在热那亚,当夕阳purpl给它最后的温暖e to the wave, No sound of war, no voice of fear, Was heard, announcing danger near: Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate But slumber'd till its hour of fate, Yet calmly, at the twilight's close, Sunk the wide city to repose. But when deep midnight reign'd around, All sudden woke the alarm-bell's sound, Full swelling, while the hollow breeze Bore its dread summons o'er the seas. Then, Genoa, from their slumber started Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted; Then mingled with th' awakening peal Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. Arm, warriors, arm! for danger calls, Arise to guard your native walls! With breathless haste the gathering throng Hurry the echoing streets along; Through darkness rushing to the scene Where their bold counsels still convene. - But there a blaze of torches bright Pours its red radiance on the night, O'er fane, and dome, and column playing, With every fitful night-wind swaying, Now floating o'er each tall arcade, Around the pillar'd scene display'd, In light relieved by depth of shade: And now, with ruddy meteor-glare, Full streaming on the silvery hair And the bright cross of him who stands, Rearing that sign with suppliant hands; Girt with his consecrated train, The hallow'd servants of the fane. Of life's past woes, the fading trace Hath given that aged patriarch's face Expression holy, deep, resign'd, The calm sublimity of mind. Years o'er his snowy head have pass'd, And left him of his race the last; Alone on earth - yet still his mien Is bright with majesty serene; And those high hopes, whose guiding-star Shines from th' eternal worlds afar, Have with that light illumed his eye, Whose fount is immortality, And o'er his features pour'd a ray Of glory, not to pass away. He seems a being who hath known Communion with his God alone, On earth by nought but pity's tie Detain'd a moment from on high! One to sublimer worlds allied, One, from all passion purified, E'en now half-mingled with the sky, And all prepared - oh! not to die - But, like the prophet, to aspire, In heaven's triumphal car of fire. He speaks - and from the throngs around Is heard not e'en a whisper's sound; Awe-struck each heart, and fix'd each glance, They stand as in a spell-bound trance: He speaks - oh! Who can hear, nor own The might of each prevailing tone? 'Chieftains and warriors! ye, so long Aroused to strife by mutual wrong, Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate Hath made your country desolate; Now by the love ye bear her name, By that pure spark of holy flame On freedom's altar brightly burning, But, once extinguish'd, ne'er returning; By all your hopes of bliss to come When burst the bondage of the tomb: By Him, the God who bade us live To aid each other, and forgive - I call upon ye to resign Your discords at your country's shrine, Each ancient feud in peace atone, Wield your keen swords for her alone, And swear upon the cross, to cast Oblivion's mantle o'er the past!' No voice replies - the holy bands Advance to where you chieftain stands, With folded arms, and brow of gloom O'er shadow'd by his floating plume. To him they lift the cross - in vain, He turns - oh! say not with disdain, But with a mien of haughty grief, That seeks not, e'en from heaven, relief: He rends his robes - he sternly speaks - Yet tears are on the warrior's cheeks. 'Father! not thus the wounds may close Inflicted by eternal foes. Deem'st thou thy mandate can efface The dread volcano's burning trace? Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene Be, smiling, as it once hath been? No! for the deeds the sword hath done Forgiveness is not lightly won; The words, by hatred spoke, may not Be, as a summer breeze, forgot! 'Tis vain - we deem the war-feud's rage A portion of our heritage. Leaders, now slumbering with their fame, Bequeath's us that undying flame; Hearts that have long been still and cold Yet rule us from their silent mould; And voices, heard on earth no more, Speak to our spirits as of yore. Talk not of mercy - blood alone The stain of bloodshed may atone; Nought else can pay that mighty debt, The dead forbid us to forget.' He pauses - from the partiarch's brow There beams more lofty grandeur now; His reverend form, his aged hand, Assume a gesture of command, His voice is awful, and his eye Fill's with prophetic majesty. 'The dead! - and deem'st thou they retain Aught of terrestrial passion's stain? Of guilt incurr'd in days gone by, Aught but the fearful penalty? And say'st thou, mortal! blood alone For deeds of slaughter may atone? There hath been blood - by Him 'twas