A queen of old, and plucked a leafy branch;
And licensing the world too long, indeed,
To use her brood phylacteries to staunch
And stop her bloody lips, which took no heed
How one quick breath would draw an avalanche
Of living sons around her, to succeed
The vanished generations. Could she count
Those oil-eaters, with large, live, mobile mouths
Agape for maccaroni, in the amount
Of consecrated heroes of her south's
Bright rosary? The pitcher at the fount,
The gift of gods, being broken,—why, one loathes
To let the ground-leaves of the place confer
A natural bowl. And thus, she chose to seem
No nation, but the poet's pensioner,
With alms from every land of song and dream;
While her own pipers sweetly piped of her,
Until their proper breaths, in that extreme
Of sighing, split the reed on which they played!
Of which, no more: but never say "no more"
To Italy! Her memories undismayed
Say rather "evermore"—her graves implore
Her future to be strong and not afraid—
Her very statues send their looks before!
VII.
God lives, and lifts his glorious mornings up
Before the eyes of men, who wake at last,
And put away the meats they used to sup,
And on the dry dust of the ground outcast
The dregs remaining of the ancient cup,
And turn to wakeful prayer and worthy act.
The dead, upon their awful 'vantage ground,—
