I.
A little mound of earth
Is all the land I own:
Death gave it me,—five feet by three,
And mark'd it with a stone.
II.
My home, my garden-grave,
Where most I long to go!
The ground is mine by right divine,
And Heaven will have it so.
III.
For here my darling sleeps,
Unseen,—arrayed in white,—
And o'er the grass the breezes pass,
And stars look down at night.
IV.
Here Beauty, Love, and Joy,
With her in silence dwell,
As Eastern slaves are thrown in graves
Of kings remember'd well.
V.
But here let no man come,
My mourning rights to sever.
Who lieth here is cold and dumb.
Her dust is mine for ever!
A DIRGE.
I.
Art thou lonely in thy tomb?
Art thou cold in such a gloom?
Rouse thee, then, and make me room,—
Miserere Domine!
II.
Phantoms vex thy virgin sleep,
Nameless things around thee creep,
Yet be patient, do not weep,—
Miserere Domine!
III.
O be faithful! O be brave!
Naught shall harm thee in thy grave;
Let the restless spirits rave,—
Miserere Domine!
IV.
When my pilgrimage is done,
When the grace of God is won,
I will come to thee, my nun,—
Miserere Domine!
V.
Like a priest in flowing vest,
Like a pale, unbidden guest,
I will come to thee and rest,—
Miserere Domine!
DAISIES OUT AT SEA.
I.
These are the buds we bear beyond the surf,—
Enshrined in mould and turf,—
To take to fields far off, a land's salute
Of high and vast repute,—
The Shakespeare-land of every heart's desire,
Whereof, 'tis said, the fame shall not expire,
But shine in all men's thoughts as shines a beacon-fire.
II.
O bright and gracious things that seem to glow
With frills of winter snow,
And little golden heads that know the sun,
And seasons half begun,
How blythe they look, how fresh and debonair,
In this their prison on the seaward air,
On which no lark has soar'd to improvise a prayer.
III.
Have they no memory of the inland grass,—
The fields where breezes pass,
And where the full-eyed children, out at play,
Make all the land so gay?
Have they no thought of dews that, like a tear,
Were shed by Morning on the Night's cold bier,
In far-off English homes, belov'd by all men here?
IV.
O gems of earth! O trinkets of the spring!
The sun, your gentle king,
Who counts your leaves and marshals ye apace,
In many a sacred place,
The godlike summer sun will miss ye all,
For he has foster'd all things, great and small,
Yea, all good things that live on earth's revolving ball.
V.
But when, on deck, he sees with eye serene
The kirtles, tender-green,
And fair fresh faces of his hardy flowers,
How will he throb for hours,
And wish the lark, the laureate of the light,
Were near at hand, to see so fair a sight,
And chant the joys thereof in words we cannot write.
VI.
Oh, I have lov'd ye more than may be told,
And deem'd it fairy-gold,—
And fairy-silver,—that ye bear withal;
Ye are so soft and small,
I weep for joy to find ye here to-day
So near to Heaven, and yet so far away,
In our good ocean-ship, whose bows are wet with spray.
VII.
Ye are the cynosure of many eyes
Bright-blue as English skies,—
The sailors' eyes that scan ye in a row,
As if intent to show
That this dear freight of mould and meadow-flower
Which sails the sea, in sunshine and in shower,
Is England's gift of love, which storms shall not devour.
VIII.
She sends ye forth in sadness and in joy,
As one may send a toy
To children's children, bred in other lands
By love-abiding hands.
And, day by day, ye sail upon the foam
To call to mind the sires' and mothers' home,
Where babes, now grown to men, were wont of yore to roam.
IX.
In England's name, in Shakespeare's,—and in ours,
Who bear these trusted flowers,—
There shall be heard a cheer from many throats,
A rush and roar of notes,
As loud, and proud, as those of heavenward birds;
And they who till the ground and tend the herds
Will read our thoughts therein, and clothe the same in words.
X.
For England's sake, for England once again,
In pride and power and pain,
For England, aye! for England in the girth
Of all her joy and worth,
A strong and clear, outspoken, undefined,
And uncontroll'd wild shout upon the wind,
Will greet these winsome flowers as friends of human-kind!
Sonnets.
I.
ECSTASY.
I cannot sing to thee as I would sing
If I were quickened like the holy lark
With fire from Heaven and sunlight on his wing,
Renewed in rapture in the reddening air.
A thing of splendour do I deem him then,
A feather'd frenzy with an angel's throat,
A something sweet that somewhere seems to float
'Twixt earth and sky, to be a sign to men.
He fills me with such wonder and despair!
I long to kiss thy locks, so golden bright,
As he doth kiss the tresses of the sun.
Oh! bid me sing to thee, my chosen one,
And do thou teach me, Love, to sing aright!
II.
VISIONS.
The Poet meets Apollo on the hill,
And Pan and Flora and the Paphian Queen,
And infant naïads bathing in the rill,
And dryad maids that dance upon the green,
And fauns and Oreads in the silver sheen
They wear in summer, when the air is still.
He quaffs the wine of life, and quaffs his fill,
And sees Creation through its mask terrene.
The dead are wise, for they alone can see
As see the bards,—as see, beyond the dust,
The eyes of babes. The dead alone are just.
There is no comfort in the bitter fee
That scholars pay for fame. True sage is he
Who doubts all doubt, and takes the soul on trust.
III.
THE DAISY.
See where it stands, the world-appointed flower,
Pure gold at centre, like the sun at noon,—
A mimic sun to light a true-love bower
For fair Queen Mab, now dead or in a swoon,
Whom late a poet saw beneath the moon.
It lifts its dainty face till sunset hour,
As if endowed with nympholeptic power,—
Then shuts its petals like a folding tune!
I love it more than words of mine can say,
And more than anchorite may breathe in prayer.
Methinks the lark has made it still his care
To brag of daisies to the lord of day.
Well! I will follow suit, as best I may,
Launching my love-songs on the summer air.
IV.
PROBATION.
Could I, O Love! obtain a charter clear
To be thy bard, in all thy nights and days,
I would consult the stars, from year to year,
And talk with trees, and learn of them their ways,
And why the nymphs so seldom now appear
In human form, with rapt and earnest gaze;
And I would learn of thee why joy decays,
I would, in answer to the wind's "Alas!"
Explain the causes of a sorrow's flight;
I would peruse the writing on the grass
Which flowers have traced in blue and red and white;
And, reading these, I would, as from a pen,
Read thoughts of thine unguess'd by other men!
V.
DANTE.
He liv'd and lov'd; he suffer'd; he was poor;
But he was gifted with the gifts of Heaven,
And those of all the week-days that are seven,
And those of all the centuries that endure.
He bow'd to none; he kept his honour sure.
He follow'd in the wake of those Eleven
Who walk'd with Christ, and lifted up his steven[A]
To keep the bulwarks of his faith secure.
He knew the secrets of the singing-time;
He track'd the sun; he ate the luscious fruit
Of grief and joy; and with his wonder-lute
He made himself a name in every clime.
The minds of men were madly stricken mute
And all the world lay subject to his rhyme!
[A] Steven, a voice; old word revived.
VI.
DIFFIDENCE.
I cannot deck my thought in proud attire,
Or make it fit for thee in any dress,
Or sing to thee the songs of thy desire,
In summer's heat, or by the winter's fire,
Or give thee cause to comfort or to bless.
For I have scann'd mine own unworthiness
And well I know the weakness of the lyre
Which I have striven to sway to thy caress.
Yet must I quell my tears and calm the smart
Of my vext soul, and steadfastly emerge
From lonesome thoughts, as from the tempest's surge.
I must control the beating of my heart,
And bid false pride be gone, who, with his art,
Has press'd, too long, a suit I dare not urge.
VII.
FAIRIES.
Glory endures when calumny hath fled;
And fairies show themselves, in friendly guise,
To all who hold a trust beyond the dead,
And all who pray, albeit so worldly-wise,
With cheerful hearts or wildly-weeping eyes.
They come and go when children are in bed
To gladden them with dreams from out the skies
Fairies are wing'd for wandering to and fro.
They live in legends; they survive the Greeks.
Wisdom is theirs; they live for us and grow,
Like things ambrosial, fairer than the freaks
Of signs and seasons which the poets know,
Or fires of sunset on the mountain-peaks.
VIII.
SPIRIT LOVE.
How great my joy! How grand my recompense!
I bow to thee; I keep thee in my sight.
I call thee mine, in love though not in sense
I share with thee the hermitage immense
Of holy dreams which come to us at night,
When, through the medium of the spirit-lens
We see the soul, in its primeval light,
And Reason spares the hopes it cannot blight.
It is the soul of thee, and not the form,
And not the face, I yearn-to in my sleep.
It is thyself. The body is the storm,
The soul the star beyond it in the deep
Of Nature's calm. And yonder on the steep
The Sun of Faith, quiescent, round, and warm!
IX.
AFTER TWO DAYS.
Another night has turned itself to day,
Another day has melted into eve,
And lo! again I tread the measured way
Of word and thought, the twain to interweave,
As flowers absorb the rays that they receive.
And, all along the woodland where I stray,
I think of thee, and Nature keeps me gay,
And sorrow soothes the soul it would bereave.
Nor will I fear that thou, so far apart,
So dear to me, so fair, and so benign,
Wilt un-desire the fealty of a heart
Which evermore is pledg'd to thee and thine,
And turns to thee, in regions where thou art,
To hymn the praises of thy face divine!
X.
BYRON.
He was a god descended from the skies
To fight the fight of Freedom o'er a grave,
And consecrate a hope he could not save;
For he was weak withal, and foolish-wise.
Dark were his thoughts, and strange his destinies,
And oftentimes his life he did deprave.
But all do pity him, though none despise.
He was a prince of song, though sorrow's slave.
He ask'd for tears,—and they were tinged with fire;
He ask'd for love, and love was sold to him.
He look'd for solace at the goblet's brim,
And found it not; then wept upon his lyre.
He sang the songs of all the world's desire,—
He wears the wreath no rivalry can dim!
XI.
LOVE'S AMBITION.
I must invoke thee for my spirit's good,
And prove myself un-guilty of the crime
Of mere self-seeking, though with this imbued.
I sing as sings the mavis in a wood,
Content to be alive at harvest time.
Had I its wings I should not be withstood!
But I will weave my fancies into rhyme,
I will invoke thee, Love! though far away,
And pay thee homage, as becomes a knight
Who longs to keep his true-love in his sight.
Yea, I will soar to thee, in roundelay,
In shine and shower, and make a bold assay
Of each fond hope, to compass thee aright.
XII.
LOVE'S DEFEAT.
Do what I will, I cannot chant so well
As other men; and yet my soul is true.
My hopes are bold; my thoughts are hard to tell,
But thou can'st read them, and accept them, too,
Though, half-abash'd, they seem to hide from view.
I strike the lyre, I sound the hollow shell;
And why? For comfort, when my thoughts rebel,
And when I count the woes that must ensue.
But for this reason, and no other one,
I dare to look thy way, and bow my head
To thy sweet name, as sunflower to the sun,
Though, peradventure, not so wisely fed
With garden fancies. Tears must now be shed,
Unnumber'd tears, till life or love be done!
XIII.
A THUNDERSTORM AT NIGHT.
The lightning is the shorthand of the storm
That tells of chaos; and I read the same
As one may read the writing of a name,—
As one in Hell may see the sudden form
Of God's fore-finger pointed as in blame.
How weird the scene! The Dark is sulphur-warm
With hints of death; and in their vault enorme
The reeling stars coagulate in flame.
And now the torrents from their mountain-beds
Roar down uncheck'd; and serpents shaped of mist
Writhe up to Heaven with unforbidden heads;
And thunder-clouds, whose lightnings intertwist,
Rack all the sky, and tear it into shreds,
And shake the air like Titians that have kiss'd!
XIV.
IN TUSCANY.
Dost thou remember, friend of vanish'd days,
How in the golden land of love and song,
We met in April in the crowded ways
Of that fair city where the soul is strong,
Aye! strong as fate, for good or evil praise?
And how the lord whom all the world obeys,—
The lord of light to whom the stars belong,—
Dost thou remember, in the wooded dale,
Beyond the town of Dante the Divine,
How all the air was flooded as with wine?
And how the lark, to drown the nightingale,
Peal'd out sweet notes? I live to tell the tale.
But thou? Oblivion signs thee with a sign!
XV.
A HERO.
The warrior knows how fitful is the fight,—
How sad to live,—how sweet perchance to die.
Is Fame his joy? He meets her on the height,
And when he falls he shouts his battle-cry;
His eyes are wet; our own will not be dry.
Nor shall we stint his praise, or our delight,
When he survives to serve his Land aright
And make his fame the watchword of the sky.
In all our hopes his love is with us still;
He tends our faith, he soothes us when we grieve.
His acts are just; his word we must believe,
And none shall spurn him, though his blood they spill
To pierce the heart whose pride they cannot kill.—
Death dies for him whose fame is his reprieve!
XVI.
REMORSE.
Go, get thee gone. I love thee not, I swear;
And if I lov'd thee well in days gone by,
And if I kiss'd, and trifled with thy hair,
And crown'd my love, to prove the same a lie,
My doom is this: my joy was quick to die.
The chain of custom in the drowsy lair
Of some slain vision, is a weight to bear,
And both abhorr'd it,—thou as well as I.
Ah, God! 'tis tearful true; and I repent;
And like a dead, live man I live for this:—
To stand, unvalued, on a dream's abyss,
And be my own most piteous monument.
What! did I rob thee, Lady, of a kiss?
There, take it back; and frown; and be content!
XVII.
THE MISSION OF THE BARD.
He is a seer. He wears the wedding-ring
Of Art and Nature; and his voice is bold.
He should be quicker than the birds to sing,
And fill'd with frenzy like the men of old
Who sang their songs for country and for king.
Nothing should daunt him, though the news were told
By fiends from Hell! He should be swift to hold
And swift to part with truth, as from a spring.
He should discourse of war and war's alarm,
And deeds of peace, and garlands to be sought,
And love, and lore, and death, and beauty's charm,
And warlike men subdued by tender thought,
And grief dismiss'd, and hatred set at nought,
And Freedom shielded by his strong right arm!
XVIII.
DEATH.
It is the joy, it is the zest of life,
To know that Death, ungainly to the vile,
Is not a traitor with a reckless knife,
And not a serpent with a look of guile,
But one who greets us with a seraph's smile,—
An angel—guest to tend us after strife,
And keep us true to God when fears are rife,
He walks the world as one empower'd to fill
The fields of space for Father and for Son.
He is our friend, though morbidly we shun
His tender touch,—a cure for every ill.
He is the king of peace, when all is done.
Earth and the air are moulded to his will.
XIX.
TO ONE I LOVE.
Oh, let me plead with thee to have a nook,
A garden nook, not far from thy domain,
That there, with harp, and voice, and poet-book,
I may be true to thee, and, passion-fain,
Rehearse the songs of nature once again:—
The songs of Cynthia wandering by the brook
To soothe the raptures of a lover's pain,
And those of Phyllis with her shepherd's crook!
I die to serve thee, and for this alone,—
To be thy bard-elect, from day to day,—
I would forego the right to fill a throne.
I would consent to be the famine-prey
Of some fierce pard, if ere the night were flown
I could subdue thy spirit to my sway.
XX.
EX TENEBRA.
The winds have shower'd their rains upon the sod,
And flowers and trees have murmur'd as with lips.
The very silence has appeal'd to God.
In man's behalf, though smitten by His rod,
'Twould seem as if the blight of some eclipse
Had dull'd the skies,—as if, on mountain tips,
The winds of Heaven had spurn'd the life terrene,
And clouds were foundering like benighted ships.
But what is this, exultant, unforseen,
Which cleaves the dark? A fearful, burning thing!
Is it the moon? Or Saturn's scarlet ring
Hurl'd into space? It is the tempest-sun!
It is the advent of the Phœban king
Which tells the valleys that the storm is done!
XXI.
VICTOR HUGO.
Victor the King! alive to-day, not dead!
Behold, I bring thee with a subject's hand
A poor pale wreath, the best at my command,
But all unfit to deck so grand a head.
It is the outcome of a neighbour land
Denounced of thee, and spurn'd for many years.
It is the token of a nation's tears
Which oft has joy'd in thee, and shall again.
Love for thy hate, applause for thy disdain,—
These are the flowers we spread upon thy hearse.
We give thee back, to-day, thy poet-curse;
We call thee friend; we ratify thy reign.
Kings change their sceptres for a funeral stone,
But thou hast turn'd thy tomb into a throne!
XXII.
CYNTHIA.
O Lady Moon, elect of all the spheres
To be the guardian of the ocean-tides,
I charge thee, say, by all thy hopes and fears,
And by thy face, the oracle of brides,
Why evermore Remorse with thee abides?
Is life a bane to thee, and fraught with tears,
With ghosts and shades? Perchance thou dost aspire
To bridal honours, and thy Phœbus-sire
Forbids the banns, whoe'er thy suitor be?
Is this thy grievance, O thou chief of nuns?
Or dost thou weep to know that Jupiter
Hath many moons—his daughters and his sons—
And Earth, thy mother, only one in thee?
XXIII.
PHILOMEL.
Lo, as a minstrel at the court of Love,
The nightingale, who knows his mate is nigh,
Thrills into rapture; and the stars above
Look down, affrighted, as they would reply.
There is contagion, and I know not why,
In all this clamour, all this fierce delight,
As if the sunset, when the day did swoon,
Had drawn some wild confession from the moon.
Have wrongs been done? Have crimes enacted been
To shame the weird retirement of the night?
O clamourous bird! O sad; sweet nightingale!
Withhold thy voice, and blame not Beauty's queen.
She may be pure, though dumb: and she is pale,
And wears a radiance on her brow serene.
XXIV.
THE SONNET KING.
O Petrarch! I am here. I bow to thee,
Great king of sonnets, thronèd long ago
And lover-like, as Love enjoineth me,
And miser-like, enamoured of my woe,
I reckon up my teardrops as they flow.
I would not lose the power to shed a tear
For all the wealth of Plutus and his reign.
I would not be so base as not complain
When she I love is absent from my sight.
No, not for all the marvels of the night,
And all the varying splendours of the year.
Do thou assist me, thou! that art the light
Of all true lovers' souls, in all the sphere,
To make a May-time of my sorrows slain.
XXV.
TOKEN FLOWERS.
Oh, not the daisy, for the love of God!
Take not the daisy; let it bloom apace
Untouch'd alike by splendour or disgrace
Of party feud. Its stem is not a rod;
And no one fears, or hates it, on the sod.
It laughs, exultant, in the Morning's face,
And everywhere doth fill a lowly place,
'Tis said the primrose is a party flower,
And means coercion, and the coy renown
Of one who toil'd for country and for crown.
This may be so! But, in my Lady's bower,
It means content,—a hope,—a golden hour.
Primroses smile; and daisies cannot frown!
XXVI.
A PRAYER FOR ENGLAND.
Ah, fair Lord God of Heaven, to whom we call,—
By whom we live,—on whom our hopes are built,—
Do Thou, from year to year, e'en as Thou wilt,
Control the Realm, but suffer not to fall
Its ancient faith, its grandeur, and its thrall!
Do Thou preserve it, in the hours of guilt,
When foemen thirst for blood that should be spilt,
And keep it strong when traitors would appal.
Uphold us still, O God! and be the screen
And sword and buckler of our England's might,
That foemen's wiles, and woes which intervene,
May fade away, as fades a winter's night.
Thine ears have heard us, and Thine eyes have seen.
Wilt Thou not help us, Lord! to find the Light?
XXVII.
A VETERAN POET.
I knew thee first as one may know the fame
Of some apostle, as a man may know
The mid-day sun far-shining o'er the snow.
I hail'd thee prince of poets! I became
Vassal of thine, and warm'd me at the flame
Of thy pure thought, my spirit all aglow
With dreams of peace, and pomp, and lyric show,
And all the splendours, Master! of thy name.
But now, a man reveal'd, a guide for men,
I see thy face, I clasp thee by the hand;
And though the Muses in thy presence stand,
There's room for me to loiter in thy ken.
O lordly soul! O wizard of the pen!
What news from God? What word from Fairyland?
A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY.
I.
O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame,
Mother and maid, immortal, man's delight!
Fairest and first art thou in name and fame
And none shall rob thee of thy vested right.
Where is the man, though fifty times a king,
Shall stay the tide, or countermand the spring?
And where is he, though fifty times a knave,
Shall track thy steps to cast thee in a grave?
II.
Old as the sun art thou, and young as morn,
And fresh as April when the breezes blow,
And girt with glory like the growing corn,
And undefiled like mountains made of snow.
Oh, thou'rt the summer of the souls of men,
And poor men's rights, approved by sword and pen,
Are made self-certain as the day at noon,
And fair to view as flowers that grow in June.
III.
Look, where erect and tall thy Symbol waits,[B]
The gift of France to friends beyond the deep,
A lofty presence at the ocean-gates
With lips of peace and eyes that cannot weep;
A new-born Tellus with uplifted arm
To light the seas, and keep the land from harm—
To light the coast at downfall of the day,
And dower with dawn the darkening water-way.
[B] Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty in New York harbour.
IV.
O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame,
Mother and maid, immortal, stern of vow!
Fairest and first art thou in name and fame,
And thou shall wear the lightning on thy brow!
V.
Who dares condemn thee with the puny breath
Of one poor life, O thou untouched of Fate!
Who seeks to lure thee to a felon's death,
And thou so splendid and so love-elate?
Who dares do this and live? Who dares assail
Thy star-kissed forehead, pure and marble-pale;
And thou so self-possessed 'mid all the stir,
And like to Pallas born of Mulciber?
VI.
Oh, I've beheld the sun, at setting time,
Peep o'er the hills as if to say good-bye;
And I have hailed it with the sudden rhyme
Of some new thought, full-freighted with a sigh.
And I have mused:—E'en thus may Freedom fall,
And darkness shroud it like a wintry pall,
And night o'erwhelm it, and the shades thereof
Engulf the glories born of perfect love.
VII.
But there's no fall for thee; there is no tomb;
And none shall stab thee, none shall stay thy hand.
Thy face is fair with love's eternal bloom,
And thou shalt have all things at thy command.
A tomb for thee? Ay, when the sun is slain
And lamps and fires make daylight on the plain,
Then may'st thou die, O Freedom! and for thee
A tomb be found where fears and dangers be.
VIII.
O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame,
Mother and maid, immortal, keen of sight!
Fairest and first art thou in name and fame,
And thou shall tread the tempest in the night!
IX.
There shall be feasting and a sound of song
In thy great cities; and a voice divine
Shall tell of freedom all the winter long,
And fill the air with rapture as with wine.
The spring shall hear it, spring shall hear the sound,
And summer waft it o'er the flowerful ground;
And autumn pale shall shake her withered leaves
On festal morns and star-bespangled eves.
X.
For thou'rt the smile of Heaven when earth is dim—
The face of God reflected in the sea—
The land's acclaim uplifted by the hymn
Of some glad lark triumphant on the lea.
Thou art all this and more! Thou art the goal
Of earth's elected ones from pole to pole,
The lute-string's voice, the world's primeval fire,
And each man's hope, and every man's desire.
XI.
O proud and pure! O gentle and sublime!
For thee and thine, O Freedom! O my Joy!
For thee, Celestial! on the shores of time
Thou shalt be seen for miles and miles around
And wield a sceptre, though of none be crowned.
The waves shall know thee, and the winds of Heaven
Shall sing thee songs with mixed and mighty steven.
XII.
O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame,
Mother and maid, immortal, unconfined!
Fairest and first art thou in name and fame,
And thou shalt speed more swiftly than the wind!
XIII.
Who loves thee not is traitor to himself,
Traitor is he to God and to the grave,
Poor as a miser with his load of pelf,
And more unstable than a leeward wave.
Cursèd is he for aye, and his shall be
A name of shame from sea to furthest sea,
A name of scorn to all men under sun
Whose upright souls have learnt to loathe this one.
XIV.
A thousand times, O Freedom! have I turned
To thy rapt face, and wished that martyr-wise
I might achieve some glory, such as burned
Ah God! how sweet it were to give thee life,
To aid thy cause, self-sinking in the strife,
Loving thee best, O Freedom! and in tears
Giving thee thanks for death-accepted years.
XV.
For thou art fearful, though so grand of soul,
Fearful and fearless and the friend of men.
The haughtiest kings shall bow to thy control,
And rich and poor shall take thy guidance then.
Who doubts the daylight when he sees afar
The fading lamp of some night-weary star,
Which prophet-like, has heard amid the dark
The first faint prelude of the nested lark?
XVI.
O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame,
Mother and maid, immortal, prompt of thought!
Fairest and first art thou in name and fame,
And thou shalt lash the storm till it be nought!
XVII.
O thou desired of men! O thou supreme
And true-toned spirit whom the bards revere!
At times thou com'st in likeness of a dream
And by that power thou hast—e'en by that power
Which is the outcome of thy sovereign-dower—
Thou teachest slaves, down-trodden, how to stand
Lords of themselves in each chivalrous Land.
XVIII.
The hosts of death, the squadrons of the law,
The arm'd appeal to pageantry and hate,
Shall serve, a space, to keep thy name in awe,
And then collapse, as old and out of date.
Yea! this shall be; for God has willed it so.
And none shall touch thy flag, to lay it low;
And none shall rend thy robe, that is to thee
As dawn to day, as sunlight to the sea.
XIX.
For love of thee, thou grand, thou gracious thing!
For love of thee all seas, and every shore,
And all domains whereof the poets sing,
Shall merge in Man's requirements evermore.
And there shall be, full soon, from north to south,
One code of laws that all shall understand,
And all the world shall be one Fatherland.
XX.
O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame,
Mother and maid, immortal, sweet of breath!
Fairest and first art thou in name and fame,
And thou shalt pluck Redemption out of Death!
Italian Poems
BY ERIC MACKAY
IL PONTE D'AVIGLIO.
I MIEI SALUTI.