Still once more, that Corsican reclining under the old olive-tree yonder, calls up before me the land and its people.
Wild mountaineer of Corsica, why laid In idle dreams beneath the olive shade? With gun in hand, supinely outstretch'd there, Gazing half-conscious on the glitt'ring air? Thy hungry child, in gloomy dwelling pent, Weeps with his mother o'er her spinning bent; They weep, their toil unceasing and untold, Their chamber empty and their hearth-stone cold. Yet thou can'st falcon-like perch idly there, And scorn to cultivate that valley fair, To sow the golden seed in fertile ground, And train the clust'ring vine thy walls around. Look, look below thee, where the sunny plain, Stretches away to yon blue mountain-chain, And slopes down smiling to the very main: A Paradise where living streams abound;— Yet there the rude Albatro chokes the ground, The myrtle revels in its empire wide, Tall ferns and heather flourish side by side, And black-hair'd goats the summer-crop divide. The Golo creeps along its swampy bed, Whose tainted vapour thro' the air is spread, Sapping the fisher's life from day to day, While amply furnishing his finny prey. The lonely wand'rer at each onward tread, Sees heath-birds rise and wheel about his head; Finds ruin'd fragments of a nobler past— Traces of Rome, to dust decaying fast. Up, then, thou Corsican, from dull repose, Arise and seize thine axe, and deal thy blows; Take spade and mattock, till the ground, and see A golden-fruited garden smile on thee!
Stranger, whose fathers I have taught to yield,— Witness the graves on Calenzana's field— Why break my rest? Two thousand years of fight Have seen me struggle for my free-born right: Have watch'd my desperate, unyielding stand, 'Gainst each invader of my native land. Those Roman bands, whose traces still you see, At Col di Tenda were compell'd to flee; Hasdrubal's force I roll'd back to the strand, Etruria's army scatter'd as the sand. The Moor in quest of booty sought my bay, He seized my children, bore my wife away, Pillaged my fields, and wrapt my house in flame— We met, we wrestled, and I overcame! Again the battle-summons strikes my ear, Hordes of fresh foes upon our isle appear Lombards and Turks and Arragon's proud sons,— Again my hand is raised—my life-blood runs! Again I see my roof-tree overthrown; I weep not—Liberty is still my own! Then Genoa came—be curse on curse up-piled! 'Twas Italy herself that chain'd her child! Mourn'st thou my country's aspect—waste tho' fair— Harbours deserted, meadow-lands left bare, Ivy-clothed buildings falling to decay? Be sure that Genoa has there held sway! Hear'st thou the mandoline by yonder sea, Blend with the solemn Dirge's melody? Seem the chords struck by sorrow and by pain? Be sure that Genoa awoke the strain! Echo the mountains to the rifle's crack, Lies bathed in blood the victim in thy track; Dost shudd'ring view the deed by vengeance wrought? Be sure that Genoa the lesson taught! Part of our wrongs thou'st heard—now hear with glee, The grave of Genoa has been dug by me! Ay, should'st thou e'er behold her, thou may'st boast, "I've seen thy grave on Corsica's steep coast." Fierce was the conflict—war unto the knife! They sold to France our country and our life, Like some mean chattel gold had power to buy, And the world look'd on with an unmoved eye! Hear me, thou Stranger! Ponte Nuovo's height Frown'd on me wounded in inglorious fight With French officials trampling on my right. Weeping, I shrunk off like a wounded deer, Far from the slaughter-field to hide me here; Weary at length—by _such_ strife weary made— Grudge not my rest beneath the olive-shade.