Ah! servile Italy, grief's hostelry!
A ship without a pilot in great tempest!
No Lady thou of Provinces, but brothel!
That noble soul was so impatient, only At the sweet sound of his own native land, To make its citizen glad welcome there;
And now within thee are not without war Thy living ones, and one doth gnaw the other Of those whom one wall and one fosse shut in!
Search, wretched one, all round about the shores Thy seaboard, and then look within thy bosom, If any part of thee enjoyeth peace!
What boots it, that for thee Justinian The bridle mend, if empty be the saddle?
Withouten this the shame would be the less.
Ah! people, thou that oughtest to be devout, And to let Caesar sit upon the saddle, If well thou hearest what God teacheth thee, Behold how fell this wild beast has become, Being no longer by the spur corrected, Since thou hast laid thy hand upon the bridle.
O German Albert! who abandonest Her that has grown recalcitrant and savage, And oughtest to bestride her saddle-bow, May a just judgment from the stars down fall Upon thy blood, and be it new and open, That thy successor may have fear thereof;
Because thy father and thyself have suffered, By greed of those transalpine lands distrained, The garden of the empire to be waste.
Come and behold Montecchi and Cappelletti, Monaldi and Fillippeschi, careless man!
Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed!
Come, cruel one! come and behold the oppression Of thy nobility, and cure their wounds, And thou shalt see how safe is Santafiore!
Come and behold thy Rome, that is lamenting, Widowed, alone, and day and night exclaims, "My Caesar, why hast thou forsaken me?"
Come and behold how loving are the people;
And if for us no pity moveth thee, Come and be made ashamed of thy renown!
And if it lawful be, O Jove Supreme!
Who upon earth for us wast crucified, Are thy just eyes averted otherwhere?
Or preparation is 't, that, in the abyss Of thine own counsel, for some good thou makest From our perception utterly cut off?
For all the towns of Italy are full Of tyrants, and becometh a Marcellus Each peasant churl who plays the partisan!
My Florence! well mayst thou contented be With this digression, which concerns thee not, Thanks to thy people who such forethought take!
Many at heart have justice, but shoot slowly, That unadvised they come not to the bow, But on their very lips thy people have it!
Many refuse to bear the common burden;
But thy solicitous people answereth Without being asked, and crieth: "I submit."
Now be thou joyful, for thou hast good reason;
Thou affluent, thou in peace, thou full of wisdom!
If I speak true, the event conceals it not.
Athens and Lacedaemon, they who made The ancient laws, and were so civilized, Made towards living well a little sign Compared with thee, who makest such fine-spun Provisions, that to middle of November Reaches not what thou in October spinnest.
How oft, within the time of thy remembrance, Laws, money, offices, and usages Hast thou remodelled, and renewed thy members?
And if thou mind thee well, and see the light, Thou shalt behold thyself like a sick woman, Who cannot find repose upon her down, But by her tossing wardeth off her pain.
