Casa Guidi Windows 2

I wrote a meditation and a dream,
&nbspHearing a little child sing in the street:
I leant upon his music as a theme,
&nbspTill it gave way beneath my heart’s full beat
Which tried at an exultant prophecy
&nbspBut dropped before the measure was complete—
Alas, for songs and hearts! O Tuscany,
&nbspO Dante’s Florence, is the type too plain?
Didst thou, too, only sing of liberty
&nbspAs little children take up a high strain
With unintentioned voices, and break off
&nbspTo sleep upon their mothers’ knees again?
Couldst thou not watch one hour? then, sleep enough—
&nbspThat sleep may hasten manhood and sustain
The faint pale spirit with some muscular stuff.

But we, who cannot slumber as thou dost,
&nbspWe thinkers, who have thought for thee and failed,
We hopers, who have hoped for thee and lost,
&nbspWe poets, wandered round by dreams, who hailed
From this Atrides’ roof (with lintel-post
&nbspWhich still drips blood,—the worse part hath prevailed)
The fire-voice of the beacons to declare
&nbspTroy taken, sorrow ended,—cozened through
A crimson sunset in a misty air,
&nbspWhat now remains for such as we, to do?
God’s judgments, peradventure, will He bare
&nbspTo the roots of thunder, if we kneel and sue?

From Casa Guidi windows I looked forth,
&nbspAnd saw ten thousand eyes of Florentines
Flash back the triumph of the Lombard north,—
&nbspSaw fifty banners, freighted with the signs
And exultations of the awakened earth,
&nbspFloat on above the multitude in lines,
Straight to the Pitti. So, the vision went.
&nbspAnd so, between those populous rough hands
Raised in the sun, Duke Leopold outleant,
&nbspAnd took the patriot’s oath which henceforth stands
Among the oaths of perjurers, eminent
&nbspTo catch the lightnings ripened for these lands.

Why swear at all, thou false Duke Leopold?
&nbspWhat need to swear? What need to boast thy blood
Unspoilt of Austria, and thy heart unsold
&nbspAway from Florence? It was understood
God made thee not too vigorous or too bold;
&nbspAnd men had patience with thy quiet mood,
And women, pity, as they saw thee pace
&nbspTheir festive streets with premature grey hairs.
We turned the mild dejection of thy face
&nbspTo princely meanings, took thy wrinkling cares
For ruffling hopes, and called thee weak, not base.
&nbspNay, better light the torches for more prayers
And smoke the pale Madonnas at the shrine,
&nbspBeing still “our poor Grand-duke, our good Grand-duke,
Who cannot help the Austrian in his line,”—
&nbspThan write an oath upon a nation’s book
For men to spit at with scorn’s blurring brine!
&nbspWho dares forgive what none can overlook?

For me, I do repent me in this dust
&nbspOf towns and temples which makes Italy,—
I sigh amid the sighs which breathe a gust
&nbspOf dying century to century
Around us on the uneven crater-crust
&nbspOf these old worlds,—I bow my soul and knee.
Absolve me, patriots, of my woman’s fault
&nbspThat ever I believed the man was true!
These sceptred strangers shun the common salt,
&nbspAnd, therefore, when the general board’s in view
And they stand up to carve for blind and halt,
&nbspThe wise suspect the viands which ensue.
I much repent that, in this time and place
&nbspWhere many corpse-lights of experience burn
From Cæsar’s and Lorenzo’s festering race,
&nbspTo enlighten groping reasoners, I could learn
No better counsel for a simple case
&nbspThan to put faith in princes, in my turn.
Had all the death-piles of the ancient years
&nbspFlared up in vain before me? knew I not
What stench arises from some purple gears?
&nbspAnd how the sceptres witness whence they got
Their briar-wood, crackling through the atmosphere’s
&nbspFoul smoke, by princely perjuries, kept hot?
Forgive me, ghosts of patriots,—Brutus, thou,
&nbspWho trailest downhill into life again
Thy blood-weighed cloak, to indict me with thy slow
&nbspReproachful eyes!—for being taught in vain
That, while the illegitimate Cæsars show
&nbspOf meaner stature than the first full strain
(Confessed incompetent to conquer Gaul),
&nbspThey swoon as feebly and cross Rubicons
As rashly as any Julius of them all!
&nbspForgive, that I forgot the mind which runs
Through absolute races, too unsceptical!
&nbspI saw the man among his little sons,
His lips were warm with kisses while he swore;
&nbspAnd I, because I am a woman—I,
Who felt my own child’s coming life before
&nbspThe prescience of my soul, and held faith high,—
I could not bear to think, whoever bore,
&nbspThat lips, so warmed, could shape so cold a lie.

From Casa Guidi windows I looked out,
&nbspAgain looked, and beheld a different sight.
The Duke had fled before the people’s shout
&nbsp“Long live the Duke!” A people, to speak right,
Must speak as soft as courtiers, lest a doubt
&nbspShould curdle brows of gracious sovereigns, white.
Moreover that same dangerous shouting meant
&nbspSome gratitude for future favours, which
Were only promised, the Constituent
&nbspImplied, the whole being subject to the hitch
In “motu proprios,” very incident
&nbspTo all these Czars, from Paul to Paulovitch.
Whereat the people rose up in the dust
&nbspOf the ruler’s flying feet, and shouted still
And loudly; only, this time, as was just,
&nbspNot “Live the Duke,” who had fled for good or ill,
But “Live the People,” who remained and must,
&nbspThe unrenounced and unrenounceable.
Long live the people! How they lived! and boiled
&nbspAnd bubbled in the cauldron of the street:
How the young blustered, nor the old recoiled,
&nbspAnd what a thunderous stir of tongues and feet
Trod flat the palpitating bells and foiled
&nbspThe joy-guns of their echo, shattering it!
How down they pulled the Duke’s arms everywhere!
&nbspHow up they set new café-signs, to show
Where patriots might sip ices in pure air—
&nbsp(The fresh paint smelling somewhat)! To and fro
How marched the civic guard, and stopped to stare
&nbspWhen boys broke windows in a civic glow!
How rebel songs were sung to loyal tunes,
&nbspAnd bishops cursed in ecclesiastic metres:
How all the Circoli grew large as moons,
&nbspAnd all the speakers, moonstruck,—thankful greeters
Of prospects which struck poor the ducal boons,
A mere free Press, and Chambers!—frank repeaters
&nbspOf great Guerazzi’s praises—“There’s a man,
The father of the land, who, truly great,
&nbspTakes off that national disgrace and ban,
The farthing tax upon our Florence-gate,
&nbspAnd saves Italia as he only can!”
How all the nobles fled, and would not wait,
&nbspBecause they were most noble,—which being so,
How Liberals vowed to burn their palaces,
&nbspBecause free Tuscans were not free to go!
How grown men raged at Austria’s wickedness,
&nbspAnd smoked,—while fifty striplings in a row
Marched straight to Piedmont for the wrong’s redress!
&nbspYou say we failed in duty, we who wore
Black velvet like Italian democrats,
&nbspWho slashed our sleeves like patriots, nor forswore
The true republic in the form of hats?
&nbspWe chased the archbishop from the Duomo door,
We chalked the walls with bloody caveats
&nbspAgainst all tyrants. If we did not fight
Exactly, we fired muskets up the air
&nbspTo show that victory was ours of right.
We met, had free discussion everywhere
&nbsp(Except perhaps i’ the Chambers) day and night.
We proved the poor should be employed, ... that’s fair,—
&nbspAnd yet the rich not worked for anywise,—
Pay certified, yet payers abrogated,—
&nbspFull work secured, yet liabilities
To overwork excluded,—not one bated
&nbspOf all our holidays, that still, at twice
Or thrice a week, are moderately rated.
&nbspWe proved that Austria was dislodged, or would
Or should be, and that Tuscany in arms
&nbspShould, would dislodge her, ending the old feud;
And yet, to leave our piazzas, shops, and farms,
&nbspFor the simple sake of fighting, was not good—
We proved that also. “Did we carry charms
&nbspAgainst being killed ourselves, that we should rush
On killing others? what, desert herewith
&nbspOur wives and mothers?—was that duty? tush!”
At which we shook the sword within the sheath
&nbspLike heroes—only louder; and the flush
Ran up the cheek to meet the future wreath.
&nbspNay, what we proved, we shouted—how we shouted
(Especially the boys did), boldly planting
&nbspThat tree of liberty, whose fruit is doubted,
Because the roots are not of nature’s granting!
&nbspA tree of good and evil: none, without it,
Grow gods; alas and, with it, men are wanting!

O holy knowledge, holy liberty,
&nbspO holy rights of nations! If I speak
These bitter things against the jugglery
&nbspOf days that in your names proved blind and weak,
It is that tears are bitter. When we see
&nbspThe brown skulls grin at death in churchyards bleak,
We do not cry “This Yorick is too light,”
&nbspFor death grows deathlier with that mouth he makes.
So with my mocking: bitter things I write
&nbspBecause my soul is bitter for your sakes,
O freedom! O my Florence!

Men who might
&nbspDo greatly in a universe that breaks
And burns, must ever know before they do.
&nbspCourage and patience are but sacrifice;
And sacrifice is offered for and to
&nbspSomething conceived of. Each man pays a price
For what himself counts precious, whether true
&nbspOr false the appreciation it implies.
But here,—no knowledge, no conception, nought!
&nbspDesire was absent, that provides great deeds
From out the greatness of prevenient thought:
&nbspAnd action, action, like a flame that needs
A steady breath and fuel, being caught
&nbspUp, like a burning reed from other reeds,
Flashed in the empty and uncertain air,
&nbspThen wavered, then went out. Behold, who blames
A crooked course, when not a goal is there
&nbspTo round the fervid striving of the games?
An ignorance of means may minister
&nbspTo greatness, but an ignorance of aims
Makes it impossible to be great at all.
&nbspSo with our Tuscans! Let none dare to say,
“Here virtue never can be national;
&nbspHere fortitude can never cut a way
Between the Austrian muskets, out of thrall:”
&nbspI tell you rather that, whoever may
Discern true ends here, shall grow pure enough
&nbspTo love them, brave enough to strive for them,
And strong to reach them though the roads be rough:
&nbspThat having learnt—by no mere apophthegm—
Not just the draping of a graceful stuff
&nbspAbout a statue, broidered at the hem,—
Not just the trilling on an opera-stage
&nbspOf “libertà” to bravos—(a fair word,
Yet too allied to inarticulate rage
&nbspAnd breathless sobs, for singing, though the chord
Were deeper than they struck it) but the gauge
&nbspOf civil wants sustained and wrongs abhorred,
The serious sacred meaning and full use
&nbspOf freedom for a nation,—then, indeed,
Our Tuscans, underneath the bloody dews
&nbspOf some new morning, rising up agreed
And bold, will want no Saxon souls or thews
&nbspTo sweep their piazzas clear of Austria’s breed.

Alas, alas! it was not so this time.
&nbspConviction was not, courage failed, and truth
Was something to be doubted of. The mime
&nbspChanged masks, because a mime. The tide as smooth
In running in as out, no sense of crime
&nbspBecause no sense of virtue,—sudden ruth
Seized on the people: they would have again
&nbspTheir good Grand-duke and leave Guerazzi, though
He took that tax from Florence. “Much in vain
&nbspHe takes it from the market-carts, we trow,
While urgent that no market-men remain,
&nbspBut all march off and leave the spade and plough,
To die among the Lombards. Was it thus
&nbspThe dear paternal Duke did? Live the Duke!”
At which the joy-bells multitudinous,
&nbspSwept by an opposite wind, as loudly shook.
Call back the mild archbishop to his house,
&nbspTo bless the people with his frightened look,—
He shall not yet be hanged, you comprehend!
&nbspSeize on Guerazzi; guard him in full view,
Or else we stab him in the back, to end!
&nbspRub out those chalked devices, set up new
The Duke’s arms, doff your Phrygian caps, and men
&nbspThe pavement of the piazzas broke into
By barren poles of freedom: smooth the way
&nbspFor the ducal carriage, lest his highness sigh
“Here trees of liberty grew yesterday!”
&nbsp“Long live the Duke!”—how roared the cannonry,
How rocked the bell-towers, and through thickening spray
&nbspOf nosegays, wreaths, and kerchiefs tossed on high,
How marched the civic guard, the people still
&nbspBeing good at shouts, especially the boys!
Alas, poor people, of an unfledged will
&nbspMost fitly expressed by such a callow voice!
Alas, still poorer Duke, incapable
&nbspOf being worthy even of so much noise!

You think he came back instantly, with thanks
&nbspAnd tears in his faint eyes, and hands extended
To stretch the franchise through their utmost ranks?
&nbspThat having, like a father, apprehended,
He came to pardon fatherly those pranks
&nbspPlayed out and now in filial service ended?—
That some love-token, like a prince, he threw
&nbspTo meet the people’s love-call, in return?
Well, how he came I will relate to you;
&nbspAnd if your hearts should burn, why, hearts must burn,
To make the ashes which things old and new
&nbspShall be washed clean in—as this Duke will learn.

From Casa Guidi windows gazing, then,
&nbspI saw and witness how the Duke came back.
The regular tramp of horse and tread of men
&nbspDid smite the silence like an anvil black
And sparkless. With her wide eyes at full strain,
&nbspOur Tuscan nurse exclaimed “Alack, alack,
Signora! these shall be the Austrians.” “Nay,
&nbspBe still,” I answered, “do not wake the child!”
—For so, my two-months’ baby sleeping lay
&nbspIn milky dreams upon the bed and smiled,
And I thought “He shall sleep on, while he may,
&nbspThrough the world’s baseness: not being yet defiled,
Why should he be disturbed by what is done?”
&nbspThen, gazing, I beheld the long-drawn street
Live out, from end to end, full in the sun,
&nbspWith Austria’s thousand; sword and bayonet,
Horse, foot, artillery,—cannons rolling on
&nbspLike blind slow storm-clouds gestant with the heat
Of undeveloped lightnings, each bestrode
&nbspBy a single man, dust-white from head to heel,
Indifferent as the dreadful thing he rode,
&nbspLike a sculptured Fate serene and terrible.
As some smooth river which has overflowed
&nbspWill slow and silent down its current wheel
A loosened forest, all the pines erect,
&nbspSo swept, in mute significance of storm,
The marshalled thousands; not an eye deflect
&nbspTo left or right, to catch a novel form
Of Florence city adorned by architect
&nbspAnd carver, or of Beauties live and warm
Scared at the casements,—all, straightforward eyes
&nbspAnd faces, held as steadfast as their swords,
And cognizant of acts, not imageries.
&nbspThe key, O Tuscans, too well fits the wards!
Ye asked for mimes,—these bring you tragedies:
&nbspFor purple,—these shall wear it as your lords.
Ye played like children,—die like innocents.
&nbspYe mimicked lightnings with a torch,—the crack
Of the actual bolt, your pastime circumvents.
&nbspYe called up ghosts, believing they were slack
To follow any voice from Gilboa’s tents, ...
&nbspHere’s Samuel!—and, so, Grand-dukes come back!

And yet, they are no prophets though they come:
&nbspThat awful mantle, they are drawing close,
Shall be searched, one day, by the shafts of Doom
&nbspThrough double folds now hoodwinking the brows.
Resuscitated monarchs disentomb
&nbspGrave-reptiles with them, in their new life-throes.
Let such beware. Behold, the people waits,
&nbspLike God: as He, in His serene of might,
So they, in their endurance of long straits.
&nbspYe stamp no nation out, though day and night
Ye tread them with that absolute heel which grates
&nbspAnd grinds them flat from all attempted height.
You kill worms sooner with a garden-spade
&nbspThan you kill peoples: peoples will not die;
The tail curls stronger when you lop the head:
&nbspThey writhe at every wound and multiply
And shudder into a heap of life that’s made
&nbspThus vital from God’s own vitality.
’T is hard to shrivel back a day of God’s
&nbspOnce fixed for judgment: ’t is as hard to change
The peoples, when they rise beneath their loads
&nbspAnd heave them from their backs with violent wrench
To crush the oppressor; for that judgment-rod’s
&nbspThe measure of this popular revenge.

Meanwhile, from Casa Guidi windows, we
&nbspBeheld the armament of Austria flow
Into the drowning heart of Tuscany:
&nbspAnd yet none wept, none cursed, or, if ’t was so,
They wept and cursed in silence. Silently
&nbspOur noisy Tuscans watched the invading foe;
They had learnt silence. Pressed against the wall,
&nbspAnd grouped upon the church-steps opposite,
A few pale men and women stared at all.
&nbspGod knows what they were feeling, with their white
Constrainèd faces, they, so prodigal
&nbspOf cry and gesture when the world goes right,
Or wrong indeed. But here was depth of wrong,
&nbspAnd here, still water; they were silent here;
And through that sentient silence, struck along
&nbspThat measured tramp from which it stood out clear,
Distinct the sound and silence, like a gong
&nbspAt midnight, each by the other awfuller,—
While every soldier in his cap displayed
&nbspA leaf of olive. Dusty, bitter thing!
Was such plucked at Novara, is it said?

A cry is up in England, which doth ring
&nbspThe hollow world through, that for ends of trade
And virtue and God’s better worshipping,
&nbspWe henceforth should exalt the name of Peace
And leave those rusty wars that eat the soul,—
&nbspBesides their clippings at our golden fleece.
I, too, have loved peace, and from bole to bole
&nbspOf immemorial undeciduous trees
Would write, as lovers use upon a scroll,
&nbspThe holy name of Peace and set it high
Where none could pluck it down. On trees, I say,—
&nbspNot upon gibbets!—With the greenery
Of dewy branches and the flowery May,
&nbspSweet mediation betwixt earth and sky
Providing, for the shepherd’s holiday.
&nbspNot upon gibbets! though the vulture leaves
The bones to quiet, which he first picked bare.
&nbspNot upon dungeons! though the wretch who grieves
And groans within less stirs the outer air
&nbspThan any little field-mouse stirs the sheaves.
Not upon chain-bolts! though the slave’s despair
&nbspHas dulled his helpless miserable brain
And left him blank beneath the freeman’s whip
&nbspTo sing and laugh out idiocies of pain.
Nor yet on starving homes! where many a lip
&nbspHas sobbed itself asleep through curses vain.
I love no peace which is not fellowship
&nbspAnd which includes not mercy. I would have
Rather the raking of the guns across
&nbspThe world, and shrieks against Heaven’s architrave;
Rather the struggle in the slippery fosse
&nbspOf dying men and horses, and the wave
Blood-bubbling.... Enough said!—by Christ’s own cross,
&nbspAnd by this faint heart of my womanhood,
Such things are better than a Peace that sits
&nbspBeside a hearth in self-commended mood,
And takes no thought how wind and rain by fits
&nbspAre howling out of doors against the good
Of the poor wanderer. What! your peace admits
&nbspOf outside anguish while it keeps at home?
I loathe to take its name upon my tongue.
&nbsp’T is nowise peace: ’t is treason, stiff with doom,—
’T is gagged despair and inarticulate wrong,—
&nbspAnnihilated Poland, stifled Rome,
Dazed Naples, Hungary fainting ’neath the thong,
&nbspAnd Austria wearing a smooth olive-leaf
On her brute forehead, while her hoofs outpress
&nbspThe life from these Italian souls, in brief.
O Lord of Peace, who art Lord of Righteousness,
&nbspConstrain the anguished worlds from sin and grief,
Pierce them with conscience, purge them with redress,
&nbspAnd give us peace which is no counterfeit!

But wherefore should we look out any more
&nbspFrom Casa Guidi windows? Shut them straight,
And let us sit down by the folded door,
&nbspAnd veil our saddened faces and, so, wait
What next the judgment-heavens make ready for.
&nbspI have grown too weary of these windows. Sights
Come thick enough and clear enough in thought,
&nbspWithout the sunshine; souls have inner lights.
And since the Grand-duke has come back and brought
&nbspThis army of the North which thus requites
His filial South, we leave him to be taught.
&nbspHis South, too, has learnt something certainly,
Whereof the practice will bring profit soon;
&nbspAnd peradventure other eyes may see,
From Casa Guidi windows, what is done
&nbspOr undone. Whatsoever deeds they be,
Pope Pius will be glorified in none.
&nbspRecord that gain, Mazzini!—it shall top
Some heights of sorrow. Peter’s rock, so named,
&nbspShall lure no vessel any more to drop
Among the breakers. Peter’s chair is shamed
&nbspLike any vulgar throne the nations lop
To pieces for their firewood unreclaimed,—
&nbspAnd, when it burns too, we shall see as well
In Italy as elsewhere. Let it burn.
&nbspThe cross, accounted still adorable,
Is Christ’s cross only!—if the thief’s would earn
&nbspSome stealthy genuflexions, we rebel;
And here the impenitent thief’s has had its turn,
&nbspAs God knows; and the people on their knees
Scoff and toss back the crosiers stretched like yokes
&nbspTo press their heads down lower by degrees.
So Italy, by means of these last strokes,
&nbspEscapes the danger which preceded these,
Of leaving captured hands in cloven oaks,—
&nbspOf leaving very souls within the buckle
Whence bodies struggled outward,—of supposing
&nbspThat freemen may like bondsmen kneel and truckle,
And then stand up as usual, without losing
&nbspAn inch of stature.

&nbsp       &nbspThose whom she-wolves suckle
Will bite as wolves do in the grapple-closing
&nbspOf adverse interests. This at last is known
(Thank Pius for the lesson), that albeit
&nbspAmong the popedom’s hundred heads of stone
Which blink down on you from the roof’s retreat
&nbspIn Siena’s tiger-striped cathedral, Joan
And Borgia ’mid their fellows you may greet,
&nbspA harlot and a devil,—you will see
Not a man, still less angel, grandly set
&nbspWith open soul to render man more free.
The fishers are still thinking of the net,
&nbspAnd, if not thinking of the hook too, we
Are counted somewhat deeply in their debt;
&nbspBut that’s a rare case—so, by hook and crook
They take the advantage, agonizing Christ
&nbspBy rustier nails than those of Cedron’s brook,
I’ the people’s body very cheaply priced,—
&nbspAnd 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
&nbspYe take most vainly. Through heaven’s lifted gate
The priestly ephod in sole glory swept
&nbspWhen Christ ascended, entered in, and sate
(With victor face sublimely overwept)
&nbspAt Deity’s right hand, to mediate,
He alone, He for ever. On His breast
&nbspThe Urim and the Thummim, fed with fire
From the full Godhead, flicker with the unrest
&nbspOf human pitiful heart-beats. Come up higher,
All Christians! Levi’s tribe is dispossest.
&nbspThat solitary alb ye shall admire,
But not cast lots for. The last chrism, poured right,
&nbspWas on that Head, and poured for burial
And not for domination in men’s sight.
&nbspWhat are these churches? The old temple-wall
Doth overlook them juggling with the sleight
&nbspOf surplice, candlestick and altar-pall;
East church and west church, ay, north church and south,
&nbspRome’s church and England’s,—let them all repent,
And make concordats ’twixt their soul and mouth,
&nbspSucceed Saint Paul by working at the tent,
Become infallible guides by speaking truth,
&nbspAnd excommunicate their pride that bent
And cramped the souls of men.

&nbsp       &nbspWhy, even here
Priestcraft burns out, the twinèd linen blazes;
&nbspNot, like asbestos, to grow white and clear,
But all to perish!—while the fire-smell raises
&nbspTo life some swooning spirits who, last year,
Lost breath and heart in these church-stifled places.
&nbspWhy, almost, through this Pius, we believed
The priesthood could be an honest thing, he smiled
&nbspSo saintly while our corn was being sheaved
For his own granaries! Showing now defiled
&nbspHis hireling hands, a better help’s achieved
Than if they blessed us shepherd-like and mild.
&nbspFalse doctrine, strangled by its own amen,
Dies in the throat of all this nation. Who
&nbspWill speak a pope’s name as they rise again?
What woman or what child will count him true?
&nbspWhat dreamer praise him with the voice or pen?
What man fight for him?—Pius takes his due.

Record that gain, Mazzini!—Yes, but first
&nbspSet down thy people’s faults; set down the want
Of soul-conviction; set down aims dispersed,
&nbspAnd incoherent means, and valour scant
Because of scanty faith, and schisms accursed
&nbspThat wrench these brother-hearts from covenant
With freedom and each other. Set down this,
&nbspAnd this, and see to overcome it when
The seasons bring the fruits thou wilt not miss
&nbspIf wary. Let no cry of patriot men
Distract thee from the stern analysis
&nbspOf masses who cry only! keep thy ken
Clear as thy soul is virtuous. Heroes’ blood
&nbspSplashed up against thy noble brow in Rome;
Let such not blind thee to an interlude
&nbspWhich was not also holy, yet did come
’Twixt sacramental actions,—brotherhood
&nbspDespised even there, and something of the doom
Of Remus in the trenches. Listen now—
&nbspRossi died silent near where Cæsar died.
HE did not say “My Brutus, is it thou?”
&nbspBut Italy unquestioned testified
“I killed him! I am Brutus.—I avow.”
&nbspAt which the whole world’s laugh of scorn replied
“A poor maimed copy of Brutus!”

Too much like,
&nbspIndeed, to be so unlike! too unskilled
At Philippi and the honest battle-pike,
&nbspTo be so skilful where a man is killed
Near Pompey’s statue, and the daggers strike
&nbspAt unawares i’ the throat. Was thus fulfilled
An omen once of Michel Angelo?—
&nbspWhen Marcus Brutus he conceived complete,
And strove to hurl him out by blow on blow
&nbspUpon the marble, at Art’s thunderheat,
Till haply (some pre-shadow rising slow
&nbspOf what his Italy would fancy meet
To be called Brutus) straight his plastic hand
&nbspFell back before his prophet-soul, and left
A fragment, a maimed Brutus,—but more grand
&nbspThan this, so named at Rome, was!

&nbsp       &nbspLet thy weft
Present one woof and warp, Mazzini! Stand
&nbspWith no man hankering for a dagger’s heft,
No, not for Italy!—nor stand apart,
&nbspNo, not for the Republic!—from those pure
Brave men who hold the level of thy heart
&nbspIn patriot truth, as lover and as doer,
Albeit they will not follow where thou art
&nbspAs extreme theorist. Trust and distrust fewer;
And so bind strong and keep unstained the cause
&nbspWhich (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
&nbspA Fair-going world. Imperial England draws
The flowing ends of the earth from Fez, Canton,
&nbspDelhi and Stockholm, Athens and Madrid,
The Russias and the vast Americas,
&nbspAs if a queen drew in her robes amid
Her golden cincture,—isles, peninsulas,
&nbspCapes, continents, far inland countries hid
By jasper-sands and hills of chrysopras,
&nbspAll trailing in their splendours through the door
Of the gorgeous Crystal Palace. Every nation,
&nbspTo every other nation strange of yore,
Gives face to face the civic salutation,
&nbspAnd holds up in a proud right hand before
That congress the best work which she can fashion
&nbspBy her best means. “These corals, will you please
To match against your oaks? They grow as fast
&nbspWithin my wilderness of purple seas.”—
“This diamond stared upon me as I passed
&nbsp(As a live god’s eye from a marble frieze)
Along a dark of diamonds. Is it classed?”—
&nbsp“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!”—
&nbsp“These delicatest muslins rather seem
Than be, you think? Nay, touch them and be bold,
&nbspThough such veiled Chakhi’s face in Hafiz’ dream.”—
“These carpets—you walk slow on them like kings,
&nbspInaudible like spirits, while your foot
Dips deep in velvet roses and such things.”—
&nbsp“Even Apollonius might commend this flute:
The music, winding through the stops, upsprings
&nbspTo make the player very rich: compute!”
“Here’s goblet-glass, to take in with your wine
&nbspThe very sun its grapes were ripened under:
Drink light and juice together, and each fine.”—
&nbsp“This model of a steamship moves your wonder?
You should behold it crushing down the brine
&nbspLike a blind Jove who feels his way with thunder.”—
“Here’s sculpture! Ah, we live too! why not throw
&nbspOur life into our marbles? Art has place
For other artists after Angelo.”—
“I tried to paint out here a natural face;
&nbspFor nature includes Raffael, as we know,
Not Raffael nature. Will it help my case?”—
&nbsp“Methinks you will not match this steel of ours!”—
“Nor you this porcelain! One might dream the clay
&nbspRetained in it the larvæ of the flowers,
They bud so, round the cup, the old Spring-way.”—
&nbsp“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,
&nbspYour incense, gold and myrrh are excellent!—
What gifts for Christ, then, bring ye with the rest?
&nbspYour hands have worked well: is your courage spent
In handwork only? Have you nothing best,
&nbspWhich generous souls may perfect and present,
And He shall thank the givers for? no light
&nbspOf teaching, liberal nations, for the poor
Who sit in darkness when it is not night?
&nbspNo cure for wicked children? Christ,—no cure!
No help for women sobbing out of sight
&nbspBecause men made the laws? no brothel-lure
Burnt out by popular lightnings? Hast thou four
&nbspNo remedy, my England, for such woes?
No outlet, Austria, for the scourged and bound,
&nbspNo entrance for the exiled? no repose,
Russia, for knouted Poles worked underground,
And gentle ladies bleached among the snows?
&nbspNo mercy for the slave, America?
No hope for Rome, free France, chivalric France?
&nbspAlas, great nations have great shames, I say.
No pity, O world, no tender utterance
&nbspOf benediction, and prayers stretched this way
For poor Italia, baffled by mischance?
&nbspO gracious nations, give some ear to me!
You all go to your Fair, and I am one
&nbspWho at the roadside of humanity
Beseech your alms,—God’s justice to be done.
&nbspSo, prosper!

&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspIn the name of Italy,
Meantime, her patriot Dead have benison.
&nbspThey only have done well; and, what they did
Being perfect, it shall triumph. Let them slumber:
&nbspNo king of Egypt in a pyramid
Is safer from oblivion, though he number
&nbspFull seventy cerements for a coverlid.
These Dead be seeds of life, and shall encumber
&nbspThe sad heart of the land until it loose
The clammy clods and let out the Spring-growth
&nbspIn beatific green through every bruise.
The tyrant should take heed to what he doth,
&nbspSince every victim-carrion turns to use,
And drives a chariot, like a god made wroth,
&nbspAgainst each piled injustice. Ay, the least,
Dead for Italia, not in vain has died;
&nbspThough many vainly, ere life’s struggle ceased,
To mad dissimilar ends have swerved aside;
&nbspEach grave her nationality has pieced
By its own majestic breadth, and fortified
&nbspAnd pinned it deeper to the soil. Forlorn
Of thanks be, therefore, no one of these graves!
&nbspNot Hers,—who, at her husband’s side, in scorn,
Outfaced the whistling shot and hissing waves,
&nbspUntil she felt her little babe unborn
Recoil, within her, from the violent staves
&nbspAnd bloodhounds of the world,—at which, her life
Dropt inwards from her eyes and followed it
&nbspBeyond the hunters. Garibaldi’s wife
And child died so. And now, the seaweeds fit
&nbspHer body, like a proper shroud and coif,
And murmurously the ebbing waters grit
&nbspThe little pebbles while she lies interred
In the sea-sand. Perhaps, ere dying thus,
&nbspShe looked up in his face (which never stirred
From its clenched anguish) as to make excuse
&nbspFor leaving him for his, if so she erred.
He well remembers that she could not choose.
&nbspA memorable grave! Another is
At Genoa. There, a king may fitly lie,
&nbspWho, bursting that heroic heart of his
At lost Novara, that he could not die
&nbsp(Though thrice into the cannon’s eyes for this
He plunged his shuddering steed, and felt the sky
&nbspReel back between the fire-shocks), stripped away
The ancestral ermine ere the smoke had cleared,
&nbspAnd, naked to the soul, that none might say
His kingship covered what was base and bleared
&nbspWith treason, went out straight an exile, yea,
An exiled patriot. Let him be revered.

Yea, verily, Charles Albert has died well;
&nbspAnd if he lived not all so, as one spoke,
The sin pass softly with the passing-bell;
&nbspFor he was shriven, I think, in cannon-smoke,
And, taking off his crown, made visible
&nbspA hero’s forehead. Shaking Austria’s yoke
He shattered his own hand and heart. “So best,”
&nbspHis last words were upon his lonely bed,
I do not end like popes and dukes at least—
&nbsp“Thank God for it.” And now that he is dead,
Admitting it is proved and manifest
&nbspThat he was worthy, with a discrowned head,
To measure heights with patriots, let them stand
&nbspBeside the man in his Oporto shroud,
And each vouchsafe to take him by the hand,
&nbspAnd kiss him on the cheek, and say aloud,—
“Thou, too, hast suffered for our native land!
&nbspMy brother, thou art one of us! be proud.”

Still, graves, when Italy is talked upon.
&nbspStill, still, the patriot’s tomb, the stranger’s hate.
Still Niobe! still fainting in the sun,
&nbspBy whose most dazzling arrows violate
Her beauteous offspring perished! has she won
&nbspNothing but garlands for the graves, from Fate?
Nothing but death-songs?—Yes, be it understood
&nbspLife throbs in noble Piedmont! while the feet
Of Rome’s clay image, dabbled soft in blood,
&nbspGrow flat with dissolution and, as meet,
Will soon be shovelled off like other mud,
&nbspTo leave the passage free in church and street.
And I, who first took hope up in this song,
&nbspBecause a child was singing one ... behold,
The hope and omen were not, haply, wrong!
&nbspPoets are soothsayers still, like those of old
Who studied flights of doves; and creatures young
&nbspAnd tender, mighty meanings may unfold.

The sun strikes, through the windows, up the floor;
&nbspStand out in it, my own young Florentine,
Not two years old, and let me see thee more!
&nbspIt grows along thy amber curls, to shine
Brighter than elsewhere. Now, look straight before,
&nbspAnd fix thy brave blue English eyes on mine,
And from my soul, which fronts the future so,
&nbspWith unabashed and unabated gaze,
Teach me to hope for, what the angels know
&nbspWhen they smile clear as thou dost. Down God’s ways
With just alighted feet, between the snow
&nbspAnd snowdrops, where a little lamb may graze,
Thou hast no fear, my lamb, about the road,
&nbspAlbeit in our vain-glory we assume
That, less than we have, thou hast learnt of God.
&nbspStand out, my blue-eyed prophet!—thou, to whom
The earliest world-day light that ever flowed,
&nbspThrough Casa Guidi Windows chanced to come!
Now shake the glittering nimbus of thy hair,
&nbspAnd be God’s witness that the elemental
New springs of life are gushing everywhere
&nbspTo cleanse the watercourses, and prevent all
Concrete obstructions which infest the air!
&nbspThat earth’s alive, and gentle or ungentle
Motions within her, signify but growth!—
&nbspThe ground swells greenest o’er the labouring moles.

Howe’er the uneasy world is vexed and wroth,
&nbspYoung children, lifted high on parent souls,
Look round them with a smile upon the mouth,
&nbspAnd take for music every bell that tolls;
(Who said we should be better if like these?)
&nbspBut we sit murmuring for the future though
Posterity is smiling on our knees,
&nbspConvicting us of folly. Let us go—
We will trust God. The blank interstices
&nbspMen take for ruins, He will build into
With pillared marbles rare, or knit across
&nbspWith generous arches, till the fane’s complete.
This world has no perdition, if some loss.

Such cheer I gather from thy smiling, Sweet!
&nbspThe self-same cherub-faces which emboss
The Vail, lean inward to the Mercy-seat.