 | [Poems by Howe in] Julia Ward Howe 1819-1910 |  |
137
JANUARY 9, 1878
A voice of sorrow shakes the solemn pines
Within the borders of the Apennines;
A sombre vision veils the evening red,
A shuddering whisper says: the King is dead.
Within the borders of the Apennines;
A sombre vision veils the evening red,
A shuddering whisper says: the King is dead.
Low lies he near the throne
That strange desert and fortune made his own;
And at his life's completion, from his birth
In one fair record, men recount his worth.
That strange desert and fortune made his own;
And at his life's completion, from his birth
In one fair record, men recount his worth.
Chief of the Vatican!
Heir of the Peter who his Lord denied,
Not of the faith which that offence might hide,
Boast not, “I live, while he is coldly laid.”
Say rather, in the jostling mortal race
He first doth look on the All-father's face.
Life's triple crown absolvèd weareth he,
Clear Past, sad Present, fond Futurity.
Heir of the Peter who his Lord denied,
Not of the faith which that offence might hide,
Boast not, “I live, while he is coldly laid.”
Say rather, in the jostling mortal race
He first doth look on the All-father's face.
Life's triple crown absolvèd weareth he,
Clear Past, sad Present, fond Futurity.
| [Poems by Howe in] Julia Ward Howe 1819-1910 | |