 | Aspromonte and Other Poems |  |
1
POEMS FOR ITALY.
3
ASPROMONTE.
Garibaldi—but his charm is overthrown,
Garibaldi—but his flag is in the dust,
Garibaldi—but a prisoner to his own,
Garibaldi—but foredoom'd by sentence just.
Garibaldi—but a criminal and fool,
Garibaldi—but the world's faith has grown cool;
Garibaldi—but a name for scoffs and scorns,
For the pity and the moral of the wise,
But the laurel leaves have sharpen'd into thorns,
But the Lion low with his lost fortune lies;
Garibaldi—but in helpless wounded pain,
Garibaldi—but the fallen, never to rise again.
Garibaldi—but his flag is in the dust,
Garibaldi—but a prisoner to his own,
Garibaldi—but foredoom'd by sentence just.
Garibaldi—but a criminal and fool,
Garibaldi—but the world's faith has grown cool;
Garibaldi—but a name for scoffs and scorns,
For the pity and the moral of the wise,
But the laurel leaves have sharpen'd into thorns,
But the Lion low with his lost fortune lies;
Garibaldi—but in helpless wounded pain,
Garibaldi—but the fallen, never to rise again.
Garibaldi, but you are yourself for ever!
But you never were so noble and so dear;
Garibaldi, but Christ neither now nor ever
Has loos'd His hand from holding yours to cheer;
But the Comforter is with you all the while,
Making still your silence radiant with your smile;
Garibaldi, but you are our own, our Master,
But the little ones and foolish cleave to you,
But around our fallen Hero we close faster,
But now i' this dark hour truer are the true.
Garibaldi, but we love you, we adore you,
Garibaldi, but our hearts are breaking for you;
But the Right endureth, though the Wrong prevaileth,
Garibaldi—God is with you still when this world faileth.
But you never were so noble and so dear;
Garibaldi, but Christ neither now nor ever
Has loos'd His hand from holding yours to cheer;
But the Comforter is with you all the while,
Making still your silence radiant with your smile;
4
But the little ones and foolish cleave to you,
But around our fallen Hero we close faster,
But now i' this dark hour truer are the true.
Garibaldi, but we love you, we adore you,
Garibaldi, but our hearts are breaking for you;
But the Right endureth, though the Wrong prevaileth,
Garibaldi—God is with you still when this world faileth.
High on Aspromonte flashed the red shirts early,
Up in the midst of them the glory of his face.
Low on Aspromonte, ere the day was over,
He was down and bleeding, bound in helpless case.
Hands of brothers pour'd that crimson—nevermore
Tears can wash it from the holy Tricolor.
Alas! Alas! could they hit him where he stood,
Himself thrown between the ranks, with passionate cries
Calling on them but to spare each other's blood,
And so, falling, gave himself a sacrifice.
O, the pity and the passion of that morrow,
When, all lost, all ended, he th' invincible
Lay there stricken in his ruin and his sorrow,
Prisoner in the hands of those he loved too well.
Up in the midst of them the glory of his face.
Low on Aspromonte, ere the day was over,
He was down and bleeding, bound in helpless case.
Hands of brothers pour'd that crimson—nevermore
Tears can wash it from the holy Tricolor.
Alas! Alas! could they hit him where he stood,
Himself thrown between the ranks, with passionate cries
Calling on them but to spare each other's blood,
And so, falling, gave himself a sacrifice.
O, the pity and the passion of that morrow,
When, all lost, all ended, he th' invincible
Lay there stricken in his ruin and his sorrow,
Prisoner in the hands of those he loved too well.
5
Over rugged mountain-paths without complaint
Carried through long hours of torture, white and faint,
By the faithful, silent in his silence all,
Marching slow and soft as at a funeral.
Overhead all day the scorching August quiver'd,
While the laurel leaves look'd sadness, shading him,
As they bore him from the land he had deliver'd,
Helpless, shatter'd, hot with anguish heart and limb;
No salute, or sign, or murmur as he passed;
But once, looking up, he waved his hand at last:
Farewell!—kneeling on the shore the people shiver'd,
Stretching out their hands long after the white sails had grown dim.
Carried through long hours of torture, white and faint,
By the faithful, silent in his silence all,
Marching slow and soft as at a funeral.
Overhead all day the scorching August quiver'd,
While the laurel leaves look'd sadness, shading him,
As they bore him from the land he had deliver'd,
Helpless, shatter'd, hot with anguish heart and limb;
No salute, or sign, or murmur as he passed;
But once, looking up, he waved his hand at last:
Farewell!—kneeling on the shore the people shiver'd,
Stretching out their hands long after the white sails had grown dim.
How have they received him back to his own country?
He, the man who threw himself into the front for those
Who, standing aloof, let him bear the peril only,
And now have forsaken him when the rough wind blows.
Has the King himself come forth to welcome him,
Remembering the kingdom that he gave him?
Have they made a palace ready for him?
Could they not comfort if they could not save him?
Did they not crown him first ere they forgave him?—
Courts of law to judge the rebel and to try him,
Prison portion for the criminal found due,
Haste officious to disown him and deny him,
This is royal recompense for service over true.
He, the man who threw himself into the front for those
Who, standing aloof, let him bear the peril only,
And now have forsaken him when the rough wind blows.
Has the King himself come forth to welcome him,
Remembering the kingdom that he gave him?
Have they made a palace ready for him?
Could they not comfort if they could not save him?
Did they not crown him first ere they forgave him?—
Courts of law to judge the rebel and to try him,
Prison portion for the criminal found due,
6
This is royal recompense for service over true.
There on Varignano frowns the fortress where
Italy keeps her captive, weeping over him;
Passive, his part over, in their ward and care,
If perchance they may even yet recover him.
Through the damp and gloomy prison walls we go
To the chamber where they have laid him to endure,
Faded, and bare to the North, forlorn and poor;
Open doors, and many footsteps passing to and fro,
Anxious looks, and undertones, and busy hands;
And in the midst of them a narrow bed and low,
And a pale face leaning upwards—the face that we all know,—
A pallid face with its own smile, that lightens all the lands.
Looking into his eyes, the shadow and storm are past;
Not a word to utter, our wild tears come too fast;
It is yourself, Garibaldi—we have kiss'd your hand at last.
Italy keeps her captive, weeping over him;
Passive, his part over, in their ward and care,
If perchance they may even yet recover him.
Through the damp and gloomy prison walls we go
To the chamber where they have laid him to endure,
Faded, and bare to the North, forlorn and poor;
Open doors, and many footsteps passing to and fro,
Anxious looks, and undertones, and busy hands;
And in the midst of them a narrow bed and low,
And a pale face leaning upwards—the face that we all know,—
A pallid face with its own smile, that lightens all the lands.
Looking into his eyes, the shadow and storm are past;
Not a word to utter, our wild tears come too fast;
It is yourself, Garibaldi—we have kiss'd your hand at last.
Lying pallid with his face to the heavens,
Swooning silently under the surgeon's knife,
Pierc'd to the soul where he looked for comfort,
Dimly eclipse boding over his life;
Wasted away in the sleepless fever—
But the lip still set in its calm of old,
Child-like caressing, serene as ever,
Patient as heretofore pitiful-soul'd:—
And we know that deep into heaven those absent eyes behold.
Swooning silently under the surgeon's knife,
Pierc'd to the soul where he looked for comfort,
Dimly eclipse boding over his life;
Wasted away in the sleepless fever—
7
Child-like caressing, serene as ever,
Patient as heretofore pitiful-soul'd:—
And we know that deep into heaven those absent eyes behold.
Do we understand you, Garibaldi?
Truly, I think not so.
We rejoice in you, we would die for you,
Where you go, we would go;
Near you we feel nearer heaven:
Is not that enough to know?
Can the lesser contain the greater?
For ever the law says, ‘No.’
Even if over his forehead
It were not sculptured plain,
How in perfect power harmonious
The heart is match'd with the brain;
Must we break in pieces the grandeur
That we cannot receive?
God is not us'd, half finished
His noblest works to leave.
And yet there are some among us
Who, claiming respect and rule,
Can smile and say: ‘What a pity
A hero should be a fool.’
Truly, I think not so.
We rejoice in you, we would die for you,
Where you go, we would go;
Near you we feel nearer heaven:
Is not that enough to know?
Can the lesser contain the greater?
For ever the law says, ‘No.’
Even if over his forehead
It were not sculptured plain,
How in perfect power harmonious
The heart is match'd with the brain;
Must we break in pieces the grandeur
That we cannot receive?
God is not us'd, half finished
His noblest works to leave.
And yet there are some among us
Who, claiming respect and rule,
Can smile and say: ‘What a pity
A hero should be a fool.’
8
O, foolish Garibaldi!
That might have been cross'd and starr'd
With diamonds, and set among princes,
And had gold for his reward;
And chooses rather in prison
To be lying stiff and scarr'd,
His fortunes all risked headlong,
Ruthlessly crush'd and marr'd,
With his name from its marvellous glory
Fall'n in the world's regard,
And his own whom he saved, upon him
Sitting in judgment hard.
That might have been cross'd and starr'd
With diamonds, and set among princes,
And had gold for his reward;
And chooses rather in prison
To be lying stiff and scarr'd,
His fortunes all risked headlong,
Ruthlessly crush'd and marr'd,
With his name from its marvellous glory
Fall'n in the world's regard,
And his own whom he saved, upon him
Sitting in judgment hard.
Rose-coloured Republic of Christ!
So long in coming to pass;
So long that our hearts are weary,
And our faith grows cold, alas!
But to this the nations are yearning
In their fever and complaint;
And for this the silent workers
In their patience do not faint.
And for thirty years one Prophet,
Rejected, despised, abhorr'd,
Has been crying in the wilderness:
‘Make straight the way of the Lord!’
And yet we go on blindly
Caring not to understand,
Nor to lift our eyes to the letters
Trac'd out by the shining hand.
But surely we need that vision
To interpret what is dark;
As he sees it, his face set forward,
Fearlessly on to the mark.
So long in coming to pass;
So long that our hearts are weary,
And our faith grows cold, alas!
But to this the nations are yearning
In their fever and complaint;
And for this the silent workers
In their patience do not faint.
And for thirty years one Prophet,
Rejected, despised, abhorr'd,
Has been crying in the wilderness:
‘Make straight the way of the Lord!’
And yet we go on blindly
9
Nor to lift our eyes to the letters
Trac'd out by the shining hand.
But surely we need that vision
To interpret what is dark;
As he sees it, his face set forward,
Fearlessly on to the mark.
For we need discipline, guidance,
Restraints and rigours of rule;
And only a few of the foremost
Are coming out of school.
But another kingdom is coming,
Whose dawn is in the sky,
And they who watch on the mountains
Have a vision that it is nigh;
Light, light through the mists is breaking,
So that all may walk thereby!
Already in far-off echoes
The new glory thrilling o'er us;
‘The Lord shall reign for ever and ever!’
Swelling on in marvellous chorus;
The blue of the heavens upbuilding
A mighty temple before us.
And over the arch is written
In letters orient-gilt,
The perfect law of liberty:
‘Love, and do what thou wilt.’
Restraints and rigours of rule;
And only a few of the foremost
Are coming out of school.
But another kingdom is coming,
Whose dawn is in the sky,
And they who watch on the mountains
Have a vision that it is nigh;
Light, light through the mists is breaking,
So that all may walk thereby!
Already in far-off echoes
The new glory thrilling o'er us;
‘The Lord shall reign for ever and ever!’
Swelling on in marvellous chorus;
The blue of the heavens upbuilding
A mighty temple before us.
And over the arch is written
In letters orient-gilt,
10
‘Love, and do what thou wilt.’
And he is of that kingdom:
The glory around his head
Is only the ray auroral
By which his footsteps are led.
Not that he himself is greater
Than other men might be;
All by toilsome ways will later
Arrive where now stands he;
But that, loving, therefore living
The life divinely true,
Without law or line, unerring,
Single-hearted he goes through:
Standing before our Father
With the heart of a little child,
Perfect duty and perfect freedom
In that clear faith reconcil'd;
And that, walking amid shadows
That wait for a higher birth,
He acts in its presence already
As though it were come on earth,
Type and token of the future,
To the famishing of dearth.
The glory around his head
Is only the ray auroral
By which his footsteps are led.
Not that he himself is greater
Than other men might be;
All by toilsome ways will later
Arrive where now stands he;
But that, loving, therefore living
The life divinely true,
Without law or line, unerring,
Single-hearted he goes through:
Standing before our Father
With the heart of a little child,
Perfect duty and perfect freedom
In that clear faith reconcil'd;
And that, walking amid shadows
That wait for a higher birth,
He acts in its presence already
As though it were come on earth,
Type and token of the future,
To the famishing of dearth.
11
And therefore the world's heart throbs to him,
In conscious travail and pain,
Stretching out her hands and tossing,
Till her Lord shall come again.
And therefore the poor and simple,
In their weakness and distress,
With passionate blind devotion,
Around him kneel and press,
Feeling themselves made sacred
In his reverent tenderness.
The heart of the people, breaking,
Knows its own woe and need;
‘The brother of Jesus Christ,’ they say,
Poor, pining souls indeed!
In conscious travail and pain,
Stretching out her hands and tossing,
Till her Lord shall come again.
And therefore the poor and simple,
In their weakness and distress,
With passionate blind devotion,
Around him kneel and press,
Feeling themselves made sacred
In his reverent tenderness.
The heart of the people, breaking,
Knows its own woe and need;
‘The brother of Jesus Christ,’ they say,
Poor, pining souls indeed!
You have given him your love, Italy!
It was all he would take from you:
Well may you weep and wail his hurt,
Who trusted that you were true!
Had you, now bitterly rueing,
Been worthy of him, alas!
This deed, which has no undoing,
Would never have come to pass.
When he came forward, giving
The signal forth, Be men!
Did he look for such an answer
To be given him back again?
What was that small love-token
You sent him the other day,
So that, bone and sinew broken,
Struck down to earth he lay?
Could you find nothing more tender
Than a bullet to kiss his feet?
Strange homage for you to render!
When fronting once more you meet,
How will you look at your lover
Halt of step and pale of cheek?
Surely your face you must cover
Though never reproach he speak.
It was all he would take from you:
Well may you weep and wail his hurt,
Who trusted that you were true!
Had you, now bitterly rueing,
Been worthy of him, alas!
This deed, which has no undoing,
Would never have come to pass.
When he came forward, giving
The signal forth, Be men!
12
To be given him back again?
What was that small love-token
You sent him the other day,
So that, bone and sinew broken,
Struck down to earth he lay?
Could you find nothing more tender
Than a bullet to kiss his feet?
Strange homage for you to render!
When fronting once more you meet,
How will you look at your lover
Halt of step and pale of cheek?
Surely your face you must cover
Though never reproach he speak.
There is One in Heaven, Garibaldi,
Whose face we have not seen:
But thinner to you than to us lies
The veil that hangs between.
He has made you for His own work;
He has kept you spotless through;
And you know better than we can,
What He has called you to do:
Some day you will go forth again,
And He will go with you.
If we would but look up, to us
The heavens would open too!
Whose face we have not seen:
But thinner to you than to us lies
The veil that hangs between.
He has made you for His own work;
He has kept you spotless through;
And you know better than we can,
What He has called you to do:
Some day you will go forth again,
And He will go with you.
13
The heavens would open too!
Now, courage! Has his cause with him
Gone down in this overthrow?
Are works and prayers thrown backwards;
And all in vain? Oh no!
Those eyes that see the farthest
Declare that it is not so.
How often we know already,
When the arm of the conqueror fails,
When the wise have sunk despairing,
The martyr at last prevails.
So our hopes are with you, whether
Your fortunes rise or fall;
For you are Garibaldi,
And God is over all!
Gone down in this overthrow?
Are works and prayers thrown backwards;
And all in vain? Oh no!
Those eyes that see the farthest
Declare that it is not so.
How often we know already,
When the arm of the conqueror fails,
When the wise have sunk despairing,
The martyr at last prevails.
So our hopes are with you, whether
Your fortunes rise or fall;
For you are Garibaldi,
And God is over all!
14
THE EXECUTION OF FELICE ORSINI, March 13th, 1858.
‘Fuor se' dell' erte vie, fuor se' dell' arte.’
—Dante.
—Dante.
I. Part I. THE STREETS OF PARIS.
A day to be much remembered,
Sad and sublime;
Written in letters of red
In the book of Time.
Not a coronation morning,
With its light of purple and gold,
And flocds of mighty music
In hallelujahs rolled:
Not a young bride led home
From royal halls afar,
All pallid and pearl-glittering,
A sweet and tremulous Star:
Not a conqueror's State entry,
With his armies marching back
Under triumphal arches,
A glittering scarlet track,
When the wide streets glare in sunshine,
And the bells ring out all day,
And the people shout together,
Knowing not what they say:—
Only a winter's morning,
Crowds standing silent by,
A prison and a scaffold,
And a man brought out to die.
Sad and sublime;
Written in letters of red
In the book of Time.
Not a coronation morning,
With its light of purple and gold,
And flocds of mighty music
In hallelujahs rolled:
Not a young bride led home
From royal halls afar,
All pallid and pearl-glittering,
A sweet and tremulous Star:
15
With his armies marching back
Under triumphal arches,
A glittering scarlet track,
When the wide streets glare in sunshine,
And the bells ring out all day,
And the people shout together,
Knowing not what they say:—
Only a winter's morning,
Crowds standing silent by,
A prison and a scaffold,
And a man brought out to die.
In the cold, damp darkness,
Between the night and day,
With nerv'd and solemn heart,
Forth we take our way
To follow to thy martyrdom—
Last homage we can pay;
To watch with our own eyes
The setting of this star;
To bear thee faithful company
Down this dark road, as far
As where the soul and God
Alone together are.
Paris is all astir;
Another day for her
Of tragedy.
Sunrise is not for long,
Yet onward pours along
The ever-thickening throng
Continually.
Fresh streams from every street
A ceaseless press of feet,
In quick and countless beat;
All one way they fare.
The darkness seems alive—
A breathing, moving thing.
With a strange awe we strive:
This hollow murmuring
In the damp, leaden air,
This vague and heaving sea
Of shadows undefin'd,
Hurrying confusedly,
Seems every sense to bind
In nightmare weight of gloom;
For silently they come:
A horror-quiet broods
Over the multitudes;—
No wild cries—no word
Above their breath is heard:
The air is only stirred
By a vague whispering hum.
Between the night and day,
With nerv'd and solemn heart,
Forth we take our way
To follow to thy martyrdom—
Last homage we can pay;
To watch with our own eyes
The setting of this star;
To bear thee faithful company
Down this dark road, as far
As where the soul and God
Alone together are.
16
Another day for her
Of tragedy.
Sunrise is not for long,
Yet onward pours along
The ever-thickening throng
Continually.
Fresh streams from every street
A ceaseless press of feet,
In quick and countless beat;
All one way they fare.
The darkness seems alive—
A breathing, moving thing.
With a strange awe we strive:
This hollow murmuring
In the damp, leaden air,
This vague and heaving sea
Of shadows undefin'd,
Hurrying confusedly,
Seems every sense to bind
In nightmare weight of gloom;
For silently they come:
A horror-quiet broods
Over the multitudes;—
No wild cries—no word
17
The air is only stirred
By a vague whispering hum.
Sudden and startling comes
A long, loud roll of drums;
And the echo clear
Of bugle notes afar
Winds down the Boulevards:
Be ready—the hour is near!
Through the darkness and the damp,
On comes the clatter and tramp
Of the squadrons down the street:
A shock—a rushing past;
Furiously and fast
The heavy, hurrying feet
Over the stones are sped.
‘To guard the scaffold,’ said
A voice beside us, low.
Did ye not mark it when
They pass'd the lamp below—
How cold and blue the steel
Flash'd out?—Did ye not feel
A sudden shrinking then?
And the ring of spurs and reins
Came like the clank of chains.
Heaven help us all this day!
Would we were far away.
Already, in foreshadowing,
Our spirits sink and cower;
Yet he has given up all things
To suffer death this hour.
A long, loud roll of drums;
And the echo clear
Of bugle notes afar
Winds down the Boulevards:
Be ready—the hour is near!
Through the darkness and the damp,
On comes the clatter and tramp
Of the squadrons down the street:
A shock—a rushing past;
Furiously and fast
The heavy, hurrying feet
Over the stones are sped.
‘To guard the scaffold,’ said
A voice beside us, low.
Did ye not mark it when
They pass'd the lamp below—
How cold and blue the steel
Flash'd out?—Did ye not feel
A sudden shrinking then?
And the ring of spurs and reins
Came like the clank of chains.
18
Would we were far away.
Already, in foreshadowing,
Our spirits sink and cower;
Yet he has given up all things
To suffer death this hour.
The light becomes more clear;
The daybreak draweth near,
Yet brings no warmth to cheer,
Nor sunrise glow.
No sun will shine to-day;
The dark fogs drift away;
The skies are leaden grey,
Sullen and low;
White and ghostly sheets
Of mist hang o'er the streets,
Wet with trodden snow.
Dismaller and drearer
Ever as we draw nearer
Seems the way to grow.
To the great burial garden
Onward now it turns;
Past long lines of tombstones,
And cold funeral urns;
Where the living have made
Of the dead a trade.
Bare, bleach'd crosses stand
Stiff on either hand,
Showing dismal white
In the chill half-light.
All things black and dolorous:—
Coffins with sable pall;
Dark plumes and hearse-trappings,
Heavy on every wall;
A horror of the charnel-house
Overshadowing all;—
Only the pallid Immortelles
Some brighter thoughts recall;
Fresh and fair, yet never a wreath
But tears thereon shall fall.
And if the way were clear,
As three hours hence 'twill be,
The cypress at the gates
Before us we might see,
Guarding that sad harvest field,
Sown darkly in decay,
Where twenty generations
Are mouldering to clay.
But we will leave them, lying
In their desolate array—
Not of the Dead, but the Dying,
Our hearts are full to-day.
The daybreak draweth near,
Yet brings no warmth to cheer,
Nor sunrise glow.
No sun will shine to-day;
The dark fogs drift away;
The skies are leaden grey,
Sullen and low;
White and ghostly sheets
Of mist hang o'er the streets,
Wet with trodden snow.
Dismaller and drearer
Ever as we draw nearer
Seems the way to grow.
To the great burial garden
Onward now it turns;
Past long lines of tombstones,
And cold funeral urns;
19
Of the dead a trade.
Bare, bleach'd crosses stand
Stiff on either hand,
Showing dismal white
In the chill half-light.
All things black and dolorous:—
Coffins with sable pall;
Dark plumes and hearse-trappings,
Heavy on every wall;
A horror of the charnel-house
Overshadowing all;—
Only the pallid Immortelles
Some brighter thoughts recall;
Fresh and fair, yet never a wreath
But tears thereon shall fall.
And if the way were clear,
As three hours hence 'twill be,
The cypress at the gates
Before us we might see,
Guarding that sad harvest field,
Sown darkly in decay,
Where twenty generations
Are mouldering to clay.
But we will leave them, lying
In their desolate array—
20
Our hearts are full to-day.
Now we are close at hand:
Before us outlined dimly
La Roquette rises grimly,
Black as death and sorrow—
Holy ground to-morrow.
Countless thousands stand
Already crowded there,
Filling the open square,
And stretching every side
Far up the streetways wide,
Till, lost in gloom and haze,
The vague, dim, human tide
With shadowy motion sways;
Who motionless and still,
While even he has slept,
Through the night-frosts have kept
Their vigils faint and chill.
They gather'd yester-eve,
When the snow began to fall;
The long, dark hours toll'd heavily,
Standing they counted all,
And the day dawns on pale faces
Waiting to see him fall.
Nor these perhaps alone
This night has wakeful known.
The lamps burn on the altars
In the churches all night long;
Surely some pious souls
Have stay'd since evensong
To pray for the passing soul—
Christ, shrive him from his wrong!—
O! all good souls and true,
Spare him a prayer or two,—
'Tis but little while ye may;
Grudge not of tears a few,
He gives his blood for you,
He is dying to-day.
The light that flash'd all Europe through
Is vanishing away—
The arm that like the lightning flew
Wherever there was work to do,
Braving all pain and peril anew.—
O God! Thou know'st his heart was true
Even in this offence!
Then watch for one hour longer,
One hour yet more intense,
In this dark mid-lent season,
For him who goeth hence;—
The haughty hero-spirit,
Parting in penitence.
Before us outlined dimly
La Roquette rises grimly,
Black as death and sorrow—
Holy ground to-morrow.
Countless thousands stand
Already crowded there,
Filling the open square,
And stretching every side
Far up the streetways wide,
Till, lost in gloom and haze,
The vague, dim, human tide
With shadowy motion sways;
Who motionless and still,
While even he has slept,
Through the night-frosts have kept
Their vigils faint and chill.
They gather'd yester-eve,
When the snow began to fall;
The long, dark hours toll'd heavily,
Standing they counted all,
And the day dawns on pale faces
Waiting to see him fall.
21
This night has wakeful known.
The lamps burn on the altars
In the churches all night long;
Surely some pious souls
Have stay'd since evensong
To pray for the passing soul—
Christ, shrive him from his wrong!—
O! all good souls and true,
Spare him a prayer or two,—
'Tis but little while ye may;
Grudge not of tears a few,
He gives his blood for you,
He is dying to-day.
The light that flash'd all Europe through
Is vanishing away—
The arm that like the lightning flew
Wherever there was work to do,
Braving all pain and peril anew.—
O God! Thou know'st his heart was true
Even in this offence!
Then watch for one hour longer,
One hour yet more intense,
In this dark mid-lent season,
For him who goeth hence;—
22
Parting in penitence.
While in the Tuileries,
Sleepless and ill at ease,
Silent as Fate's decrees,
As morn came on;
Waiting till all was o'er,
Through hall and corridor
Restless the Emperor
Pac'd up and down;
Thinking we know not what;
If sorrow, utter'd not.—
Emperor! have you forgot,
Thinking of him, one day
Long ago, years away,
Nearer the morning skies,
When under one command
He and you took your stand
Comrades, and, hand in hand,
Look'd in each other's eyes;—
At your own peril, both
Utter'd the same high oath,
Self-doom'd for broken troth,
Then parted from each other?
Since then, through chance and change,
Each by rough ways and strange,
Ye to the goal have past
Separate; and now, at last,
Once more your fates are cast
In the world's eye together.
Each doom'd, by fortune's stress,
By each, yet not the less
Too great for bitterness;
Still that bond feels unrent,
Through all between that went,
By that old sacrament,
He is your brother.
Those days when truth seem'd true,
One vow was on you two;
He has kept his—and you?
Now, past recall
He goes; when next you meet
At the same Judge's feet,
Your work will be complete;—
Hear you no call?
Sleepless and ill at ease,
Silent as Fate's decrees,
As morn came on;
Waiting till all was o'er,
Through hall and corridor
Restless the Emperor
Pac'd up and down;
Thinking we know not what;
If sorrow, utter'd not.—
Emperor! have you forgot,
Thinking of him, one day
Long ago, years away,
Nearer the morning skies,
When under one command
He and you took your stand
Comrades, and, hand in hand,
Look'd in each other's eyes;—
At your own peril, both
Utter'd the same high oath,
Self-doom'd for broken troth,
Then parted from each other?
Since then, through chance and change,
Each by rough ways and strange,
23
Separate; and now, at last,
Once more your fates are cast
In the world's eye together.
Each doom'd, by fortune's stress,
By each, yet not the less
Too great for bitterness;
Still that bond feels unrent,
Through all between that went,
By that old sacrament,
He is your brother.
Those days when truth seem'd true,
One vow was on you two;
He has kept his—and you?
Now, past recall
He goes; when next you meet
At the same Judge's feet,
Your work will be complete;—
Hear you no call?
There, on the farther side,
Before the prison gates,
The scaffold yet undy'd,
The sacrifice awaits;
All the eyes around
Thereon are strain'd and bound,
Where the hideous frame
Rises gaunt and tall,
Its cords wound up for working,
Dull red painted all;
The hard block ready laid,
The overhanging blade,
Horrible they loom
Through the thinning gloom.
Who now feels heart among us
To tempt this visible doom?
A wide-swept space around
Of clear'd and open ground,
By guards on three sides bound;
Deep files on either hand,
Flank'd by the horsemen stand,
An iron wall;
Rein'd steeds in close lines drawn,
Naked swords upright borne,
Helmets on fierce brows worn,
Motionless all.
Driven back by armed stress,
Surging, the people press;
From every house in Paris
Every man has come—
Some as to a spectacle,
As to an altar some;
Careless and free of speech,
Or stricken stiff and dumb.
Ah! many a crowd has gathered here
In the grey morning light,
And many an erring spirit
Has taken hence its flight;
But never morning dim
So full of awe drew nigh,
And never man like him
Stood here before to die.
Before the prison gates,
The scaffold yet undy'd,
The sacrifice awaits;
All the eyes around
Thereon are strain'd and bound,
24
Rises gaunt and tall,
Its cords wound up for working,
Dull red painted all;
The hard block ready laid,
The overhanging blade,
Horrible they loom
Through the thinning gloom.
Who now feels heart among us
To tempt this visible doom?
A wide-swept space around
Of clear'd and open ground,
By guards on three sides bound;
Deep files on either hand,
Flank'd by the horsemen stand,
An iron wall;
Rein'd steeds in close lines drawn,
Naked swords upright borne,
Helmets on fierce brows worn,
Motionless all.
Driven back by armed stress,
Surging, the people press;
From every house in Paris
Every man has come—
Some as to a spectacle,
As to an altar some;
25
Or stricken stiff and dumb.
Ah! many a crowd has gathered here
In the grey morning light,
And many an erring spirit
Has taken hence its flight;
But never morning dim
So full of awe drew nigh,
And never man like him
Stood here before to die.
These were the words that went,
With low, quick breathings blent,
From one to another sent,
Among the crowds:
‘Saw ye not at the trial
The look that was in his eye,
When he turn'd to his false comrades,
And said, “I pardon ye?”
Have ye read that last message
Unto his people sent?—
The letter written yestereve,
His dying testament;
As an emperor to an emperor,
And yet no scorn nor pride!
Hard task to sign the death-warrant,
With that sheet spread beside!
Ah! feelings strange and dim
Plead in our hearts for him
More than we dare say.—
If he had had his way,
We might have stood to-day
Like men, and spoken out.—
Nor law nor priest has might
To give unerring light
Whereby to read aright
His just award:—no doubt,
Murder is deadly sin;
Yet there was therein
Nothing for him to win
Save what is here;—
And as it draws so near,
Terrible and clear,
Does it not strange appear
That one of high estate,
So gifted and so great,
Without constraint or call,
Should have forsaken all
Honour'd, and sweet, and dear,
With purpose firm to go
To shame, and death, and woe,
And none to thank or cheer?
Has he not given his name
Unto reproach and shame,
Good men's sorrow, proud men's blame;
From history to claim
Only a murderer's fame?
Yea; has he not besides,
In a whole people's cause,
At his own cost defied
Divine and human laws;
The guilt of innocent blood
For ever on his head,
To stand before his God,
His hands yet reeking red?
Strange mystery, any heart
Could choose such awful part!
Was it madness?—who can tell?
Or was it something else
We know not of?—Ah! well;
What is it is stronger than fear,—
Stronger than Death and Hell?
With low, quick breathings blent,
From one to another sent,
Among the crowds:
‘Saw ye not at the trial
The look that was in his eye,
When he turn'd to his false comrades,
And said, “I pardon ye?”
Have ye read that last message
Unto his people sent?—
The letter written yestereve,
His dying testament;
As an emperor to an emperor,
And yet no scorn nor pride!
Hard task to sign the death-warrant,
26
Ah! feelings strange and dim
Plead in our hearts for him
More than we dare say.—
If he had had his way,
We might have stood to-day
Like men, and spoken out.—
Nor law nor priest has might
To give unerring light
Whereby to read aright
His just award:—no doubt,
Murder is deadly sin;
Yet there was therein
Nothing for him to win
Save what is here;—
And as it draws so near,
Terrible and clear,
Does it not strange appear
That one of high estate,
So gifted and so great,
Without constraint or call,
Should have forsaken all
Honour'd, and sweet, and dear,
With purpose firm to go
To shame, and death, and woe,
And none to thank or cheer?
27
Unto reproach and shame,
Good men's sorrow, proud men's blame;
From history to claim
Only a murderer's fame?
Yea; has he not besides,
In a whole people's cause,
At his own cost defied
Divine and human laws;
The guilt of innocent blood
For ever on his head,
To stand before his God,
His hands yet reeking red?
Strange mystery, any heart
Could choose such awful part!
Was it madness?—who can tell?
Or was it something else
We know not of?—Ah! well;
What is it is stronger than fear,—
Stronger than Death and Hell?
Not with the beat of rolling drum,
Or wild fifes wailing, dost thou come,
Tyrannicide, unto thy doom;
Nothing of sound or light
The spirit to excite
To the stern delight
Of martyrdom.
The lamps are going out,
The stars died long ago;—
The death-knell from the chapel,
Dull, and deep, and slow,—
A sick heart-throb in every stroke,—
Tolls heavily to and fro.
In the glimmer and gloom of dawning,
In the winter's mist and chill,
In the people's shiver and shudder,
Far off, and ghastly still:—
In the serried steel-clad circle,
Whose grim and glaring eyes
In hungry glee are fix'd to see
How the assassin dies;—
With never the face of an old friend
Standing by thee brave and true;—
God and thy own heroic heart
Alone to bear thee through.
Or wild fifes wailing, dost thou come,
Tyrannicide, unto thy doom;
Nothing of sound or light
28
To the stern delight
Of martyrdom.
The lamps are going out,
The stars died long ago;—
The death-knell from the chapel,
Dull, and deep, and slow,—
A sick heart-throb in every stroke,—
Tolls heavily to and fro.
In the glimmer and gloom of dawning,
In the winter's mist and chill,
In the people's shiver and shudder,
Far off, and ghastly still:—
In the serried steel-clad circle,
Whose grim and glaring eyes
In hungry glee are fix'd to see
How the assassin dies;—
With never the face of an old friend
Standing by thee brave and true;—
God and thy own heroic heart
Alone to bear thee through.
29
II. Part II. THE PRISON.
Candlelight and morning gloom
Struggling in the prison-room,
That dim and desolate chamber, where
The doomed for their fate prepare.
A hush'd and solemn company
To-day is gathered there;
Some standing passionless,
With faces stern and still,
At their appointed post,
Hirelings for good or ill;
Some with clasp'd, quivering hands,
Now fever-flushed, now pale,
Cold sweat upon their brows,
Limbs that faint and fail.
Three black and hateful-brow'd,
Of rude and iron limb,
With cool and practised hands,
About their labour grim;
Felon's or martyr's blood,
It comes alike to them.
Two with deep pious eyes,
Mild with consolation,
That will unshrinking stand,
Strong in Christ, cross in hand,
Lighting the way.
And in that silent ring
One wild and fluttering—
One with the face of a king
On his crowning day.
Struggling in the prison-room,
That dim and desolate chamber, where
The doomed for their fate prepare.
A hush'd and solemn company
To-day is gathered there;
Some standing passionless,
With faces stern and still,
At their appointed post,
Hirelings for good or ill;
Some with clasp'd, quivering hands,
Now fever-flushed, now pale,
Cold sweat upon their brows,
Limbs that faint and fail.
Three black and hateful-brow'd,
Of rude and iron limb,
With cool and practised hands,
About their labour grim;
Felon's or martyr's blood,
It comes alike to them.
30
Mild with consolation,
That will unshrinking stand,
Strong in Christ, cross in hand,
Lighting the way.
And in that silent ring
One wild and fluttering—
One with the face of a king
On his crowning day.
Standing amidst them all,
In that accursed hall,
Fetter'd in helpless thrall,
Vile hands upon thee laid,
In robes of scorn array'd,
How grand thou art!
Those cold and curious eyes,
Thine aspect stranger-wise
Nor shrinks from nor defies,
But stands apart;
In unapproached strength,
Resolv'd and fix'd at length.
There is no human eye,
Nor human aid, intrudes
Into that solitude's
Heroic agony.
All clos'd and still,—and yet
The anguish thou hast met
One awful seal has set
Too visibly.
Since we saw thee last,
What wild change has past,
As the furnace-blast,
Over thy brow!
In one week that white hair!—
Witness perforce is there
What thou hast had to bear
Of pangs nigh to despair,—
All over now.
Upon that glorious face
There is little trace
Of conflicts that have been;
Calm thou standest now,
With grave, majestic brow;
Passive and marble-still;
Through thy frame no thrill
Nor tremor seen;
No quick flashes rise
From thy deep dark eyes,—
Fathomless there lies
A veiled soul therein.
This was all thy face betray'd
Unto the eyes of men;
What more our hearts may read
We cannot tell again.
In that accursed hall,
Fetter'd in helpless thrall,
Vile hands upon thee laid,
In robes of scorn array'd,
How grand thou art!
Those cold and curious eyes,
Thine aspect stranger-wise
Nor shrinks from nor defies,
But stands apart;
In unapproached strength,
Resolv'd and fix'd at length.
There is no human eye,
Nor human aid, intrudes
Into that solitude's
Heroic agony.
31
The anguish thou hast met
One awful seal has set
Too visibly.
Since we saw thee last,
What wild change has past,
As the furnace-blast,
Over thy brow!
In one week that white hair!—
Witness perforce is there
What thou hast had to bear
Of pangs nigh to despair,—
All over now.
Upon that glorious face
There is little trace
Of conflicts that have been;
Calm thou standest now,
With grave, majestic brow;
Passive and marble-still;
Through thy frame no thrill
Nor tremor seen;
No quick flashes rise
From thy deep dark eyes,—
Fathomless there lies
A veiled soul therein.
32
Unto the eyes of men;
What more our hearts may read
We cannot tell again.
Yet though thus tranc'd thou seem,
Past thee, as in a dream,
What crowding pictures gleam
Out from the past.
All over, and so soon,—
Not forty years are done,
And life for ever gone,—
The one die cast!
How fair and sunny shines
That home amid the vines,
Far off in Imola;
How soft the day declines
Over the Apennines,
Purple afar.
Fearless and full of truth,
What joy it was in youth
To feel at every breath
The dawn of manhood breaking,
With passionate dreams awaking,
And deep thoughts purpose taking
For life and death.
That young, full-hearted vow
Of thy whole self, which thou,
Fulfill'd and seal'd, wilt now
Deliver back to God.
Thy first steps on the way
Which, straight on, till to-day
Thou in firm faith hast trod;
Those Roman prison-dens accurst,
Where thou, all slowly withering
In darkness and in chains, didst first
Measure thy power with suffering,
And felt it equal to the worst,—
Yea, even to the doom
Of terror and despair that fell
Upon thy youth a freezing knell—
Young Life, and Love, and Hope, farewell!
Long torture till Death come.
God give patience to the end,
Or some swift succour send,
Or soon call home!
Deliverance at last;—
When two long years are past,
The act of grace has come.
Past thee, as in a dream,
What crowding pictures gleam
Out from the past.
All over, and so soon,—
Not forty years are done,
And life for ever gone,—
The one die cast!
How fair and sunny shines
That home amid the vines,
Far off in Imola;
How soft the day declines
Over the Apennines,
Purple afar.
Fearless and full of truth,
What joy it was in youth
To feel at every breath
The dawn of manhood breaking,
33
And deep thoughts purpose taking
For life and death.
That young, full-hearted vow
Of thy whole self, which thou,
Fulfill'd and seal'd, wilt now
Deliver back to God.
Thy first steps on the way
Which, straight on, till to-day
Thou in firm faith hast trod;
Those Roman prison-dens accurst,
Where thou, all slowly withering
In darkness and in chains, didst first
Measure thy power with suffering,
And felt it equal to the worst,—
Yea, even to the doom
Of terror and despair that fell
Upon thy youth a freezing knell—
Young Life, and Love, and Hope, farewell!
Long torture till Death come.
God give patience to the end,
Or some swift succour send,
34
Deliverance at last;—
When two long years are past,
The act of grace has come.
At the age of twenty-five, Orsini was condemned to the galleys for life. The amnesty granted in 1846, by Pius IX., prevented the execution of this sentence.
1849.
Then arose that dawn sublime,That short, glowing, glorious time,
The third Rome in her bridal prime;
When Mazzini's words of fire
Rang through the halls of Rome,
And the tricolor wav'd out
Over St. Peter's dome;
Hark! the clash of the bells above,
The people's shouts below
For Rome and the Republic!
Life is worth having now.
Then, chosen by the people,
Thy eloquent voice was heard
Thrilling throughout the Capitol,
Till hearts beneath it stirr'd,
And men rose up to follow thee,
And thou didst lead them on
35
Or glory to be won.
Where the dead thickest
Strew'd the red ground;
Where rattled fastest
The sharp musket sound,
Where the battle hottest
Thunder'd around—
Fiercest and foremost
There wast thou found.
And when the golden time was rent
With lawless deeds and violent,
And others vainly aid had sent,
Thy strong, and just, and fearless hand
Gave peace and safety to the land.
And at the blood-red setting
Of that scarce hailed star,
When three great armies gather'd,
Like vultures from afar;
And all around the city bound
36
That fiery baptism-tide,
Ye, Romans, side by side,
Did at your posts abide
Stedfast through all.
How it comes back again,
That night before the fall!
When the solemn, lighted city
Up unto God did call;
When the lightning and the thunder
Burst through the battle's brawl;
When the streets were shaking under
The hail of bomb and ball,
Till down, in storm asunder,
Crash'd the defended wall;
When the one look of Mazzini
Still'd the tumultuous Hall,
And the eyes of Garibaldi
Were shining over all.
In June 1849, Orsini led five hundred men to the relief of Ascoli, besieged by the Neapolitan army.—Vide Farini's History, vol. iv.
Ancona was kept in a state of terror by brigands and assassins, who committed open robbery and murder. Mazzini sent several commissioners to repress them, who failed to do so. He then sent Orsini, who immediately restored security.
1849 to 1856.
All over! It was nobly striven;What use against all earth and heaven?
So, into bitter exile driven,
37
All that story, yet half-told,
Of danger strange and manifold,
Thirst and hunger, heat and cold,
Wanderings wild by field and flood,
Deeds of daring, wounds and blood,
In peril and in pain.
Often into prisons cast,
Yet no bonds could hold thee fast;
From their hands escap'd and past,
And forward once again.
Through the snares set in thy path,
Baffling all an empire's wrath;
From city unto city forth,
Calling men to rise and arm,
By the mighty power and charm
Of thy presence and thy name,
Keeping still the spark aflame,
Stirring life where'er they came.
And high hope upbore thee still,
Thy great mission to fulfil;
Nothing might dismay or chill,
38
Thy honour and thy love betray'd—
The foul and faithless wrong that made
Thy heart and home so desolate. —
Lifelong shadow o'er thee thrown,
A wound that will not heal:—
Heartsick and reckless, thou art gone
On desperate errand all alone—
Unto none thy purpose shown—
None bidding thee farewell.
Thou, the hunted and the bann'd,
Into the heart of the strange land,
Darest, with wild purpose plann'd,
To raise it with thy single hand.
Taken at last! and by a foe
Never with life will let thee go:
Too deep and deadly debt they owe;
Thou knowest what to look for now.
All thy sufferings ever told,
39
Fever, famine, freezing cold,
Their utmost malice wreak'd on thee,
Entreated so despitefully,
The very gaolers wept to see
Thy patience and thy misery.
And thou, as darker clos'd thy fate,
Rising more glorious and great:
Standing before thy judges,
No friend or witness nigh,
Pallid and feverstricken,
But the proud light in thine eye—
‘Ye have your chains and tortures,
And I have heart to die.’
The heavy chains, the damp, dark cell,
In the Mantua citadel;
The weary waiting for thy doom,
Alone within that living tomb;
The hope that flash'd on thy despair,
The deed that only thou couldst dare,
That terrible midnight, that wild tale
That froze our cheeks long after pale,
40
Our hearts within us shrink and quail,
Only thine might never fail;
It reads not like the deeds of men;
God and the angels were with thee then!
On the fall of the Roman republic, Orsini retired to Nice. For several years he resided there at intervals; most of his time being spent in organising insurrections in Lombardy and Tuscany. Once during this period he was obliged to take refuge in England.
‘I had been robbed of my happiness, and was yet unrevenged on the destroyer. I shall find him yet.’ ‘The hope before I die to stand face to face with the traitor who has so foully wronged me.’—Orsini's Memoirs.
Orsini, in December 1854, travelled alone through Hungary, Austria, and Transylvania, on a revolutionary mission whose import he never fully revealed.
Orsini was arrested at Hermanstadt, in Transylvania. For the terrible sufferings which followed, and which nearly cost him his life, see his Austrian Dungcons.
See Orsini's account of his marvellous escape from Mantua, March 1856. He then came to England, where he remained till December 1857, endeavouring in vain to excite the Government and the public to interfere in behalf of his country.
1856 to 1858.
Bread of exile once more thine,
Full of bitterness and brine;
Damp, downward-pressing skies,
Cold looks from stranger eyes;
Passionate pleadings thrown away,
Homesick pining day by day,
Strong health fretting to decay;
Till overwearied, overwrought,
How or whence we know not brought,
In fatal hour flash'd this thought,
Thy strained sense before.
Then the strife, the fever pain,
Fire and frenzy of the brain—
Thank God, that worst pain is o'er!
Hatred shall be nevermore.
Thy last perilous journey past,
Thy terrible secret ripening fast;
Mid the giddy whirl and press
Of this fair city, heard without,
In thy chamber's loneliness,
By day, with nerved hand and stout,
Working on, and violent death
Hanging over every breath:
Mid the laughter and the light
Of the glittering streets by night,
Moving, as in a dream, apart,
With one stern purpose in thy heart;
The outward calm, the inward fire,
The dark hour drawing nigh and nigher.—
The night of horrors, the wild cry
That through the darkness rent the sky:
On that hour we cannot dwell,
It is too near and terrible.
It is over—let it be,
And all those after days to thee,
Of madness and of agony.
Over, too, with all its glow,
That last triumphal hour,
When multitudes once more stood hush'd
Beneath thy spirit's power.
Back to thy cell, whence thou
Wilt come but once more now,
There all alone to hear
Death's footsteps coming near,
Hour by hour more clear.
Death-doom'd, and with the brand
Of murder on thy hand,
To go before God's throne,
And all those innocent souls
But just before thee gone,
Crying for vengeance there,
Drowning in blood thy prayer,
Barring thy way.
Mortal anguish, spirit's groan,
All that God and thou alone,
Here within these walls, have known.
And the parting yesterday;
Children's arms, so soft and small,
Round thy neck in passionate thrall,
Where the sharp axe next must fall.
Ah, let it be!—Not now
Thoughts such as these must must wake
The settled strength to shake
From that majestic brow.
Full of bitterness and brine;
Damp, downward-pressing skies,
Cold looks from stranger eyes;
Passionate pleadings thrown away,
Homesick pining day by day,
Strong health fretting to decay;
Till overwearied, overwrought,
How or whence we know not brought,
In fatal hour flash'd this thought,
Thy strained sense before.
Then the strife, the fever pain,
Fire and frenzy of the brain—
41
Hatred shall be nevermore.
Thy last perilous journey past,
Thy terrible secret ripening fast;
Mid the giddy whirl and press
Of this fair city, heard without,
In thy chamber's loneliness,
By day, with nerved hand and stout,
Working on, and violent death
Hanging over every breath:
Mid the laughter and the light
Of the glittering streets by night,
Moving, as in a dream, apart,
With one stern purpose in thy heart;
The outward calm, the inward fire,
The dark hour drawing nigh and nigher.—
The night of horrors, the wild cry
That through the darkness rent the sky:
42
It is too near and terrible.
It is over—let it be,
And all those after days to thee,
Of madness and of agony.
Over, too, with all its glow,
That last triumphal hour,
When multitudes once more stood hush'd
Beneath thy spirit's power.
Back to thy cell, whence thou
Wilt come but once more now,
There all alone to hear
Death's footsteps coming near,
Hour by hour more clear.
Death-doom'd, and with the brand
Of murder on thy hand,
To go before God's throne,
And all those innocent souls
But just before thee gone,
Crying for vengeance there,
Drowning in blood thy prayer,
Barring thy way.
Mortal anguish, spirit's groan,
All that God and thou alone,
43
And the parting yesterday;
Children's arms, so soft and small,
Round thy neck in passionate thrall,
Where the sharp axe next must fall.
Ah, let it be!—Not now
Thoughts such as these must must wake
The settled strength to shake
From that majestic brow.
No man stirred or spake,
None durst the silence break,
Fall'n on the room.
Thou takest little heed,
As at their work they speed,
To clothe thee for thy doom;
No sign by which to read
Thy spirit's light or gloom.
Thou dost not start to feel
The cold touch of the steel,
As round thy neck the locks
Are shorn away,
That the other steel may find
No hindrance in its way.
Never a motion, never
A wandering of thine eyes;
The minutes steal away,
And thou hast nought to say:
How cold and still it is.
Nearer we may not draw;
Hush'd we stand in awe,
With lingering passionate eyes
Gazing for the last time
Upon that presence sublime,
That in its power and prime
Is passing away for ever.
The world has seem'd of late
So noble and so great,
All rapt and consecrate
Unto thy name:
Thou, who the air hast fill'd
With thy great fame,
Who day by day hast thrill'd
With words of flame,
For whom in midnights still'd
Our wild prayers came;
Who even now hast power
To make this fearful hour
Unutterably dear:—
Too soon it will be past,
We shall have looked our last;
Gulfs unsounded cast
'Twixt thee and us to-morrow.
Ah! rather have thee near
In all this woe and fear,
Than be without thee here,
Alone in sorrow.
None durst the silence break,
Fall'n on the room.
Thou takest little heed,
As at their work they speed,
To clothe thee for thy doom;
No sign by which to read
Thy spirit's light or gloom.
Thou dost not start to feel
The cold touch of the steel,
As round thy neck the locks
Are shorn away,
That the other steel may find
No hindrance in its way.
44
A wandering of thine eyes;
The minutes steal away,
And thou hast nought to say:
How cold and still it is.
Nearer we may not draw;
Hush'd we stand in awe,
With lingering passionate eyes
Gazing for the last time
Upon that presence sublime,
That in its power and prime
Is passing away for ever.
The world has seem'd of late
So noble and so great,
All rapt and consecrate
Unto thy name:
Thou, who the air hast fill'd
With thy great fame,
Who day by day hast thrill'd
With words of flame,
For whom in midnights still'd
Our wild prayers came;
Who even now hast power
To make this fearful hour
Unutterably dear:—
Too soon it will be past,
45
Gulfs unsounded cast
'Twixt thee and us to-morrow.
Ah! rather have thee near
In all this woe and fear,
Than be without thee here,
Alone in sorrow.
He who was join'd with thee,
And played thee such ill part,
And now thy doom must share,
May not an aspect wear
So lofty in despair,
But spurreth feverishly
His sinking heart.
Wild words upon his tongue,
Cold drops upon his brow;
Thou hast some thought to spare
For others, even now.
Thou, the slander'd and betray'd,
To the weaker and afraid
Turnest with thy holy aid.
In the depth of thy own struggle and woe
The pardon was given long ago:
Passion is over, scorn is past,
And overflowing love at last
Has all thy soul possest.
'Twas thy last prayer yestereven
His life might be forgiven;
‘My blood alone be given!’
And now to him addrest,
With an o'ermastering charm,
On his strain'd ear descend
The grand, grave words, ‘Be calm,
Be calm, my friend!’
And played thee such ill part,
And now thy doom must share,
May not an aspect wear
So lofty in despair,
But spurreth feverishly
His sinking heart.
Wild words upon his tongue,
Cold drops upon his brow;
Thou hast some thought to spare
For others, even now.
Thou, the slander'd and betray'd,
To the weaker and afraid
Turnest with thy holy aid.
In the depth of thy own struggle and woe
The pardon was given long ago:
46
And overflowing love at last
Has all thy soul possest.
'Twas thy last prayer yestereven
His life might be forgiven;
‘My blood alone be given!’
And now to him addrest,
With an o'ermastering charm,
On his strain'd ear descend
The grand, grave words, ‘Be calm,
Be calm, my friend!’
Now it is ordered all,
As the law commands:
The shoes are off thy feet,
The cords are on thy hands;
The long robes o'er thee cast,
And on thy head at last
Plac'd the black veil and hood.
Then one lightning streak
Flash'd over eye and cheek.
Up in a fervent flood
Rush'd the proud Roman blood:
Before us crown'd he stood
In the glory and the flush
Of the martyr aureole,
And his dark eyes lighted up
At the kindling of his soul;
And on the stedfast lip
Broke forth a smile divine:—
Upon our hearts for ever
That moment's look will shine.
As the law commands:
The shoes are off thy feet,
The cords are on thy hands;
The long robes o'er thee cast,
And on thy head at last
Plac'd the black veil and hood.
Then one lightning streak
Flash'd over eye and cheek.
47
Rush'd the proud Roman blood:
Before us crown'd he stood
In the glory and the flush
Of the martyr aureole,
And his dark eyes lighted up
At the kindling of his soul;
And on the stedfast lip
Broke forth a smile divine:—
Upon our hearts for ever
That moment's look will shine.
Sorrowful around thee
Together now they crowd;
Thou, their dying prisoner,
All their hearts hast bow'd.
In accents low and broken
The farewell words were spoken;
The farewell back was given
In accents low and still;
Perhaps the thought that moment
Came with a sudden thrill:
‘Better to be as he is
Than doing a tyrant's will.’
Together now they crowd;
Thou, their dying prisoner,
All their hearts hast bow'd.
In accents low and broken
The farewell words were spoken;
The farewell back was given
In accents low and still;
Perhaps the thought that moment
Came with a sudden thrill:
48
Than doing a tyrant's will.’
We are ready—all is done;
The hour is all but run;
Beating one by one,
Loudly the seconds pass.
No heart-sick lingering or delay,
Short and stern is the work to-day.
Thou, full conscious of thy doom,
Hast brav'd Death—and he is come.
Neither doubtful nor afar,
Only the door ajar
Few moments more will bar
The scaffold from thy gaze.
The hour is all but run;
Beating one by one,
Loudly the seconds pass.
No heart-sick lingering or delay,
Short and stern is the work to-day.
Thou, full conscious of thy doom,
Hast brav'd Death—and he is come.
Neither doubtful nor afar,
Only the door ajar
Few moments more will bar
The scaffold from thy gaze.
The preparation of the bombs used by Orsini was attended with great danger. He undertook the task alone, and was obliged to work with a thermometer always in his hand, to prevent an explosion.
January 14, 1858. Orsini himself was terribly wounded; he was dangerously ill afterwards, of fever, brought on by his bodily and mental sufferings.
Pierri talked incessantly, with feverish excitement. He was interrupted by Orsini with the words, ‘Be calm, my friend, be calm.’
‘When the hood was placed over his head, his face, which hitherto had been calm and impassive, became flushed for a moment, and his eye lighted up.’—The Times.
‘Orsini spoke little; but when the governor of the prison and some of the officers approached him, he bade them, in a low tone of voice, farewell. The turnkey of his cell announced to him in a tone of regret that his last moment was come. Orsini thanked him for his sympathy.’
49
III. Part III. THE SCAFFOLD.
Seven strokes toll out the hour,
Chim'd harsh and slow;
Now courage! and God help us all!
It is time to go.
Ere the last sound has died,
With sudden motion glide
The prison doors aside;
Look upward now!
It rises gaunt and grim
Athwart the shadows dim,
Looming in ghastly shape;
No rescue nor escape.
Forward! It must be fac'd,
It is not over yet:
Well that thou hast a hero's heart,
Or how could this be met?
Over the flinty courtyard
The dark procession go,
Lighted tapers flickering,
Funeral shadows throw;
The death-knell tolling, tolling,
Ever more sad and slow;
And a faint hymn chanted
Quivering and low;
‘Mourir pour la patrie!’
It is even so.
Chim'd harsh and slow;
Now courage! and God help us all!
It is time to go.
Ere the last sound has died,
With sudden motion glide
The prison doors aside;
Look upward now!
It rises gaunt and grim
Athwart the shadows dim,
Looming in ghastly shape;
No rescue nor escape.
Forward! It must be fac'd,
It is not over yet:
Well that thou hast a hero's heart,
Or how could this be met?
50
The dark procession go,
Lighted tapers flickering,
Funeral shadows throw;
The death-knell tolling, tolling,
Ever more sad and slow;
And a faint hymn chanted
Quivering and low;
‘Mourir pour la patrie!’
It is even so.
On to the slaughter led,
Headsman and priest between;
Hands bound behind his back,
Long penance shroud of black,
Bare feet and veiled head,
And a conqueror's proud tread
Up the steps fifteen.
Via Dolorosa!
A rude rough way;
Yet mid the mockeries
Of this dire array
There is a glory on thee
They cannot take away.
Now most of all we feel,
O Hero! we would kneel
In homage unto thee.—
One went up for this world's weal
In shame to Calvary.
Headsman and priest between;
Hands bound behind his back,
Long penance shroud of black,
Bare feet and veiled head,
And a conqueror's proud tread
Up the steps fifteen.
Via Dolorosa!
A rude rough way;
Yet mid the mockeries
Of this dire array
There is a glory on thee
They cannot take away.
Now most of all we feel,
O Hero! we would kneel
51
One went up for this world's weal
In shame to Calvary.
It seems thou wouldst implore
Leave to speak once more
In all men's hearing free.
Thou turnest, we can see,
Towards them wistfully,
Those throngs of gazers there,
Who now must witness bear
For thee to history.
But they are driven back
Too far for this to be;
Too mighty mastery lies
In thy voice, in thine eyes;
Not for enslaved ear
Patriot's last charge to hear:
So thou must have denial.
Yet fear not, O full heart,
Unread from earth to part;
Love can those words divine,
Needeth nor voice nor sign;
All our hearts beat with thine
Through this last trial.
Farewell! farewell! The cry
Ariseth far and nigh;
From the land across the sea,
From thine own Italy,
From souls in slavery
Whom thou didst seek to free,
All the world holds of sympathy
Is round thee now.
All the world waits to-day
For the tidings that will say,
Thou art pass'd away.
In many a distant home,
Thou know'st not it may be
Many a tear ere night
Will fall for thee.
Yes, as thou standest there,
Nations in despair
Lift their eyes to thee,
Wailing passionately—
‘Oh, that it should be thou!
For thy love to us
Perishing, and thus;—
Who will save us now?’
What a deadly stillness,
What an awful pause!
Closer and closer o'er us
The black cloud draws.
In one shuddering silence
Thousands are bound;
What a horror of darkness
Gathers around!
Dizzy our eyes and dim—
The earth reels to and fro;
With wildly rattling pulses
The gasped moments go.
A dark and fearful passage
We are entering with thee;
But thy calm aspect lighteth it
Gloriously.
Leave to speak once more
In all men's hearing free.
Thou turnest, we can see,
Towards them wistfully,
Those throngs of gazers there,
Who now must witness bear
For thee to history.
But they are driven back
Too far for this to be;
Too mighty mastery lies
In thy voice, in thine eyes;
Not for enslaved ear
Patriot's last charge to hear:
So thou must have denial.
Yet fear not, O full heart,
Unread from earth to part;
Love can those words divine,
52
All our hearts beat with thine
Through this last trial.
Farewell! farewell! The cry
Ariseth far and nigh;
From the land across the sea,
From thine own Italy,
From souls in slavery
Whom thou didst seek to free,
All the world holds of sympathy
Is round thee now.
All the world waits to-day
For the tidings that will say,
Thou art pass'd away.
In many a distant home,
Thou know'st not it may be
Many a tear ere night
Will fall for thee.
Yes, as thou standest there,
Nations in despair
Lift their eyes to thee,
Wailing passionately—
‘Oh, that it should be thou!
For thy love to us
Perishing, and thus;—
Who will save us now?’
53
What an awful pause!
Closer and closer o'er us
The black cloud draws.
In one shuddering silence
Thousands are bound;
What a horror of darkness
Gathers around!
Dizzy our eyes and dim—
The earth reels to and fro;
With wildly rattling pulses
The gasped moments go.
A dark and fearful passage
We are entering with thee;
But thy calm aspect lighteth it
Gloriously.
Thou hast reach'd the place of death—
Here we must part;
We may go no further
With thee, noble heart.
So now blessings, and adieu!
Only One can take thee through;
Nothing more we can do,
Save, mid the breathless shiver
Of the death-agony,
Pray our last prayer for thee,
Felice Orsini,
Once ere we sever:
‘God give thee now good speed,
Help in this last great need,
Glory and martyr's meed
Now and for ever!’
Here we must part;
We may go no further
With thee, noble heart.
So now blessings, and adieu!
Only One can take thee through;
Nothing more we can do,
54
Of the death-agony,
Pray our last prayer for thee,
Felice Orsini,
Once ere we sever:
‘God give thee now good speed,
Help in this last great need,
Glory and martyr's meed
Now and for ever!’
‘Miserere, Agnus Dei!’
The crucifix he kiss'd;
‘Thanks, and farewell!’ One moment
The priest's hand he press'd;
Then turn'd and stood in fixed mood,
To his last work addrest.
The crucifix he kiss'd;
‘Thanks, and farewell!’ One moment
The priest's hand he press'd;
Then turn'd and stood in fixed mood,
To his last work addrest.
Then the veil they rais'd;
But the face on which they gaz'd
Was calm and glorious still.
Brows that darken'd not nor pal'd,
Eyes that neither quiver'd nor quail'd
When the first stroke fell.
On to the block with steady tread,
Though before him the newly dead,
And comrade's blood gush'd red
And warm across his way.
‘Vive la France!’ then he said,
‘Viva l'Italia!’
Down sunk that noble head;
Shudderings and silence dread;—
Angels, make way!
But the face on which they gaz'd
Was calm and glorious still.
Brows that darken'd not nor pal'd,
Eyes that neither quiver'd nor quail'd
When the first stroke fell.
55
Though before him the newly dead,
And comrade's blood gush'd red
And warm across his way.
‘Vive la France!’ then he said,
‘Viva l'Italia!’
Down sunk that noble head;
Shudderings and silence dread;—
Angels, make way!
‘The prison clock struck seven: before the last sound died away, the door leading to the scaffold opened as of itself.’
‘When Orsini appeared on the platform, it could be seen, from the movement of his body and of his head, though covered by the veil, that he was looking out for the crowd, and probably intended addressing them, but they were too far off.’
‘The prisoners remained exposed upon the platform while an usher read the decree of the Court, condemning them to the death of parricides.’—Gazette des Tribunaux.
‘Orsini and Pierri embraced their spiritual attendants, and pressed their lips to the crucifix offered to them.’
‘Pierri was executed first. Orsini was then taken in hand. His veil was raised, and his countenance still betrayed no emotion. Before he was fastened to the plank, he turned in the direction of the distant crowd, and, it is said, cried, “Vive la France!” “Viva l' Italia!”’
Stand still, great world, a moment!
Fold your hands and pray:
‘O God, let all tyranny
From earth pass away!
Thy kingdom come! and never
Let there again be need
Of such o'erwhelming deed,
Or of such vengeful meed,
Earth to deliver!’
Fold your hands and pray:
‘O God, let all tyranny
From earth pass away!
Thy kingdom come! and never
Let there again be need
Of such o'erwhelming deed,
Or of such vengeful meed,
Earth to deliver!’
Over!—Through all these weeks,
Hallowing their gloom and pain,
The shadow of thine agony
Over the world has lain,—
A haunting, passionate presence,
Beneath whose fixed strain,
We who kept watch with thee have pass'd
Through fires of heart and brain.
Now we draw breath, and say,
‘Thank God!—Well done!’
And out of this Gethsemane
At last thy crown is won;
Safe mid the stars for ever,
Thou brave, long suffering one!
Hallowing their gloom and pain,
56
Over the world has lain,—
A haunting, passionate presence,
Beneath whose fixed strain,
We who kept watch with thee have pass'd
Through fires of heart and brain.
Now we draw breath, and say,
‘Thank God!—Well done!’
And out of this Gethsemane
At last thy crown is won;
Safe mid the stars for ever,
Thou brave, long suffering one!
Thus was thy victory won;
And when the deed was done,
Out went the fiery sun
In wrath and fear;
Shadow and tremor fell,
Like the echo of a knell,
By hands invisible
Toll'd through the upper air.
All faces in our sight
Pal'd in that awful light
Neither of day nor night:—
And all abroad,
Over the land at noon,
Darkly th' eclipse came on—
For a great soul had gone
Back unto God.
They laid thee in the prison-yard,
Coldly and silently;
But the palaces of heaven
Were hung with black for thee,
And the planets strew'd the pall
Above thee for thy funeral.
And when the deed was done,
Out went the fiery sun
In wrath and fear;
Shadow and tremor fell,
Like the echo of a knell,
By hands invisible
Toll'd through the upper air.
All faces in our sight
Pal'd in that awful light
Neither of day nor night:—
And all abroad,
57
Darkly th' eclipse came on—
For a great soul had gone
Back unto God.
They laid thee in the prison-yard,
Coldly and silently;
But the palaces of heaven
Were hung with black for thee,
And the planets strew'd the pall
Above thee for thy funeral.
So we take leave of thee,
Felice Orsini:
Thy like we shall not see
On earth again;
Never one century
Gave two such men.
From thy grave we part
With hush'd and reverent heart,
And comfort in our pain,
Feeling that not in vain
Such life and death could be;
With hope a coming year
Will yet make all things clear
By glorious consequence;
And we shall wholly see
Through this dark mystery
Of Providence:
Why one who had stood fast
In lifelong constancy,
Who had so nobly past
Through all adversity,
Should have been tried at last
So strangely, fearfully.
None, knowing thee, can doubt
Thy heart was pure throughout;
None can thy steps have track'd,
And not felt from the first
The martyrdom the worst
To thee lay in the act.
None hath known, or could know,
The conflict and the woe
Through which thy soul did go
Ere it gave way.
With brain tost to and fro,
Seething in ebb and flow,
Throbbing and turning so,
Aright thou couldst not tell
Whether from heaven or hell
Those voices round thee fell,
Ceasing not night or day;
And in that agony,
None helping thee, didst cry,
As we may deem—
‘O, save me from this hour!
Is there no other power
My nation to redeem?
Flesh and spirit both
Abhor it, faint and loth;
Far gladlier would I go
To death by tortures slow,
To dungeons earth below,
All men can make of woe;—
Their utmost power I know.
Yet, seeing it is so,
And I am call'd thereto,
I may not shrink nor flee
From this now laid on me.
O Mother Italy,
Life, name, and liberty,
And soul, if needs must be,
Were all vow'd unto thee.
And I have kept that vow
With single heart and true,
All good and evil through,
As I will keep it now.
For when young life was shining,
And heart with heart entwining,
I chose without repining
A dark and cheerless road:
Therein these many years,
Through all that nature fears,
In loss, and pain, and tears,
Straight forward I have trod;
Till unto me remain'd
Only a name unstain'd;
Now, that must perish too;—
There will be still a few
To judge me tenderly.—
It must be: all I ask,
Is strength for this stern task;
And for the rest, my God,
I trust my soul to Thee.
If, in Thy charity,
There is no room for me;—
If it must be indeed
Thy laws eternal need
That for this loathed deed
I perish utterly:—
If Thou wilt cast me out,
I that have clung to Thee
In anguish and in doubt,
And wrestled fearfully
To know Thy truth;—yet still,
Millions for rescue call;
It must be,—one for all;
Here am I,—do Thy will!’
Felice Orsini:
Thy like we shall not see
On earth again;
Never one century
Gave two such men.
From thy grave we part
With hush'd and reverent heart,
And comfort in our pain,
Feeling that not in vain
Such life and death could be;
With hope a coming year
Will yet make all things clear
By glorious consequence;
58
Through this dark mystery
Of Providence:
Why one who had stood fast
In lifelong constancy,
Who had so nobly past
Through all adversity,
Should have been tried at last
So strangely, fearfully.
None, knowing thee, can doubt
Thy heart was pure throughout;
None can thy steps have track'd,
And not felt from the first
The martyrdom the worst
To thee lay in the act.
None hath known, or could know,
The conflict and the woe
Through which thy soul did go
Ere it gave way.
With brain tost to and fro,
Seething in ebb and flow,
Throbbing and turning so,
59
Whether from heaven or hell
Those voices round thee fell,
Ceasing not night or day;
And in that agony,
None helping thee, didst cry,
As we may deem—
‘O, save me from this hour!
Is there no other power
My nation to redeem?
Flesh and spirit both
Abhor it, faint and loth;
Far gladlier would I go
To death by tortures slow,
To dungeons earth below,
All men can make of woe;—
Their utmost power I know.
Yet, seeing it is so,
And I am call'd thereto,
I may not shrink nor flee
From this now laid on me.
O Mother Italy,
Life, name, and liberty,
And soul, if needs must be,
Were all vow'd unto thee.
And I have kept that vow
60
All good and evil through,
As I will keep it now.
For when young life was shining,
And heart with heart entwining,
I chose without repining
A dark and cheerless road:
Therein these many years,
Through all that nature fears,
In loss, and pain, and tears,
Straight forward I have trod;
Till unto me remain'd
Only a name unstain'd;
Now, that must perish too;—
There will be still a few
To judge me tenderly.—
It must be: all I ask,
Is strength for this stern task;
And for the rest, my God,
I trust my soul to Thee.
If, in Thy charity,
There is no room for me;—
If it must be indeed
Thy laws eternal need
That for this loathed deed
I perish utterly:—
61
I that have clung to Thee
In anguish and in doubt,
And wrestled fearfully
To know Thy truth;—yet still,
Millions for rescue call;
It must be,—one for all;
Here am I,—do Thy will!’
So thy resolve was taken,
And thou, revil'd, forsaken,
Didst bear that cross unshaken
On through the gates of death.
And past them, at God's feet,
We know that thou didst meet
Award more just and tender
Than any we could render:
Who knew thy worth as He?
Upon His mercy cast,
Toil and travail past,
Thou hast found thy home at last,
And all is well with thee.
The crime by death is expiate,
Thou hast bow'd unto thy fate,
Thy place on earth is desolate,
And it was just:
But the exalted faith,
The hope that triumpheth,
The love prov'd unto death
Tender, and true, and pure,
These cannot but endure;
And in God's love secure,
Through sorrow-clouds obscure,
Humbly we trust;
Thankful that He has given
Another Star to Heaven,
Another name of worth,
To the memories of Earth.
And thou, revil'd, forsaken,
Didst bear that cross unshaken
On through the gates of death.
And past them, at God's feet,
We know that thou didst meet
Award more just and tender
Than any we could render:
Who knew thy worth as He?
Upon His mercy cast,
Toil and travail past,
Thou hast found thy home at last,
And all is well with thee.
The crime by death is expiate,
Thou hast bow'd unto thy fate,
Thy place on earth is desolate,
And it was just:
62
The hope that triumpheth,
The love prov'd unto death
Tender, and true, and pure,
These cannot but endure;
And in God's love secure,
Through sorrow-clouds obscure,
Humbly we trust;
Thankful that He has given
Another Star to Heaven,
Another name of worth,
To the memories of Earth.
Thou the crown of thorn
With stedfast brows hast worn,—
The world's reproach and scorn,
A heart by wild thoughts torn,
Dungeon depths forlorn,
And this dread judgment-morn:
The utmost thou hast borne,
And it is o'er:
A name far down to shine,
Rest in the Life Divine,
The red rose crown is thine
For evermore.
With stedfast brows hast worn,—
The world's reproach and scorn,
A heart by wild thoughts torn,
Dungeon depths forlorn,
And this dread judgment-morn:
The utmost thou hast borne,
And it is o'er:
A name far down to shine,
Rest in the Life Divine,
The red rose crown is thine
For evermore.
The writer holds in firm faith that the Emperor's sudden change of policy, whence the war in Italy and all the late and present glorious events have sprung, was immediately caused by Orsini's dying letters; and from the moment of his martyrdom believed that the salvation of his country would be wrought thereby, though without knowing how. That Orsini's last hours were cheered by the same faith, we have good reasons for believing. 1860.
63
BATTLE HYMN FOR GARIBALDI'S BRITISH LEGION.
Volturno, 1860.
God bless the cause of Right!
God help us in the fight!
Guard us from ill!
Soldiers victorious,
High hopes and glorious,
One hero over us,
God save him still!
God help us in the fight!
Guard us from ill!
Soldiers victorious,
High hopes and glorious,
One hero over us,
God save him still!
His voice went through the land:
Could true hearts idle stand?—
So we come too.
Red shirts, and English guns,
Strong hands and steady ones,—
England said to her sons,
‘God go with you!
Could true hearts idle stand?—
So we come too.
Red shirts, and English guns,
Strong hands and steady ones,—
England said to her sons,
‘God go with you!
64
Bold sons of many lands
With us have shaken hands
In brotherhood;
Fast bound for good and ill,
By the same work and will,
By the same breathless thrill
When first we stood:—
With us have shaken hands
In brotherhood;
Fast bound for good and ill,
By the same work and will,
By the same breathless thrill
When first we stood:—
Stood face to face with him,
Stood hand in hand with him,
Pledged him our faith;
Saw his smile fade again,
Heard his low voice, and then
Felt we were nobler men
Henceforth till death.
Stood hand in hand with him,
Pledged him our faith;
Saw his smile fade again,
Heard his low voice, and then
Felt we were nobler men
Henceforth till death.
Now, Garibaldi, then,
Here are thy Englishmen,
Stout hearts and free;
Take us, thy work to do,
Where thou goest, we go too,
Thou guiding us safe through,
God guiding thee.
Here are thy Englishmen,
Stout hearts and free;
Take us, thy work to do,
Where thou goest, we go too,
Thou guiding us safe through,
God guiding thee.
65
Under those wings divine,
On that high path of thine,
Forward in might!
With the Archangel's sword,
Bearing to earth abroad
This message of the Lord,
‘Let there be light!’
On that high path of thine,
Forward in might!
With the Archangel's sword,
Bearing to earth abroad
This message of the Lord,
‘Let there be light!’
Heralds of life they find us,
Through all the way behind us
Peals down the strand
One Hallelujah Chorus;
Christ's own Elected o'er us,
Darkness and doom before us
Over the land.
Through all the way behind us
Peals down the strand
One Hallelujah Chorus;
Christ's own Elected o'er us,
Darkness and doom before us
Over the land.
Better than life at ease,
Better than gold's increase,
Doing and daring;
Following his path that lies
Through summer Paradise,
Welcome in all men's eyes,
His fortunes sharing.
Better than gold's increase,
Doing and daring;
Following his path that lies
Through summer Paradise,
Welcome in all men's eyes,
His fortunes sharing.
66
Feeling the blood leap free,
Marching to victory,
Foremost in fight;
And when the day is won,
Hearing him say ‘Well done!’
Standing at set of sun
Red in the light.
Marching to victory,
Foremost in fight;
And when the day is won,
Hearing him say ‘Well done!’
Standing at set of sun
Red in the light.
Not all!—we have lost some;
Speak low!—'twas martyrdom:
Brave eyes are dim,
When on some battle-eve
Brothers to earth we leave;—
Sweet hearts at home will grieve,
God comfort them!
Speak low!—'twas martyrdom:
Brave eyes are dim,
When on some battle-eve
Brothers to earth we leave;—
Sweet hearts at home will grieve,
God comfort them!
Who next? We know not yet
Whose sun to-day will set;
God's will be done!
Safe in His hands we are,
Who dies in Holy War,
Heaven's angels are not far;—
Home, every one!
Whose sun to-day will set;
God's will be done!
Safe in His hands we are,
Who dies in Holy War,
Heaven's angels are not far;—
Home, every one!
67
Now for a glorious day!
Red miles of war array
Massed firm and ready:
Wave out, sweet tricolor!
Our Chief is gone before,
Far off the first deep roar
Mutters already.
Red miles of war array
Massed firm and ready:
Wave out, sweet tricolor!
Our Chief is gone before,
Far off the first deep roar
Mutters already.
High in the hottest place
Lightens the Lion-face
Over the fight.
On, where he leads the way!
Each one as best he may
Trust his own arm to-day,
God and the Right!
Lightens the Lion-face
Over the fight.
On, where he leads the way!
Each one as best he may
Trust his own arm to-day,
God and the Right!
Pulses of cannon-shocks;—
Earth in the thunder rocks,
Nearer replying.
Hell-fury, fire, and brawl,
One voice rings over all,
That voice whose tender fall
Comforts the dying.
Earth in the thunder rocks,
Nearer replying.
Hell-fury, fire, and brawl,
One voice rings over all,
That voice whose tender fall
Comforts the dying.
68
Rattles the hot hail fast;
This way they come at last,
Bearing down hither;
On them, through steel and smoke!
Hand to hand, stroke to stroke!
Hurrah! their ranks are broke,
Charge all together!
This way they come at last,
Bearing down hither;
On them, through steel and smoke!
Hand to hand, stroke to stroke!
Hurrah! their ranks are broke,
Charge all together!
Now strike victorious,
Or every man of us
Here dead will fall!
Viva l'Italia!
All down the line, hurrah!
Darlings in England—ah!
God bless you all!
Or every man of us
Here dead will fall!
Viva l'Italia!
All down the line, hurrah!
Darlings in England—ah!
God bless you all!
69
TWO SONNETS TO GARIBALDI.
August 1860.
I.
O Lion-face, O heart of this world's heart!The battle-clouds roll off, the thunders clear,
When face to face we see thee as thou art,
The face that we have worshipped many a year.
The face that long ago the artist-dreamers
Gave to the kneeling world for the Redeemer's
In living presence walks the earth abroad,
And we of this day may behold it near:
High o'er the heat of battle lightening;—
Or Sabbath mornings, leaning on thy sword,
An hour of rest in conflict, listening
In silence to the words of Christ thy Lord,
Whose kingdom thou art sent on earth to bring;—
Or in a sterner presence overawed:—
70
II.
Standing by sick-beds in the hospitals,Where thy young warriors stricken down are lying,
Watching for thy slow shadow down the walls,
And where for one more look of thee the dying
Linger from hour to hour. The moanings cease
Under the yearning pity of thine eyes;
And the caressing hand, that fondly lies
On fevered foreheads, smoothes them into peace.
And they whose pain is nearly over now
Lie still, and smile up in their agony
With angel-eyes of deathless love to thee,
To die and suffer for thy sake content,
For ever thine by that last sacrament,
A father's kiss upon their dying brow.
71
TO THE MEMORY OF FELICE ORSINI.
With the same smile we see thee stand
That lighted up the living land;
Across the starlands thou art come
With thy deep eyes of martyrdom,
As when we saw thee last:—not yet
Can we that hour of doom forget;
That lighted up the living land;
Across the starlands thou art come
With thy deep eyes of martyrdom,
As when we saw thee last:—not yet
Can we that hour of doom forget;
That cold March morning when the snows
Were underfoot, and thousands rose
Ere dawn, to see a hero's close;
And thou in silence too didst rise,
And through the darkness gleamed thine eyes,
Led forth unto the sacrifice.
Were underfoot, and thousands rose
Ere dawn, to see a hero's close;
And thou in silence too didst rise,
And through the darkness gleamed thine eyes,
Led forth unto the sacrifice.
They looked upon thee at the last;—
One smile of lightning flashed and passed,
Across thee from the distance cast:
Since then we have with thanks believed,
Just before Christ thy soul received,
Even then thine anguish was retrieved.
One smile of lightning flashed and passed,
Across thee from the distance cast:
Since then we have with thanks believed,
Just before Christ thy soul received,
Even then thine anguish was retrieved.
72
The sun went out,—we could but weep:
No tender hands,—we might not keep
Watch over thee in thy last sleep:
And over thee we sang no psalm,
Lying at last so cold and calm,
Beyond our comfort or our harm.
No tender hands,—we might not keep
Watch over thee in thy last sleep:
And over thee we sang no psalm,
Lying at last so cold and calm,
Beyond our comfort or our harm.
Ah me! thou borest heavy doom,
Prisoner white-haired amid the gloom,
That saw the numbered hours consume;
While in thy brain the phantoms whirled,—
Hearing the voices of the world
In wrath and scorn against thee hurled.
Prisoner white-haired amid the gloom,
That saw the numbered hours consume;
While in thy brain the phantoms whirled,—
Hearing the voices of the world
In wrath and scorn against thee hurled.
Leaving thine Italy held mute,
There lying, trodden underfoot,
Nor turned to render thee salute;
Up to the ruthless torturers given,—
Despairing hands stretched out to Heaven,
While deeper in the nails were driven,—
Thou who hadst suffered so, and striven!
There lying, trodden underfoot,
Nor turned to render thee salute;
Up to the ruthless torturers given,—
Despairing hands stretched out to Heaven,
While deeper in the nails were driven,—
Thou who hadst suffered so, and striven!
Each coward had a stone to throw
Against the mighty lying low;
None cared to spare thee for thy pains;
Thy hand, they said, had drawn the reins
More tightly, riveted her chains:—
Thy woe is past, thy work remains.
Against the mighty lying low;
None cared to spare thee for thy pains;
Thy hand, they said, had drawn the reins
73
Thy woe is past, thy work remains.
There standest thou without applause,
Taken on thee a people's cause,
The debt, the doom, of broken laws;
A cross of death, a crown of thorns,
A brand of blood, a scourge of scorns:—
O wait until the morning dawns!
Taken on thee a people's cause,
The debt, the doom, of broken laws;
A cross of death, a crown of thorns,
A brand of blood, a scourge of scorns:—
O wait until the morning dawns!
The dawn is on the mountain's brow,
The prison doors are open now,
Thy work is done,—and where art thou?
In some cold graveyard, dust to dust;
Spirit to spirit with the just,
Far in some better world we trust.
The prison doors are open now,
Thy work is done,—and where art thou?
In some cold graveyard, dust to dust;
Spirit to spirit with the just,
Far in some better world we trust.
And knowest thou what thou hast done,
Thou morning-star before the sun,
Who mad'st thyself the victim one?
Knowest thou from that very day,
The salt-flood turned and ebbed away,
The East was quickened with a ray?
Thou morning-star before the sun,
Who mad'st thyself the victim one?
Knowest thou from that very day,
The salt-flood turned and ebbed away,
The East was quickened with a ray?
If thou hadst lived until this day,
Thou hadst been in the foremost way;
The name that went down in eclipse,
Had now been hailed by nations' lips;
And thee at Garibaldi's side
The world had known and glorified.
Thou hadst been in the foremost way;
74
Had now been hailed by nations' lips;
And thee at Garibaldi's side
The world had known and glorified.
Had this been best? Ah, who can tell?
God guardeth his Beloved well,
Quiet beneath their Immortelles.
Thou speakest with thy dreamèd eyes:
‘Friend, we who are in Paradise,
Know now our Father is most wise.’
God guardeth his Beloved well,
Quiet beneath their Immortelles.
Thou speakest with thy dreamèd eyes:
‘Friend, we who are in Paradise,
Know now our Father is most wise.’
| Aspromonte and Other Poems | |