Two Nations | Page 5

From a
strange France, alas, That was not freedom; yet when these were past
Thy sword and thou stood fast, Till new men seeing thee where Sicilian

waves Hear now no sound of slaves, And where thy sacred blood is
fragrant still Upon the Bitter Hill, Seeing by that blood one country
saved and stained, Less loved thee crowned than chained, And less now
only than the chief: for he, Father of Italy, Upbore in holy hands the
babe new-born Through loss and sorrow and scorn, Of no man led, of
many men reviled; Till lo, the new-born child Gone from between his
hands, and in its place, Lo, the fair mother's face. Blessed is he of all
men, being in one As father to her and son, Blessed of all men living,
that he found Her weak limbs bared and bound, And in his arms and in
his bosom bore, And as a garment wore Her weight of want, and as a
royal dress Put on her weariness. As in faith's hoariest histories men
read, The strong man bore at need Through roaring rapids when all
heaven was wild The likeness of a child That still waxed greater and
heavier as he trod, And altered, and was God. Praise him, O winds that
move the molten air, O light of days that were, And light of days that
shall be; land and sea, And heaven and Italy: Praise him, O storm and
summer, shore and wave, O skies and every grave; O weeping hopes, O
memories beyond tears, O many and murmuring years, O sounds far off
in time and visions far, O sorrow with thy star, And joy with all thy
beacons; ye that mourn, And ye whose light is born; O fallen faces, and
O souls arisen, Praise him from tomb and prison, Praise him from
heaven and sunlight; and ye floods, And windy waves of woods; Ye
valleys and wild vineyards, ye lit lakes And happier hillside brakes,
Untrampled by the accursed feet that trod Fields golden from their god,
Fields of their god forsaken, whereof none Sees his face in the sun,
Hears his voice from the floweriest wildernesses; And, barren of his
tresses, Ye bays unplucked and laurels unentwined, That no men break
or bind, And myrtles long forgetful of the sword, And olives unadored,
Wisdom and love, white hands that save and slay, Praise him; and ye as
they, Praise him, O gracious might of dews and rains That feed the
purple plains, O sacred sunbeams bright as bare steel drawn, O cloud
and fire and dawn; Red hills of flame, white Alps, green Apennines,
Banners of blowing pines, Standards of stormy snows, flags of light
leaves, Three wherewith Freedom weaves One ensign that once woven
and once unfurled Makes day of all a world, Makes blind their eyes
who knew not, and outbraves The waste of iron waves; Ye fields of
yellow fullness, ye fresh fountains, And mists of many mountains; Ye

moons and seasons, and ye days and nights; Ye starry-headed heights,
And gorges melting sunward from the snow, And all strong streams
that flow, Tender as tears, and fair as faith, and pure As hearts made
sad and sure At once by many sufferings and one love; O mystic
deathless dove Held to the heart of earth and in her hands Cherished, O
lily of lands, White rose of time, dear dream of praises past-- For such
as these thou wast, That art as eagles setting to the sun, As fawns that
leap and run, As a sword carven with keen floral gold, Sword for an
armed god's hold, Flower for a crowned god's forehead--O our land,
Reach forth thine holiest hand, O mother of many sons and memories,
Stretch out thine hand to his That raised and gave thee life to run and
leap When thou wast full of sleep, That touched and stung thee with
young blood and breath When thou wast hard on death. Praise him, O
all her cities and her crowns, Her towers and thrones of towns; O
noblest Brescia, scarred from foot to head And breast-deep in thy dead,
Praise him from all the glories of thy graves That yellow Mela laves
With gentle and golden water, whose fair flood Ran wider with thy
blood: Praise him, O born of that heroic breast, O nursed thereat and
blest, Verona, fairer than thy mother fair, But not more brave to bear:
Praise him, O Milan, whose imperial tread Bruised once the German
head; Whose might, by northern swords left desolate, Set foot on fear
and fate: Praise him, O long mute mouth of melodies, Mantua, with
louder keys, With mightier chords of music even than rolled From the
large harps of old, When thy sweet singer of