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Tusiani/Alfieri 207
Where Corsicans are ambushed round their sea,
And there was seen to fling
Souls to the Styx, and keeps the rest in woe,
Rather than let them go
Where honor crowns the fight of glorious men?
His ruthless sword, still dripping and still drenched
With blood yet unavenged
How can it ever make us free again?
If so, he covers then
Some generous, new dream,
Therefore with regal mantles not in keeping.
But, oh, do not expect so much from him,
Lest your quick laughter turn into sad weeping.
VIII
Open, rent open is the veil of night:
From the Neptunian realm The longed-for masts appear
Already with the sun, and the first helm
Shows in the morning light
A white flag with a Golden Lily clear:
Mars holds it as a spear.
Nourished and armed, the military throng
Is now ashore, in quest
Of the proud Briton’s nest.
What hero do I see, these men among,
Worthy of endless song, Worthy of being born
Right where he brings free breast and sword, made one,
And will with hostile blood the land adorn?
O Muses, let this song to him live on.
THIRD ODE
(Lafayette)
I
Oh, worthy not of this my silent lyre
But of the living one
That made the Theban shores most joyously
Resound with praises whereby men live on
Like each Olympian sire;
O gentle foreign tree,
A less wild soil, a wiser century
Should have been yours by right.
From what celestial region, from what land
Did such sweet dew descend