I wrote a meditation and a dream,
 Hearing a little child sing in the street:
I leant upon his music as a theme,
 Till it gave way beneath my heart’s full beat
Which tried at an exultant prophecy
 But dropped before the measure was complete—
Alas, for songs and hearts! O Tuscany,
 O Dante’s Florence, is the type too plain?
Didst thou, too, only sing of liberty
 As little children take up a high strain
With unintentioned voices, and break off
 To sleep upon their mothers’ knees again?
Couldst thou not watch one hour? then, sleep enough—
 That sleep may hasten manhood and sustain
The faint pale spirit with some muscular stuff.
But we, who cannot slumber as thou dost,
 We thinkers, who have thought for thee and failed,
We hopers, who have hoped for thee and lost,
 We poets, wandered round by dreams, who hailed
From this Atrides’ roof (with lintel-post
 Which still drips blood,—the worse part hath prevailed)
The fire-voice of the beacons to declare
 Troy taken, sorrow ended,—cozened through
A crimson sunset in a misty air,
 What now remains for such as we, to do?
God’s judgments, peradventure, will He bare
 To the roots of thunder, if we kneel and sue?
From Casa Guidi windows I looked forth,
 And saw ten thousand eyes of Florentines
Flash back the triumph of the Lombard north,—
 Saw fifty banners, freighted with the signs
And exultations of the awakened earth,
 Float on above the multitude in lines,
Straight to the Pitti. So, the vision went.
 And so, between those populous rough hands
Raised in the sun, Duke Leopold outleant,
 And took the patriot’s oath which henceforth stands
Among the oaths of perjurers, eminent
 To catch the lightnings ripened for these lands.
Why swear at all, thou false Duke Leopold?
 What need to swear? What need to boast thy blood
Unspoilt of Austria, and thy heart unsold
 Away from Florence? It was understood
God made thee not too vigorous or too bold;
 And men had patience with thy quiet mood,
And women, pity, as they saw thee pace
 Their festive streets with premature grey hairs.
We turned the mild dejection of thy face
 To princely meanings, took thy wrinkling cares
For ruffling hopes, and called thee weak, not base.
 Nay, better light the torches for more prayers
And smoke the pale Madonnas at the shrine,
 Being still “our poor Grand-duke, our good Grand-duke,
Who cannot help the Austrian in his line,”—
 Than write an oath upon a nation’s book
For men to spit at with scorn’s blurring brine!
 Who dares forgive what none can overlook?
For me, I do repent me in this dust
 Of towns and temples which makes Italy,—
I sigh amid the sighs which breathe a gust
 Of dying century to century
Around us on the uneven crater-crust
 Of these old worlds,—I bow my soul and knee.
Absolve me, patriots, of my woman’s fault
 That ever I believed the man was true!
These sceptred strangers shun the common salt,
 And, therefore, when the general board’s in view
And they stand up to carve for blind and halt,
 The wise suspect the viands which ensue.
I much repent that, in this time and place
 Where many corpse-lights of experience burn
From Cæsar’s and Lorenzo’s festering race,
 To enlighten groping reasoners, I could learn
No better counsel for a simple case
 Than to put faith in princes, in my turn.
Had all the death-piles of the ancient years
 Flared up in vain before me? knew I not
What stench arises from some purple gears?
 And how the sceptres witness whence they got
Their briar-wood, crackling through the atmosphere’s
 Foul smoke, by princely perjuries, kept hot?
Forgive me, ghosts of patriots,—Brutus, thou,
 Who trailest downhill into life again
Thy blood-weighed cloak, to indict me with thy slow
 Reproachful eyes!—for being taught in vain
That, while the illegitimate Cæsars show
 Of meaner stature than the first full strain
(Confessed incompetent to conquer Gaul),
 They swoon as feebly and cross Rubicons
As rashly as any Julius of them all!
 Forgive, that I forgot the mind which runs
Through absolute races, too unsceptical!
 I saw the man among his little sons,
His lips were warm with kisses while he swore;
 And I, because I am a woman—I,
Who felt my own child’s coming life before
 The prescience of my soul, and held faith high,—
I could not bear to think, whoever bore,
 That lips, so warmed, could shape so cold a lie.
From Casa Guidi windows I looked out,
 Again looked, and beheld a different sight.
The Duke had fled before the people’s shout
 “Long live the Duke!” A people, to speak right,
Must speak as soft as courtiers, lest a doubt
 Should curdle brows of gracious sovereigns, white.
Moreover that same dangerous shouting meant
 Some gratitude for future favours, which
Were only promised, the Constituent
 Implied, the whole being subject to the hitch
In “motu proprios,” very incident
 To all these Czars, from Paul to Paulovitch.
Whereat the people rose up in the dust
 Of the ruler’s flying feet, and shouted still
And loudly; only, this time, as was just,
 Not “Live the Duke,” who had fled for good or ill,
But “Live the People,” who remained and must,
 The unrenounced and unrenounceable.
Long live the people! How they lived! and boiled
 And bubbled in the cauldron of the street:
How the young blustered, nor the old recoiled,
 And what a thunderous stir of tongues and feet
Trod flat the palpitating bells and foiled
 The joy-guns of their echo, shattering it!
How down they pulled the Duke’s arms everywhere!
 How up they set new café-signs, to show
Where patriots might sip ices in pure air—
 (The fresh paint smelling somewhat)! To and fro
How marched the civic guard, and stopped to stare
 When boys broke windows in a civic glow!
How rebel songs were sung to loyal tunes,
 And bishops cursed in ecclesiastic metres:
How all the Circoli grew large as moons,
 And all the speakers, moonstruck,—thankful greeters
Of prospects which struck poor the ducal boons,
A mere free Press, and Chambers!—frank repeaters
 Of great Guerazzi’s praises—“There’s a man,
The father of the land, who, truly great,
 Takes off that national disgrace and ban,
The farthing tax upon our Florence-gate,
 And saves Italia as he only can!”
How all the nobles fled, and would not wait,
 Because they were most noble,—which being so,
How Liberals vowed to burn their palaces,
 Because free Tuscans were not free to go!
How grown men raged at Austria’s wickedness,
 And smoked,—while fifty striplings in a row
Marched straight to Piedmont for the wrong’s redress!
 You say we failed in duty, we who wore
Black velvet like Italian democrats,
 Who slashed our sleeves like patriots, nor forswore
The true republic in the form of hats?
 We chased the archbishop from the Duomo door,
We chalked the walls with bloody caveats
 Against all tyrants. If we did not fight
Exactly, we fired muskets up the air
 To show that victory was ours of right.
We met, had free discussion everywhere
 (Except perhaps i’ the Chambers) day and night.
We proved the poor should be employed, ... that’s fair,—
 And yet the rich not worked for anywise,—
Pay certified, yet payers abrogated,—
 Full work secured, yet liabilities
To overwork excluded,—not one bated
 Of all our holidays, that still, at twice
Or thrice a week, are moderately rated.
 We proved that Austria was dislodged, or would
Or should be, and that Tuscany in arms
 Should, would dislodge her, ending the old feud;
And yet, to leave our piazzas, shops, and farms,
 For the simple sake of fighting, was not good—
We proved that also. “Did we carry charms
 Against being killed ourselves, that we should rush
On killing others? what, desert herewith
 Our wives and mothers?—was that duty? tush!”
At which we shook the sword within the sheath
 Like heroes—only louder; and the flush
Ran up the cheek to meet the future wreath.
 Nay, what we proved, we shouted—how we shouted
(Especially the boys did), boldly planting
 That tree of liberty, whose fruit is doubted,
Because the roots are not of nature’s granting!
 A tree of good and evil: none, without it,
Grow gods; alas and, with it, men are wanting!
O holy knowledge, holy liberty,
 O holy rights of nations! If I speak
These bitter things against the jugglery
 Of days that in your names proved blind and weak,
It is that tears are bitter. When we see
 The brown skulls grin at death in churchyards bleak,
We do not cry “This Yorick is too light,”
 For death grows deathlier with that mouth he makes.
So with my mocking: bitter things I write
 Because my soul is bitter for your sakes,
O freedom! O my Florence!
Men who might
 Do greatly in a universe that breaks
And burns, must ever know before they do.
 Courage and patience are but sacrifice;
And sacrifice is offered for and to
 Something conceived of. Each man pays a price
For what himself counts precious, whether true
 Or false the appreciation it implies.
But here,—no knowledge, no conception, nought!
 Desire was absent, that provides great deeds
From out the greatness of prevenient thought:
 And action, action, like a flame that needs
A steady breath and fuel, being caught
 Up, like a burning reed from other reeds,
Flashed in the empty and uncertain air,
 Then wavered, then went out. Behold, who blames
A crooked course, when not a goal is there
 To round the fervid striving of the games?
An ignorance of means may minister
 To greatness, but an ignorance of aims
Makes it impossible to be great at all.
 So with our Tuscans! Let none dare to say,
“Here virtue never can be national;
 Here fortitude can never cut a way
Between the Austrian muskets, out of thrall:”
 I tell you rather that, whoever may
Discern true ends here, shall grow pure enough
 To love them, brave enough to strive for them,
And strong to reach them though the roads be rough:
 That having learnt—by no mere apophthegm—
Not just the draping of a graceful stuff
 About a statue, broidered at the hem,—
Not just the trilling on an opera-stage
 Of “libertà” to bravos—(a fair word,
Yet too allied to inarticulate rage
 And breathless sobs, for singing, though the chord
Were deeper than they struck it) but the gauge
 Of civil wants sustained and wrongs abhorred,
The serious sacred meaning and full use
 Of freedom for a nation,—then, indeed,
Our Tuscans, underneath the bloody dews
 Of some new morning, rising up agreed
And bold, will want no Saxon souls or thews
 To sweep their piazzas clear of Austria’s breed.
Alas, alas! it was not so this time.
 Conviction was not, courage failed, and truth
Was something to be doubted of. The mime
 Changed masks, because a mime. The tide as smooth
In running in as out, no sense of crime
 Because no sense of virtue,—sudden ruth
Seized on the people: they would have again
 Their good Grand-duke and leave Guerazzi, though
He took that tax from Florence. “Much in vain
 He takes it from the market-carts, we trow,
While urgent that no market-men remain,
 But all march off and leave the spade and plough,
To die among the Lombards. Was it thus
 The dear paternal Duke did? Live the Duke!”
At which the joy-bells multitudinous,
 Swept by an opposite wind, as loudly shook.
Call back the mild archbishop to his house,
 To bless the people with his frightened look,—
He shall not yet be hanged, you comprehend!
 Seize on Guerazzi; guard him in full view,
Or else we stab him in the back, to end!
 Rub out those chalked devices, set up new
The Duke’s arms, doff your Phrygian caps, and men
 The pavement of the piazzas broke into
By barren poles of freedom: smooth the way
 For the ducal carriage, lest his highness sigh
“Here trees of liberty grew yesterday!”
 “Long live the Duke!”—how roared the cannonry,
How rocked the bell-towers, and through thickening spray
 Of nosegays, wreaths, and kerchiefs tossed on high,
How marched the civic guard, the people still
 Being good at shouts, especially the boys!
Alas, poor people, of an unfledged will
 Most fitly expressed by such a callow voice!
Alas, still poorer Duke, incapable
 Of being worthy even of so much noise!
You think he came back instantly, with thanks
 And tears in his faint eyes, and hands extended
To stretch the franchise through their utmost ranks?
 That having, like a father, apprehended,
He came to pardon fatherly those pranks
 Played out and now in filial service ended?—
That some love-token, like a prince, he threw
 To meet the people’s love-call, in return?
Well, how he came I will relate to you;
 And if your hearts should burn, why, hearts must burn,
To make the ashes which things old and new
 Shall be washed clean in—as this Duke will learn.
From Casa Guidi windows gazing, then,
 I saw and witness how the Duke came back.
The regular tramp of horse and tread of men
 Did smite the silence like an anvil black
And sparkless. With her wide eyes at full strain,
 Our Tuscan nurse exclaimed “Alack, alack,
Signora! these shall be the Austrians.” “Nay,
 Be still,” I answered, “do not wake the child!”
—For so, my two-months’ baby sleeping lay
 In milky dreams upon the bed and smiled,
And I thought “He shall sleep on, while he may,
 Through the world’s baseness: not being yet defiled,
Why should he be disturbed by what is done?”
 Then, gazing, I beheld the long-drawn street
Live out, from end to end, full in the sun,
 With Austria’s thousand; sword and bayonet,
Horse, foot, artillery,—cannons rolling on
 Like blind slow storm-clouds gestant with the heat
Of undeveloped lightnings, each bestrode
 By a single man, dust-white from head to heel,
Indifferent as the dreadful thing he rode,
 Like a sculptured Fate serene and terrible.
As some smooth river which has overflowed
 Will slow and silent down its current wheel
A loosened forest, all the pines erect,
 So swept, in mute significance of storm,
The marshalled thousands; not an eye deflect
 To left or right, to catch a novel form
Of Florence city adorned by architect
 And carver, or of Beauties live and warm
Scared at the casements,—all, straightforward eyes
 And faces, held as steadfast as their swords,
And cognizant of acts, not imageries.
 The key, O Tuscans, too well fits the wards!
Ye asked for mimes,—these bring you tragedies:
 For purple,—these shall wear it as your lords.
Ye played like children,—die like innocents.
 Ye mimicked lightnings with a torch,—the crack
Of the actual bolt, your pastime circumvents.
 Ye called up ghosts, believing they were slack
To follow any voice from Gilboa’s tents, ...
 Here’s Samuel!—and, so, Grand-dukes come back!
And yet, they are no prophets though they come:
 That awful mantle, they are drawing close,
Shall be searched, one day, by the shafts of Doom
 Through double folds now hoodwinking the brows.
Resuscitated monarchs disentomb
 Grave-reptiles with them, in their new life-throes.
Let such beware. Behold, the people waits,
 Like God: as He, in His serene of might,
So they, in their endurance of long straits.
 Ye stamp no nation out, though day and night
Ye tread them with that absolute heel which grates
 And grinds them flat from all attempted height.
You kill worms sooner with a garden-spade
 Than you kill peoples: peoples will not die;
The tail curls stronger when you lop the head:
 They writhe at every wound and multiply
And shudder into a heap of life that’s made
 Thus vital from God’s own vitality.
’T is hard to shrivel back a day of God’s
 Once fixed for judgment: ’t is as hard to change
The peoples, when they rise beneath their loads
 And heave them from their backs with violent wrench
To crush the oppressor; for that judgment-rod’s
 The measure of this popular revenge.
Meanwhile, from Casa Guidi windows, we
 Beheld the armament of Austria flow
Into the drowning heart of Tuscany:
 And yet none wept, none cursed, or, if ’t was so,
They wept and cursed in silence. Silently
 Our noisy Tuscans watched the invading foe;
They had learnt silence. Pressed against the wall,
 And grouped upon the church-steps opposite,
A few pale men and women stared at all.
 God knows what they were feeling, with their white
Constrainèd faces, they, so prodigal
 Of cry and gesture when the world goes right,
Or wrong indeed. But here was depth of wrong,
 And here, still water; they were silent here;
And through that sentient silence, struck along
 That measured tramp from which it stood out clear,
Distinct the sound and silence, like a gong
 At midnight, each by the other awfuller,—
While every soldier in his cap displayed
 A leaf of olive. Dusty, bitter thing!
Was such plucked at Novara, is it said?
A cry is up in England, which doth ring
 The hollow world through, that for ends of trade
And virtue and God’s better worshipping,
 We henceforth should exalt the name of Peace
And leave those rusty wars that eat the soul,—
 Besides their clippings at our golden fleece.
I, too, have loved peace, and from bole to bole
 Of immemorial undeciduous trees
Would write, as lovers use upon a scroll,
 The holy name of Peace and set it high
Where none could pluck it down. On trees, I say,—
 Not upon gibbets!—With the greenery
Of dewy branches and the flowery May,
 Sweet mediation betwixt earth and sky
Providing, for the shepherd’s holiday.
 Not upon gibbets! though the vulture leaves
The bones to quiet, which he first picked bare.
 Not upon dungeons! though the wretch who grieves
And groans within less stirs the outer air
 Than any little field-mouse stirs the sheaves.
Not upon chain-bolts! though the slave’s despair
 Has dulled his helpless miserable brain
And left him blank beneath the freeman’s whip
 To sing and laugh out idiocies of pain.
Nor yet on starving homes! where many a lip
 Has sobbed itself asleep through curses vain.
I love no peace which is not fellowship
 And which includes not mercy. I would have
Rather the raking of the guns across
 The world, and shrieks against Heaven’s architrave;
Rather the struggle in the slippery fosse
 Of dying men and horses, and the wave
Blood-bubbling.... Enough said!—by Christ’s own cross,
 And by this faint heart of my womanhood,
Such things are better than a Peace that sits
 Beside a hearth in self-commended mood,
And takes no thought how wind and rain by fits
 Are howling out of doors against the good
Of the poor wanderer. What! your peace admits
 Of outside anguish while it keeps at home?
I loathe to take its name upon my tongue.
 ’T is nowise peace: ’t is treason, stiff with doom,—
’T is gagged despair and inarticulate wrong,—
 Annihilated Poland, stifled Rome,
Dazed Naples, Hungary fainting ’neath the thong,
 And Austria wearing a smooth olive-leaf
On her brute forehead, while her hoofs outpress
 The life from these Italian souls, in brief.
O Lord of Peace, who art Lord of Righteousness,
 Constrain the anguished worlds from sin and grief,
Pierce them with conscience, purge them with redress,
 And give us peace which is no counterfeit!
But wherefore should we look out any more
 From Casa Guidi windows? Shut them straight,
And let us sit down by the folded door,
 And veil our saddened faces and, so, wait
What next the judgment-heavens make ready for.
 I have grown too weary of these windows. Sights
Come thick enough and clear enough in thought,
 Without the sunshine; souls have inner lights.
And since the Grand-duke has come back and brought
 This army of the North which thus requites
His filial South, we leave him to be taught.
 His South, too, has learnt something certainly,
Whereof the practice will bring profit soon;
 And peradventure other eyes may see,
From Casa Guidi windows, what is done
 Or undone. Whatsoever deeds they be,
Pope Pius will be glorified in none.
 Record that gain, Mazzini!—it shall top
Some heights of sorrow. Peter’s rock, so named,
 Shall lure no vessel any more to drop
Among the breakers. Peter’s chair is shamed
 Like any vulgar throne the nations lop
To pieces for their firewood unreclaimed,—
 And, when it burns too, we shall see as well
In Italy as elsewhere. Let it burn.
 The cross, accounted still adorable,
Is Christ’s cross only!—if the thief’s would earn
 Some stealthy genuflexions, we rebel;
And here the impenitent thief’s has had its turn,
 As God knows; and the people on their knees
Scoff and toss back the crosiers stretched like yokes
 To press their heads down lower by degrees.
So Italy, by means of these last strokes,
 Escapes the danger which preceded these,
Of leaving captured hands in cloven oaks,—
 Of leaving very souls within the buckle
Whence bodies struggled outward,—of supposing
 That freemen may like bondsmen kneel and truckle,
And then stand up as usual, without losing
 An inch of stature.
   Those whom she-wolves suckle
Will bite as wolves do in the grapple-closing
 Of adverse interests. This at last is known
(Thank Pius for the lesson), that albeit
 Among the popedom’s hundred heads of stone
Which blink down on you from the roof’s retreat
 In Siena’s tiger-striped cathedral, Joan
And Borgia ’mid their fellows you may greet,
 A harlot and a devil,—you will see
Not a man, still less angel, grandly set
 With open soul to render man more free.
The fishers are still thinking of the net,
 And, if not thinking of the hook too, we
Are counted somewhat deeply in their debt;
 But that’s a rare case—so, by hook and crook
They take the advantage, agonizing Christ
 By rustier nails than those of Cedron’s brook,
I’ the people’s body very cheaply priced,—
 And quote high priesthood out of Holy book,
While buying death-fields with the sacrificed.
Priests, priests,—there’s no such name!—God’s own, except
 Ye take most vainly. Through heaven’s lifted gate
The priestly ephod in sole glory swept
 When Christ ascended, entered in, and sate
(With victor face sublimely overwept)
 At Deity’s right hand, to mediate,
He alone, He for ever. On His breast
 The Urim and the Thummim, fed with fire
From the full Godhead, flicker with the unrest
 Of human pitiful heart-beats. Come up higher,
All Christians! Levi’s tribe is dispossest.
 That solitary alb ye shall admire,
But not cast lots for. The last chrism, poured right,
 Was on that Head, and poured for burial
And not for domination in men’s sight.
 What are these churches? The old temple-wall
Doth overlook them juggling with the sleight
 Of surplice, candlestick and altar-pall;
East church and west church, ay, north church and south,
 Rome’s church and England’s,—let them all repent,
And make concordats ’twixt their soul and mouth,
 Succeed Saint Paul by working at the tent,
Become infallible guides by speaking truth,
 And excommunicate their pride that bent
And cramped the souls of men.
   Why, even here
Priestcraft burns out, the twinèd linen blazes;
 Not, like asbestos, to grow white and clear,
But all to perish!—while the fire-smell raises
 To life some swooning spirits who, last year,
Lost breath and heart in these church-stifled places.
 Why, almost, through this Pius, we believed
The priesthood could be an honest thing, he smiled
 So saintly while our corn was being sheaved
For his own granaries! Showing now defiled
 His hireling hands, a better help’s achieved
Than if they blessed us shepherd-like and mild.
 False doctrine, strangled by its own amen,
Dies in the throat of all this nation. Who
 Will speak a pope’s name as they rise again?
What woman or what child will count him true?
 What dreamer praise him with the voice or pen?
What man fight for him?—Pius takes his due.
Record that gain, Mazzini!—Yes, but first
 Set down thy people’s faults; set down the want
Of soul-conviction; set down aims dispersed,
 And incoherent means, and valour scant
Because of scanty faith, and schisms accursed
 That wrench these brother-hearts from covenant
With freedom and each other. Set down this,
 And this, and see to overcome it when
The seasons bring the fruits thou wilt not miss
 If wary. Let no cry of patriot men
Distract thee from the stern analysis
 Of masses who cry only! keep thy ken
Clear as thy soul is virtuous. Heroes’ blood
 Splashed up against thy noble brow in Rome;
Let such not blind thee to an interlude
 Which was not also holy, yet did come
’Twixt sacramental actions,—brotherhood
 Despised even there, and something of the doom
Of Remus in the trenches. Listen now—
 Rossi died silent near where Cæsar died.
HE did not say “My Brutus, is it thou?”
 But Italy unquestioned testified
“I killed him! I am Brutus.—I avow.”
 At which the whole world’s laugh of scorn replied
“A poor maimed copy of Brutus!”
Too much like,
 Indeed, to be so unlike! too unskilled
At Philippi and the honest battle-pike,
 To be so skilful where a man is killed
Near Pompey’s statue, and the daggers strike
 At unawares i’ the throat. Was thus fulfilled
An omen once of Michel Angelo?—
 When Marcus Brutus he conceived complete,
And strove to hurl him out by blow on blow
 Upon the marble, at Art’s thunderheat,
Till haply (some pre-shadow rising slow
 Of what his Italy would fancy meet
To be called Brutus) straight his plastic hand
 Fell back before his prophet-soul, and left
A fragment, a maimed Brutus,—but more grand
 Than this, so named at Rome, was!
   Let thy weft
Present one woof and warp, Mazzini! Stand
 With no man hankering for a dagger’s heft,
No, not for Italy!—nor stand apart,
 No, not for the Republic!—from those pure
Brave men who hold the level of thy heart
 In patriot truth, as lover and as doer,
Albeit they will not follow where thou art
 As extreme theorist. Trust and distrust fewer;
And so bind strong and keep unstained the cause
 Which (God’s sign granted) war-trumps newly blown
Shall yet annunciate to the world’s applause.
But now, the world is busy; it has grown
 A Fair-going world. Imperial England draws
The flowing ends of the earth from Fez, Canton,
 Delhi and Stockholm, Athens and Madrid,
The Russias and the vast Americas,
 As if a queen drew in her robes amid
Her golden cincture,—isles, peninsulas,
 Capes, continents, far inland countries hid
By jasper-sands and hills of chrysopras,
 All trailing in their splendours through the door
Of the gorgeous Crystal Palace. Every nation,
 To every other nation strange of yore,
Gives face to face the civic salutation,
 And holds up in a proud right hand before
That congress the best work which she can fashion
 By her best means. “These corals, will you please
To match against your oaks? They grow as fast
 Within my wilderness of purple seas.”—
“This diamond stared upon me as I passed
 (As a live god’s eye from a marble frieze)
Along a dark of diamonds. Is it classed?”—
 “I wove these stuffs so subtly that the gold
Swims to the surface of the silk like cream
And curdles to fair patterns. Ye behold!”—
 “These delicatest muslins rather seem
Than be, you think? Nay, touch them and be bold,
 Though such veiled Chakhi’s face in Hafiz’ dream.”—
“These carpets—you walk slow on them like kings,
 Inaudible like spirits, while your foot
Dips deep in velvet roses and such things.”—
 “Even Apollonius might commend this flute:
The music, winding through the stops, upsprings
 To make the player very rich: compute!”
“Here’s goblet-glass, to take in with your wine
 The very sun its grapes were ripened under:
Drink light and juice together, and each fine.”—
 “This model of a steamship moves your wonder?
You should behold it crushing down the brine
 Like a blind Jove who feels his way with thunder.”—
“Here’s sculpture! Ah, we live too! why not throw
 Our life into our marbles? Art has place
For other artists after Angelo.”—
“I tried to paint out here a natural face;
 For nature includes Raffael, as we know,
Not Raffael nature. Will it help my case?”—
 “Methinks you will not match this steel of ours!”—
“Nor you this porcelain! One might dream the clay
 Retained in it the larvæ of the flowers,
They bud so, round the cup, the old Spring-way.”—
 “Nor you these carven woods, where birds in bowers
With twisting snakes and climbing cupids, play.”
O Magi of the east and of the west,
 Your incense, gold and myrrh are excellent!—
What gifts for Christ, then, bring ye with the rest?
 Your hands have worked well: is your courage spent
In handwork only? Have you nothing best,
 Which generous souls may perfect and present,
And He shall thank the givers for? no light
 Of teaching, liberal nations, for the poor
Who sit in darkness when it is not night?
 No cure for wicked children? Christ,—no cure!
No help for women sobbing out of sight
 Because men made the laws? no brothel-lure
Burnt out by popular lightnings? Hast thou four
 No remedy, my England, for such woes?
No outlet, Austria, for the scourged and bound,
 No entrance for the exiled? no repose,
Russia, for knouted Poles worked underground,
And gentle ladies bleached among the snows?
 No mercy for the slave, America?
No hope for Rome, free France, chivalric France?
 Alas, great nations have great shames, I say.
No pity, O world, no tender utterance
 Of benediction, and prayers stretched this way
For poor Italia, baffled by mischance?
 O gracious nations, give some ear to me!
You all go to your Fair, and I am one
 Who at the roadside of humanity
Beseech your alms,—God’s justice to be done.
 So, prosper!
     In the name of Italy,
Meantime, her patriot Dead have benison.
 They only have done well; and, what they did
Being perfect, it shall triumph. Let them slumber:
 No king of Egypt in a pyramid
Is safer from oblivion, though he number
 Full seventy cerements for a coverlid.
These Dead be seeds of life, and shall encumber
 The sad heart of the land until it loose
The clammy clods and let out the Spring-growth
 In beatific green through every bruise.
The tyrant should take heed to what he doth,
 Since every victim-carrion turns to use,
And drives a chariot, like a god made wroth,
 Against each piled injustice. Ay, the least,
Dead for Italia, not in vain has died;
 Though many vainly, ere life’s struggle ceased,
To mad dissimilar ends have swerved aside;
 Each grave her nationality has pieced
By its own majestic breadth, and fortified
 And pinned it deeper to the soil. Forlorn
Of thanks be, therefore, no one of these graves!
 Not Hers,—who, at her husband’s side, in scorn,
Outfaced the whistling shot and hissing waves,
 Until she felt her little babe unborn
Recoil, within her, from the violent staves
 And bloodhounds of the world,—at which, her life
Dropt inwards from her eyes and followed it
 Beyond the hunters. Garibaldi’s wife
And child died so. And now, the seaweeds fit
 Her body, like a proper shroud and coif,
And murmurously the ebbing waters grit
 The little pebbles while she lies interred
In the sea-sand. Perhaps, ere dying thus,
 She looked up in his face (which never stirred
From its clenched anguish) as to make excuse
 For leaving him for his, if so she erred.
He well remembers that she could not choose.
 A memorable grave! Another is
At Genoa. There, a king may fitly lie,
 Who, bursting that heroic heart of his
At lost Novara, that he could not die
 (Though thrice into the cannon’s eyes for this
He plunged his shuddering steed, and felt the sky
 Reel back between the fire-shocks), stripped away
The ancestral ermine ere the smoke had cleared,
 And, naked to the soul, that none might say
His kingship covered what was base and bleared
 With treason, went out straight an exile, yea,
An exiled patriot. Let him be revered.
Yea, verily, Charles Albert has died well;
 And if he lived not all so, as one spoke,
The sin pass softly with the passing-bell;
 For he was shriven, I think, in cannon-smoke,
And, taking off his crown, made visible
 A hero’s forehead. Shaking Austria’s yoke
He shattered his own hand and heart. “So best,”
 His last words were upon his lonely bed,
I do not end like popes and dukes at least—
 “Thank God for it.” And now that he is dead,
Admitting it is proved and manifest
 That he was worthy, with a discrowned head,
To measure heights with patriots, let them stand
 Beside the man in his Oporto shroud,
And each vouchsafe to take him by the hand,
 And kiss him on the cheek, and say aloud,—
“Thou, too, hast suffered for our native land!
 My brother, thou art one of us! be proud.”
Still, graves, when Italy is talked upon.
 Still, still, the patriot’s tomb, the stranger’s hate.
Still Niobe! still fainting in the sun,
 By whose most dazzling arrows violate
Her beauteous offspring perished! has she won
 Nothing but garlands for the graves, from Fate?
Nothing but death-songs?—Yes, be it understood
 Life throbs in noble Piedmont! while the feet
Of Rome’s clay image, dabbled soft in blood,
 Grow flat with dissolution and, as meet,
Will soon be shovelled off like other mud,
 To leave the passage free in church and street.
And I, who first took hope up in this song,
 Because a child was singing one ... behold,
The hope and omen were not, haply, wrong!
 Poets are soothsayers still, like those of old
Who studied flights of doves; and creatures young
 And tender, mighty meanings may unfold.
The sun strikes, through the windows, up the floor;
 Stand out in it, my own young Florentine,
Not two years old, and let me see thee more!
 It grows along thy amber curls, to shine
Brighter than elsewhere. Now, look straight before,
 And fix thy brave blue English eyes on mine,
And from my soul, which fronts the future so,
 With unabashed and unabated gaze,
Teach me to hope for, what the angels know
 When they smile clear as thou dost. Down God’s ways
With just alighted feet, between the snow
 And snowdrops, where a little lamb may graze,
Thou hast no fear, my lamb, about the road,
 Albeit in our vain-glory we assume
That, less than we have, thou hast learnt of God.
 Stand out, my blue-eyed prophet!—thou, to whom
The earliest world-day light that ever flowed,
 Through Casa Guidi Windows chanced to come!
Now shake the glittering nimbus of thy hair,
 And be God’s witness that the elemental
New springs of life are gushing everywhere
 To cleanse the watercourses, and prevent all
Concrete obstructions which infest the air!
 That earth’s alive, and gentle or ungentle
Motions within her, signify but growth!—
 The ground swells greenest o’er the labouring moles.
Howe’er the uneasy world is vexed and wroth,
 Young children, lifted high on parent souls,
Look round them with a smile upon the mouth,
 And take for music every bell that tolls;
(Who said we should be better if like these?)
 But we sit murmuring for the future though
Posterity is smiling on our knees,
 Convicting us of folly. Let us go—
We will trust God. The blank interstices
 Men take for ruins, He will build into
With pillared marbles rare, or knit across
 With generous arches, till the fane’s complete.
This world has no perdition, if some loss.
Such cheer I gather from thy smiling, Sweet!
 The self-same cherub-faces which emboss
The Vail, lean inward to the Mercy-seat.
