Two Nations | Page 6

golden throat and tongue,
Praising his tyrant, sung; Though now thou sing not as of other days,
Learn late a better praise. Not with the sick sweet lips of slaves that
sing, Praise thou no priest or king, No brow-bound laurel of
discoloured leaf, But him, the crownless chief. Praise him, O star of
sun-forgotten times, Among their creeds and crimes That wast a fire of
witness in the night, Padua, the wise men's light: Praise him, O sacred
Venice, and the sea That now exults through thee, Full of the mighty
morning and the sun, Free of things dead and done; Praise him from all
the years of thy great grief, That shook thee like a leaf With winds and
snows of torment, rain that fell Red as the rains of hell, Storms of black
thunder and of yellow flame, And all ill things but shame; Praise him
with all thy holy heart and strength; Through thy walls' breadth and
length Praise him with all thy people, that their voice Bid the strong

soul rejoice, The fair clear supreme spirit beyond stain, Pure as the
depth of pain, High as the head of suffering, and secure As all things
that endure. More than thy blind lord of an hundred years Whose name
our memory hears, Home-bound from harbours of the Byzantine Made
tributary of thine, Praise him who gave no gifts from oversea, But gave
thyself to thee. O mother Genoa, through all years that run, More than
that other son, Who first beyond the seals of sunset prest Even to the
unfooted west, Whose back-blown flag scared from, their sheltering
seas The unknown Atlantides, And as flame climbs through cloud and
vapour clomb Through streams of storm and foam, Till half in sight
they saw land heave and swim-- More than this man praise him. One
found a world new-born from virgin sea; And one found Italy. O
heavenliest Florence, from the mouths of flowers Fed by melodious
hours, From each sweet mouth that kisses light and air, Thou whom thy
fate made fair, As a bound vine or any flowering tree, Praise him who
made thee free. For no grape-gatherers trampling out the wine Tread
thee, the fairest vine; For no man binds thee, no man bruises, none
Does with thee as these have done. From where spring hears loud
through her long lit vales Triumphant nightingales, In many a fold of
fiery foliage hidden, Withheld as things forbidden, But clamorous with
innumerable delight In May's red, green, and white, In the far-floated
standard of the spring, That bids men also sing, Our flower of flags, our
witness that we are free, Our lamp for land and sea; From where
Majano feels through corn and vine Spring move and melt as wine,
And Fiesole's embracing arms enclose The immeasurable rose; From
hill-sides plumed with pine, and heights wind-worn That feel the
refluent morn, Or where the moon's face warm and passionate Burns,
and men's hearts grow great, And the swoln eyelids labour with sweet
tears, And in their burning ears Sound throbs like flame, and in their
eyes new light Kindles the trembling night; From faint illumined fields
and starry valleys Wherefrom the hill-wind sallies, From Vallombrosa,
from Valdarno raise One Tuscan tune of praise. O lordly city of the
field of death, Praise him with equal breath, From sleeping streets and
gardens, and the stream That threads them as a dream Threads without
light the untravelled ways of sleep With eyes that smile or weep; From
the sweet sombre beauty of wave and wall That fades and does not fall;
From coloured domes and cloisters fair with fame, Praise thou and

thine his name. Thou too, O little laurelled town of towers, Clothed
with the flame of flowers, From windy ramparts girdled with young
gold, From thy sweet hillside fold Of wallflowers and the acacia's
belted bloom And every blowing plume, Halls that saw Dante speaking,
chapels fair As the outer hills and air, Praise him who feeds the fire that
Dante fed, Our highest heroic head, Whose eyes behold through floated
cloud and flame The maiden face of fame Like April's in Valdelsa; fair
as flowers, And patient as the hours; Sad with slow sense of time, and
bright with faith That levels life and death; The final fame, that with a
foot sublime Treads down reluctant time; The fame that waits and
watches and is wise, A virgin with chaste eyes, A goddess who takes
hands with great men's grief; Praise her, and him, our chief. Praise him,
O Siena, and thou her deep green spring, O Fonte Branda, sing: Shout
from the red clefts of thy fiery crags, Shake out thy flying flags In the
long wind that streams from hill to hill; Bid thy