III.

True, you've praise for the fireman, who sets his
Brave face to the axe of the flame,
Disappears in the smoke, and then fetches
A babe down, or idiot that's lame,—
For the boor even, who rescues through pity
A sheep from the brute who would kick it:
But saviours of nations!-'tis pretty,

And doubtful: they may be so wicked!

IV.

Azeglio, Farini, Mamiani,

Ricasoli,-doubt by the dozen!—here's Pepoli too, and Cipriani,

Imperial cousins and cogeners; Arese, Laiatico, courtly

Of manners, if stringent of mouth. Garibaldi-we'll come to him shortly, (As soon as he ends in the south.)

Napoleon, as strong as ten armies,
Corrupt as seven devils, a fact

You accede to, then seek where the harm is
Drained off from the man to his act,

And find . . . a free nation. Suppose

Some hell-brood in Eden's sweet greenery, Convoked for creating. ., a rose!—

Would it suit the infernal machinery?

VI.

Cavour, to the despot's desire,

Who his own thought so craftily marries, What is he but just a thin wire

For conducting the lightning from Paris?

Yes, write down the two as compeers,
Confessing (you would not permit a lie)
He bore up his Piedmont ten years

Till she suddenly smiled and was Italy.

VII.

And the King, with that 'stain on his 'scutcheon**...
Savoy... as the calumny runs!

If it be not his blood,—with his clutch on
The sword, and his face to the guns.
O first where the battle-storm gathers,
O loyal of heart on the throne,

Let those keep the 'graves of their fathers,'
Who quail, in a nerve, from their own!

VIII.

For thee;-through the dim Hades-portal
The dream of a voice,--'Blessed thou
Who hast made all thy race twice immortal!
No need of the sepulchres now!-

Left to Bourbons and Hapsburgs, who fester
Above-ground with worm-eaten souls,
While the ghost of some poor feudal jester
Before them strews treaties in holes.'

IX.

—But hush!—am I dreaming a poem
Of Hades, heaven, justice?—not I.
I began too far off, in my proem,

With what men believe and deny. And, on earth, whatsoever the meed is, (To sum up as thoughtful reviewers,)

The moral of every great deed is
The virtue of slandering the doers.

*See Diplomatical Correspondence.

GARIBALDI.

I.

He bent his head upon his breast
Wherein his lion-heart lay sick :-
'Perhaps we are not ill-repaid-
Perhaps this is not a true test;

Perhaps that was not a foul trick;
Perhaps none wronged, and none betrayed.

II.

'Perhaps the people's vote which here United, there may disunite,

And both be lawful as they think.
Perhaps a patriot statesman, dear

For chartering nations, can with right
Disfranchise those who hold the ink.

III.

'Perhaps men's wisdom is not craft; Men's greatness, not a selfish greed; Men's justice, not the safer side.

Perhaps even women when they laughed, Wept, thanked us that the land was freed, Not wholly (though they kissed us) lied.

IV.

'Perhaps no more than this we meant,
When up at Austria's guns we flew
And spiked them with a cry apiece,
'Italia!-Yet a dream was sent..
The little house my father knew,
The olives and the palms of Nice.

V.

He paused, and drew his sword out slow,—
Then pored upon the blade intent
As if to read some written thing;
While many murmured, 'He will go
In that despairing sentiment

And break his sword before the King.'

VI.

He poring still upon the blade

His large lid quivered, something fell.'Perhaps,' he said, 'I was not born With such fine brains to treat and trade,— And if a woman knew it well

Her falsehood only meant her scorn.

VII.

'Yet through Varese's cannon-smoke
My eye saw clear: men feared this man
At Como, where this sword could deal
Death's protocol at every stroke.

And now.. the drop there, scarcely can
Impair the keenness of the steel.

VIII.

'So man and sword may have their use:
And if the soil beneath my foot
In valour's act is forfeited,

I'll strike the harder, take my dues
Out nobler, and the loss confute
From ampler heavens above my head.

IX.

'My King, King Victor, I am thine!
So much Nice-dust as what I am
(To make our Italy) must cleave.
Forgive that.'-Forward with a sign
He went. You've seen the telegram?
Palermo's taken, we believe.

A FORCED RECRUIT AT SOLFERINO.

I.

In the ranks of the Austrian you found him;
He died with his face to you all:

Yet bury him here where around him
You honour your bravest that fall.

II.

Venetian, fair-featured, and slender,
He lies shot to death in his youth,
With a smile on his lips, over-tender
For any mere soldier's dead mouth.