On My Daughter'S Marriage

O born when over my poor roof did pass hope like a homeless, wandering nightingale, and I, disdainful of the present world, knocked fretful at the portals of the morrow;

now that I stand as at my journey's end, and see around my threshold flocking come, in turn, the jackdaws' noisy company, screaming their flattering plaudits at my door;

't is thou, my dove, dost steal thyself away, willing a new nest for thyself to weave beyond the Apennines, where thou may'st feel the native sweet air of the Tuscan hills.

Go then with love; go then with joy: O go with all thy pure white faith! The eye grows dim in gazing at the flying sail. Meanwhile my Camena is still and thinks,—

thinks of the days when thou, my little one, went gathering flowers beneath the acacia-trees, and she who led thee gently by the hand was reading visions fanciful in heaven,—

thinks of the days when over thy soft tresses were breathed in the wild ecstasy of freedom my strophes aimed against the oligarchs and the base cringing slaves of Italy.

Meanwhile didst thou grow on, a thoughtful virgin, and she our country with intrepid step began to climb the lofty heights of art, to plant thereon the flag of liberty.

Looks back and thinks!—Across the path of years With thee shall it be sweet one day to dream the old sweet dreams again, while gazing fondly upon the smiling faces of thy sons?

Or shall it be my better destiny to fight on till the sacred summons comes? Then, O my daughter, let no Beatrice my soul upon its heavenward flight attend,—

then, on that way where Homer of the Greeks and Christian Dante long ago did pass, there be thy gentle look my only guide, thy voice familiar all my company.