

Let me purify my mouth

In a holy cup o' th' South;

In a golden pitcher let me

Head and cars for comfort get me,

And drink of the wine of the vine benign

That sparkles warm in Sansovine.

(Leigh Hunt)

THE CREATION OF MY LADY

THAT Love,—whose power and sovranty we own, And who before all time was did beget

The sun and moon and splendid stars, and set
All lovely things to speak of Him alone,-
Late looking earthward from his supreme throne
Saw that, although the beauty lingered yet,-
The froward heart of man did quite forget
That all this beauty from His presence shone;
Wherefore, desiring to reclaim his eyes.

To heaven by some unequalled new delight,
He gave the world a treasure from the skies,
My Lady's sacred beauty, pure and bright,
Whose body is a robe of woven light,.
And fashioned in the looms of Paradise.

Vincenzo Filicaja

ITALY

ITALIA! Oh Italia! thou who hast

(Sir Edmund Gosse)

1642-1707

The fatal gift of beauty, which became
A funeral dower of present woes and past,
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plow'd by shame,
And annals graved in characters of flame.
Oh, God! that thou wert in thy nakedness
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress;

Then might'st thou more appal, or less desired,
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored
For thy destructive charms; then, still untired,
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd
Down the steep Alps; nor would the hostile horde

Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po

Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword
Be thy sad weapon of defense, and so

Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe.

Vittorio Alfieri

TO DANTE

(Lord Byron)

1749-1803

"GREAT father Alighier, if from the skies
This thy disciple prostrate thou dost see
Before thy gravestone, shaken with deep sighs,
O turn thou not in wrathfulness from me!
O of thy kindness, favoring pure desires,
Illuminate me with a ray of thine;
Must who to pristine, deathless fame aspires
Take arms 'gainst envy and each fell design?"
"I did so, son, to my great sorrow, for
Thereby the names of men too vile to tread
Under my feet are heard for evermore.

If thou dost trust in me, why droop thy head?
Go thunder, triumph, and if thou shouldst chance
To meet with such, pass by nor deign a glance."

Jacopo Vittorelli

ON A NUN

(Lorna De' Lucchi)

1749-1835

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired,
Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires,
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,
And gazing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired
Becomes extinguish'd, soon-too soon-expires:
But thine, within the closing grate retired,

Eternal captive, to her God aspires.
But thou, at least, from out the jealous door,
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes,
May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more:
I to the marble, where my daughter lies,

Rush, the swoln flood of bitterness I pour,

And knock, and knock, and knock-but none replies.

Giacomo Leopardi

TO ITALY

O ITALY, I see the lonely towers,

(Lord Byron)

1798-1837

The arches and the columns and the walls
Of bygone days. The glory and the steel
That girt our fathers I behold not. Now
Unarmed, thou show'st a naked breast, a brow
Undiademed. Ah me, what wounds, what blood!
How art thou fallen, O most beautiful!

I cry to heaven, unto earth I cry:

Say, say, who brought her to so dire a pass?

Her arms are bound in chains; with scattered locks
And face unveiled, she sits disconsolate,

Forgotten, and her head between her knees
Hiding, she weeps. Ah, weep, my Italy,

Thou hast good cause, thou who wert born to rule,
Now fallen on so dark a destiny.

Were thy dim eyes two gushing founts of tears
They ne'er could quench thy sorrow and thy shame,
Who wert a queen, and art become a slave.
Who now doth speak of thee, remembering
Thy vaunted past, but saith: She once was great,
She is no more? Why? Why? Where is thy might,
Thine ancient valor, arms, and constancy?

Who hath unclasped thy sword? Who thee betrayed?
What subtle craft, what labor, or what power