XIII. Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that Love and Sorrow which reconciled so The Above and Below. XIV. O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say! XV. Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall. And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son? XVI. Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When your guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short, XVII. When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my Dead,) XVIII. What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, And burn your lights faintly!—My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow. My Italy's there,-with my brave civic Pair, To disfranchise despair. XIX. Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn. But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this!-and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born. XX. Dead!-one of them shot by the sea in the west, XIII. Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that Love and Sorrow which reconciled so The Above and Below. XIV. O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say! XV. Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall. And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son? XVI. Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When your guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short, XVII. When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my Dead,) XVIII. What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, And burn your lights faintly!-My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow. My Italy's there,—with my brave civic Pair, To disfranchise despair. XIX. Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn. But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this!-and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born. XX. Dead!-one of them shot by the sea in the west, ONLY A CURL. I. FRIENDS of faces unknown and a land Who tell me how lonely you stand, II. While you ask me to ponder and say III. Shall I speak like a poet, or run Into weak woman's tears for relief? Oh, children! I never lost one. But my arm's round my own little son, IV. And I feel what it must be and is When God draws a new angel so Through the house of a man up to His, With a murmur of music you miss, And a rapture of light you forego. |