Читать книгу Corinne; or, Italy - Madame de Staël - Страница 16

Corinne rose, as the Prince finished his oration. She thanked him by an inclination of the head, which diffidently betrayed her sense of having been praised in a strain after her own heart. It was the custom for a poet, crowned at the capitol, to extemporize or recite in verse, ere receiving the destined bays. Corinne sent for her chosen instrument, the lyre, more antique in form, and simpler in sound, than the harp; while tuning it, she was oppressed by so violent a tremor, that her voice trembled as she asked what theme she was to attempt. "The glory and welfare of Italy!" cried all near her. "Ah, yes!" she exclaimed, already sustained by her own talents; "the glory and welfare of Italy!" Then, animated by her love of country, she breathed forth thoughts to which prose or another language can do but imperfect justice.

CHANT OF CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.[1] Cradle of Letters! Mistress of the World! Soil of the Sun! Italia! I salute thee! How oft the human race have worn thy yoke, The vessels of thine arms, thine arts, thy sky! Olympus for Ausonia once was left, And by a god. Of such a land are born Dreams of the golden time, for there man looks Too happy to suppose him criminal. By genius Rome subdued the world, then reign'd A queen by liberty. The Roman mind Set its own stamp upon the universe; And, when barbarian hordes whelm'd Italy, Then darkness was entire upon the earth. Italia reappear'd, and with her rose Treasures divine, brought by the wandering Greeks; To her were then reveal'd the laws of Heaven. Her daring children made discovery Of a new hemisphere: Queen still, she held Thought's sceptre; but that laurel'd sceptre made Ungrateful subjects. Imagination gave her back the world Which she had lost. Painters and poets shaped Earth and Olympus, and a heaven and hell. Her animating fire, by Genius kept, Far better guarded than the Pagan god's, Found not in Europe a Prometheus To bear it from her. And wherefore am I at the capitol? Why should my lowly brow receive the crown Which Petrarch wore? which yet suspended hangs Where Tasso's funeral cypress mournful waves: Why? oh, my countrymen! but that you love Glory so well that you repay its search Almost like its success. Now, if you love that glory which too oft Chooses its victims from its vanquishers, Those which itself has crown'd; think, and be proud Of days which saw the perish'd Arts reborn. Your Dante! Homer of the Christian age, The sacred poet of Faith's mysteries— Hero of thought—whose gloomy genius plunged In Styx, and pierced to hell; and whose deep soul Was like the abyss it fathom'd. Italia! as she was in days of power Revived in Dante: such a spirit stirr'd In old republics: bard and warrior too, He lit the fire of action 'mid the dead, Till e'en his shadows had more vigorous life Than real existence; still were they pursued By earthly memories; passions without aim Gnaw'd at their heart, still fever'd by the past; Yet less irrevocable seem'd that past, Than their eternal future. Methinks that Dante, banish'd his own soil, Bore to imagined worlds his actual grief, Ever his shades inquire the things of life, And ask'd the poet of his native land; And from his exile did he paint a hell. In his eyes Florence set her stamp on all; The ancient dead seem'd Tuscans like himself: Not that his power was bounded, but his strength; And his great mind forced all the universe Within the circle of its thought. A mystic chain of circles and of spheres Led him from Hell to Purgatory; thence From Purgatory into Paradise: Faithful historian of his glorious dream, He fills with light the regions most obscure; The world created in his triple song Is brilliant, and complete, and animate, Like a new planet seen within the sky. All upon earth doth change to poetry Beneath his voice: the objects, the ideas, The laws, and all the strange phenomena, Seem like a new Olympus with new gods— Fancy's mythology—which disappears Like Pagan creeds at sight of Paradise, That sea of light, radiant with shining stars, And love, and virtue. The magic words of our most noble bard Are like the prism of the universe;— Her marvels there reflect themselves, divide, And recreate her wonders; sounds paint hues, And colors melt in harmony. The rhyme— Sounding or strange, and rapid or prolong'd— That charm of genius, triumph of high art; Poetry's divination, which reveals All nature's secrets, such as influence The heart of man. From this great work did Dante hope the end Of his long exile: and he call'd on Fame To be his mediator; but he died Too soon to reap the laurels of his land. Thus wastes the transitory life of man In adverse fortunes; and it glory wins, If some chance tide, more happy, floats to shore. The grave is in the port; and destiny, In thousand shapes, heralds the close of life By a return of happiness. Thus the ill-fated Tasso, whom your praise, O Romans! 'mid his wrongs, could yet console— The beautiful, the chivalric, the brave, Dreaming the deeds, feeling the love he sung— With awe and gratitude approached your walls, As did his heroes to Jerusalem. They named the day to crown him; but its eve Death bade him to his feast, the terrible! The Heaven is jealous of the earth; and calls Its favorites from the stormy waves of time. 'T was in an age more happy and more free Than Tasso's, that, like Dante, Petrarch sang: Brave poet of Italian liberty. Elsewhere they know him only by his love: Here memories more severe, aye, consecrate His sacred name; his country could inspire E'en more than Laura. His vigils gave antiquity new life; Imagination was no obstacle To his deep studies; that creative power Conquer'd the future, and reveal'd the past. He proved how knowledge lends invention aid; And more original his genius seem'd, When, like the powers eternal, it could be Present in every time. Our laughing climate, and our air serene Inspired our Ariosto: after war, Our many long and cruel wars, he came Like to a rainbow; varied and as bright As that glad messenger of summer hours. His light, sweet gayety is like nature's smile, And not the irony of man. Raffaële, Galileo, Angelo, Pergolese; you! intrepid voyagers, Greedy of other lands, though Nature never Could yield ye one more lovely than your own; Come ye, and to our poets join your fame: Artists, and sages, and philosophers, Ye are, like them, the children of a sun Which kindles valor, concentrates the mind, Develops fancy, each one in its turn; Which lulls content, and seems to promise all, Or make us all forget. Know ye the land where orange-trees are blooming Where all heaven's rays are fertile, and with love! Have you inhaled these perfumes, luxury! In air already so fragrant and so soft? Now, answer, strangers; Nature, in your home, Is she as generous or as beautiful? Not only with vine-leaves and ears of corn Is nature dress'd, but 'neath the feet of man, As at a sovereign's feet, she scatters flowers And sweet and useless plants, which, born to please, Disdain to serve. Here pleasures delicate, by nature nurst— Felt by a people who deserve to feel;— The simplest food suffices for their wants. What though her fountains flow with purple wine From the abundant soil, they drink them not! They love their sky, their arts, their monuments; Their land, the ancient, and yet bright with springs; Brilliant society; refined delight: Coarse pleasures, fitting to a savage race, Suit not with them. Here the sensation blends with the idea; Life ever draws from the same fountain-head; The soul, like air, expands o'er earth and heaven. Here Genius feels at ease; its reveries Are here so gentle; its unrest is soothed: For one lost aim a thousand dreams are given, And nature cherishes, if man oppress; A gentle hand consoles, and binds the wound: E'en for the griefs that haunt the stricken heart, Is comfort here: by admiration fill'd, For God, all goodness; taught to penetrate The secret of his love; not thy brief days— Mysterious heralds of eternity— But in the fertile and majestic breast Of the immortal universe!

Corinne was interrupted for some moments by impetuous applause. Oswald alone joined not in the noisy transport around him. He had bowed his head on his hand, when Corinne said——

"E'en for the sorrows of the stricken heart

Is comfort here:"

he had not raised it since. Corinne observed him; and from his features, the color of his hair, his dress, his height—indeed, from his whole appearance—recognised him as English. She was struck by the mourning which he wore, and his melancholy countenance. His gaze, then fixed upon herself, seemed gently to reproach her: she entered into his thoughts, and felt a wish to sympathize with him, by speaking of happiness with less reliance, and consecrating some few verses to Death in the midst of a festival. With this intention, she again took up her lyre; a few prolonged and touching tones silenced the assemblage, while thus she continued:——

Yet there are griefs which our consoling sky

May not efface; but where will grief convey

Noble and soft impressions to the soul,

As it does here?

Elsewhere the living cannot find them space

For all their hurrying paths, and ardent hopes;

And deserts, ruins, vacant palaces,

Leave a vast vacancy to shadows;—Rome,

Is she not now the country of the tomb?

The Coliseum, and the obelisks—

The wonders brought from Egypt and from Greece—

From the extremity of time, here met,

From Romulus to Leo—all are here,

Greatness attracting greatness, that one place

Might garner all that man could screen from time;

All consecrate to funeral monuments.

Our idle life is scarcely here perceived:

The silence of the living to the dead

Is homage: they endure, but we decay.

The dead alone are honor'd, and alone

Recorded still;—our destinies obscure

Contrast the glories of our ancestors;

Our present life leaves but the past entire,

And deep the quiet around memory:

Our trophies are the work of those no more:

Genius itself ranks 'mid th' illustrious dead.

It is Rome's secret charm to reconcile

Imagination with our long last sleep.

We are resign'd ourselves, and suffer less

For those we love. The people of the South

Paint closing life in hues less terrible

Than do the gloomy nations of the North:

The sun, like glory, even warms the grave.

The chill, the solitude of sepulchres

'Neath our fair sky, beside our funeral urns

So numerous, less haunt the frighted soul.

We deem they wait for us, yon shadowy crowd:

And from our silent city's loneliness

Down to the subterranean one below

It is a gentle passage.

The edge of grief is blunted thus, and turn'd

Not by a harden'd heart, a wither'd soul,

But by a yet more perfect harmony—

An air more fragrant—blending with our life.

We yield ourselves to Nature with less fear—

Nature whose great Creator said of old—

"The lilies of the vale, lo! they toil not,

And neither do they spin:

Yet the great Solomon, in all his glory,

Was not arrayed like one of these."

Was not arrayed like one of these."

Oswald was so enchanted by these stanzas, that he testified his transport with a vehemence unequalled by the Romans themselves; in sooth, it was to him, rather than to her countrymen, that the second improvisation of Corinne had been addressed. The generality of Italians read poetry with a kind of monotonous chant, that destroys all effect.[2] In vain the words vary, the impression is ever the same; because the accent is unchanged; but Corinne recited with a mobility of tone which increased the charm of its sustained harmony. It was like listening to different airs, all played on the same celestial organ.

A language so stately and sonorous, breathed by so gentle and affecting a voice, awakened a very novel sensation in the mind of Oswald. The natural beauties of the English tongue are all melancholy; tinted by clouds, and tuned by lashing waves; but Italian, among sounds, may be compared to scarlet among colors; its words ring like clarions of victory, and glow with all the bliss a delicious clime can shower on human hearts. When, therefore, Italian is spoken by a faltering tongue, its splendor melts, its concentrated force causes an agitation resistless as unforeseen. The intents of nature seem defeated, her bounties useless or repulsed; and the expression of sorrow in the midst of enjoyment, surprises, touches us more deeply, than would despair itself, if sung in those northern languages, which it seems to have inspired.