Poems | ||
525
MILAN, 1860.
Greatness dies not; from grandeur, grandeur springs;From glory, glory evermore is born;
Therefore has she, who was the oppressor's scorn,
Found might in memory to tread down kings,
Making a present with whose deeds earth rings;
Therefore sits she, chain'd 'mongst the lands, forlorn,
No longer; in that strength rising, has torn
Her right to live greatly from the crowned things
That wrought her evil. She hath stung the heel
That crush'd the iron into her great soul.
Freedom is hers, grasp'd mid the clash of steel;
Tyrants no more her thoughts, her tongue control;
Free is the course; her past does she not feel
Shouting her on again to glory's goal!
Poems | ||