Two Nations | Page 7

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 hoar kings; But though her thrones and towers of nations fall, Death has no part in all; In the air, nor in the imperishable sea, Nor heaven, nor truth,