Chapter 2

Sec. But thou, though all were not well done, O chief, Must thou take shame or grief? Because one man is not as thou or ten, Must thou take shame for men? Because the supreme sunrise is not yet, Is the young dew not wet? Wilt thou not yet abide a little while, Soul without fear or guile, Mazzini,--O our prophet, O our priest, A little while at least? A little hour of doubt and of control, Sustain thy sacred soul; Withhold thine heart, our father, but an hour; Is it not here, the flower, Is it not blown and fragrant from the root, And shall not be the fruit? Thy children, even thy people thou hast made, Thine, with thy words arrayed, Clothed with thy thoughts and girt with thy desires, Yearn up toward thee as fires. Art thou not father, O father, of all these? From thine own Genoese To where of nights the lower extreme lagune Feels its Venetian moon, Nor suckling's mouth nor mother's breast set free But hath that grace through thee. The milk of life on death's unnatural brink Thou gavest them to drink, The natural milk of freedom; and again They drank, and they were men. The wine and honey of freedom and of faith They drank, and cast off death. Bear with them now; thou art holier: yet endure, Till they as thou be pure. Their swords at least that stemmed half Austria's tide Bade all its bulk divide; Else, though fate bade them for a breath's space fall, She had not fallen at all. Not by their hands they made time's promise true; Not by their hands, but through. Nor on Custoza ran their blood to waste, Nor fell their fame defaced Whom stormiest Adria with tumultuous tides Whirls undersea and hides. Not his, who from the sudden-settling deck Looked over death and wreck To where the mother's bosom shone, who smiled As he, so dying, her child; For he smiled surely, dying, to mix his death With her memorial breath; Smiled, being most sure of her, that in no wise, Die whoso will, she dies: And she smiled surely, fair and far above, Wept not, but smiled for love. Thou too, O splendour of the sudden sword That drove the crews abhorred From Naples and the siren-footed strand, Flash from thy master's hand, Shine from the middle summer of the seas To the old Aeolides, Outshine their fiery fumes of burning night, Sword, with thy midday light; Flame as a beacon from the Tyrrhene foam To the rent heart of Rome, From the island of her lover and thy lord, Her saviour and her sword. In the fierce year of failure and of fame, Art thou not yet the same That wast as lightning swifter than all wings In the blind face of kings? When priests took counsel to devise despair, And princes to forswear, She clasped thee, O her sword and flag-bearer And staff and shield to her, O Garibaldi; need was hers and grief, Of thee and of the chief, And of another girt in arms to stand As good of hope and hand, As high of soul and happy, albeit indeed The heart should burn and bleed, So but the spirit shake not nor the breast Swerve, but abide its rest. As theirs did and as thine, though ruin clomb The highest wall of Rome, Though treason stained and spilt her lustral water, And slaves led slaves to slaughter, And priests, praying and slaying, watched them pass From a strange France, alas, That was not freedom; yet when these were past Thy sword and thou stood fast, Till new men seeing thee where Sicilian waves Hear now no sound of slaves, And where thy sacred blood is fragrant still Upon the Bitter Hill, Seeing by that blood one country saved and stained, Less loved thee crowned than chained, And less now only than the chief: for he, Father of Italy, Upbore in holy hands the babe new-born Through loss and sorrow and scorn, Of no man led, of many men reviled; Till lo, the new-born child Gone from between his hands, and in its place, Lo, the fair mother's face. Blessed is he of all men, being in one As father to her and son, Blessed of all men living, that he found Her weak limbs bared and bound, And in his arms and in his bosom bore, And as a garment wore Her weight of want, and as a royal dress Put on her weariness. As in faith's hoariest histories men read, The strong man bore at need Through roaring rapids when all heaven was wild The likeness of a child That still waxed greater and heavier as he trod, And altered, and was God. Praise him, O winds that move the molten air, O light of days that were, And light of days that shall be; land and sea, And heaven and Italy: Praise him, O storm and summer, shore and wave, O skies and every grave; O weeping hopes, O memories beyond tears, O many and murmuring years, O sounds far off in time and visions far, O sorrow with thy star, And joy with all thy beacons; ye that mourn, And ye whose light is born; O fallen faces, and O souls arisen, Praise him from tomb and prison, Praise him from heaven and sunlight; and ye floods, And windy waves of woods; Ye valleys and wild vineyards, ye lit lakes And happier hillside brakes, Untrampled by the accursed feet that trod Fields golden from their god, Fields of their god forsaken, whereof none Sees his face in the sun, Hears his voice from the floweriest wildernesses; And, barren of his tresses, Ye bays unplucked and laurels unentwined, That no men break or bind, And myrtles long forgetful of the sword, And olives unadored, Wisdom and love, white hands that save and slay, Praise him; and ye as they, Praise him, O gracious might of dews and rains That feed the purple plains, O sacred sunbeams bright as bare steel drawn, O cloud and fire and dawn; Red hills of flame, white Alps, green Apennines, Banners of blowing pines, Standards of stormy snows, flags of light leaves, Three wherewith Freedom weaves One ensign that once woven and once unfurled Makes day of all a world, Makes blind their eyes who knew not, and outbraves The waste of iron waves; Ye fields of yellow fullness, ye fresh fountains, And mists of many mountains; Ye moons and seasons, and ye days and nights; Ye starry-headed heights, And gorges melting sunward from the snow, And all strong streams that flow, Tender as tears, and fair as faith, and pure As hearts made sad and sure At once by many sufferings and one love; O mystic deathless dove Held to the heart of earth and in her hands Cherished, O lily of lands, White rose of time, dear dream of praises past-- For such as these thou wast, That art as eagles setting to the sun, As fawns that leap and run, As a sword carven with keen floral gold, Sword for an armed god's hold, Flower for a crowned god's forehead--O our land, Reach forth thine holiest hand, O mother of many sons and memories, Stretch out thine hand to his That raised and gave thee life to run and leap When thou wast full of sleep, That touched and stung thee with young blood and breath When thou wast hard on death. Praise him, O all her cities and her crowns, Her towers and thrones of towns; O noblest Brescia, scarred from foot to head And breast-deep in thy dead, Praise him from all the glories of thy graves That yellow Mela laves With gentle and golden water, whose fair flood Ran wider with thy blood: Praise him, O born of that heroic breast, O nursed thereat and blest, Verona, fairer than thy mother fair, But not more brave to bear: Praise him, O Milan, whose imperial tread Bruised once the German head; Whose might, by northern swords left desolate, Set foot on fear and fate: Praise him, O long mute mouth of melodies, Mantua, with louder keys, With mightier chords of music even than rolled From the large harps of old, When thy sweet singer of golden throat and tongue, Praising his tyrant, sung; Though now thou sing not as of other days, Learn late a better praise. Not with the sick sweet lips of slaves that sing, Praise thou no priest or king, No brow-bound laurel of discoloured leaf, But him, the crownless chief. Praise him, O star of sun-forgotten times, Among their creeds and crimes That wast a fire of witness in the night, Padua, the wise men's light: Praise him, O sacred Venice, and the sea That now exults through thee, Full of the mighty morning and the sun, Free of things dead and done; Praise him from all the years of thy great grief, That shook thee like a leaf With winds and snows of torment, rain that fell Red as the rains of hell, Storms of black thunder and of yellow flame, And all ill things but shame; Praise him with all thy holy heart and strength; Through thy walls' breadth and length Praise him with all thy people, that their voice Bid the strong soul rejoice, The fair clear supreme spirit beyond stain, Pure as the depth of pain, High as the head of suffering, and secure As all things that endure. More than thy blind lord of an hundred years Whose name our memory hears, Home-bound from harbours of the Byzantine Made tributary of thine, Praise him who gave no gifts from oversea, But gave thyself to thee. O mother Genoa, through all years that run, More than that other son, Who first beyond the seals of sunset prest Even to the unfooted west, Whose back-blown flag scared from, their sheltering seas The unknown Atlantides, And as flame climbs through cloud and vapour clomb Through streams of storm and foam, Till half in sight they saw land heave and swim-- More than this man praise him. One found a world new-born from virgin sea; And one found Italy. O heavenliest Florence, from the mouths of flowers Fed by melodious hours, From each sweet mouth that kisses light and air, Thou whom thy fate made fair, As a bound vine or any flowering tree, Praise him who made thee free. For no grape-gatherers trampling out the wine Tread thee, the fairest vine; For no man binds thee, no man bruises, none Does with thee as these have done. From where spring hears loud through her long lit vales Triumphant nightingales, In many a fold of fiery foliage hidden, Withheld as things forbidden, But clamorous with innumerable delight In May's red, green, and white, In the far-floated standard of the spring, That bids men also sing, Our flower of flags, our witness that we are free, Our lamp for land and sea; From where Majano feels through corn and vine Spring move and melt as wine, And Fiesole's embracing arms enclose The immeasurable rose; From hill-sides plumed with pine, and heights wind-worn That feel the refluent morn, Or where the moon's face warm and passionate Burns, and men's hearts grow great, And the swoln eyelids labour with sweet tears, And in their burning ears Sound throbs like flame, and in their eyes new light Kindles the trembling night; From faint illumined fields and starry valleys Wherefrom the hill-wind sallies, From Vallombrosa, from Valdarno raise One Tuscan tune of praise. O lordly city of the field of death, Praise him with equal breath, From sleeping streets and gardens, and the stream That threads them as a dream Threads without light the untravelled ways of sleep With eyes that smile or weep; From the sweet sombre beauty of wave and wall That fades and does not fall; From coloured domes and cloisters fair with fame, Praise thou and thine his name. Thou too, O little laurelled town of towers, Clothed with the flame of flowers, From windy ramparts girdled with young gold, From thy sweet hillside fold Of wallflowers and the acacia's belted bloom And every blowing plume, Halls that saw Dante speaking, chapels fair As the outer hills and air, Praise him who feeds the fire that Dante fed, Our highest heroic head, Whose eyes behold through floated cloud and flame The maiden face of fame Like April's in Valdelsa; fair as flowers, And patient as the hours; Sad with slow sense of time, and bright with faith That levels life and death; The final fame, that with a foot sublime Treads down reluctant time; The fame that waits and watches and is wise, A virgin with chaste eyes, A goddess who takes hands with great men's grief; Praise her, and him, our chief. Praise him, O Siena, and thou her deep green spring, O Fonte Branda, sing: Shout from the red clefts of thy fiery crags, Shake out thy flying flags In the long wind that streams from hill to hill; Bid thy full music fill The desolate red waste of sunset air And fields the old time saw fair, But now the hours ring void through ruined lands, Wild work of mortal hands; Yet through thy dead Maremma let his name Take flight and pass in flame, And the red ruin of disastrous hours Shall quicken into flowers. Praise him, O fiery child of sun and sea, Naples, who bade thee be; For till he sent the swords that scourge and save, Thou wast not, but thy grave. But more than all these praise him and give thanks, Thou, from thy Tiber's banks, From all thine hills and from thy supreme dome, Praise him, O risen Rome. Let all thy children cities at thy knee Lift up their voice with thee, Saying 'for thy love's sake and our perished grief We laud thee, O our chief;' Saying 'for thine hand and help when hope was dead We thank thee, O our head;' Saying 'for thy voice and face within our sight We bless thee, O our light; For waters cleansing us from days defiled We praise thee, O our child.'

Sec. So with an hundred cities' mouths in one Praising thy supreme son, Son of thy sorrow, O mother, O maid and mother, Our queen, who serve none other, Our lady of pity and mercy, and full of grace, Turn otherwhere thy face, Turn for a little and look what things are these Now fallen before thy knees; Turn upon them thine eyes who hated thee, Behold what things they be, Italia: these are stubble that were steel, Dust, or a turning wheel; As leaves, as snow, as sand, that were so strong; And howl, for all their song, And wail, for all their wisdom; they that were So great, they are all stript bare, They are all made empty of beauty, and all abhorred; They are shivered and their sword; They are slain who slew, they are heartless who were wise; Yea, turn on these thine eyes, O thou, soliciting with soul sublime The obscure soul of time, Thou, with the wounds thy holy body bears From broken swords of theirs, Thou, with the sweet swoln eyelids that have bled Tears for thy thousands dead, And upon these, whose swords drank up like dew The sons of thine they slew, These, whose each gun blasted with murdering mouth Live flowers of thy fair south, These, whose least evil told in alien ears Turned men's whole blood to tears, These, whose least sin remembered for pure shame Turned all those tears to flame, Even upon these, when breaks the extreme blow And all the world cries woe, When heaven reluctant rains long-suffering fire On these and their desire, When his wind shakes them and his waters whelm Who rent thy robe and realm, When they that poured thy dear blood forth as wine Pour forth their own for thine, On these, on these have mercy: not in hate, But full of sacred fate, Strong from the shrine and splendid from the god, Smite, with no second rod. Because they spared not, do thou rather spare: Be not one thing they were. Let not one tongue of theirs who hate thee say That thou wast even as they. Because their hands were bloody, be thine white; Show light where they shed night: Because they are foul, be thou the rather pure; Because they are feeble, endure; Because they had no pity, have thou pity. And thou, O supreme city, O priestless Rome that shall be, take in trust Their names, their deeds, their dust, Who held life less than thou wert; be the least To thee indeed a priest, Priest and burnt-offering and blood-sacrifice Given without prayer or price, A holier immolation than men wist, A costlier eucharist, A sacrament more saving; bend thine head Above these many dead Once, and salute with thine eternal eyes Their lowest head that lies. Speak from thy lips of immemorial speech If but one word for each. Kiss but one kiss on each thy dead son's mouth Fallen dumb or north or south. And laying but once thine hand on brow and breast, Bless them, through whom thou art blest. And saying in ears of these thy dead, "Well done," Shall they not hear "O son"? And bowing thy face to theirs made pale for thee, Shall the shut eyes not see? Yea, through the hollow-hearted world of death, As light, as blood, as breath, Shall there not flash and flow the fiery sense, The pulse of prescience? Shall not these know as in times overpast Thee loftiest to the last? For times and wars shall change, kingdoms and creeds, And dreams of men, and deeds; Earth shall grow grey with all her golden things, Pale peoples and hoar kings; But though her thrones and towers of nations fall, Death has no part in all; In the air, nor in the imperishable sea, Nor heaven, nor truth, nor thee. Yea, let all sceptre-stricken nations lie, But live thou though they die; Let their flags fade as flowers that storm can mar, But thine be like a star; Let England's, if it float not for men free, Fall, and forget the sea; Let France's, if it shadow a hateful head, Drop as a leaf drops dead; Thine let what storm soever smite the rest Smite as it seems him best; Thine let the wind that can, by sea or land, Wrest from thy banner-hand. Die they in whom dies freedom, die and cease, Though the world weep for these; Live thou and love and lift when these lie dead The green and white and red.

Sec. O our Republic that shalt bind in bands The kingdomless far lands And link the chainless ages; thou that wast With England ere she past Among the faded nations, and shalt be Again, when sea to sea Calls through the wind and light of morning time, And throneless clime to clime Makes antiphonal answer; thou that art Where one man's perfect heart Burns, one man's brow is brightened for thy sake, Thine, strong to make or break; O fair Republic hallowing with stretched hands The limitless free lands, When all men's heads for love, not fear, bow down To thy sole royal crown, As thou to freedom; when man's life smells sweet, And at thy bright swift feet A bloodless and a bondless world is laid; Then, when thy men are made, Let these indeed as we in dreams behold One chosen of all thy fold, One of all fair things fairest, one exalt Above all fear or fault, One unforgetful of unhappier men And us who loved her then; With eyes that outlook suns and dream on graves; With voice like quiring waves; With heart the holier for their memories' sake Who slept that she might wake; With breast the sweeter for that sweet blood lost, And all the milkless cost; Lady of earth, whose large equality Bends but to her and thee; Equal with heaven, and infinite of years, And splendid from quenched tears; Strong with old strength of great things fallen and fled, Diviner for her dead; Chaste of all stains and perfect from all scars, Above all storms and stars, All winds that blow through time, all waves that foam, Our Capitolian Rome.

1867.

ODE ON THE PROCLAMATION OF THE FRENCH REPUBLIC

To: VICTOR HUGO

(Greek: ailenon ailenon eipe, to d' eu nikato)

STROPHE 1

With songs and crying and sounds of acclamations, Lo, the flame risen, the fire that falls in showers! Hark; for the word is out among the nations: Look; for the light is up upon the hours: O fears, O shames, O many tribulations, Yours were all yesterdays, but this day ours. Strong were your bonds linked fast with lamentations, With groans and tears built into walls and towers; Strong were your works and wonders of high stations, Your forts blood-based, and rampires of your powers: Lo now the last of divers desolations, The hand of time, that gathers hosts like flowers; Time, that fills up and pours out generations; Time, at whose breath confounded empire cowers.

STROPHE 2

What are these moving in the dawn's red gloom? What is she waited on by dread and doom, Ill ministers of morning, bondmen born of night? If that head veiled and bowed be morning's head, If she come walking between doom and dread, Who shall rise up with song and dance before her sight?

Are not the night's dead heaped about her feet? Is not death swollen, and slaughter full of meat? What, is their feast a bride-feast, where men sing and dance? A bitter, a bitter bride-song and a shrill Should the house raise that such bride-followers fill, Wherein defeat weds ruin, and takes for bride-bed France.

For nineteen years deep shame and sore desire Fed from men's hearts with hungering fangs of fire, And hope fell sick with famine for the food of change. Now is change come, but bringing funeral urns; Now is day nigh, but the dawn blinds and burns; Now time long dumb hath language, but the tongue is strange.

We that have seen her not our whole lives long, We to whose ears her dirge was cradle-song, The dirge men sang who laid in earth her living head, Is it by such light that we live to see Rise, with rent hair and raiment, Liberty? Does her grave open only to restore her dead?