Page:Carducci - Poems of Italy.djvu/32

 Not this, O dark son of Hortensia, Not this your promise to your little heir. For him you prayed before the face of Paris A fate far different from the King of Rome's.

Sebastopol's great victory and peace Lulled with the rustling of their shining wings The little one; admiring Europe watched, And shown the imperial Column beacon-bright.

But all December's mire is stained with blood, And treach'ry lurks behind the Brumaire fogs; No bushes can take root in such a soil, Or else bear ashes and a poisoned fruit.

O lonely house on the Aiaccian shore, Shaded forever by your great green oaks, With hills serene about you like a crown And at your feet the solemn-sounding sea!

'Twas here Letitia—fair Italian name Which henceforth in all ages sounds mischance— Was happy wife and mother for, alas! Too short a time; and here, O Consul here,— 26