Two Nations | Page 2

thy dreams through all these years on wing, Hast thou dreamed such a thing? The mortal mother-bird outsoars her nest, The child outgrows the breast; But suns as stars shall fall from heaven and cease, Ere we twain be as these; Yea, utmost skies forget their utmost sun, Ere we twain be not one. My lesser jewels sewn on skirt and hem, I have no heed of them Obscured and flawed by sloth or craft or power; But thou, that wast my flower, The blossom bound between my brows and worn In sight of even and morn From the last ember of the flameless west To the dawn's baring breast-- I were not Freedom if thou wert not free, Nor thou wert Italy. O mystic rose ingrained with blood, impearled With tears of all the world! The torpor of their blind brute-ridden trance Kills England and chills France; And Spain sobs hard through strangling blood; and snows Hide the huge eastern woes. But thou, twin-born with morning, nursed of noon, And blessed of star and moon! What shall avail to assail thee any more, From sacred shore to shore? Have Time and Love not knelt down at thy feet, Thy sore, thy soiled, thy sweet, Fresh from the flints and mire of murderous ways And dust of travelling days? Hath Time not kissed them, Love not washed them fair, And wiped with tears and hair? Though God forget thee, I will not forget; Though heaven and earth be set Against thee, O unconquerable child, Abused, abased, reviled, Lift thou not less from no funereal bed Thine undishonoured head; Love thou not less, by lips of thine once prest, This my now barren breast; Seek thou not less, being well assured thereof, O child, my latest love. For now the barren bosom shall bear fruit, Songs leap from lips long mute, And with my milk the mouths of nations fed Again be glad and red That were worn white with hunger and sorrow and thirst; And thou, most fair and first, Thou whose warm hands and sweet live lips I feel Upon me for a seal, Thou whose least looks, whose smiles and little sighs, Whose passionate pure eyes, Whose dear fair limbs that neither bonds could bruise Nor hate of men misuse, Whose flower-like breath and bosom, O my child, O mine and undefiled, Fill with such tears as burn like bitter wine These mother's eyes of mine, Thrill with huge passions and primeval pains The fullness of my veins, O sweetest head seen higher than any stands, I touch thee with mine hands, I lay my lips upon thee, O thou most sweet, To lift thee on thy feet And with the fire of mine to fill thine eyes; I say unto thee, Arise."
�� She ceased, and heaven was full of flame and sound, And earth's old limbs unbound Shone and waxed warm with fiery dew and seed Shed through her at this her need: And highest in heaven, a mother and full of grace, With no more covered face, With no more lifted hands and bended knees, Rose, as from sacred seas Love, when old time was full of plenteous springs, That fairest-born of things, The land that holds the rest in tender thrall For love's sake in them all, That binds with words and holds with eyes and hands All hearts in all men's lands. So died the dream whence rose the live desire That here takes form and fire, A spirit from the splendid grave of sleep Risen, that ye should not weep, Should not weep more nor ever, O ye that hear And ever have held her dear, Seeing now indeed she weeps not who wept sore, And sleeps not any more. Hearken ye towards her, O people, exalt your eyes; Is this a thing that dies?
�� Italia! by the passion of the pain That bent and rent thy chain; Italia! by the breaking of the bands, The shaking of the lands; Beloved, O men's mother, O men's queen, Arise, appear, be seen! Arise, array thyself in manifold Queen's raiment of wrought gold; With girdles of green freedom, and with red Roses, and white snow shed Above the flush and frondage of the hills That all thy deep dawn fills And all thy clear night veils and warms with wings Spread till the morning sings; The rose of resurrection, and the bright Breast lavish of the light, The lady lily like the snowy sky Ere the stars wholly die; As red as blood, and whiter than a wave, Flowers grown as from thy grave, From the green fruitful grass in Maytime hot, Thy grave, where thou art not. Gather the grass and weave, in sacred sign Of the ancient earth divine, The holy heart of