Il Cinque Maggio

He died; As in the senseless clayNo stir of life was left,When, drawn the mortal sigh, it layOf such a soul bereft,So, at the tidings thunderstruckAnd pensive, Earth remains:

And muses o'er the dying hourAnd o'er the Child of Fate,Nor knows if ever such a PowerAgain shall desolateWith like deep track of wounds and stainsHer blood-red plains.

Him, blazing from his throne, to seeMy soul in silence bore;When with quick change he fell, and rose,And fell to rise no more;Amidst a thousand voices' throng,Hers went not up on high,

No slavish adulation stored,No dastard slander poured;But stirs and wakes, when such a lightIs quenched in sudden night,And utters o'er his urn a songThat haply shall not die.

From Alp to farthest Pyramid,From Rhine to Mansanar,How sure his lightning's flash foretoldHis thunderbolts of war!To Don from Scilla's height they roar,From North to Southern shore.

And this was glory? After-men,Judge the dark problem. LowWe to the Mighty Maker bendThe while, Who planned to showWhat vaster mould Creative WillWith him could fill.

The joy, that o'er some brave designWith thrill tumultuous yearns;The craving of a heart that, wildWith thought of Empire, burns,And gains, and holds, the prize it seemedBut madness to have dreamed;

He knew all this, and glory too,By peril heightened, knew,The Exile's gloom, the Victor's glare,The palace or the hut his share,Twice bit the dust, twice scaled in mightThe altar's height.

He dawns; two Ages, armèd eachAgainst the other, stand;To him they bend, their doom beseechSubmissive from his hand;He bids be still, and sits betwixt,The Arbiter of Fate:

He wanes; an islet's bounds incloseHis terrible repose;Him Envy's far-drawn arrows wound,Him Pity's gaze profoundPursues, him Love unconquered, mixtWith deathless Hate.

As on the shipwrecked marinerThe weltering wave's descent—The wave, o'er which, a moment since,For distant shores he bentAnd bent in vain, his eager eye;So on that stricken head

Came whelming down the mighty Past.How often did his penEssay to tell the wondrous taleFor after times and men,And o'er the lines that could not dieHis hand lay dead.

How often, as the listless dayIn silence died away,He stood with lightning eye deprest,And arms across his breast,And bygone years, in rushing train,Smote on his soul amain:

The breezy tents he seemed to see,And the battering cannon's course,And the flashing of the infantry,And the torrent of the horse,And, obeyed as soon as heard,Th' ecstatic word.

Haply, by that wild struggle rivenThe panting heart had failedIn cold despair; but help from HeavenDescended and prevailed,And raised him up, and pitying bareInto a genial air,

And oared him on the flowery waysOf Hope, and bade aspireTo those blest plains, and to the prizeThat passes all desire,Where darkly sinks in silence downEarth's brief renown.

O fair, O deathless, O benign,O still victorious Faith,This triumph reckon too for thineWith joy; for ne'er in DeathA sterner pride hath stooped to wooThe shame of Golgotha:

From his outwearied ashes warnEach word of wrath and scorn:The God, that gives or eases pain,That smites, and lifts again,On that lone couch, in that dark day,Beside him lay.