Mazzini

That he is dead the sons of kings are glad;

And in their beds the tyrants sounder sleep.

Now he is dead his martyrdom will reap

Late harvest of the palms it should have had

In life. Too late the tardy lands are sad.

His unclaimed crown in secret they will keep

For ages, while in chains they vainly weep,

And vainly grope to find the roads he bade

Them take. O glorious soul! there is no dearth

Of worlds. There must be many better worth

Thy presence and thy leadership than this.

No doubt, on some great sun to-day, thy birth

Is for a race, the dawn of Freedom's bliss,

Which but for thee it might for ages miss.