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And that night the Young-man, lying silent by his bride,
Blasphemes the sacred fire of youth, that would not be denied:
Cursing Nature, hating Love, creeps to Beauty's breast the brave,
Whispering wildly, "Yet be fruitless,—son me never with a slave."
Weeps long that swelling mother,—hides her glory as she can,
Nor dare murmur "Noble husband, God hath owned thee for a Man!"
And Thought and Genius? What! think you that creatures stay
In a prison's noisome narrows, who have wings to get away?
On far Parisian garret-floors the alien tomes are spread,
When the historian's magic eye would question with the dead;
Feebly, by foreign breezes swept, the old Sicilian Tree
Murmurs its near-forgotten trick of honeyed melody.[1]
- ↑ The free-minded Sicilian writers, whether in prose or verse, were obliged to have recourse to the French press, and some at least, like Amari, to live in exile.
