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THE ITALIAN MOTHER
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THE ITALIAN MOTHER

Is there any to weep for the dead,
For the dead that are glorious and slain?
Shall the mother be sad for her son,
Or the bride for the bridegroom's head
That her eyes shall embrace not again?
There is none to lament, not one.
O beautiful mother of men,
Have we seen thee indeed rearisen,
Thee rent by the Austrian rods,
From the depth of the wild beast's den,
From the place of the spirits in prison,
O mother of men like gods?
O happy beyond all praise,
O noble beyond all fame,
Of whom it shall alway be said
That none to the end of days,
Shall glorify Italy's name
And not the names of her dead.
Yea, glad beyond word of mine,
Yea, proud beyond word, O brothers,
The lowest and least of you all.
His memory shall warm as wine
The spirit and sense of the others,
Shall ring as a clarion's call.

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Forgotten the name, the place,
Forgotten the mortal hour,
The pang, and the fugitive breath;
The mother's withering face
Bowed low like a broken flower,
At the sound of the last son's death.
Forgotten the eyes of the bride
That the news left wan, not wet,
Till awhile they relaxed in tears.
And again grew goodly with pride;
But thee she will not forget,
Thy mother, in all these years.