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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
327
XXVIII.
Romans, that lift to Liberty, your God,Not vows but swords, suppliants self-deified,
Betwixt her altars 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 pontiff, and the father stood!
What rite piacular from that impious deed
Hath cleansed your hands? Accuse not adverse stars,
If guilt unwept achieve not virtue's meed.
Years heal not treason. All his sands old Time
Shakes down to keep unblurred those calendars,
Which blazon red their Feasts of prosperous crime.
1860.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |