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IV.

But thou, our Hero, baffled, foiled,
The Glorious Chief who vainly bled and toiled.
The trust of all the Peoples–Freedom’s Knight!
The Paladin unstained–the Sword of Right!
What wilt thou do, whose land finds thee but jails!
The banished claim the banished! deign to cheer
The refuge of the homeless–enter here,
And light upon our households dark will fall
Even as thou enterest. Oh, Brother, all,
Each one of us–hurt with thy sorrows’ proof,
Will make a country for thee of his roof.
Come, sit with those who live as exiles learn:
Come! Thou whom kings could conquer but not yet turn.
We’ll talk of “Palermo”[2]–“the Thousand” true,
Will tell the tears of blood of France to you;
Then by his own great Sea we’ll read, together,
Old Homer in the quiet summer weather,
And after, thou shalt go to thy desire
While that faint star of Justice grows to fire.[3]

V.

Oh, Italy! hail your Deliverer,
Oh, Nations! almost he gave Rome to her!
Strong-arm and prophet-heart had all but come
To win the city, and to make it “Rome.”
Calm, of the antique grandeur, ripe to be
Named with the noblest of her history.
He would have Romanized your Rome–controlled
Her glory, lordships, Gods, in a new mould.
Her spirits’ fervor would have melted in
The hundred cities with her; made a twin
Vesuvius and the Capitol; and blended
Strong Juvenal’s with the soul, tender and splendid,
Of Dante–smelted old with new alloy–
Stormed at the Titans’ road full of bold joy
Whereby men storm Olympus. Italy,
Weep!–This man could have made one Rome of thee!

VI.

But the crime’s wrought! Who wrought it?
Honest Man–
Priest Pius? No! Each does but what he can.
Yonder’s the criminal! The warlike wight
Who hides behind the ranks of France to fight,
Greek Sinon’s blood crossed thick with Judas-Jew’s,
The Traitor who with smile which true men woos,
Lip mouthing pledges–hand grasping the knife–
Waylaid French Liberty, and took her life.
Kings, he is of you! fit companion! one
Whom day by day the lightning looks upon
Keen; while the sentenced man triples his guard
And trembles; for his hour approaches hard.
Ye ask me “when?” I say soon! Hear ye not
Yon muttering in the skies above the spot?
Mark ye no coming shadow, Kings? the shroud
Of a great storm driving the thunder-cloud?
Hark! like the thief-catcher who pulls the pin,
God’s thunder asks to speak to one within!

VII.

And meanwhile this death-odor–this corpse-scent
Which makes the priestly incense redolent
Of rotting men, and the Te Deums stink–
Reeks through the forests–past the river’s brink,
O’er wood and plain and mountain, till it fouls
Fair Paris in her pleasures; then it prowls,
A deadly stench, to Crete, to Mexico,
To Poland–wheresoe’er kings’ armies go:
And Earth one Upas-tree of bitter sadness,
Opening vast blossoms of a bloody madness.
Throats cut by thousands–slain men by the ton!
Earth quite corpse-cumbered, though the half not done!
They lie, stretched out, where the blood-puddles soak,
Their black lips gaping with the last cry spoke.
“Stretched;” nay! sown broadcast; yes, the word is “sown.”
The fallows Liberty–the harsh wind blown
Over the furrows, Fate: and these stark dead
Are grain sublime, from Death’s cold fingers shed
To make the Abyss conceive: the Future bear
More noble Heroes! Swell, oh, Corpses dear!
Rot quick to the green blade of Freedom! Death!
Do thy kind will with them! They without breath,
Stripped, scattered, ragged, festering, slashed and blue,
Dangle towards God the arms French shot tore through
And wait in meekness, Death! for Him and You!