Corinne; or, Italy. Madame de Staël
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every instant; it is what Petrarch termed—
Il parlar che nell' anima si sente'—
a language which is felt to the heart's core, and must possess much of the vaunted Oriental magic which has been given by the ancients to Cleopatra. The scenes I have visited with her, the lays we have heard together, the pictures she has shown me, the books she has taught me to enjoy, compose my universe. In all these is some spark of her life; and were I forced to dwell afar from her, I would, at least, surround myself with them, though certain to seek in vain for her radiant traces amongst them, when once she had departed."
"Yes!" he cried, as his glance accidentally fell upon Oswald; "look on Corinne, if you may pass your days with her—if that twofold existence can be long secured to you; but behold her not, if you must be condemned to leave her. Vainly would you seek, however long you might survive, the creative spirit which multiplied in partaking all your thoughts and feelings; you would never find it more!"
Oswald shuddered at these words; his eyes were fixed on Corinne, who listened with an agitation self-love cannot produce; it belongs only to humility and to gratitude. Castel Forte resumed the address, which a momentary weakness had suspended. He spoke of Corinne as a painter and a musician; of her declamation and her dancing. "In all these exertions," he said, "she is still herself—confined to no one mode, nor rule—but expressing, in various languages, the enchantments of Art and Imagination. I cannot flatter myself on having faithfully represented one of whom it is impossible to form an idea till she herself is known; but her presence is left to Rome, as among the chief blessings beneath its brilliant sky. Corinne is the link that binds her friends to each other. She is the motive, the interest of our lives; we rely on her worth, pride in her genius, and say to the sons of other lands, 'Look on the personation of our own fair Italy. She is what we might be, if freed from the ignorance, envy, discord, and sloth, to which fate has reduced us.' We love to contemplate her, as a rare production of our climate, and our fine arts; a relic of the past, a prophetess of the future; and when strangers, pitiless of the faults born of our misfortunes, insult the country whence have arisen the planets that illumed all Europe, still we but say to them, 'Look upon Corinne.' Yes; we will follow in her track, and be such men as she is a woman; if, indeed, men can, like women, make worlds in their own hearts; if our moral temperaments, necessarily dependent on social obligations and exterior circumstances, could, like hers, owe all their light to the glorious touch of poesy!"
The instant the Prince ceased to speak, was followed by an unanimous outbreak of admiration, even from the leaders of the State, although the discourse had ended by an indirect censure on the present situation of Italy; so true it is, that there men practise a degree of liberality, which, though it extends not to any improvement of their institutions, readily pardons superior minds for a mild dissent from existing prejudices. Castel Forte was a man of high repute in Rome. He spoke with a sagacity remarkable among a people usually wiser in actions than in words. He had not, in the affairs of life, that ability which often distinguishes an Italian; but he shrunk not from the fatigue of thinking, as his happy countrymen were wont to do; trusting to arrive at all truths by intuition, even as their soil bears fruit, unaided, save by the favor of heaven.
CHAPTER III.
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.