O May I Join the Choir Invisible! | Page 2

the brim,?And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,?Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,?Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,?Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer--?Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is friends flocking around,?As I sate with his head twixt my knees on the ground;?And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine?As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,?Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)?Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
MOTHER AND POET.
Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the east,?And one of them shot in the west by the sea.?Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast
And are wanting a great song for Italy free,
Let none look at _me_!
Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art for a woman, men said,?But _this_ woman, _this_, who is agonized here,
The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
Forever instead.
What art can woman be good at? Oh, vain!
What art _is_ she good at, but hurting her breast?With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?
Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed,
And _I_ proud by that test.
What's art for a woman? To hold on her knees
Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat?Cling, strangle a little! To sew by degrees,
And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat!
To dream and to dote.
To teach them . . . It stings there. _I_ made them indeed
Speak plain the word 'country.' I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need.
_I_ prated of liberty, rights, and about
The tyrant turned out.
And when their eyes flashed, oh, my beautiful eyes!
I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels?Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise,
When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels!
--God! how the house feels.
At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled
With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and how?They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled,
In return would fan off every fly from my brow
With their green laurel bough.
Then was triumph at Turin. 'Ancona was free!'
And some one came out of the cheers in the street,?With a face pale as stone to say something to me.
My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet
While they cheered in the street.
I bore it--friends soothed me: my grief looked sublime
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained?To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained
To the height he had gained.
And letters still came--shorter, sadder, more strong,
Writ now but in one hand. I was not to faint,?One loved me for two . . . would be with me ere long,
And 'Viva Italia' _he_ died for, our saint,
Who forbids our complaint.
{ Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east,?And one of them shot in the West by the sea: p2.jpg}
My Nanni would add, 'he was safe and aware
Of a presence that turned off the balls . . . was imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,
And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed,
To live on for the rest.'
On which, without pause, up the telegraph line,
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta--_Shot_.?_Tell his mother_. Ah, ah! 'his,' 'their' mother: not 'mine.'
No voice says '_my_ mother' again to me. What!
You think Guido forgot?
Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven,
They drop earth's affection, conceive not of woe??I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven
Through that Love and Sorrow which reconciled so
The Above and Below.
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!
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?
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--
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)
What then? Do not mock me! Ah, ring