 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
415
XI. ROSSI.
Romans—in name—to Liberty, your godWho lift red hands, suppliants self-deified,
Betwixt her altar and your rock of pride
A stream there rolls fiercer than Alpine flood,
A fatal stream of murdered Rossi's blood!
For Liberty he lived; and when he died,
Prisoner that new Rienzi's corse beside
The King, the Father, and the Pontiff stood!
What rite piacular from that impious deed
Hath cleansed your hands? Accuse not adverse stars
If guilt unwept achieve not virture's meed.
Years staunch not treason. All his sands old Time
Shakes down to keep unblurred those characters
Which calendar the Feasts of prosperous crime.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |