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GARIBALDI.
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GARIBALDI IN EXILE.
How dimmed is all thy glory, and how dark the shadow falls;
How wildly wails the Sorrow through thy Hamlets and thy Halls!
Our Banner on the Seven Hills no longer beckons me;
The Dead alone are blessèd who thy suffering may not see.
How are thy brave ones scattered on many an Alien strand,
Thy Children leal and true to the Roman Motherland.
How wildly wails the Sorrow through thy Hamlets and thy Halls!
Our Banner on the Seven Hills no longer beckons me;
The Dead alone are blessèd who thy suffering may not see.
How are thy brave ones scattered on many an Alien strand,
Thy Children leal and true to the Roman Motherland.
The Birds that follow Summer, they come and they depart
For the Land of my love, and the Home of my heart:
And, like a wounded Bird, my spirit trembles in the wind,
And flutters down: and they are gone, and I am left behind.
O my Dovelets in the nest! O the Spoiler's bloody hand!
And I so far away from the Roman Motherland.
For the Land of my love, and the Home of my heart:
And, like a wounded Bird, my spirit trembles in the wind,
And flutters down: and they are gone, and I am left behind.
O my Dovelets in the nest! O the Spoiler's bloody hand!
And I so far away from the Roman Motherland.
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They have bound thee in the Grave-clothes; but we watch with tears and sighs,
Till Freedom comes like Christ, and thou like Lazarus shalt rise.
Thy pale, pale face, my Country, yet shall flush with ripening bloom,
As Nature's colour kindles when the breath of Spring doth come.
Ah! come, thou Spring of promise; mighty Hope, put forth thy hand,
And build thy Arch of Triumph for the Roman Motherland.
Till Freedom comes like Christ, and thou like Lazarus shalt rise.
Thy pale, pale face, my Country, yet shall flush with ripening bloom,
As Nature's colour kindles when the breath of Spring doth come.
Ah! come, thou Spring of promise; mighty Hope, put forth thy hand,
And build thy Arch of Triumph for the Roman Motherland.
Sometimes when life is darkest, a glory bursts its glooms,
As Lightning through the startled night, the face of things illumes;
A sudden splendour smites me, and ere the thunders roll,
I see thy face look radiant through the darkness of my soul!
I see thee sitting at the feet of Freedom, great and grand,
Thy children happy in thy smile, thou Roman Motherland.
As Lightning through the startled night, the face of things illumes;
A sudden splendour smites me, and ere the thunders roll,
I see thy face look radiant through the darkness of my soul!
I see thee sitting at the feet of Freedom, great and grand,
Thy children happy in thy smile, thou Roman Motherland.
O thou among the Nations, for thy might, shalt yet be themed;
Thy fatal curse of Beauty by Love's blessing all redeemed!
The red wounds where they pierced thee, shall to scars of glory turn,
And in thy tearful eyes the light of boundless life shall burn.
The Heavens are filled with Martyrs, but our Earth still holds a band
Who will meet in battle yet for the Roman Motherland.
Thy fatal curse of Beauty by Love's blessing all redeemed!
The red wounds where they pierced thee, shall to scars of glory turn,
And in thy tearful eyes the light of boundless life shall burn.
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Who will meet in battle yet for the Roman Motherland.
Many are the gallant hearts will never answer when
Thy clarion-cry shall call us all into the field again!
And many are the tears must fall, and prayers go up to God,
But still the Vintage ripens, and the Wine-press shall be trod!
The Harvest reddens rich for death, the Reapers clench the hand,
And Victory comes to claim his Bride, our Roman Motherland.
Thy clarion-cry shall call us all into the field again!
And many are the tears must fall, and prayers go up to God,
But still the Vintage ripens, and the Wine-press shall be trod!
The Harvest reddens rich for death, the Reapers clench the hand,
And Victory comes to claim his Bride, our Roman Motherland.
GARIBALDI ON THE MARCH.
This is the Helper that Italy wanted
To free her from Fetters and Grave-clothes quite:
His is the great heart no dangers have daunted;
His is the true hand to finish the fight.
Way, for a man of the kingliest nature!
Scope, for a soul of the high Roman stature!
His great deeds have crowned him;
His Heroes are round him;
On, on, Garibaldi, for Freedom and Right.
To free her from Fetters and Grave-clothes quite:
His is the great heart no dangers have daunted;
His is the true hand to finish the fight.
Way, for a man of the kingliest nature!
Scope, for a soul of the high Roman stature!
His great deeds have crowned him;
His Heroes are round him;
On, on, Garibaldi, for Freedom and Right.
To brave battle-music up goes the smoke-curtain;
A country arises all one to his call:
The sound of his trumpet is never uncertain;
He fights for his Cause till it conquer or fall.
His Chariot-wheels do not spin without biting;
And far better pointed for Freedom's red writing—
His Rifles and Guns—
Than their Politics pens;
Garibaldi, my Hero, best man of them all!
A country arises all one to his call:
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He fights for his Cause till it conquer or fall.
His Chariot-wheels do not spin without biting;
And far better pointed for Freedom's red writing—
His Rifles and Guns—
Than their Politics pens;
Garibaldi, my Hero, best man of them all!
When he sailed up our River, the frank, hearty Seaman,
We saw how an English soul smiled from his face:
For Italy's Saviour we knew it was The man,
All hero, no matter what garb, or what place—
And we prayed he might have one more grip that was glorious!
Prophesied he should be Leader victorious
Of Italy, free
From the Alps to the sea;
Now breathless we watch while he runs the great race.
We saw how an English soul smiled from his face:
For Italy's Saviour we knew it was The man,
All hero, no matter what garb, or what place—
And we prayed he might have one more grip that was glorious!
Prophesied he should be Leader victorious
Of Italy, free
From the Alps to the sea;
Now breathless we watch while he runs the great race.
Fierce out of torment his fighters have risen,
Shouting from hell, where they tortured them dumb;
Maimed from old battle-fields, mad from the prison,
Suddenly, strange as Cloud-armies, they come,
With mouths that can shut like the Eagle's beak clasping,
With hands that will grip like a bower-anchor grasping;
The flying Foe feels,
When they're close at his heels,
That Death and the Devil are bringing his doom.
Shouting from hell, where they tortured them dumb;
Maimed from old battle-fields, mad from the prison,
Suddenly, strange as Cloud-armies, they come,
With mouths that can shut like the Eagle's beak clasping,
With hands that will grip like a bower-anchor grasping;
The flying Foe feels,
When they're close at his heels,
That Death and the Devil are bringing his doom.
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Not only living! his dead men are fighting
For him! thus with few he can scare the great host:
For each one they see an Unseen Foe is smiting;
Over each head an avenging white Ghost!
All the young Martyrs they murdered by moonlight;
All the dark deeds of blood done in the noonlight,
Make their hearts reel
With a shudder, and kneel
To lay down their Arms and give all up for lost.
For him! thus with few he can scare the great host:
For each one they see an Unseen Foe is smiting;
Over each head an avenging white Ghost!
All the young Martyrs they murdered by moonlight;
All the dark deeds of blood done in the noonlight,
Make their hearts reel
With a shudder, and kneel
To lay down their Arms and give all up for lost.
They tell the wild tales of him, gathered together,
Turn pale at his Shadow in midst of their speech;
Down he swoops on them, like Hawk on the heather,
Strikes home with sure aim, and upsoars beyond reach.
Or, he sweeps all before him with whirling blade reeking.
They fly helter-skelter, for shelter run shrieking,
As waves wild and white,
Driven mad with affright,
Are dashed into foam as they hide up the beach.
Turn pale at his Shadow in midst of their speech;
Down he swoops on them, like Hawk on the heather,
Strikes home with sure aim, and upsoars beyond reach.
Or, he sweeps all before him with whirling blade reeking.
They fly helter-skelter, for shelter run shrieking,
As waves wild and white,
Driven mad with affright,
Are dashed into foam as they hide up the beach.
Watching o' nights in the cold, he remembers
The Homes of his love in their ashes laid low;
And hot in his heart Vengeance rakes up the embers,
To warm her old hands at the wrathful red glow.
He has had torn from him all that was nearest;
He has seen murdered his Darlings the dearest;
With all this and more,
To the heart's crimson core
He kindles! and all flashes out on the Foe.
The Homes of his love in their ashes laid low;
And hot in his heart Vengeance rakes up the embers,
To warm her old hands at the wrathful red glow.
He has had torn from him all that was nearest;
He has seen murdered his Darlings the dearest;
With all this and more,
To the heart's crimson core
He kindles! and all flashes out on the Foe.
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No peace, Garibaldi, till Italy, stronger,
Shall sit with free nations, majestic, serene;
And meet them as Lovers may meet when no longer
The cold Corse of one that was dead lies between.
For this, God was with you when perils were round you;
For this, the fire smote you not, floods have not drowned you;
Their Sword and their Shot
Have hindered you not,
And your Purpose crouched long for its pouncing unseen.
Shall sit with free nations, majestic, serene;
And meet them as Lovers may meet when no longer
The cold Corse of one that was dead lies between.
For this, God was with you when perils were round you;
For this, the fire smote you not, floods have not drowned you;
Their Sword and their Shot
Have hindered you not,
And your Purpose crouched long for its pouncing unseen.
On, with our British hearts all beating true to you;
All keeping time to the march of the brave!
I would to God we might cut our way through to you,
Gallantly breasting the stormiest wave.
Would the old Lion could leap in to greet you,
Just as our free blood is leaping to meet you,
Stand by your side,
In his terrible pride,
Mighty to shield, as You're daring to save.
All keeping time to the march of the brave!
I would to God we might cut our way through to you,
Gallantly breasting the stormiest wave.
Would the old Lion could leap in to greet you,
Just as our free blood is leaping to meet you,
Stand by your side,
In his terrible pride,
Mighty to shield, as You're daring to save.
Long was the night of her kneeling; but surely
Shall Italy rise to her Queenliest height.
Many a time has the battle gone sorely,
To make the last triumph more signal and bright.
Her Foes shall be swept from her path like the stubble;
Now is their day of down-treading and trouble;
God tires of old Rome!
Venetia cries “Come!”
On, on, Garibaldi, for Freedom and Right!
Shall Italy rise to her Queenliest height.
Many a time has the battle gone sorely,
To make the last triumph more signal and bright.
Her Foes shall be swept from her path like the stubble;
Now is their day of down-treading and trouble;
God tires of old Rome!
Venetia cries “Come!”
On, on, Garibaldi, for Freedom and Right!
1859.
121
ONE OF GARIBALDI'S MEN.
A crippled Child, a weak wan Boy,
Sat by his Mother's side,—
A widowed Mother's gentle joy,
Her only wealth and pride:
One of those Spirits, sweet and sad,
That breathe with burdened breath;
Are grave in life, but calmly glad
Their faces smile in death.
Sat by his Mother's side,—
A widowed Mother's gentle joy,
Her only wealth and pride:
One of those Spirits, sweet and sad,
That breathe with burdened breath;
Are grave in life, but calmly glad
Their faces smile in death.
With a weird lustre in his look,
Over his books he pored,
Like one that, in a secret nook,
Sharpens a patriot sword.
The story of his Country's wrongs
Made his heart melt in tears;
The music of her olden songs
Rang ever in his ears.
Over his books he pored,
Like one that, in a secret nook,
Sharpens a patriot sword.
The story of his Country's wrongs
Made his heart melt in tears;
The music of her olden songs
Rang ever in his ears.
Oft in his face, white as a corse,
Brave Soldier-blood up-springs,
Hot as the Warrior leaps to horse,
When Battle's trumpet rings;
With spirit afloat and sense aflame,
Where Freedom's banners wave,
To win a name of glorious fame,
Or fill a Soldier's grave.
Brave Soldier-blood up-springs,
Hot as the Warrior leaps to horse,
When Battle's trumpet rings;
With spirit afloat and sense aflame,
Where Freedom's banners wave,
To win a name of glorious fame,
Or fill a Soldier's grave.
The leal heart of a loving Maid
Ran over towards him,
Longing with kisses to be stayed
There at the ruddy brim!—
But hushed the yearning in her breast,
Nor murmur made nor moan;
She looked as though she had found the nest,
And, lo! the Bird was flown.
Ran over towards him,
Longing with kisses to be stayed
There at the ruddy brim!—
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Nor murmur made nor moan;
She looked as though she had found the nest,
And, lo! the Bird was flown.
Suddenly, Freedom's thunder-horn
The graveyard stillness broke;—
It was the Resurrection-Morn,
And Italy awoke!
He felt her majesty and strength
Up-lift his spirit too:
To Manhood he had leaped at length,
And almost stately grew.
The graveyard stillness broke;—
It was the Resurrection-Morn,
And Italy awoke!
He felt her majesty and strength
Up-lift his spirit too:
To Manhood he had leaped at length,
And almost stately grew.
Then came, with all they had to give,
Each fervid worshipper:
And he, too, not worth much to live,
At least could die for her!
The Widow lent her only Child,
And bade him help to win;
While outwardly her proud face smiled,
She—dropping tears within!
Each fervid worshipper:
And he, too, not worth much to live,
At least could die for her!
The Widow lent her only Child,
And bade him help to win;
While outwardly her proud face smiled,
She—dropping tears within!
The General looked on this young life
Held out in hands so small!
He could not, for the battle-strife,
Take the poor Widow's all.
“Poor Child!” he said, “rest you at home,
For the good Mother's sake;
We'll not forget you when we come.”
It made his old heart ache.
Held out in hands so small!
He could not, for the battle-strife,
Take the poor Widow's all.
“Poor Child!” he said, “rest you at home,
For the good Mother's sake;
We'll not forget you when we come.”
It made his old heart ache.
'Twas at the close of a great day,
The “Red-Shirts” raised their cheer,
For Garibaldi came to say,
“Well done”! One cried, “I'm here!
And wounded in the Battle's brunt.”
“What! hit behind, my Child?
But brave men wear their wounds in front,”
And playfully he smiled.
The “Red-Shirts” raised their cheer,
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“Well done”! One cried, “I'm here!
And wounded in the Battle's brunt.”
“What! hit behind, my Child?
But brave men wear their wounds in front,”
And playfully he smiled.
Again, at the Volturno's fight,
The Boy led on his band;
Uplifted there on Capua's height,
He saw the Promised Land,
As Pilgrims watch their Mecca rise
Over the desert's rim;
He saw—possessed it with his eyes!
Enough, enough for him.
The Boy led on his band;
Uplifted there on Capua's height,
He saw the Promised Land,
As Pilgrims watch their Mecca rise
Over the desert's rim;
He saw—possessed it with his eyes!
Enough, enough for him.
Proud of his Boys, the General rode
Past faces all aflame,
And praised them; and their spirits glowed
As if from heaven he came.
Then something caught his eye; he reined
His horse; stooped like a grand
Old weather-beaten Angel, stained
With battle-smoke, and tanned.
Past faces all aflame,
And praised them; and their spirits glowed
As if from heaven he came.
Then something caught his eye; he reined
His horse; stooped like a grand
Old weather-beaten Angel, stained
With battle-smoke, and tanned.
With look more keen than cry or call,
One staggered from the rest:
“I'm hit once more, my General,
And”—pointing to his breast—
“This time—see! 'tis in the right place.”
His smile was strangely sweet;
He looked in Garibaldi's face,
And fell dead at his feet!
One staggered from the rest:
“I'm hit once more, my General,
And”—pointing to his breast—
“This time—see! 'tis in the right place.”
His smile was strangely sweet;
He looked in Garibaldi's face,
And fell dead at his feet!
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GARIBALDI AT ASPROMONTE.
The Lion is down, and how the dogs will run!
Something above the level is their delight
To lift the leg at. How the birds of night
Will hoot from out their dark, “His day is done.”
Something above the level is their delight
To lift the leg at. How the birds of night
Will hoot from out their dark, “His day is done.”
The worldly-wise will hasten to condemn
The Man of Ages measured by the Hour;
The Summit of his visionary power,
A Pinnacle of Folly is to them.
The Man of Ages measured by the Hour;
The Summit of his visionary power,
A Pinnacle of Folly is to them.
“Would he had kept his attitude sublime!”
They cry. “With crossed arms held his heart at rest,
And left us his grand likeness at its best,
Upon a hill up which the world might climb!
They cry. “With crossed arms held his heart at rest,
And left us his grand likeness at its best,
Upon a hill up which the world might climb!
“Better for all had he been sooner shrined;
The old true heart, and very foolish head.
A model Man; especially if dead:
Perfect as some Greek Statue, and—as blind.”
The old true heart, and very foolish head.
A model Man; especially if dead:
Perfect as some Greek Statue, and—as blind.”
Friends talk of failure: and I know how he
Will slowly lift his surface-piercing eyes,
And look them through with mournful, strange surprise,
Until they shrink and feel 'tis Italy
Will slowly lift his surface-piercing eyes,
And look them through with mournful, strange surprise,
Until they shrink and feel 'tis Italy
That fails instead. The words they came to speak
Will shrink back awed by his majestic calm.
His wounds are such as bleed immortal balm,
And he is strong again; 'tis we are weak.
Will shrink back awed by his majestic calm.
His wounds are such as bleed immortal balm,
And he is strong again; 'tis we are weak.
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It is not Failure to be thus struck down
By Brothers who obeyed their Foe's command,
And in the darkness lopped the saving hand
Put forth to reach their Country her last crown!
By Brothers who obeyed their Foe's command,
And in the darkness lopped the saving hand
Put forth to reach their Country her last crown!
He only sought to see her safely home;
The tragic trials end, the suffering cease
In wedded oneness and completing peace;
Then bow his old gray head and rest in Rome.
The tragic trials end, the suffering cease
In wedded oneness and completing peace;
Then bow his old gray head and rest in Rome.
It is not failure to be thus struck back—
Caught in a Country's arms, clasped to her heart;
She tends his wounds awhile, and then will start
Afresh. Some precious drops mark out her track.
Caught in a Country's arms, clasped to her heart;
She tends his wounds awhile, and then will start
Afresh. Some precious drops mark out her track.
No failure! Though the rocks dash into foam
This first strength of a nation's new life-stream,
'Twill rise—a Bow of Promise—that shall gleam
In glory over all the waves to come.
This first strength of a nation's new life-stream,
'Twill rise—a Bow of Promise—that shall gleam
In glory over all the waves to come.
We miss a footstep thinking “Here's a stair,”
In some uncertain way we darkly tread;
But God's enduring skies are overhead,
And Spirits step their surest oft in air.
In some uncertain way we darkly tread;
But God's enduring skies are overhead,
And Spirits step their surest oft in air.
His ways are not as our ways; the new birth
At cost of the old life is often given:
To-day God crowns the Martyrs in His heaven;
To-morrow whips their murderers on our earth.
At cost of the old life is often given:
To-day God crowns the Martyrs in His heaven;
To-morrow whips their murderers on our earth.
You take back Garibaldi to a prison?
Well, that will prove the very road to Rome!
They would have said “She croucheth to her doom,”
If Italy in some shape had not risen.
Well, that will prove the very road to Rome!
They would have said “She croucheth to her doom,”
If Italy in some shape had not risen.
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We say it was God's voice that called him up
The “Bitter Mountain,” bound for sacrifice;
So to that height his Land might lift her eyes,
And bless him as he drank her bitterest cup.
The “Bitter Mountain,” bound for sacrifice;
So to that height his Land might lift her eyes,
And bless him as he drank her bitterest cup.
It is a faith too many still receive—
Since that false prophecy of old went forth—
“The tribe of Judas yet shall rule the earth;”
But he is one that never would believe.
Since that false prophecy of old went forth—
“The tribe of Judas yet shall rule the earth;”
But he is one that never would believe.
His vision is most clear where ours is dim.
The mystic spirit of eternity,
That slumbers in us deep and dreamingly,
Was ever quick and more awake in him:
The mystic spirit of eternity,
That slumbers in us deep and dreamingly,
Was ever quick and more awake in him:
And, like a lamp across some pathless heath,
A light shone through his eyes no night could quench;
The winds might make it flicker, rains might drench,
Nothing could dout it save the dark of death.
A light shone through his eyes no night could quench;
The winds might make it flicker, rains might drench,
Nothing could dout it save the dark of death.
And if His Work's unfinished in the flesh,
Why, then his soul will join the noble Dead,
And toil till all shall be accomplishèd,
And Italy hath burst this Devil's mesh.
Why, then his soul will join the noble Dead,
And toil till all shall be accomplishèd,
And Italy hath burst this Devil's mesh.
Easier to conquer Kingdoms than to breed
A man like Garibaldi, whose great name
Hath fenced his Country with his glorious fame,
Worth many armies in her battle-need.
A man like Garibaldi, whose great name
Hath fenced his Country with his glorious fame,
Worth many armies in her battle-need.
His is the royal heart that never quails,
But always conquers; wounded, lying low,
He never was so dear as he is now:
They bind him, and more strongly he prevails.
But always conquers; wounded, lying low,
He never was so dear as he is now:
They bind him, and more strongly he prevails.
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Greater to-day than Emperor or King,
Although for Throne they seat him in the dust;
The express Image of sublimest Trust,
Crowned, consecrated by his suffering,
Although for Throne they seat him in the dust;
The express Image of sublimest Trust,
Crowned, consecrated by his suffering,
With Sovereignty that overtops success!
Nothing but Heaven might reach his patriot brow,
And lo, the Crown of thorns is on it now,
With higher guerdon than our world's caress.
Nothing but Heaven might reach his patriot brow,
And lo, the Crown of thorns is on it now,
With higher guerdon than our world's caress.
The Vision of all his glory fills our eyes,
And with One heart expectant Nations throb
Around him; with one mighty prayer they sob,
And wait God's answer to this Sacrifice,—
And with One heart expectant Nations throb
Around him; with one mighty prayer they sob,
And wait God's answer to this Sacrifice,—
Praying for one more chance at turn of tide;
One blow for Rome ere many setting suns;
One stroke for Venice kneeling 'neath her guns;
All Italy abreast, and at his side:
One blow for Rome ere many setting suns;
One stroke for Venice kneeling 'neath her guns;
All Italy abreast, and at his side:
That he may stand as Wellington once stood
Victor upon the hard-won Pyrenees,
With France below him, offering on her knees
The White Flower Peace, sprung from her Root of Blood.
Victor upon the hard-won Pyrenees,
With France below him, offering on her knees
The White Flower Peace, sprung from her Root of Blood.
FRANCE AND GARIBALDI.
They tricked him when the Lion-heart broke loose;They mocked him as they caught him in the noose,
Slew his young Heroes in the foulest strife:
And then he went to offer France his life.
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Himself; and only asked of her a grave!
In natural greatness simple and sublime,
He stands up peerless, towering o'er the time,
With none beside him. So the Gallic Elf
Explained him! 'Twas a man beside himself.
GARIBALDI'S PROPHECY.
That Pyramid of Imposture reared by Rome
All of Cement for an Eternal Home
And Shelter, that might shut out Heaven's Dome,
Shall Crumble back to earth again: It must,
For lack of blood to bind it! Every gust
Shall revel in the Desert of its dust!
All of Cement for an Eternal Home
And Shelter, that might shut out Heaven's Dome,
Shall Crumble back to earth again: It must,
For lack of blood to bind it! Every gust
Shall revel in the Desert of its dust!
No matter though it towers to the Sky
And darkens Earth, you cannot make the Lie
Immortal; though stupendously enshrined
By Art in every perfect mould of Mind:
Angelo, Rafaelle, Milton, Handel, all
Its Pillars cannot stay it from the fall!
And darkens Earth, you cannot make the Lie
Immortal; though stupendously enshrined
By Art in every perfect mould of Mind:
Angelo, Rafaelle, Milton, Handel, all
Its Pillars cannot stay it from the fall!
And when that Prison of the Immortal, Mind,
Hath fallen to set free the bound and blind,
No more shall life be one long dread of death;
Humanity shall breathe with fuller breath;
Expand in Spirit and in Stature rise,
To match its Birthplace of the Earth and Skies.
Hath fallen to set free the bound and blind,
No more shall life be one long dread of death;
Humanity shall breathe with fuller breath;
Expand in Spirit and in Stature rise,
To match its Birthplace of the Earth and Skies.
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