ction for Italy. As part of
that resurrection (for no nation can live and be great without its poet)
was born a true poet, Carducci. He visited the bountiful, everlasting
source, and of what did he sing? Possess yourselves, as for a shilling
you may, of his Ode "Alle fonte del Clitumno," and read: for few nobler
poems have adorned our time. He sang of the weeping willow, the ilex,
ivy, cypress and the presence of the god still immanent among them. He
sang of Umbria, of the ensigns of Rome, of Hannibal swooping down over
the Alps; he sang of the nuptials of Janus and Comesena, progenitors of
the Italian people; of nymphs, naiads, and the moonlight dances of
Oreads; of flocks descending to the river at dusk, of the homestead, the
bare-footed mother, the clinging child, the father, clad in goat-skins,
guiding the ox-wagon; and he ends on the very note of Virgil's famous
apostrophe

_Sed neque Medorum silvae, ditissima terra..._

with an invocation of Italy--Italy, mother of bullocks for agriculture,
of wild colts for battle, mother of corn and of the vine, Roman mother of
enduring laws and mediaeval mother of illustrious arts. The mountains,
woods and waters of green Umbria applaud the song, and across their
applause is heard the whistle of the railway train bearing promise of new
industries and a new national life.

E tu, pia madre di giovenchi invitti
a franger glebe e rintegrar maggesi
e d' annitrenti in guerra aspri polledri,
Italia madre,

madre di biade e viti e leggi eterne
ed incliti arti a raddolcir la vita
salve! a te i canti de l' antica lode
io rinovello.

Plaudono i monti al carme e i boschi e l' acque
de l' Umbria verde: in faccia a noi fumando
ed anelando nuove industrie in corsa
fischia il vapore.

And thou, O pious mother of unvanquished
Bullocks to break glebe, to restore the fallow,
And of fierce colts for neighing in the battle:
Italy, mother,

Mother of corn and vines and of eternal
Laws and illustrious arts the life to sweeten,
Hail, hail, all hail! The song of ancient praises
Renew I to thee!

The mountains, woods and waters of green Umbria
Applaud the song: and here before us fuming
And longing for new industries, a-racing
Whistles the white steam.

(I quote from a translation by Mr E.J. Watson, recently published by
Messrs J.W. Arrowsmith, of Bristol.)

I