The Italian in England

That second time they hunted meFrom hill to plain, from shore to sea,And Austria, hounding far and wideHer bloodhounds through the countryside.Breathed hot and instant on my trace--I made six days a hiding-placeOf that dry green old aqueductWhere I and Charles, when boys, have pluckedThe fireflies from the roof above,Bright creeping through the moss they love:--How long it seems since Charles was lost!Six days the soldiers crossed and crossedThe country in my very sight;And when that peril ceased at night,The sky broke out in red dismayWith signal fires; well, there I layClose covered o'er in my recess,Up to the neck in ferns and cress,Thinking of Metternich our friend,And Charles's miserable end,And much beside, two days; the third,Hunger o'ercame me when I heardThe peasants from the village goTo work among the maize; you know,With us in Lombardy, they bringProvisions packed on mules, a stringWith little bells that cheer their task,And casks, and boughs on every caskTo keep the sun's heat from the wine;These I let pass in jingling line,And, close on them, dear noisy crew,The peasants from the village, too;For at the very rear would troopTheir wives and sisters in a groupTo help, I knew. When these had passed,I threw my glove to strike the last,Taking the chance; she did not start,Much less cry out, but stooped apart,One instant rapidly glanced round,And saw me beckon from the ground;A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;She picked my glove up while she strippedA branch off, then rejoined the restWith that; my glove lay in her breast.Then I drew breath; they disappeared;It was for Italy I feared.

An hour, and she returned aloneExactly where my glove was thrown.Meanwhile came many thoughts; on meRested the hopes of Italy;I had devised a certain taleWhich, when 'twas told her, could not failPersuade a peasant of its truth;I meant to call a freak of youthThis hiding, and give hopes of pay,And no temptation to betray.But when I saw that woman's face,Its calm simplicity of grace,Our Italy's own attitudeIn which she walked thus far, and stood,Planting each naked foot so firm,To crush the snake and spare the worm--At first sight of her eyes, I said,"I am that man upon whose headThey fix the price, because I hateThe Austrians over us; the StateWill give you gold--oh, gold so much!--If you betray me to their clutch,And be your death, for aught I know,If once they find you saved their foe.Now you must bring me food and drink,And also paper, pen, and ink,And carry safe what I shall writeTo Padua, which you'll reach at nightBefore the duomo shuts; go in,And wait till Tenebrae begin;Walk to the third confessional,Between the pillar and the wall,And kneeling whisper, Whence comes peace?Say it a second time, then cease;And if the voice inside returns,From Christ and Freedom; what concernsThe cause of Peace?--for answer, slipMy letter where you placed your lip;Then come back happy we have doneOur mother service--I, the son,As you the daughter of our land!"

Three mornings more, she took her standIn the same place, with the same eyes;I was no surer of sunriseThan of her coming. We conferredOf her own prospects, and I heardShe had a lover--stout and tall,She said--then let her eyelids fall,"He could do much"--as if some doubtEntered her heart--then, passing out,"She could not speak for others, whoHad other thoughts; herself she knew";And so she brought me drink and food.After four days the scouts pursuedAnother path; at last arrivedThe help my Paduan friends contrivedTo furnish me; she brought the news.For the first time I could not chooseBut kiss her hand, and lay my ownUpon her head--"This faith was shownTo Italy, our mother; sheUses my hand and blesses thee."She followed down to the seashore;I left and never saw her more.

How very long since I have thoughtConcerning--much less wished for--aughtBeside the good of Italy,For which I live and mean to die!I never was in love; and sinceCharles proved false, what shall now convinceMy inmost heart I have a friend?However, if I pleased to spendReal wishes on myself--say, three--I know at least what one should be.I would grasp Metternich untilI felt his red wet throat distillIn blood through these two hands. And next--Nor much for that am I perplexed--Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,Should die slow of a broken heartUnder his new employers. Last--Ah, there, what should I wish? For fastDo I grow old and out of strength.If I resolved to seek at lengthMy father's house again, how scaredThey all would look, and unprepared!My brothers live in Austria's pay--Disowned me long ago, men say;And all my early mates who usedTo praise me so--perhaps inducedMore than one early step of mine--Are turning wise; while some opine,"Freedom grows license," some suspect,"Haste breeds delay," and recollectThey always said, such prematureBeginnings never could endure!So, with a sullen "All's for best,"The land seems settling to its rest.I think then, I should wish to standThis evening in that dear, lost land,Over the sea the thousand miles,And know if yet that woman smilesWith the calm smile; some little farmShe lives in there, no doubt; what harmIf I sat on the door-side bench,And, while her spindle made a trenchFantastically in the dust,Inquired of all her fortunes--justHer children's ages and their names,And what may be the husband's aimsFor each of them. I'd talk this out,And sit there, for an hour about,Then kiss her hand once more, and layMine on her head, and go my way.

So much for idle wishing--howIt steals the time! To business now.