Elizabeth Barrett Browning - Casa Guidi Windows 1 lyrics

I heard last night a little child go singing  'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the church, O bella libertà, O bella!—stringing  The same words still on notes he went in search So high for, you concluded the upspringing  Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch Must leave the whole bush in a tremble green,  And that the heart of Italy must beat, While such a voice had leave to rise serene  'Twixt church and palace of a Florence street: A little child, too, who not long had been  By mother's finger steadied on his feet, And still O bella libertà he sang. Then I thought, musing, of the innumerous  Sweet songs which still for Italy outrang From older singers' lips who sang not thus  Exultingly and purely, yet, with pang Fast sheathed in music, touched the heart of us  So finely that the pity scarcely pained. I thought how Filicaja led on others,  Bewailers for their Italy enchained, And how they called her childless among mothers,  Widow of empires, ay, and scarce refrained Cursing her beauty to her face, as brothers  Might a shamed sister's,—“Had she been less fair She were less wretched;”—how, evoking so  From congregated wrong and heaped despair Of men and women writhing under blow,  Harrowed and hideous in a filthy lair, Some personating Image wherein woe  Was wrapt in beauty from offending much, They called it Cybele, or Niobe,  Or laid it corpse-like on a bier for such, Where all the world might drop for Italy  Those cadenced tears which burn not where they touch,— “Juliet of nations, canst thou die as we?  And was the violet crown that crowned thy head So over-large, though new buds made it rough,  It slipped down and across thine eyelids dead, O sweet, fair Juliet?” Of such songs enough,  Too many of such complaints! behold, instead, Void at Verona, Juliet's marble trough:  As void as that is, are all images Men set between themselves and actual wrong,  To catch the weight of pity, meet the stress Of conscience,—since 't is easier to gaze long  On mournful masks and sad effigies Than on real, live, weak creatures crushed by strong. For me who stand in Italy to-day  Where worthier poets stood and sang before, I kiss their footsteps yet their words gainsay.  I can but muse in hope upon this shore Of golden Arno as it shoots away  Through Florence' heart beneath her bridges four: Bent bridges, seeming to strain off like bows,  And tremble while the arrowy undertide Shoots on and cleaves the marble as it goes,  And strikes up palace-walls on either side, And froths the cornice out in glittering rows,  With doors and windows quaintly multiplied, And terrace-sweeps, and gazers upon all,  By whom if flower or kerchief were thrown out From any lattice there, the same would fall  Into the river underneath, no doubt, It runs so close and fast 'twixt wall and wall.  How beautiful! the mountains from without In silence listen for the word said next.  What word will men say,—here where Giotto planted His campanile like an unperplexed  Fine question Heavenward, touching the things granted A noble people who, being greatly vexed  In act, in aspiration keep undaunted? What word will God say? Michel's Night and Day  And Dawn and Twilight wait in marble scorn Like dogs upon a dunghill, couched on clay  From whence the Medicean stamp's outworn, The final putting off of all such sway  By all such hands, and freeing of the unborn In Florence and the great world outside Florence.  Three hundred years his patient statues wait In that small chapel of the dim Saint Lawrence:  Day's eyes are breaking bold and pa**ionate Over his shoulder, and will flash abhorrence  On darkness and with level looks meet fate, When once loose from that marble film of theirs;  The Night has wild dreams in her sleep, the Dawn Is haggard as the sleepless, Twilight wears  A sort of horror; as the veil withdrawn 'Twixt the artist's soul and works had left them heirs  Of speechless thoughts which would not quail nor fawn, Of angers and contempts, of hope and love:  For not without a meaning did he place The princely Urbino on the seat above  With everlasting shadow on his face, While the slow dawns and twilights disapprove  The ashes of his long-extinguished race Which never more shall clog the feet of men.  I do believe, divinest Angelo, That winter-hour in Via Larga, when  They bade thee build a statue up in snow And straight that marvel of thine art again  Dissolved beneath the sun's Italian glow, Thine eyes, dilated with the plastic pa**ion,  Thawing too in drops of wounded manhood, since, To mock alike thine art and indignation,  Laughed at the palace-window the new prince,— (“Aha! this genius needs for exaltation,  When all's said and however the proud may wince, A little marble from our princely mines!”)  I do believe that hour thou laughedst too For the whole sad world and for thy Florentines,  After those few tears, which were only few! That as, beneath the sun, the grand white lines  Of thy snow-statue trembled and withdrew,— The head, erect as Jove's, being palsied first,  The eyelids flattened, the full brow turned blank, The right-hand, raised but now as if it cursed,  Dropt, a mere snowball, (till the people sank Their voices, though a louder laughter burst  From the royal window)—thou couldst proudly thank God and the prince for promise and presage,  And laugh the laugh back, I think verily, Thine eyes being purged by tears of righteous rage  To read a wrong into a prophecy, And measure a true great man's heritage  Against a mere great-duke's posterity. I think thy soul said then, “I do not need  A princedom and its quarries, after all; For if I write, paint, carve a word, indeed,  On book or board or dust, on floor or wall, The same is kept of God who taketh heed  That not a letter of the meaning fall Or ere it touch and teach His world's deep heart,  Outlasting, therefore, all your lordships, sir! So keep your stone, beseech you, for your part,  To cover up your grave-place and refer The proper titles; I live by my art.  The thought I threw into this snow shall stir This gazing people when their gaze is done;  And the tradition of your act and mine, When all the snow is melted in the sun,  Shall gather up, for unborn men, a sign Of what is the true princedom,—ay, and none  Shall laugh that day, except the drunk with wine.” Amen, great Angelo! the day's at hand.  If many laugh not on it, shall we weep? Much more we must not, let us understand.  Through rhymers sonneteering in their sleep And archaists mumbling dry bones up the land  And sketchers lauding ruined towns a-heap,— Through all that drowsy hum of voices smooth,  The hopeful bird mounts carolling from brake, The hopeful child, with leaps to catch his growth,  Sings open-eyed for liberty's sweet sake: And I, a singer also from my youth,  Prefer to sing with these who are awake, With birds, with babes, with men who will not fear  The baptism of the holy morning dew, (And many of such wakers now are here,  Complete in their anointed manhood, who Will greatly dare and greatlier persevere,)  Than join those old thin voices with my new, And sigh for Italy with some safe sigh  Cooped up in music 'twixt an oh and ah,— Nay, hand in hand with that young child, will I  Go singing rather, “Bella libertà,” Than, with those poets, croon the dead or cry  “Se tu men bella fossi, Italia!” “Less wretched if less fair.” Perhaps a truth  Is so far plain in this, that Italy, Long trammelled with the purple of her youth  Against her age's ripe activity, Sits still upon her tombs, without d**h's ruth  But also without life's brave energy. “Now tell us what is Italy?” men ask:  And others answer, “Virgil, Cicero, Catullus, Cæsar.” What beside? to task  The memory closer—“Why, Boccaccio, Dante, Petrarca,”—and if still the flask  Appears to yield its wine by drops too slow,— “Angelo, Raffael, Pergolese,”—all  Whose strong hearts beat through stone, or charged again The paints with fire of souls electrical,  Or broke up heaven for music. What more then? Why, then, no more. The chaplet's last beads fall  In naming the last saintship within ken, And, after that, none prayeth in the land.  Alas, this Italy has too long swept Heroic ashes up for hour-gla** sand;  Of her own past, impa**ioned nympholept! Consenting to be nailed here by the hand  To the very bay-tree under which she stept A queen of old, and plucked a leafy branch;  And, licensing the world too long indeed To use her broad phylacteries to staunch  And stop her bloody lips, she takes no heed How one clear word would draw an avalanche  Of living sons around her, to succeed The vanished generations. Can she count  These oil-eaters with large live mobile mouths Agape for macaroni, in the amount  Of consecrated heroes of her south's Bright rosary? The pitcher at the fount,  The gift of gods, being broken, she much loathes To let the ground-leaves of the place confer  A natural bowl. So henceforth she would seem No nation, but the poet's pensioner,  With alms from every land of song and dream, While aye her pipers sadly pipe of her  Until their proper breaths, in that extreme Of sighing, split the reed on which they played:  Of which, no more. But never say “no more” To Italy's life! Her memories undismayed  Still argue “evermore;” her graves implore Her future to be strong and not afraid;  Her very statues send their looks before. We do not serve the dead—the past is past.  God lives, and lifts His glorious mornings up Before the eyes of men awake at last,  Who put away the meats they used to sup, And down upon the dust of earth outcast  The dregs remaining of the ancient cup, Then turn to wakeful prayer and worthy act.  The Dead, upon their awful 'vantage ground, The sun not in their faces, shall abstract  No more our strength; we will not be discrowned As guardians of their crowns, nor deign transact  A barter of the present, for a sound Of good so counted in the foregone days.  O Dead, ye shall no longer cling to us With rigid hands of desiccating praise,  And drag us backward by the garment thus, To stand and laud you in long-drawn virelays!  We will not henceforth be oblivious Of our own lives, because ye lived before,  Nor of our acts, because ye acted well. We thank you that ye first unlatched the door,  But will not make it inaccessible By thankings on the threshold any more.  We hurry onward to extinguish hell With our fresh souls, our younger hope, and God's  Maturity of purpose. Soon shall we Die also! and, that then our periods  Of life may round themselves to memory As smoothly as on our graves the burial-sods,  We now must look to it to excel as ye, And bear our age as far, unlimited  By the last mind-mark; so, to be invoked By future generations, as their Dead. 'T is true that when the dust of d**h has choked  A great man's voice, the common words he said Turn oracles, the common thoughts he yoked  Like horses, draw like griffins: this is true And acceptable. I, too, should desire,  When men make record, with the flowers they strew, “Savonarola's soul went out in fire  Upon our Grand-duke's piazza, and burned through A moment first, or ere he did expire,  The veil betwixt the right and wrong, and showed How near God sat and judged the judges there,—”  Upon the self-same pavement overstrewed To cast my violets with as reverent care,  And prove that all the winters which have snowed Cannot snow out the scent from stones and air,  Of a sincere man's virtues. This was he, Savonarola, who, while Peter sank  With his whole boat-load, called courageously “Wake Christ, wake Christ!”—who, having tried the tank  Of old church-waters used for baptistry Ere Luther came to spill them, swore they stank;  Who also by a princely d**hbed cried, “Loose Florence, or God will not loose thy soul!”  Then fell back the Magnificent and died Beneath the star-look shooting from the cowl,  Which turned to wormwood-bitterness the wide Deep sea of his ambitions. It were foul  To grudge Savonarola and the rest Their violets: rather pay them quick and fresh!  The emphasis of d**h makes manifest The eloquence of action in our flesh;  And men who, living, were but dimly guessed, When once free from their life's entangled mesh,  Show their full length in graves, or oft indeed Exaggerate their stature, in the flat,  To noble admirations which exceed Most nobly, yet will calculate in that  But accurately. We, who are the seed Of buried creatures, if we turned and spat  Upon our antecedents, we were vile. Bring violets rather. If these had not walked  Their furlong, could we hope to walk our mile? Therefore bring violets. Yet if we self-baulked  Stand still, a-strewing violets all the while, These moved in vain, of whom we have vainly talked.  So rise up henceforth with a cheerful smile, And having strewn the violets, reap the corn,  And having reaped and garnered, bring the plough And draw new furrows 'neath the healthy morn,  And plant the great Hereafter in this Now. Of old 't was so. How step by step was worn,  As each man gained on each securely!—how Each by his own strength sought his own Ideal,—  The ultimate Perfection leaning bright From out the sun and stars to bless the leal  And earnest search of all for Fair and Right Through doubtful forms by earth accounted real!  Because old Jubal blew into delight The souls of men with clear-piped melodies,  If youthful Asaph were content at most To draw from Jubal's grave, with listening eyes,  Traditionary music's floating ghost Into the gra**-grown silence, were it wise?  And was 't not wiser, Jubal's breath being lost, That Miriam clashed her cymbals to surprise  The sun between her white arms flung apart, With new glad golden sounds? that David's strings  O'erflowed his hand with music from his heart? So harmony grows full from many springs,  And happy accident turns holy art. You enter, in your Florence wanderings,  The church of Saint Maria Novella. Pa** The left stair, where at plague-time Machiavel  Saw One with set fair face as in a gla**, Dressed out against the fear of d**h and hell,  Rustling her silks in pauses of the ma**, To keep the thought off how her husband fell,  When she left home, stark dead across her feet,— The stair leads up to what the Orgagnas save  Of Dante's dæmons; you, in pa**ing it, Ascend the right stair from the farther nave  To muse in a small chapel scarcely lit By Cimabue's Virgin. Bright and brave,  That picture was accounted, mark, of old: A king stood bare before its sovran grace,  A reverent people shouted to behold The picture, not the king, and even the place  Containing such a miracle grew bold, Named the Glad Borgo from that beauteous face  Which thrilled the artist, after work, to think His own ideal Mary-smile should stand  So very near him,—he, within the brink Of all that glory, let in by his hand  With too divine a rashness! Yet none shrink Who come to gaze here now; albeit 't was planned  Sublimely in the thought's simplicity: The Lady, throned in empyreal state,  Minds only the young Babe upon her knee, While sidelong angels bear the royal weight,  Prostrated meekly, smiling tenderly Oblivion of their wings; the Child thereat  Stretching its hand like God. If any should, Because of some stiff draperies and loose joints,  Gaze scorn down from the heights of Raffaelhood On Cimabue's picture,—Heaven anoints  The head of no such critic, and his blood The poet's curse strikes full on and appoints  To ague and cold spasms for evermore. A noble picture! worthy of the shout  Wherewith along the streets the people bore Its cherub-faces which the sun threw out  Until they stooped and entered the church door. Yet rightly was young Giotto talked about,  Whom Cimabue found among the sheep, And knew, as gods know gods, and carried home  To paint the things he had painted, with a deep And fuller insight, and so overcome  His chapel-Lady with a heavenlier sweep Of light: for thus we mount into the sum  Of great things known or acted. I hold, too, That Cimabue smiled upon the lad  At the first stroke which pa**ed what he could do, Or else his Virgin's smile had never had  Such sweetness in 't. All great men who foreknew Their heirs in art, for art's sake have been glad,  And bent their old white heads as if uncrowned, Fanatics of their pure Ideals still  Far more than of their triumphs, which were found With some less vehement struggle of the will.  If old Margheritone trembled, swooned And died despairing at the open sill  Of other men's achievements (who achieved, By loving art beyond the master), he  Was old Margheritone, and conceived Never, at first youth and most ecstasy,  A Virgin like that dream of one, which heaved The d**h-sigh from his heart. If wistfully  Margheritone sickened at the smell Of Cimabue's laurel, let him go!  For Cimabue stood up very well In spite of Giotto's, and Angelico  The artist-saint kept smiling in his cell The smile with which he welcomed the sweet slow  Inbreak of angels (whitening through the dim That he might paint them), while the sudden sense  Of Raffael's future was revealed to him By force of his own fair works' competence.  The same blue waters where the dolphins swim Suggest the tritons. Through the blue Immense  Strike out, all swimmers! cling not in the way Of one another, so to sink; but learn  The strong man's impulse, catch the freshening spray He throws up in his motions, and discern  By his clear westering eye, the time of day. Thou, God, hast set us worthy gifts to earn  Besides Thy heaven and Thee! and when I say There's room here for the weakest man alive  To live and die, there's room too, I repeat, For all the strongest to live well, and strive  Their own way, by their individual heat,— Like some new bee-swarm leaving the old hive,  Despite the wax which tempts so violet-sweet. Then let the living live, the dead retain  Their grave-cold flowers!—though honour's best supplied By bringing actions, to prove theirs not vain. Cold graves, we say? it shall be testified  That living men who burn in heart and brain, Without the dead were colder. If we tried  To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure The future would not stand. Precipitate  This old roof from the shrine, and, insecure, The nesting swallows fly off, mate from mate.  How scant the gardens, if the graves were fewer! The tall green poplars grew no longer straight  Whose tops not looked to Troy. Would any fight For Athens, and not swear by Marathon?  Who dared build temples, without tombs in sight? Or live, without some dead man's benison?  Or seek truth, hope for good, and strive for right, If, looking up, he saw not in the sun  Some angel of the martyrs all day long Standing and waiting? Your last rhythm will need  Your earliest key-note. Could I sing this song, If my dead masters had not taken heed  To help the heavens and earth to make me strong, As the wind ever will find out some reed  And touch it to such issues as belong To such a frail thing? None may grudge the Dead  Libations from full cups. Unless we choose To look back to the hills behind us spread,  The plains before us sadden and confuse; If orphaned, we are disinherited. I would but turn these lachrymals to use,  And pour fresh oil in from the olive-grove, To furnish them as new lamps. Shall I say  What made my heart beat with exulting love A few weeks back?—    The day was such a day As Florence owes the sun. The sky above,  Its weight upon the mountains seemed to lay, And palpitate in glory, like a dove  Who has flown too fast, full-hearted—take away The image! for the heart of man beat higher  That day in Florence, flooding all her streets And piazzas with a tumult and desire.  The people, with accumulated heats And faces turned one way, as if one fire  Both drew and flushed them, left their ancient beats And went up toward the palace-Pitti wall  To thank their Grand-duke who, not quite of course, Had graciously permitted, at their call,  The citizens to use their civic force To guard their civic homes. So, one and all,  The Tuscan cities streamed up to the source Of this new good at Florence, taking it  As good so far, presageful of more good,— The first torch of Italian freedom, lit  To toss in the next tiger's face who should Approach too near them in a greedy fit,—  The first pulse of an even flow of blood To prove the level of Italian veins  Towards rights perceived and granted. How we gazed From Casa Guidi windows while, in trains  Of orderly procession—banners raised, And intermittent bursts of martial strains  Which died upon the shout, as if amazed By gladness beyond music—they pa**ed on!  The Magistracy, with insignia, pa**ed,— And all the people shouted in the sun,  And all the thousand windows which had cast A ripple of silks in blue and scarlet down  (As if the houses overflowed at last), Seemed growing larger with fair heads and eyes.  The Lawyers pa**ed,—and still arose the shout, And hands broke from the windows to surprise  Those grave calm brows with bay-tree leaves thrown out. The Priesthood pa**ed,—the friars with worldly-wise  Keen sidelong glances from their beards about The street to see who shouted; many a monk  Who takes a long rope in the waist, was there: Whereat the popular exultation drunk  With indrawn “vivas” the whole sunny air, While through the murmuring windows rose and sunk  A cloud of kerchiefed hands,—“The church makes fair Her welcome in the new Pope's name.” Ensued  The black sign of the “Martyrs”—(name no name, But count the graves in silence). Next were viewed  The Artists; next, the Trades; and after came The People,—flag and sign, and rights as good—  And very loud the shout was for that same Motto, “Il popolo.” Il Popolo,—  The word means dukedom, empire, majesty, And kings in such an hour might read it so.  And next, with banners, each in his degree, Deputed representatives a-row  Of every separate state of Tuscany: Siena's she-wolf, bristling on the fold  Of the first flag, preceded Pisa's hare, And Ma**a's lion floated calm in gold,  Pienza's following with his silver stare, Arezzo's steed pranced clear from bridle-hold,—  And well might shout our Florence, greeting there These, and more brethren. Last, the world had sent  The various children of her teeming flanks— Greeks, English, French—as if to a parliament  Of lovers of her Italy in ranks, Each bearing its land's symbol reverent;  At which the stones seemed breaking into thanks And rattling up the sky, such sounds in proof  Arose; the very house-walls seemed to bend; The very windows, up from door to roof,  Flashed out a rapture of bright heads, to mend With pa**ionate looks the gesture's whirling off  A hurricane of leaves. Three hours did end While all these pa**ed; and ever in the crowd,  Rude men, unconscious of the tears that kept Their beards moist, shouted; some few laughed aloud,  And none asked any why they laughed and wept: Friends kissed each other's cheeks, and foes long vowed  More warmly did it; two-months' babies leapt Right upward in their mother's arms, whose black  Wide glittering eyes looked elsewhere; lovers pressed Each before either, neither glancing back;  And peasant maidens smoothly 'tired and tressed Forgot to finger on their throats the slack  Great pearl-strings; while old blind men would not rest, But pattered with their staves and slid their shoes  Along the stones, and smiled as if they saw. O heaven, I think that day had noble use  Among God's days! So near stood Right and Law, Both mutually forborne! Law would not bruise  Nor Right deny, and each in reverent awe Honoured the other. And if, ne'ertheless,  That good day's sun delivered to the vines No charta, and the liberal Duke's excess  Did scarce exceed a Guelf's or Ghibelline's In any special actual righteousness  Of what that day he granted, still the signs Are good and full of promise, we must say,  When multitudes approach their kings with prayers And kings concede their people's right to pray  Both in one sunshine. Griefs are not despairs, So uttered, nor can royal claims dismay  When men from humble homes and ducal chairs Hate wrong together. It was well to view  Those banners ruffled in a ruler's face Inscribed, “Live freedom, union, and all true  Brave patriots who are aided by God's grace!” Nor was it ill when Leopoldo drew  His little children to the window-place He stood in at the Pitti, to suggest  They too should govern as the people willed. What a cry rose then! some, who saw the best,  Declared his eyes filled up and overfilled With good warm human tears which unrepressed  Ran down. I like his face; the forehead's build Has no capacious genius, yet perhaps  Sufficient comprehension,—mild and sad, And careful nobly,—not with care that wraps  Self-loving hearts, to stifle and make mad, But careful with the care that shuns a lapse  Of faith and duty, studious not to add A burden in the gathering of a gain.  And so, God save the Duke, I say with those Who that day shouted it; and while dukes reign,  May all wear in the visible overflows Of spirit, such a look of careful pain!  For God must love it better than repose. And all the people who went up to let  Their hearts out to that Duke, as has been told— Where guess ye that the living people met,  Kept tryst, formed ranks, chose leaders, first unrolled Their banners?   In the Loggia? where is set Cellini's godlike Perseus, bronze or gold,  (How name the metal, when the statue flings Its soul so in your eyes?) with brow and sword  Superbly calm, as all opposing things, Slain with the Gorgon, were no more abhorred Since ended?  No, the people sought no wings From Perseus in the Loggia, nor implored  An inspiration in the place beside From that dim bust of Brutus, jagged and grand,  Where Buonarroti pa**ionately tried From out the close-clenched marble to demand  The head of Rome's sublimest homicide, Then dropt the quivering mallet from his hand,  Despairing he could find no model-stuff Of Brutus in all Florence where he found  The gods and gladiators thick enough. Nor there! the people chose still holier ground:  The people, who are simple, blind and rough, Know their own angels, after looking round. Whom chose they then? where met they?    On the stone Called Dante's,—a plain flat stone scarce discerned  From others in the pavement,—whereupon He used to bring his quiet chair out, turned  To Brunelleschi's church, and pour alone The lava of his spirit when it burned:  It is not cold to-day. O pa**ionate Poor Dante who, a banished Florentine,  Didst sit austere at banquets of the great And muse upon this far-off stone of thine  And think how oft some pa**er used to wait A moment, in the golden day's decline,  With “Good night, dearest Dante!”—well, good night! I muse now, Dante, and think verily,  Though chapelled in the byeway out of sight, Ravenna's bones would thrill with ecstasy,  Couldst know thy favourite stone's elected right As tryst-place for thy Tuscans to foresee  Their earliest chartas from. Good night, good morn, Henceforward, Dante! now my soul is sure  That thine is better comforted of scorn, And looks down earthward in completer cure  Than when, in Santa Croce church forlorn Of any corpse, the architect and hewer  Did pile the empty marbles as thy tomb. For now thou art no longer exiled, now  Best honoured: we salute thee who art come Back to the old stone with a softer brow  Than Giotto drew upon the wall, for some Good lovers of our age to track and plough  Their way to, through time's ordures stratified, And startle broad awake into the dull  Bargello chamber: now thou'rt milder-eyed,— Now Beatrix may leap up glad to cull  Thy first smile, even in heaven and at her side, Like that which, nine years old, looked beautiful  At May-game. What do I say? I only meant That tender Dante loved his Florence well,  While Florence, now, to love him is content; And, mark ye, that the piercingest sweet smell  Of love's dear incense by the living sent To find the dead, is not accessible  To lazy livers—no narcotic,—not Swung in a censer to a sleepy tune,—  But trod out in the morning air by hot Quick spirits who tread firm to ends foreshown,  And use the name of greatness unforgot, To meditate what greatness may be done. For Dante sits in heaven and ye stand here,  And more remains for doing, all must feel, Than trysting on his stone from year to year  To shift processions, civic toe to heel, The town's thanks to the Pitti. Are ye freer  For what was felt that day? a chariot-wheel May spin fast, yet the chariot never roll.  But if that day suggested something good, And bettered, with one purpose, soul by soul,—  Better means freer. A land's brotherhood Is most puissant: men, upon the whole,  Are what they can be,—nations, what they would. Will therefore, to be strong, thou Italy!  Will to be noble! Austrian Metternich Can fix no yoke unless the neck agree;  And thine is like the lion's when the thick Dews shudder from it, and no man would be  The stroker of his mane, much less would prick His nostril with a reed. When nations roar  Like lions, who shall tame them and defraud Of the due pasture by the river-shore?  Roar, therefore! shake your dewlaps dry abroad: The amphitheatre with open door  Leads back upon the benches who applaud The last spear-thruster. Yet the Heavens forbid  That we should call on pa**ion to confront The brutal with the brutal and, amid  This ripening world, suggest a lion-hunt And lion's-vengeance for the wrongs men did  And do now, though the spears are getting blunt. We only call, because the sight and proof  Of lion-strength hurts nothing; and to show A lion-heart, and measure paw with hoof,  Helps something, even, and will instruct a foe As well as the onslaught, how to stand aloof:  Or else the world gets past the mere brute blow Or given or taken. Children use the fist  Until they are of age to use the brain; And so we needed Cæsars to a**ist  Man's justice, and Napoleons to explain God's counsel, when a point was nearly missed,  Until our generations should attain Christ's stature nearer. Not that we, alas,  Attain already; but a single inch Will raise to look down on the swordsman's pa**.  As knightly Roland on the coward's flinch: And, after chloroform and ether-gas,  We find out slowly what the bee and finch Have ready found, through Nature's lamp in each,  How to our races we may justify Our individual claims and, as we reach  Our own grapes, bend the top vines to supply The children's uses,—how to fill a breach  With olive-branches,—how to quench a lie With truth, and smite a foe upon the cheek  With Christ's most conquering kiss. Why, these are things Worth a great nation's finding, to prove weak  The “glorious arms” of military kings. And so with wide embrace, my England, seek  To stifle the bad heat and flickerings Of this world's false and nearly expended fire!  Draw palpitating arrows to the wood, And twang abroad thy high hopes and thy higher  Resolves, from that most virtuous altitude! Till nations shall unconsciously aspire  By looking up to thee, and learn that good And glory are not different. Announce law  By freedom; exalt chivalry by peace; Instruct how clear calm eyes can overawe,  And how pure hands, stretched simply to release A bond-slave, will not need a sword to draw  To be held dreadful. O my England, crease Thy purple with no alien agonies,  No struggles toward encroachment, no vile war! Disband thy captains, change thy victories,  Be henceforth prosperous as the angels are, Helping, not humbling.   Drums and battle-cries Go out in music of the morning-star—  And soon we shall have thinkers in the place Of fighters, each found able as a man  To strike electric influence through a race, Unstayed by city-wall and barbican.  The poet shall look grander in the face Than even of old (when he of Greece began  To sing “that Achillean wrath which slew So many heroes”)—seeing he shall treat  The deeds of souls heroic toward the true, The oracles of life, previsions sweet  And awful like divine swans gliding through White arms of Ledas, which will leave the heat  Of their escaping godship to endue The human medium with a heavenly flush. Meanwhile, in this same Italy we want  Not popular pa**ion, to arise and crush, But popular conscience, which may covenant  For what it knows. Concede without a blush, To grant the “civic guard” is not to grant  The civic spirit, living and awake: Those lappets on your shoulders, citizens,  Your eyes strain after sideways till they ache (While still, in admirations and amens,  The crowd comes up on festa-days to take The great sight in)—are not intelligence,  Not courage even—alas, if not the sign Of something very noble, they are nought;  For every day ye dress your sallow kine With fringes down their cheeks, though unbesought  They loll their heavy heads and drag the wine And bear the wooden yoke as they were taught  The first day. What ye want is light—indeed Not sunlight—(ye may well look up surprised  To those unfathomable heavens that feed Your purple hills)—but God's light organized  In some high soul, crowned capable to lead The conscious people, conscious and advised,—  For if we lift a people like mere clay, It falls the same. We want thee, O unfound  And sovran teacher! if thy beard be grey Or black, we bid thee rise up from the ground  And speak the word God giveth thee to say, Inspiring into all this people round,  Instead of pa**ion, thought, which pioneers All generous pa**ion, purifies from sin,  And strikes the hour for. Rise up, teacher! here's A crowd to make a nation!—best begin  By making each a man, till all be peers Of earth's true patriots and pure martyrs in  Knowing and daring. Best unbar the doors Which Peter's heirs keep locked so overclose  They only let the mice across the floors, While every churchman dangles, as he goes,  The great key at his girdle, and abhors In Christ's name, meekly. Open wide the house,  Concede the entrance with Christ's liberal mind, And set the tables with His wine and bread.  What! “commune in both kinds?” In every kind— Wine, wafer, love, hope, truth, unlimited,  Nothing kept back. For when a man is blind To starlight, will he see the rose is red?  A bondsman shivering at a Jesuit's foot— “Væ! meâ culpâ!”—is not like to stand  A freedman at a despot's and dispute His titles by the balance in his hand,  Weighing them “suo jure.” Tend the root If careful of the branches, and expand  The inner souls of men before you strive For civic heroes.   But the teacher, where? From all these crowded faces, all alive,  Eyes, of their own lids flashing themselves bare, And brows that with a mobile life contrive  A deeper shadow,—may we in no wise dare To put a finger out and touch a man,  And cry “this is the leader”? What, all these! Broad heads, black eyes,—yet not a soul that ran  From God down with a message? All, to please The donna waving measures with her fan,  And not the judgment-angel on his knees (The trumpet just an inch off from his lips),  Who when he breathes next, will put out the sun? Yet mankind's self were foundered in eclipse,  If lacking doers, with great works to be done; And lo, the startled earth already dips  Back into light; a better day's begun; And soon this leader, teacher, will stand plain,  And build the golden pipes and synthesize This people-organ for a holy strain.  We hold this hope, and still in all these eyes Go sounding for the deep look which shall drain  Suffused thought into channelled enterprise. Where is the teacher? What now may he do,  Who shall do greatly? Doth he gird his waist With a monk's rope, like Luther? or pursue  The goat, like Tell? or dry his nets in haste, Like Masaniello when the sky was blue?  Keep house, like other peasants, with inlaced Bare brawny arms about a favourite child,  And meditative looks beyond the door (But not to mark the kidling's teeth have filed T he green shoots of his vine which last year bore Full twenty bunches), or, on triple-piled  Throne-velvets sit at ease to bless the poor, Like other pontiffs, in the Poorest's name?  The old tiara keeps itself aslope Upon his steady brows which, all the same,  Bend mildly to permit the people's hope? Whatever hand shall grasp this oriflamme,  Whatever man (last peasant or first pope Seeking to free his country) shall appear,  Teach, lead, strike fire into the ma**es, fill These empty bladders with fine air, insphere  These wills into a unity of will, And make of Italy a nation—dear  And blessed be that man! the Heavens shall k** No leaf the earth lets grow for him, and d**h  Shall cast him back upon the lap of Life To live more surely, in a clarion-breath  Of hero-music. Brutus with the knife, Rienzi with the fasces, throb beneath  Rome's stones,—and more who threw away joy's fife Like Pallas, that the beauty of their souls  Might ever shine untroubled and entire: But if it can be true that he who rolls  The Church's thunders will reserve her fire For only light,—from eucharistic bowls  Will pour new life for nations that expire, And rend the scarlet of his papal vest  To gird the weak loins of his countrymen,— I hold that he surpa**es all the rest  Of Romans, heroes, patriots; and that when He sat down on the throne, he dispossessed  The first graves of some glory. See again, This country-saving is a glorious thing:  And if a common man achieved it? well. Say, a rich man did? excellent. A king?  That grows sublime. A priest? improbable. A pope? Ah, there we stop, and cannot bring  Our faith up to the leap, with history's bell So heavy round the neck of it—albeit  We fain would grant the possibility For thy sake, Pio Nono!   Stretch thy feet In that case—I will kiss them reverently  As any pilgrim to the papal seat: And, such proved possible, thy throne to me  Shall seem as holy a place as Pellico's Venetian dungeon, or as Spielberg's grate  At which the Lombard woman hung the rose Of her sweet soul by its own dewy weight,  To feel the dungeon round her sunshine close, And pining so, died early, yet too late  For what she suffered. Yea, I will not choose Betwixt thy throne, Pope Pius, and the spot  Marked red for ever, spite of rains and dews, Where Two fell riddled by the Austrian's shot,  The brothers Bandiera, who accuse, With one same mother-voice and face (that what  They speak may be invincible) the sins Of earth's tormentors before God the just,  Until the unconscious thunderbolt begins To loosen in His grasp.   And yet we must Beware, and mark the natural kiths and kins  Of circumstance and office, and distrust The rich man reasoning in a poor man's hut,  The poet who neglects pure truth to prove Statistic fact, the child who leaves a rut  For a smoother road, the priest who vows his glove Exhales no grace, the prince who walks afoot,  The woman who has sworn she will not love, And this Ninth Pius in Seventh Gregory's chair,  With Andrea Doria's forehead!   Count what goes To making up a pope, before he wear  That triple crown. We pa** the world-wide throes Which went to make the popedom,—the despair  Of free men, good men, wise men; the dread shows Of women's faces, by the f*ggot's flash  Tossed out, to the minutest stir and throb O' the white lips, the least tremble of a lash,  To glut the red stare of a licensed mob; The short mad cries down oubliettes, and plash  So horribly far off; priests, trained to rob, And kings that, like encouraged nightmares, sat  On nations' hearts most heavily distressed With monstrous sights and apophthegms of fate—  We pa** these things,—because “the times” are prest With necessary charges of the weight  Of all this sin, and “Calvin, for the rest, Made bold to burn Servetus. Ah, men err!”—  And so do churches! which is all we mean To bring to proof in any register  Of theological fat kine and lean: So drive them back into the pens! refer  Old sins (with pourpoint, “quotha” and “I ween”) Entirely to the old times, the old times;  Nor ever ask why this preponderant Infallible pure Church could set her chimes  Most loudly then, just then,—most jubilant, Precisely then, when mankind stood in crimes  Full heart-deep, and Heaven's judgments were not scant. Inquire still less, what signifies a church  Of perfect inspiration and pure laws Who burns the first man with a brimstone-torch,  And grinds the second, bone by bone, because The times, forsooth, are used to rack and scorch!  What is a holy Church unless she awes The times down from their sins? Did Christ select  Such amiable times to come and teach Love to, and mercy? The whole world were wrecked  If every mere great man, who lives to reach A little leaf of popular respect,  Attained not simply by some special breach In the age's customs, by some precedence  In thought and act, which, having proved him higher Than those he lived with, proved his competence  In helping them to wonder and aspire. My words are guiltless of the bigot's sense;  My soul has fire to mingle with the fire Of all these souls, within or out of doors  Of Rome's church or another. I believe In one Priest, and one temple with its floors  Of shining jasper gloom'd at morn and eve By countless knees of earnest auditors,  And crystal walls too lucid to perceive, That none may take the measure of the place  And say “So far the porphyry, then, the flint— To this mark mercy goes, and there ends grace,”  Though still the permeable crystals hint At some white starry distance, bathed in space.  I feel how nature's ice-crusts keep the dint Of undersprings of silent Deity.  I hold the articulated gospels which Show Christ among us crucified on tree.  I love all who love truth, if poor or rich In what they have won of truth possessively.  No altars and no hands defiled with pitch Shall scare me off, but I will pray and eat  With all these—taking leave to choose my ewers— And say at last “Your visible churches cheat  Their inward types; and, if a church a**ures Of standing without failure and defeat,  The same both fails and lies.”   To leave which lures Of wider subject through past years,—behold,  We come back from the popedom to the pope, To ponder what he must be, ere we are bold  For what he may be, with our heavy hope To trust upon his soul. So, fold by fold,  Explore this mummy in the priestly cope, Transmitted through the darks of time, to catch  The man within the wrappage, and discern How he, an honest man, upon the watch  Full fifty years for what a man may learn, Contrived to get just there; with what a snatch  Of old-world oboli he had to earn The pa**age through; with what a drowsy sop,  To drench the busy barkings of his brain; What ghosts of pale tradition, wreathed with hop  'Gainst wakeful thought, he had to entertain For heavenly visions; and consent to stop  The clock at noon, and let the hour remain (Without vain windings-up) inviolate  Against all chimings from the belfry. Lo, From every given pope you must abate,  Albeit you love him, some things—good, you know— Which every given heretic you hate,  Assumes for his, as being plainly so. A pope must hold by popes a little,—yes,  By councils, from Nicæa up to Trent,— By hierocratic empire, more or less  Irresponsible to men,—he must resent Each man's particular conscience, and repress  Inquiry, meditation, argument, As tyrants faction. Also, he must not  Love truth too dangerously, but prefer “The interests of the Church” (because a blot  Is better than a rent, in miniver)— Submit to see the people swallow hot  Husk-porridge, which his chartered churchmen stir Quoting the only true God's epigraph,  “Feed my lambs, Peter!”—must consent to sit Attesting with his pastoral ring and staff  To such a picture of our Lady, hit Off well by artist-angels (though not half  As fair as Giotto would have painted it)— To such a vial, where a dead man's blood  Runs yearly warm beneath a churchman's finger,— To such a holy house of stone and wood,  Whereof a cloud of angels was the bringer From Bethlehem to Loreto. Were it good  For any pope on earth to be a flinger Of stones against these high-niched counterfeits?  Apostates only are iconoclasts. He dares not say, while this false thing abets  That true thing, “This is false.” He keeps his fasts And prayers, as prayer and fast were silver frets  To change a note upon a string that lasts, And make a lie a virtue. Now, if he  Did more than this, higher hoped, and braver dared, I think he were a pope in jeopardy,  Or no pope rather, for his truth had barred The vaulting of his life,—and certainly,  If he do only this, mankind's regard Moves on from him at once, to seek some new  Teacher and leader. He is good and great According to the deeds a pope can do;  Most liberal, save those bonds; affectionate, As princes may be, and, as priests are, true;  But only the Ninth Pius after eight, When all's praised most. At best and hopefullest,  He's pope—we want a man! his heart beats warm, But, like the prince enchanted to the waist,  He sits in stone and hardens by a charm Into the marble of his throne high-placed.  Mild benediction waves his saintly arm— So, good! but what we want's a perfect man,  Complete and all alive: half travertine Half suits our need, and ill subserves our plan.  Feet, knees, nerves, sinews, energies divine Were never yet too much for men who ran  In such hard ways as must be this of thine, Deliverer whom we seek, whoe'er thou art,  Pope, prince, or peasant! If, indeed, the first, The noblest, therefore! since the heroic heart  Within thee must be great enough to burst Those trammels buckling to the baser part  Thy saintly peers in Rome, who crossed and cursed With the same finger.   Come, appear, be found, If pope or peasant, come! we hear the co*k,  The courtier of the mountains when first crowned With golden dawn; and orient glories flock  To meet the sun upon the highest ground. Take voice and work! we wait to hear thee knock  At some one of our Florentine nine gates, On each of which was imaged a sublime  Face of a Tuscan genius, which, for hate's And love's sake, both, our Florence in her prime  Turned boldly on all comers to her states, As heroes turned their shields in antique time  Emblazoned with honourable acts. And though The gates are blank now of such images,  And Petrarch looks no more from Nicolo Toward dear Arezzo, 'twixt the acacia-trees, N or Dante, from gate Gallo—still we know, Despite the razing of the blazonries,  Remains the consecration of the shield: The dead heroic faces will start out  On all these gates, if foes should take the field, And blend sublimely, at the earliest shout,  With living heroes who will scorn to yield A hair's-breadth even, when, gazing round about,  They find in what a glorious company They fight the foes of Florence. Who will grudge  His one poor life, when that great man we see Has given five hundred years, the world being judge,  To help the glory of his Italy? Who, born the fair side of the Alps, will budge,  When Dante stays, when Ariosto stays, When Petrarch stays for ever? Ye bring swords,  My Tuscans? Ay, if wanted in this haze, Bring swords: but first bring souls!—bring thoughts and words,  Unrusted by a tear of yesterday's, Yet awful by its wrong,—and cut these cords,  And mow this green lush falseness to the roots, And shut the mouth of hell below the swathe!  And, if ye can bring songs too, let the lute's Recoverable music softly bathe  Some poet's hand, that, through all bursts and bruits Of popular pa**ion, all unripe and rathe  Convictions of the popular intellect, Ye may not lack a finger up the air,  Annunciative, reproving, pure, erect, To show which way your first Ideal bare  The whiteness of its wings when (sorely pecked By falcons on your wrists) it unaware  Arose up overhead and out of sight. Meanwhile, let all the far ends of the world  Breathe back the deep breath of their old delight, To swell the Italian banner just unfurled.  Help, lands of Europe! for, if Austria fight, The drums will bar your slumber. Had ye curled  The laurel for your thousand artists' brows, If these Italian hands had planted none?  Can any sit down idle in the house Nor hear appeals from Buonarroti's stone  And Raffael's canvas, rousing and to rouse? Where's Poussin's master? Gallic Avignon Bred Laura, and Vaucluse's fount has stirred  The heart of France too strongly, as it lets Its little stream out (like a wizard's bird  Which bounds upon its emerald wing and wets The rocks on each side), that she should not gird  Her loins with Charlemagne's sword when foes beset The country of her Petrarch. Spain may well  Be minded how from Italy she caught, To mingle with her tinkling Moorish bell,  A fuller cadence and a subtler thought. And even the New World, the receptacle  Of freemen, may send glad men, as it ought, To greet Vespucci Amerigo's door.  While England claims, by trump of poetry, Verona, Venice, the Ravenna-shore,  And dearer holds John Milton's Fiesole Than Langland's Malvern with the stars in flower. And Vallombrosa, we two went to see  Last June, beloved companion,—where sublime The mountains live in holy families,  And the slow pinewoods ever climb and climb Half up their breasts, just stagger as they seize  Some grey crag, drop back with it many a time, And straggle blindly down the precipice.  The Vallombrosan brooks were strewn as thick That June-day, knee-deep with dead beechen leaves,  As Milton saw them ere his heart grew sick And his eyes blind. I think the monks and beeves  Are all the same too: scarce have they changed the wick On good Saint Gualbert's altar which receives  The convent's pilgrims; and the pool in front (Wherein the hill-stream trout are cast, to wait  The beatific vision and the grunt Used at refectory) keeps its weedy state,  To baffle saintly abbots who would count The fish across their breviary nor 'bate  The measure of their steps. O waterfalls And forests! sound and silence! mountains bare  That leap up peak by peak and catch the palls Of purple and silver mist to rend and share  With one another, at electric calls Of life in the sunbeams,—till we cannot dare  Fix your shapes, count your number! we must think Your beauty and your glory helped to fill  The cup of Milton's soul so to the brink, He never more was thirsty when God's will  Had shattered to his sense the last chain-link By which he had drawn from Nature's visible  The fresh well-water. Satisfied by this, He sang of Adam's paradise and smiled,  Remembering Vallombrosa. Therefore is The place divine to English man and child, And pilgrims leave their souls here in a kiss. For Italy's the whole earth's treasury, piled  With reveries of gentle ladies, flung Aside, like ravelled silk, from life's worn stuff;  With coins of scholars' fancy, which, being rung On work-day counter, still sound silver-proof;  In short, with all the dreams of dreamers young, Before their heads have time for slipping off  Hope's pillow to the ground. How oft, indeed, We've sent our souls out from the rigid north,  On bare white feet which would not print nor bleed, To climb the Alpine pa**es and look forth,  Where booming low the Lombard rivers lead To gardens, vineyards, all a dream is worth,—  Sights, thou and I, Love, have seen afterward From Tuscan Bellosguardo, wide awake,  When, standing on the actual blessed sward Where Galileo stood at nights to take  The vision of the stars, we have found it hard, Gazing upon the earth and heaven, to make A choice of beauty.   Therefore let us all Refreshed in England or in other land,  By visions, with their fountain-rise and fall, Of this earth's darling,—we, who understand  A little how the Tuscan musical Vowels do round themselves as if they planned  Eternities of separate sweetness,—we, Who loved Sorrento vines in picture-book,  Or ere in wine-cup we pledged faith or glee,— Who loved Rome's wolf with demi-gods at s**,  Or ere we loved truth's own divinity,— Who loved, in brief, the cla**ic hill and brook,  And Ovid's dreaming tales and Petrarch's song, Or ere we loved Love's self even,—let us give  The blessing of our souls (and wish them strong To bear it to the height where prayers arrive,  When faithful spirits pray against a wrong,) To this great cause of southern men who strive  In God's name for man's rights, and shall not fail. Behold, they shall not fail. The shouts ascend  Above the shrieks, in Naples, and prevail. Rows of shot corpses, waiting for the end  Of burial, seem to smile up straight and pale Into the azure air and apprehend  That final gun-flash from Palermo's coast Which lightens their apocalypse of d**h.  So let them die! The world shows nothing lost; Therefore, not blood. Above or underneath,  What matter, brothers, if ye keep your post On duty's side? As sword returns to sheath,  So dust to grave, but souls find place in Heaven. Heroic daring is the true success,  The eucharistic bread requires no leaven; And though your ends were hopeless, we should bless  Your cause as holy. Strive—and, having striven, Take, for God's recompense, that righteousness!