My Lyrical Life :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.”

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.

“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!

“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.”

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

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.

125

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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,

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.

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,—

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:

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.