Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ODE TO SICILY, by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: No mortal hand hath struck the heroick string Last Line: That race again; down with it, dust to dust. Subject(s): Sicily | ||||||||
I. No mortal hand hath struck the heroick string Since Milton's lay in death across his breast. But shall the lyre then rest Along tired Cupid's wing With vilest dust upon it? This of late Hath been its fate. II. But thou, O Sicily! art born again. Far over chariots and Olympic steeds I see the heads and the stout arms of men, And will record (God give me power!) their deeds. III. Hail to thee first, Palermo! hail to thee Who callest with loud voice, "Arise! be free; Weak is the hand and rusty is the chain." Thou callest; nor in vain. IV. Not only from the mountain rushes forth The knighthood of the North, In whom my soul elate Owns now a race cognate, But even the couch of Sloth 'mid painted walls Swells up, and men start forth from it, where calls The voice of Honour, long, too long, unheard. V. Not that the wretch was fear'd Who fear'd the meanest as he fear'd the best, (A reed could break his rest) But that around all kings For ever springs A wasting vapour that absorbs the fire Of all that would rise higher. VI. Even free nations will not let there be More nations free. Witness (O shame!) our own Of late years viler none. The second Charles found many and made more Base as himself: his reign is not yet o'er. VII. To gratify a brood Swamp-fed amid the Suabian wood, The sons of Lusitania were cajoled And bound and sold, And sent in chains where we unchain the slave We die with thirst to save. VIII. Ye too, Sicilians, ye too gave we up To drain the bitter cup Ye now dash from ye in the despot's face . . O glorious race, IX. Which Hiero, Gelon, Pindar, sat among And prais'd for weaker deeds in deathless song; One is yet left to laud ye. Years have mar'd My voice, my prelude for some better bard, When such shall rise, and such your deeds create. X. In the lone woods, and late, Murmurs swell loud and louder, till at last So strong the blast That the whole forest, earth, and sea, and sky, To the loud surge reply. XI. Show, in the circle of six hundred years, Show me a Bourbon on whose brow appears No brand of traitor. Prune the tree . . From the same stock for ever will there be The same foul canker, the same bitter fruit. Strike, Sicily, uproot The cursed upas. Never trust That race again; down with it, dust to dust. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MAMILLIA: VERSES AGAINST THE GENTLEWOMEN OF SICILIA by ROBERT GREENE ANTIQUE COIN by JOSE-MARIA DE HEREDIA (1842-1905) TRAGEDIES: 8 by THEOPHILE JULIUS HENRY MARZIALS SONNET: ISLES OF SCILLY by ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH SICILIAN ARETHUSA by HORACE SMITH SICILY, DECEMBER, 1908 by HENRY VAN DYKE GOATS by CHARLES ERSKINE SCOTT WOOD THE SICILIAN by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY A FIESOLAN IDYL by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR |
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