And by the faint heart of my womanhood,
Such things are better than a Peace which sits
Beside the hearth in self-commended mood,
And takes no thought how wind and rain by fits
Are howling out of doors against the good
Of the poor wanderer. What! your peace admits
Of outside anguish while it sits at home?
I loathe to take its name upon my tongue
It is no peace. 'Tis treason, stiff with doom,
'Tis gagged despair, and inarticulate wrong,
Annihilated Poland, stifled Rome,
Dazed Naples, Hungary fainting 'neath the thong,
And Austria wearing a smooth olive-leaf
On her brute forehead, while her hoofs outpress
The life from these Italian souls, in brief.
O Lord of Peace, who art Lord of Righteousness,
Constrain the anguished worlds from sin and grief,
Pierce them with conscience, purge them with redress,
And give us peace which is no counterfeit!
XVI.
From Casa Guidi windows? Shut them straight;
And let us sit down by the folded door
And veil our saddened faces, and so, wait
What next the judgment-heavens make ready for.
I have grown weary of these windows. Sights
Come thick enough and clear enough with thought,
Without the sunshine; souls have inner lights:
And since the Grand-duke has come back and brought
This army of the North which thus requites
His filial South, we leave him to be taught.
