The bird and the bell, with other poems | ||
XXXVIII.
Not like a maddened anarch does she rise:The torch she holds is no destroying flame,
But a clear beacon,—like her own clear eyes
Straining across the war-clouds; and the shame
Of wild misrule has never stained her name.
Calm and determined, politic yet bold,
She comes to take her place,—the Italy of old.
The bird and the bell, with other poems | ||