We poets, wandered round by dreams,[1] who hailed
From this Atrides' roof (with lintel-post
Which still drips blood,—the worse part hath prevailed)
The fire-voice of the beacons, to declare
Troy taken, sorrow ended,—cozened through
A crimson sunset in a misty air,—
What now remains for such as we, to do?
-God's judgments, peradventure, will He bare
To the roots of thunder, if we kneel and sue?
III.
And saw ten thousand eyes of Florentines
Flash back the triumph of the Lombard north,—
Saw fifty banners, freighted with the signs
And exultations of the awakened earth,
Float on above the multitude in lines,
Straight to the Pitti. So, the vision went.
And so, between those populous rough hands
Raised in the sun, Duke Leopold outleant,
And took the patriot's oath, which henceforth stands
Among the oaths of perjurers, eminent
To catch the lightnings ripened for these lands.
IV.
What need to swear? What need to boast thy blood
Taintless of Austria, and thy heart unsold
Away from Florence? It was understood
God made thee not too vigorous or too bold,
