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(From Purgatory, Canto VI) Translated by Mrs. Ramsay
ALAS! poor Italy, the home of woe, | |
| Ship without pilot in an ocean wild, | |
| No gentle lady, but a harlot thou! | |
| So eager was that courteous spirit mild, | |
| Only for the sweet sound of his own land, | 5 |
| To welcome joyfully his country’s child: | |
| And now in thee, not without warfare stand | |
| Those who are yet alive; and each gnaws each, | |
| Of those whom but one wall and ditch defend. | |
| Seek, wretched one, around thy circling beach; | 10 |
| Then turn thine eyes, within thy bosom gaze, | |
| And see if anywhere sweet peace doth reach. | |
| What boots it that on thee Justinian lays | |
| The bridle, if the saddle be not filled? | |
| Else were there less of shame and sad amaze. | 15 |
| Ah! ye whose mad dissensions should be stilled | |
| In loyal obedience unto Cæsar’s throne, | |
| If thou wouldst understand what God hath willed, | |
| See how this beast is fierce and savage grown, | |
| Because she is not governed by the spur, | 20 |
| And ye would rule her with the bit alone. | |
| O German Albert, who forsakest her | |
| Who all untamed and lawless has become, | |
| While thou to ride this steed thy limbs shouldst stir, | |
| On thee and on thy race may righteous doom | 25 |
| Fall from on high, made clearly manifest, | |
| That he may fear who cometh in thy room. | |
| Thou and thy father were in such hot haste | |
| For distant conquest, that ye now permit | |
| The garden of the empire to be waste. | 30 |
| Come look on Montague and Capulet, | |
| Monaldi, Filippeschi, heartless power! | |
| And some do groan, some only fear as yet. | |
| Come, cruel, come, and thou shalt see how sore | |
| The pains and sorrows by thy vassals borne; | 35 |
| And look how safe it is in Santafior! | |
| Come and behold thy Rome, who now doth mourn, | |
| Lonely and widowed; day and night she cries, | |
| “My Cæsar, wherefore leav’st thou me forlorn?” | |
| Come see what love among thy people lies; | 40 |
| And if naught else can thee to pity move, | |
| At the dishonor of thy name arise! | |
| And (be it said with reverence) God of love, | |
| Who upon earth for us was crucified, | |
| Dost fix thine eyes but on the realms above? | 45 |
| Or does there in thy counsels’ depths abide | |
| Some purpose for our good, by us unknown, | |
| And lying from our vision all too wide? | |
| For the whole land of Italy doth groan | |
| Beneath the sway of tyrants; peasants swell | 50 |
| With pride, as though Marcellus were each one. | |
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