Two Nations | Page 7

full music fill The
desolate red waste of sunset air And fields the old time saw fair, But
now the hours ring void through ruined lands, Wild work of mortal
hands; Yet through thy dead Maremma let his name Take flight and
pass in flame, And the red ruin of disastrous hours Shall quicken into
flowers. Praise him, O fiery child of sun and sea, Naples, who bade
thee be; For till he sent the swords that scourge and save, Thou wast
not, but thy grave. But more than all these praise him and give thanks,
Thou, from thy Tiber's banks, From all thine hills and from thy
supreme dome, Praise him, O risen Rome. Let all thy children cities at
thy knee Lift up their voice with thee, Saying 'for thy love's sake and
our perished grief We laud thee, O our chief;' Saying 'for thine hand
and help when hope was dead We thank thee, O our head;' Saying 'for
thy voice and face within our sight We bless thee, O our light; For
waters cleansing us from days defiled We praise thee, O our child.'
§ So with an hundred cities' mouths in one Praising thy supreme son,
Son of thy sorrow, O mother, O maid and mother, Our queen, who
serve none other, Our lady of pity and mercy, and full of grace, Turn
otherwhere thy face, Turn for a little and look what things are these
Now fallen before thy knees; Turn upon them thine eyes who hated
thee, Behold what things they be, Italia: these are stubble that were
steel, Dust, or a turning wheel; As leaves, as snow, as sand, that were
so strong; And howl, for all their song, And wail, for all their wisdom;

they that were So great, they are all stript bare, They are all made
empty of beauty, and all abhorred; They are shivered and their sword;
They are slain who slew, they are heartless who were wise; Yea, turn
on these thine eyes, O thou, soliciting with soul sublime The obscure
soul of time, Thou, with the wounds thy holy body bears From broken
swords of theirs, Thou, with the sweet swoln eyelids that have bled
Tears for thy thousands dead, And upon these, whose swords drank up
like dew The sons of thine they slew, These, whose each gun blasted
with murdering mouth Live flowers of thy fair south, These, whose
least evil told in alien ears Turned men's whole blood to tears, These,
whose least sin remembered for pure shame Turned all those tears to
flame, Even upon these, when breaks the extreme blow And all the
world cries woe, When heaven reluctant rains long-suffering fire On
these and their desire, When his wind shakes them and his waters
whelm Who rent thy robe and realm, When they that poured thy dear
blood forth as wine Pour forth their own for thine, On these, on these
have mercy: not in hate, But full of sacred fate, Strong from the shrine
and splendid from the god, Smite, with no second rod. Because they
spared not, do thou rather spare: Be not one thing they were. Let not
one tongue of theirs who hate thee say That thou wast even as they.
Because their hands were bloody, be thine white; Show light where
they shed night: Because they are foul, be thou the rather pure; Because
they are feeble, endure; Because they had no pity, have thou pity. And
thou, O supreme city, O priestless Rome that shall be, take in trust
Their names, their deeds, their dust, Who held life less than thou wert;
be the least To thee indeed a priest, Priest and burnt-offering and
blood-sacrifice Given without prayer or price, A holier immolation than
men wist, A costlier eucharist, A sacrament more saving; bend thine
head Above these many dead Once, and salute with thine eternal eyes
Their lowest head that lies. Speak from thy lips of immemorial speech
If but one word for each. Kiss but one kiss on each thy dead son's
mouth Fallen dumb or north or south. And laying but once thine hand
on brow and breast, Bless them, through whom thou art blest. And
saying in ears of these thy dead, "Well done," Shall they not hear "O
son"? And bowing thy face to theirs made pale for thee, Shall the shut
eyes not see? Yea, through the hollow-hearted world of death, As light,
as blood, as breath, Shall there not flash and flow the fiery sense, The

pulse of prescience? Shall not these know as in times overpast Thee
loftiest to the last? For times and wars shall change, kingdoms and
creeds, And dreams of men, and deeds; Earth shall grow grey with all
her golden things, Pale peoples and