University of Virginia Library

Gone, and thy work not done! Dead, dead, while yet
Yon crazy shaveling clanks his spectral keys
Over Italia's capital, and raves
Of immemorial Empire, aimlessly
From palsied hands spilling the dull dead bolts,
Which once were lightning, o'er unheeding realms!—
Dead, dead, while yet before his Roman sire
The unfledged boy-anarch of St. Elmo kneels,
And whets his venom; after his foul kind
Hatching his dastard treasons,—dreaming still
Of Freedom quivering on Sicilian racks,
And sceptres, gilt once more with martyrs' blood,
Wielded throughout illimitable night
By inexterminable Bourbons!—Dead,
Dead, while Venetia strangles in the net
Four-square of Austrian Kaisers! Dead, while still
Imperial Gaul sits Sphynxlike on the world
And plots her murderous riddles!

O dead, dead!
And none to grasp thy mantle. None, like thee,
Cavour! A narrower wisdom, feebler will
And hand less firm shall weave the tangled threads
Of thy Italia's destiny! Alone,
Alone, Cavour, Italia's slave and lord,
Didst thou control the chaos!

They will come,
Ignoble Pigmies, chattering Myrmidons,
And act their petty antics o'er thy grave,
Thine, who didst dwarf them; apes of statesmanship,
Mocking thy kingly wisdom and broad lore
With their own small ambitions, schemes and feuds,
And boast themselves thy equal! They will come,
The sires of old rebellions, men whose eyes
Grown dim by gazing on their dungeon walls,
Or dark with blinding exile, can discern
No hope of sunrise even in the morn
Of temperate Freedom, babbling, babbling still
Their old Utopian nothings! Birds of night,
Flapping foul wings and shrieking at the day
Because it dawns not Westward! They will come,
The loathsome spawn of Anarchy, the slaves
Of despots, things that battened on the blood
Wrung from Italia's agony,—and they,
The dark, dishallowed priesthood of dead creeds
Who in the vineyards of God's heritage
Trampled the wine-vats, crushing human hearts,
Hopes, passions, aspirations, and thereout
Sucked horrible frenzy, drunkenness of lust,
And uttermost perdition!—They will come
And none shall scare them! Nightmares of the past
Squatting in hideous council on thy tomb.
Thou wilt not heed them! They are nought to thee!
Thou hast gone forth and left them,—them and us!
Ay me, gone, gone for ever! leaving them
To wreak their littlenesses unchastised,
And us, thy friends, thy country, to our tears!—
Tears, tears of bitter anguish, not despair,
Thou dost forbid despair!

Yea, even now
We walk not hopeless! Lives Ricasoli,
Lives Garibaldi, aye, and many a one
No whit less dear to Freedom, men whose souls
Thyself didst kindle with the holiest flame
Of Patriot love! They live, yet mightier far,
Thy name, thy wisdom live,—their beacon-fire,
Their compass, bulwark, oracle, and shield,
To rouse, to guide, to strengthen, teach, protect;—
And more,—the dread Archangels of the world,
God's own first children, who from age to age,
Æon to Æon, with invisible hands
Broaden the bounds of life, and give to men
The wider freedom, grander love, more truth,
More love,—the eternal Destinies are theirs!
We sorrow, but despair not! Soon or late
That fell chimeral spectre of a Faith
Dead but unburied, from the Seven Hills
Whereon he lingers, girt with Gaulish steel,
Flits with the night that shields him!

Even now,
Dying Mastai to the Rome he chokes
Bequeaths a schism whose timely rent shall ope
To welcome Freedom!—Soon or late the hands
Of Hapsburg Kaisers loosen from their grip
The sceptre of old Venice! Soon or late,
Imperial crownals dwindle on the brow
Of bastard Bonapartes! Earth can wait!—
God hinders not, nor hastens!

Not for thee,
O, not for thee, Cavour, this feeble hand
Shall twine the vulgar coronal of Fame!—
Thou didst not toil for glory! In the dreams
That nursed thy boyhood, thy Italia stood
Star-crowned before thee, and in words of fire
Bade thee go forth and conquer! Not for Fame!
The greed, which, hungrier than the greed of gold,
And nobler only in the nobler deeds
That win wherewith to sate it, touched not thee!
Thou didst not lust for praise! Thy lordlier soul
Disdained the crown! Italia, One and Free,
This and not Fame! Italia, One and Free!
This was thy lode-star! This thy life! For this
Didst thou dare all and do all! Yea, for this,
With that wise virtue, which unwiser souls
Knew not as virtue, didst thou deign to sue,
And chaffer with the ravening Arbiter
Who grasped Ausonia's future! Even, for this
Thou couldst endure that friendship should grow cold
With him, that pirate of Sicilian seas
Who won thee half thy Italy! This, this,
Like a rich heirloom to the beggar world,
Thine, even in death,—Italia, One and Free,
Dost thou bequeath us! Yea, she shall be One
And Free, thy monument throughout all time!