Yet thou art perched, a falcon, on this stone,
And scorn'st to let the golden grain be sown,
Nor plantest vines, nor scatterest seeds to earth,
Nor keep'st a comfortable home and hearth.
Look here, how stretches out the plain to view,
So blithely following yonder mountains blue,
And sinking down unto the sea with smiles,
A paradise o'erflowed by teeming rills.
Yet only myrtles thrive on every side,
And stunted albatro extending wide;
And fern, and cytisus, and heath is there,
The summer food of goats with darksome hair.
The Golo river creeps down 'mong the weeds,
To marshes overgrown with sedge and reeds,
Where heavy is the air, with fever rife,
That, slow and sure, consumes the fisher's life.
And as the wanderer passes o'er the plain,
Moor-birds alone pour in his ear their strain;
He there meets ruins only, walls down-tumbled
Of Roman towns which into dust have crumbled.
Up, Corsican! away with thy base rest,
And get thee down, and grasp the axe in haste;
The spade and mattock seize, and till thy ground,
Until a fruitful garden teems all round!

THE CORSICAN.

Thou foreigner, whose sires I met of old
Near Calenzana, and in death's sleep did fold,
Why troublest thou my peace? Two thousand years
I have been fighting, full of strife and tears,
And wrestling for so long have made my stand
Against the foe who overran my land.

On Col di Tenda erst I forced to yield

The Romans whose footprints are on this field;

I conquered Hasdrubal off my sea-coast,

And scattered forth like seeds th' Etruscan host.
For booty pressed the Moor into my bay,
And bore my wife and children far away,
And hurled into my house the fiery brand;

I clenched him, wrestled, gained the upper hand.
Again I heard the conch-horn loudly blow,
When overran my land anew a foe,

First Lombard, and then Turk, and Arragon.

And though my blood in reddened streams flowed on,
And though I saw my roofstead burnt to dust,
I wept not-for no foe my freedom crushed.
Then came the Genoese-O curse most bitter!
For her own child would Italy enfetter !
Dost thou complain, so waste is now my land,
The fields a wilderness, and bare the strand,
The hamlet ivied o'er and half destroyed?
Then know the Genoese hath made this void.
If by the sea the mandolina's tones
Thou hearest, or vocero's long plaintive moans,
And wonderest thou that aye the strain is sad,
Then know, that by the Genoese 'twas made.

Hear'st thou the gun-shot o'er the hills resound,
See'st thou the bleeding victim fall to ground,
And shudderest for our vengeance never cooled;
Then know, that by the Genoese we're schooled.
Know now what we've endured with none to save!
But I have dug for Genoa her grave;

And when thou see'st her, then say, "I saw
The Corsican isle, the grave of Genoa !"
Fell was the strife and endless cruel; my land
The merchant gave into the Frenchman's hand,
Like an estate that one may buy for gold;
Yet calmly did a coward world behold.
Thou stranger, hear! on Ponte Nuovo's bank
I yielded to the freedom-killing Frank;
And wept and dragged me, like a bleeding stag,
Forth from the battle-field, up rock and crag.
Such battling wears one out--I'm weary now;
Then let me rest beneath the olive-bough.

THE STRANGER.

No bitter word would I 'gainst thee rehearse,
But only feeling grieve thy fortune's curse,
Thou champion-warrior, bleeding, battle-worn,
Thou son of Death, thou of a Fury born.

Then rest! since thou through Europe's age of night Alone wert wakeful on thy rocky height;

Alone for man's estate hast stoutly fought,

When its mere name seemed by the world forgot.
Of thy forefathers I have heard the glory

Of Pasqual Paoli the solemn story.

I thought new life could by my living word

On rusty hero-memories be conferred.

And what though they were bloody horrors dark,

Or else soul-harrowing grievous cares and cark,

That oft have touched my homeless heart while here; It yet hath breathed a hero-atmosphere:

It yet from all thy tuneful death-laments

Hath caught the fairest, clearest of accents.

And as I sat beneath the giant rock,

And saw dash down through clouds the torrent-brook,
Her glories nature poured out o'er my head,
And o'er my soul the love of light did shed;
I in the land of death have been a guest,
Yet home return with branch of olive blest;
The pilgrim glad that cherished sign displays,
Which kindly spirits gave to cheer his ways.
Then, Corsican, adieu! and fare thee well,
Whilst o'er the restless wave my ship's sails swell,
Heaven's blessings on thee for those fruits of thine,
For nightly shelter and for generous wine!

May thy fat olive teem year after year,

Thy orchard never fail a crop to bear!

Ripen upon the lea enough of maize !

Thy vengeance be burnt up by sun's bright rays,
That by his glow, of hero-blood the stain
Be dried up on thy hero-soil again!

I will give at the conclusion of my book a slight literary notice of the works that have been of essential service to me in its composition. Even here the usual experience is verified, that any subject, however insulated it be, draws a continent of literature after it. The historical works I have already named, such as Filippini, Peter of Corsica, Cambiaggi, Jacobi, Limperani, Renucci, Gregori, &c. To these I will add, "Robiquet, Recherches Historiques et Statistiques sur la Corse. Paris, 1835"a book which is very rich in matter, and has supplied me with some valuable notices. Of the works of Niccolo Tommaseo I was enabled to consult his "Lettere di Pasquale de Paoli. Firenze, 1846;" and the "Canti populari Corsi," in his collection of Corsican, Tuscan, and Greek popular poetry. The Corsican dirges published by me are taken from the "Saggio di Versi Italiani e di Canti Popolari Corsi. Bastia, 1843." The subjects of the Corsican stories, which all relate actual occurrences, I have gathered from a collection of such stories, by Renucci, Bastia, 1838; the treatment is my own. The work of Boswell, "Journal of a Tour in Corsica, with Memorabilia of Pasquale Paoli," (London, 1769), is worth reading, because the author was personally acquainted with the great Corsican, and wrote down his actual words. Lastly, I owe various remarks to Valery's book, Voyages en Corse, à l'île d'Elbe et en Sardaigne. Brussels, 1838." I need not mention other books not specially relating to Corsica.

66

INDEX.